The Seeds of Time (14 page)

The next night there were more empty seats than full ones, and someone reported that the price had come down to 10
s
.

The night after that they did not show up at all, and we all had a busy time with the job of returning the half-crowns, and refusing claims for wasted petrol.

And the next night they didn't come, either; or the one after
that; so then all we had to do was to pitch into the job of cleaning up Westwich, and the affair was practically over – apart from the longer-term business of living down the reputation the place had been getting lately.

At least, we say it's over. Jimmy, however, maintains that that is probably only the way it looks from here. According to him, all they had to do was to modify out the visibility factor that was causing the trouble, so it's possible that they are still touring around here – and other places.

Well, I suppose he could be right. Perhaps that fellow Pawley, whoever he is, or will be, has a chain of his funfairs operating all round the world and all through history at this very moment. But we don't know – and, as long as he keeps them out of sight, I don't know that we care a lot, either.

Pawley has been dealt with as far as we are concerned. He was a case for desperate measures; even the vicar of All Saints' appreciated that; and undoubtedly he had a point to make when he began his address of thanksgiving with: ‘Paradoxical, my friends, paradoxical can be the workings of vulgarity …'

Once it was settled I was able to make time to go round and see Sally again. I found her looking brighter than she'd been for weeks, and lovelier on account of it. She seemed pleased to see me, too.

‘Hullo, Jerry,' she said. ‘I've just been reading in the paper how you organized the plan for getting rid of them. I think it was just wonderful of you.'

A little time ago I'd probably have taken that for a cue, but it was no trigger now. I sort of kept on seeing her with her arms full of twins, and wondering in a dead-inside way how they got there.

‘There wasn't a lot to it, darling,' I told her modestly. ‘Anyone else might have hit on the idea.'

‘That's as maybe – but a whole lot of people don't think so. And I'll tell you another thing I heard today. They're going to ask you to stand for the Council, Jerry.'

‘Me on the Council. That'd be a big laugh –' I began. Then I stopped suddenly. ‘If – I mean, would that mean I'd be called “Councillor”?' I asked her.

‘Why – well, yes, I suppose so,' she said, looking puzzled.

Things shimmered a bit.

‘Er – Sally, darling – er, sweetheart, there's – er – something I've been trying to get round to saying to you for quite a time …' I began.

Seeing the couple when I did was simply a matter of chance. Probably I should have run across them just a little later, anyway, but the results could have been quite different. It simply happened that I turned into the cross-corridor when they were up the other end of it, with their backs towards me, and I noticed them peering up and down the far main-passage in the manner of people making sure that the coast was clear. Jean I recognized at once; even the distant glimpse of her profile was enough. Of the man, with his back towards me, I registered only that there was something familiar about him.

But for the furtive, scouting look about them I doubt whether I should have paid much attention – at least, I should not have followed them – but once I had noticed that, it occurred to me that there was only one place they could have come from, and that was old Whetstone's room – it is still known as ‘old Whetstone's room' although he died more than two years ago.

There wasn't any reason why Jean shouldn't go there if she wanted to. After all, since Whetstone was her father, all the stuff in the room is, legally speaking, hers – although in point of fact it just stays there under dustsheets because nobody has liked to start taking it to pieces. The old man was always greatly respected for his work – his official work in the labs up above, and although he was undoubtedly a bit – well, let's say obsessed, by his own project, and in spite of the fact that the project never did, nor ever seemed likely to do, what he wanted it to; yet, somehow, his prestige still protects the room and the apparatus. It is a kind of temporary memorial to him.

Besides, there is an idea among the several of us who helped him at different times that he really was on to something. There
were some results, of a kind, enough, anyway, to suggest that if the old mule hadn't been so stubborn on his own theory he might have got somewhere by following them up. So this feeling, that some day someone with the time and inclination might find something there, has helped in keeping the room and the stuff just as he left it.

But I couldn't imagine any reason why Jean should want to be furtive about visiting the room – except, of course, that whoever her companion was, he wasn't her husband …

I shall have to admit that when I turned off my intended way and followed them, it was out of sheer snooping curiosity. After all, it was Jean, not anybody else, and I couldn't imagine her having the kind of hole and corner affair that had to be conducted in a dusty workroom among sheet-shrouded apparatus; so why … ?

When I looked round the corner they were well along the passage; not exactly furtive now, but still circumspect. I noticed him catch her hand, and press it encouragingly. I let them get round the next corner, and followed.

