Chapter Six

With the swift turn of a simple mechanical action that had been performed many times before Lizzy flicked the latch and swung the attic window up and open. She lent her forearms on the sill and shuffled forward, leaning out over the rooftops. She listened to the echoing sirens and shouts from the streets below. Her mind, cloistered in the convoluted scribblings she had been transcribing, was rapidly brought back to modernity. She contentedly gazed at the moving clouds and darkening skies. Suddenly she was aware of the time. And she was late. She hoisted herself down, and quickly and skilfully tidied the papers in their requisite boxes, glanced about, flicked off the light and was down the ladder.
On the way out of the house she popped her head round the kitchen door. She knew Charles would be mixing his hot toddy, despite the residual warmth of the evening.
“I’m just off”, she called. It was no good. He had his back to her. He was unlikely to be aware of her presence, let alone to have heard her half-hearted call. She waited the heartbeat it took for him to turn, the golden liquid sloshing about the glass, and called again.
“I’m just off now. I’ll be back tomorrow morning I expect.” He gave a slow nod of understanding. “I’ve nearly finished the first journal,” she continued, and, as he looked expectant, she smiled reassuringly. “I’m really enjoying doing it. It’s really interesting.”
Lizzy jogged down the front steps, bag banging against her knee. She strode towards the tube station with a satisfying sense of purpose. She had spent the last couple of months so immersed in the journal, she had hardly thought about anything else. She had attempted to persuade Charles to allow her to move the journals to one of the libraries, to be catalogued properly. He was stubborn and possessive of the manuscripts, and understandably so. It was an incredibly important find, but that wasn’t really the reason of course. He was reluctant, to the point of obsession, to change anything about the house since Dee had died. Favourite mugs, forty years old, when broken, were mourned as part of the house, part of Dee even. The journals of her predecessor, therefore, stayed in the attic.
It was only chance that Lizzy had met Charles at a gallery opening for an exhibition of letters and journals. Charles had mentioned his wife had some manuscripts in the attic that they had always meant to have transcribed, and Lizzy mentioned the work she had done. She remembered telling an American colleague about the find; he had made some witticism about the British being the only nation who could accidentally come across journals of such significance in a grimy attic. She felt thrilled to be given access to them, even if it had meant staying in London longer than planned, and spending the spring months sequestered in an attic at the top of Charles’ house, while he pottered around below.
As Lizzy stepped on to the top of the escalator, Matt opened the door of the Globe.
He stepped in furtively, and immediately scanned the room for a familiar face. He wanted to establish quickly that he was here for some sort of reunion, and not to be papped by some enterprising photographer who would be paid well for images of him in a pub. The only advantage of that, perhaps, would be the likelihood that it would take the heat out of the AFL meetings. Abstinence from alcohol was not popular at the Anti-Fundamentalist League. The large following he had gathered over the last few years and the evangelising of his people meant that the AFL had taken begun to take an active interest in the organisation. It was to be expected these days, but Matt still found the interviews galling. He’d an intensive set the week before, after someone claiming affiliation with him had tried to protest outside Parliament, striding up and down, shouting slogans. Parliament had become increasingly sensitive about that type of thing, but luckily Matt had been able to distance himself from the lone individual.
It took a second look, long-extended, to recognise Nat. She was not how he had expected her to look. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, fly-away sections framing her face. She was wrapped in a large woollen garment. It must have been a cardigan of sorts. She had lost the savvy look of the city, and Matt strode with a little more confidence. He felt knowing and secure in response, aware that his robes gave him authority.