‘Yes.’ Angharad hesitated, for her next proposal was a controversial one. ‘You could recruit people irrespective of their death anxiety results, but then condition them to care less about death.’
‘Condition them.’ Margaret paused in her note taking, and pursed her lips. ‘Do you mean brutalise, Dr Mills?’
‘I’m thinking of a more informal process. You might call it hazing.’ Angharad had seen plenty of hazing during the space programme, and before that, in the ballet. The dancers would march new girls to the laundry rooms, make them strip, sit on a washing machine in full throttle, and then draw circles round any flab that shook. Angharad reasoned that it was briefly humiliating, but not brutal. ‘Hazing takes the form of games and dares and pranks. In your case, you’d need games which desensitise the players to a risk of death. If an employee doesn’t respond, you can offer them an ultimatum. Leave the Conclave, or cooperate with further, intensified conditioning.’
‘Thank you, Dr Mills. I won’t rush to implement anything but it’s good to have these options on the table.’ Margaret smiled. ‘How would you fare, if you were on the receiving end of this hazing?’
‘I’d cope. Working at the Conclave would be worth some initial unpleasantness.’
‘You think so?’
‘I want to study the human body in unprecedented physical conditions. Monitoring time travellers will give me that opportunity. And there’s nowhere else in the world I can do that – not until other countries start building time machines.’
‘That won’t happen for decades,’ Margaret said. ‘We have the monopoly on fuel.’
‘Well – there you are, then. The Conclave stands alone.’
‘We’d be happy to have you, Dr Mills. As we’re in agreement, I’ll ask my secretary to prepare a contract. Now, your very first assignment will be to travel to 1973 – there’s a serious staff health issue in that year and your silver selves will need your help.’
Angharad’s answers must have satisfied Margaret. The much anticipated job offer had been made. They shook hands, and Margaret walked Angharad to the door.
*
Nearly three hundred miles away, in St Ives, Barbara was also considering her career prospects. Her recuperation had taken eighteen months and her parents had been patient but she felt ready to regain some independence. She had just been to the local vet’s, as they were seeking a receptionist. They told her the job was hers if she wanted it.
She took the long way home, along the Hellesveor path to the coast, to consider this change in her circumstances. The vet was a trusted friend of the family and, for an animal lover like Barbara, the job would have its perks. But it wasn’t the academic work she had trained long and hard for. It wasn’t time travel. Her heart had cracked a little when she said that yes, she would start the following Monday.
The wind was high and rapidly loosening Barbara’s blonde up-do. It was when she paused, for the third time, to tuck her hair behind her ears that she saw a man flying a kite on the beach ahead. Not any man; a man she knew. Or had met, at any rate. He was Mr Rebello, the young Indian chemist from Porthmeor Pharmacy. She smiled at his attire. He was not dressed for the beach but in the trim brown suit he would have worn to work.
‘Hello!’ she called out.
She was a little breathless when she reached him. He smiled, with his eyes crinkled against the glare of the sun. His black hair was cut long in the fringe, and his face reminded her of the golden ratio illustrations she’d seen in art books. This immediately struck her as a ridiculously soppy thought. She knew she was blushing.
‘What are you doing out here, during opening hours?’ she asked.
‘I’m flying a kite, Dr Hereford. My lunchtime is now my own; I’ve hired an assistant to sell Chupa lollies and cough syrup in my absence.’
‘I wish I’d known you were seeking help. I’ve been looking for work, but it doesn’t matter now – you have your assistant, and I’m going to help at the vet’s.’
He looked at her with curiosity. ‘That is indeed a missed opportunity. I confess, I never imagined you’d join my little firm.’
‘What job would you imagine me in?’ The question was dangerous. Across St Ives – across Britain – everyone knew what job Barbara had done, and why she left. Yet she had asked the question anyway, lest it gave some clue to his thoughts about her. Would he think less of her, because of her public humiliation? If he did, better to know that now, before her soppy thoughts escaped her control.
As if sensing a potential trap, Mr Rebello paused to watch the kite twist and jerk in the air. Eventually, he said: ‘A job requiring bravery – and intimidating skill. Possibly a job yet to be invented.’
‘Invent one for me now.’
‘I’m in need of a kite-tamer. This beast is quite determined to escape me, or lift me off my feet.’
‘What would be the payment?’
‘A cinema ticket – as my guest – this Saturday night—’ The kite jerked again.
‘If we go to Redruth we can see Stolen Kisses.’
‘Ah, now we’re negotiating.’ He laughed.
With a jolt, the wind snatched the spool from his grip. Barbara leapt into the air to catch the escaping kite.
‘See,’ Mr Rebello said. ‘I knew you’d be perfect.’
‘What’s your name? Your first name, I mean?’ Barbara asked.
‘Antonio,’ he said.
‘Antonio,’ she repeated, and the kite string pulled on her fist, as if she were growing lighter every minute. The lightest she could remember in a long time.
11
JULY 2017
Ruby
The day after Ginger’s visit, one of Ruby’s clients’ cancelled at short notice, giving Ruby the chance to catch up on email correspondence. She did so in the white-walled therapy room, enjoying the tranquillity of her surroundings. Granny Bee had sent an email. She always wrote her messages with the same care and attention she would give to a letter.
Dear Ruby,
The weather in St Ives has taken a turn for the worse. Mrs Cusack next door lost some slates from her roof. One of them landed in my fish pond. I’m only thankful it didn’t hit Breno.
Since you left I have not been sitting on my hands. I moved my old lab equipment down from the loft and the pieces are in good working order. And I’ve been conducting a literature review, to get myself back up to speed. All the Conclave’s scientists have access to future results, so they spend most of their time trying to understand how you reach a given conclusion, rather than making novel discoveries. But there are some curious gaps in their research topics. I think I’ve spotted a way to reuse spent fuel, which could make immense financial savings for the Conclave. It’s strange to me that they’re not using it already.
The Conclave are canny about money ordinarily. You do know they used my doctoral research for commercial ventures? My word, they have their fingers in a lot of pies. They made a pretty penny from my early experiments, which I could take some pride in if I wasn’t so indignant. I’ll put some websites at the bottom of this page so you can see the merchandise for yourself.
Look after yourself. I spoke to your mother and she said she’s forgotten what you look like. For God’s sake pay her a visit.
Love
Granny Bee
Ruby read through the links Bee had supplied. The Conclave certainly seemed keen to exploit any possible revenue stream. The links all related to products manufactured and sold with Conclave branding. One in particular caught Ruby’s attention. The Conclave’s most popular product – launched in 1992 – was the Conjuror’s Candybox.
*