When I reached the door they were half-way across the quadrangle in the direction of the canteen; not furtive at all now, but looking about them at all the people in sight as though they might be searching for someone. I was still too far off to identify the man. They went into the canteen, and I followed.

They hadn't sat down at a table; they were standing a little way up the hall, with their backs to me, and from the way they were turning their heads there could be no doubt that they were searching. One or two people waved to them, and they waved back, but they didn't go to join them.

I began to feel a little foolish – and a trifle mean, too. Indeed, their business was none of mine, and there was nothing whatever clandestine about them now. I had just made up my mind to go back out when I caught my first good look at the man's face, in one of the wall-mirrors. There was something quite startlingly familiar about it, yet I failed to place it immediately: in fact, several seconds must have elapsed before I realized that it was the face I was accustomed to see every morning while I shaved.

The
likeness was so exact that I sat down on the nearest chair, with an odd weakness in my knees, and feeling, for some reason I didn't understand, a little scared.

He was still looking over the other people. If he had seen me through the looking-glass he'd not been interested. They both walked slowly on up the room, searching it as they went. Finally, they left by the door at the other end. I slipped back by the door behind me, and worked round the outside of the building. They had come to a stop on the gravel spread, a few yards from the door, and were deep in discussion.

I was tempted to go up to them, but – well, it was some time since Jean and I had been on chatting terms: and there is something rather fatuous about the idea of going up to a perfect stranger simply to announce: ‘I say, you look just like me, you know!' So I waited.

Presently they came to a decision, and turned along the path that leads to the main gate. Jean was pointing things out, and seemed amused by them, though I couldn't see why they should amuse her. She moved closer to him, and linked her arm in his as they walked along.

I must say I considered that unwise. The Pleybell Research Institute holds together one of those intraregarding, not to say ingrowing, communities where nothing is missed. The unemployed wives can follow scents that would baffle a bloodhound, and the turn of an eye, let alone a hand on the arm, is enough to start people building law courts in the air. The gesture, though possibly innocent, became almost flamboyant bravado in our milieu. I was not the only one to observe it. Indeed, people seemed to be in a rather observing mood that afternoon: several of them gave me an intense and rather puzzled look as we met.

Outside the gates the pair turned left, and I let them get a little further ahead – not that it greatly mattered, for even if Jean should look back and notice me, what more natural than that I should be found on a part of my regular homeward route? They had just turned the second corner to the right, which is that of the road in
which my house stands, when there came a thudding of feet behind me, and a voice gasping: ‘Mr Ruddle! Mr Ruddle, sir!' I turned to find one of the lab messengers. Through gasps he said:

‘The Director saw you leaving, sir. He sent me to remind you that he must have your figures for the final co-ordination by five. He thought you might have forgotten it, sir.'

Which was what I had done. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was getting on for four-thirty already. That drove Jean and her friend out of my mind, and I hurried back towards the Institute.

There were only a couple of minor calculations to finish off, and I had the results in the Director's office by four fifty-five. He looked at me rather hard.

‘I am sorry to intrude business upon your – ah – domestic arrangements, Ruddle, but it is quite necessary that all these findings should be assembled tonight,' he said, rather coldly, I thought.

I apologized for leaving it until the last minute. He received that somewhat coldly, too, considering that I was the right side of the last minute. It was not until I was outside his room that a possible explanation occurred to me. Even I had been surprised by the extraordinary likeness of Jean's companion to myself: it was scarcely a matter where I could make a mistake as to which was which, but others might … I recalled the arm-in-arm progress in full public view …

The best thing to do seemed to be to get home as quickly as possible, hoping to put my word in before gossip said hers …

There was only another twenty yards before I should reach my house, when I encountered Jean and her companion turning out of my own gateway, and we came face to face. Jean was looking flushed and embarrassed, and he was looking embarrassed and angry. Their expressions changed with astonishing speed as they recognized me.

‘Oh, there you are! Thank goodness,' said Jean. ‘Where on earth have you been?'

It was not the kind of opening I was prepared for. After all, it
was nearly three years since we had exchanged anything more than a necessary politeness. While I was trying to collect myself I took refuge in a touch of dignity.

‘I don't think I quite understand,' I said, and looked from her to her companion. ‘Perhaps you will introduce me to your friend – ?' I suggested.

