Free The Tiger in the Tiger Pit by Janette Turner Hospital

her. Her fair hair was shoulder length, a mane of soft and wayward curls that wisped about her forehead and cheeks, always looking just slightly and charmingly in disarray Her blue eyes, as always, were distant and abstracted, as though — like the sundial — she existed outside of the hurly-burly of time.
    She reached them and touched Adam lightly on the shoulder and then moved her hand quickly away, remembering that he had asked her not to do that in public. Snelby would be merciless if he saw it. Her hand fluttered a little like a dove that wants desperately to perch on a forbidden tree.
    â€œMummy,” Adam said. “This is Mr Price.”
    She gave him her hand and smiled.
    â€œAdam thinks very highly of you, Mr Price. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
    Mr Price seemed to have some difficulty catching his breath.
    â€œI’ve been to your concerts, Mrs Carpenter,” he said, stammering a little. “I’m an ardent admirer.”
    â€œHow kind of you. It’s not Mrs , actually. Just Emily Carpenter.”
    â€œOh, pardon me, Mrs … ah … I wonder if we might talk a little, while Adam is in the museum. Could we walk through the forum perhaps?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Adam watched them go. He found that he did not want to move away from the sundial, did not want to disconnect himself from its bluff strength. He traced the engraved furrows of Tempus fugit with his index finger. Who had carved it? Who had stood here fifteen centuries ago? Who had stood here since?
    There was just enough sunlight for him to see that the shadow of the marker had moved a little around the circular dial. Day after day, year after year, century after century, it had moved around the same circle and come back to where it had started from.
    Time itself moves on, his mother had said, meaning he could never go back to Australia, never see Dave again. Time itself moves on, moves on, moves on.
    Not on , he thought with sudden excitement. But around and back!
    The realisation came to him like an epiphany The past was not gone, not lost. The Roman roads, the Aboriginal cave paintings, they were all still with him.
    And Dave.
    Dave who phoned him on his birthdays and at Christmas, and from across time and space whispered into his ear: “Whatever happens, mate, we’ll always have each other. Don’t forget that. Always”
    Tomorrow he would fly to New York. He could hardly wait. He had been so careful not to let Uncle Jason and his grandmother matter, not to let himself miss them. Now he would meet his Aunt Tory and his grandfather too. There was more past in his future, time and history rolling over and over on themselves, an acrobatic display for his special private pleasure.
    He felt certain now that Dave would somersault into a London or a New York morning. It could happen any old time. They would slither through present and past and future like guppies through the creeks of New South Wales. And together they would weave a magic net for the Blue Wanderer — not to kidnap her; just to keep her still for a little while.
    He hugged the sundial to himself and touched his lips against its cool bronze face in an ecstatic kiss.
    Then he looked quickly back over his shoulder in case Snelby was anywhere about.

VI Elizabeth
    Dear Dave, she writes, The problem is, and then looks out across the lawn, forgetting what she was going to say, wondering: what does he see from his window in Sydney?
    Coevality. The notion absorbs her. What is Emily doing at this instant, as my pen is poised above paper? From the moon, say, could one tell London from Ashville from Sydney? When I think of Emily and Dave in conjunction, does something happen in the ether where thought waves bounce around like ping-pong balls?
    Napoleon materialises from the grab-bag of her mind. He wears a cocked hat and tight tights and a hand on his breast. He bows and pontificates: Allow me a suggestion. I understand