Rosie digested the information, but not the cake. Her mother was strict about eating between meals. ‘A fat girl will never find a good man, Rosie,’ was her view, handed down to her by Greataunt Jessie, a woman of many clichés.
‘Fairies don’t exist, though.’
Lytten frowned. ‘Scientists would say they do not. But what do they know, eh? Believing something can make it so, I often think. If you believe in them you will never convince someone who does not. If you do not, you will never persuade someone who does. If you ever do encounter a fairy, it would probably be wise to be careful who you tell.’
‘You may be right,’ Rosie said.
The subject had become important a few days previously when Rosie had dropped in to feed Professor Jenkins.
Jenkins was old, malevolent and abominably overweight, his entire life dedicated to spreading his ancient carcass over the most comfortable piece of furniture which could accommodate it. Most of his few waking moments were spent in eating; he had long ago discovered that he could digest and sleep simultaneously. No bird or mouse had ever cause to fear his presence. Play was unknown to him, even as a kitten, although it was hard to imagine him being young.
That was the origin of his name, in fact — the beast was named after a man who had taught Lytten chemistry in his youth, a figure equally fat, unpleasant and idle. Sometimes Lytten wondered if his pet was the reincarnation of his old tormentor. There was something about the cold malice of his stare which reminded him of lessons, long ago, in an icy classroom.
Whatever the origin of his immortal soul, Jenkins would rarely allow anyone near him. But he tolerated Lytten, and almost seemed to like Rosie; she was the only person permitted to tickle his stomach.
Ordinarily, when Rosie arrived she would go upstairs, where Jenkins would be found lying flat on his back, his fat little legs sticking up into the air, the very embodiment of debauchery. Amongst his many other failings, he was slightly deaf and did not take kindly to coming downstairs and finding his food already waiting. So Rosie not only fed him but also had to wake him up, although she drew the line at actually carrying him down to the kitchen.
That day, Jenkins was not in his usual place, so Rosie had deposited her satchel in the hallway and walked from room to room, calling out to him. He was nowhere to be seen, but, as she was about to leave, she noticed that the door leading into the cellar was ajar. This was the bit of the house Lytten never used; it was really far too big for one person, although he had done his best to cram every room full of books.
Even by the standards of the rest of the house — and Lytten was not the tidiest of men — the cellar was unpleasant. It was covered in dust, with a damp, rotting smell. It was dark as well, and, as she crept down the narrow staircase, she could just make out the piles of paper, the old cups, the few, poor pieces of furniture in what had once been the servants’ kitchen. The only light came through a filthy window in a door that gave onto the overgrown back garden.
‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Jenkins?’ She experienced a slight apprehension looking around at the squalor, even though she was rarely afraid of anything. She didn’t know whether she should really be there, for one thing.
‘Jenkins?’ she called again, then, more sure the place was empty, more loudly. ‘Jenkins, you lump.’
Maybe the deaf brute was hiding under something? Still calling out, she began peering in the cupboards and under the table. Nothing. Then she saw a rusty iron arch, the sort of thing people grow roses around, stacked in the middle of a pile of gardening equipment. She’d seen one at a country house her class had visited on a school trip the previous summer. It was odd, though, covered in cans and bits of paper and tin foil, with a thick curtain draped over it, as heavy and dark as the blackout material that was still tucked away in many houses. Rosie doubted it would be much use against atom bombs, but people kept it just in case.
She walked to the curtain, which smelled mildewed, and pulled it open to make sure Jenkins wasn’t skulking behind it. She let out a cry of alarm, her hands reflexively going up to her face to cover her eyes, turning away from the dazzling light that flooded into the dingy little room.
Gradually, she opened her fingers so she could peer through them, letting her eyes accustom themselves to the sudden brightness. It was unbelievable. The pergola — in a drab, grim house, in a drab, grim street on a drab, grim day — gave a view not of the damp stained wall beyond, but of open countryside bathed in brilliant light. Before her eyes were rolling hills, parched by the sun. She had seen such landscapes before, in the books she borrowed from the library. Mediterranean, or so it seemed to her. Dark trees which she thought might be olives, hills covered in scrub. In the distance a wide river of an extraordinary blue, reflecting the sun in a way which was almost hypnotic.
It was not a photograph — surely no photograph could be that good — because she could see movement. The sun on the water. Birds in the sky. And in the fields there were people. She stood open-mouthed. The sight was delicious, irresistible.
She stepped closer and touched the ironwork; it was cold.
She never thought of turning away; all she wanted to do was get closer. A strange shivering, tingling feeling passed through her body as she moved through the frame, almost as though someone was tickling her inside.
When she was completely through, she was hit by the warm air, shocking in contrast to the chilly dampness of the cellar.
It was beautiful; she wanted to tear off her coat — the ugly red one she had been given for her birthday — and feel the warmth on her skin. She wanted to run down to the river and bathe her face in it. She knew the feeling would be wonderful.
She stopped, feeling nervous for the first time. She seemed to be at the entrance of a small cave or something; the walls were covered in brush and thin straggly trees that somehow managed to grow in the crevices. Suddenly she realised there was someone there.
It was a boy, younger than she was by the look of him, dressed in a rough tunic, with bare brown legs. He had fair, tousled hair and a pleasant, open expression. Or might do, if he didn’t look so terrified. She looked around to see what was causing him such fright, and then realised that it must be her.
She couldn’t speak; she did not know what to say. She hoped he wasn’t going to attack her, or throw rocks, or something.
He took a few steps, hesitated, then stopped. He bowed to her. Cautiously, she nodded back, to show she was friendly.
He spoke, but she couldn’t understand him. The warmth of the summer day was all around them, birds singing quite normally in the background, the dense heat pressing down on them. Neither noticed.
‘How may I serve you?’ said the boy slowly, this time in a heavily accented but just understandable English.
Rosie smiled in relief, but was so surprised that she took a step back, and tripped on a stone. She had to keep her balance by taking another step, and that took her through the light. Instantly, she was in the smelly cold cellar once more; the heat, the sound were all gone, although she could still see the boy looking frightened and confused. He had gone down on his knees now, and was touching his forehead to the ground.
The spell was broken; the wonder had gone, and all Rosie wanted to do was escape. She pulled the curtain back into its place, rushed up the stairs and into the grey of an English morning. Jenkins would just have to go without food today, that was all there was to it.
3
As far as Jack More was concerned, the outside world, unhealthy and artificial though it might be, was a tantalising idea of freedom. So he often came to the large display screen that decorated the space leading to the conference rooms, just to stare and remember. It wasn’t real; there were no windows anywhere in the complex, but it was better than nothing. At the moment, it was an imaginary but fairly realistic view of cows and hills and grass. Only the hills might still actually exist, but he liked looking at it nonetheless. In a moment it would change to empty snow-topped mountains, also imaginary as no snow had fallen anywhere in the world for at least a decade. He didn’t know why it was there. Few except him had any interest in the outside world; everything of importance lay inside the huge, sealed building they lived and worked in. It was dangerous and frightening outside.