‘Oh, don't be so stiff and silly, Peter,' she told me impatiently.

But the man was looking at me closely. There was a rather curious expression on his face: I did not greatly wonder at it; very likely the expression on my own was no less curious. For the similarity – no, it was more than that – the duplication, was uncanny. The clothes were different, certainly. I had none like those he was wearing, but apart from that … I suddenly caught sight of his wrist-watch: it, and the metal bracelet that held it were the exact double of mine. I felt my own wrist to make sure that it hadn't somehow got transferred. My own was still there, all right. He said:

‘I'm afraid this is a bit complicated. And we've both pulled a most frightful gaff in your house. Both feet, right up to the neck. I'm terribly sorry. We just didn't know.'

‘
Oh!
That
woman
!' said Jean, furiously. ‘Oh, I could strangle her, cheerfully.'

With a feeling of drowning slowly, I gasped.

‘What woman?' I inquired.

‘The one in your house. That dreadful Tenter woman.'

I stared at them.

‘Look here!' I said. ‘This is going a bit far. My wife is –'

‘She
is
? She said she was, but I couldn't believe it. Oh, Peter, not really! You couldn't marry
her
! Oh, you
couldn't
!'

I looked at her hard – clearly there was something much more than ordinarily wrong somewhere. I don't say that half the people you meet may not be
thinking
like that about other people's wives; but it is a thing that doesn't get
said
, not in the second person, at any rate. One can only meet it with anger – or compassion.

‘I'm afraid you aren't well,' I suggested. ‘Suppose you come
indoors and lie down for a little while I ring up for a taxi. I'm sure …'

Jean stared at me.

‘Ha! Ha!' she said, in a decisively mirthless way.

‘I'm sorry to say that is just where we put the feet in,' her companion explained. ‘You see, we very much wanted to get hold of you, and there was nobody at home, so we thought we'd just sit and wait there until you came in. But then it wasn't you who came in, it was Miss Tenter. We hadn't expected her at all, and then she wouldn't believe that I wasn't you, and she behaved atrociously – I'm sorry to say it, but it
was
atrociously – to Jean, and – oh, well, it all became very unpleasant and difficult …' He kind of ebbed away, in confusion.

There certainly was something up the pole about this.

‘Why on earth do you say “Miss Tenter”?' I said. ‘Jean, at any rate, knows perfectly well that she's been Mrs Peter Ruddle for more than two years now.'

‘Oh
dear
!' said Jean. ‘It is so confusing. But I never, never could have imagined that you'd marry
her
.'

It wasn't easy to keep tolerantly in mind that she must be a bit off her rocker. Her
manner
was as normal as could be.

‘Indeed!' I said coldly. ‘And who, may I ask, did you think I would marry?'

‘Why, me, of course,' said Jean.

‘Look here –' began her companion, in a rather desperate way, but I cut him off.

‘You pretty firmly shut the door on any chance of that when you took up with Freddie Tallboy,' I reminded her – and not without a touch of bitterness: the skin on the old wound was still a little more sensitive than I had thought.

‘Freddie Tallboy?' she repeated. ‘Who's he?'

That was too much for my patience.

‘Mrs Tallboy,' I said, ‘I don't pretend to understand the reason for this fooling – but I've had enough of it.'

‘But I'm not Mrs Tallboy,' she said. ‘I'm Mrs Peter Ruddle.'

‘I
suppose you find that amusing,' I told her, bitterly, ‘but to me it isn't very funny,' I added. And it was not: there had been a time when what I hoped for above all else was to hear Jean call herself Mrs Peter Ruddle. I looked at her steadily.

‘Jean,' I said. ‘This is not your kind of joke – it's a cruel kind.'

She looked as steadily back at me for some seconds. Then I saw her eyes change; they glistened a little.

‘Oh!' she said, as if she had seen something there. ‘Oh, this is dreadful! … Oh, dear! … I – Oh, Peter, help me,' she said – but the appeal was to the other man, not to me. I turned to him, too.

‘Look here,' I said. ‘I don't know who you are, or what's going on, but –'

‘Oh,' he said, as if suddenly enlightened. ‘No, of course you don't. I'm Peter Ruddle.'

There was a longish pause. I decided I had had enough of being made to look a fool, and started to turn away. He said:

‘Isn't there somewhere we can go and talk? You see, we're both of us Peter Ruddle, that's what's making it all so difficult.'