Time Rocks

  *

  The following day I headed for Chloe’s again. I had tried her phone several times, and now I was certain there was something screwy going on. My leg hurt a bit, but it didn’t stop me pedalling. I must admit it felt queer going past the place where the van had run me off the road. And I can tell you my head was spinning like – you know – her's from the Exorcist, because I was checking all around to make sure there were no more vans.

  Chloe’s is a new house in a cul-de-sac. Its front garden still looks a bit bare. They’ve got a few new plants behind an immature hedge of fir trees, but nothing has thickened up yet. I knocked on the front door and rang the bell. There was nobody in, just her dog having kittens in the kitchen.

  From next-door the neighbour rushed out like a crazy woman. She yelled at me, threatening to call the police when I asked her where Chloe was. Can you believe it? ‘I’m her friend,’ I told her. ‘I’m worried about her. I only asked you ...’

  ‘Nobody’s worried about that poor little dog,’ she yelled. ‘It’s been locked up all day.’

  Why was she yelling at me? I didn’t lock it up. Chloe’s dog is not my favourite anyway. Whenever it sees me it either bites my feet, or tries to hump my leg. So, I’m afraid, even if she is my best friend, her dog is not. OK, yes of course, if I thought it was suffering because it was locked up too long I would do something. I don’t like animals to suffer, even Chloe’s pervie dog. But right then I was more worried about Chloe and Jack, not the canine pervert having kittens in the kitchen. My friends were vanishing like bubbles and this crazy woman was doing my head in for a dog. Can you believe it?

  I cycled away and left her mumbling. On the way home my phone rang. It had been ringing all day, but this time it was a number I didn’t recognise, so I answered it.

  ‘Victoria Morris? Oh hello.’ It was a woman’s voice, very businesslike and sort of sexy. ‘Is that you, Tori? You don’t know me, but we share a most important concern.’ I'd no idea who she was. And how did she get my number?

  ‘If you could possibly spare me a few moments of your time, Tori, I would love to meet you. I’m in town at the moment. Do you have five minutes?’

  I was caught off guard. ‘Err - yes, I – err - how did you get this num…?’

  ‘Keep going along this road,’ the voice interrupted. ‘Stop at the tea shop near the Museum. I’ll see you in there in two minutes.’

  ‘You mean you can see me, right now?’ I looked around the street wondering who it might be.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. Spooky isn’t it? I hadn’t meant it to be like this, but I just spotted you by chance as I was driving along. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Don’t mind? Huh, who was this? And how did she get my mobile number?

  I pulled up at the tea shop and chained my bike to a drainpipe on the mock Dickensian frontage. A silver Lexus SC slid to the kerb. The woman who uncoiled herself from its driving seat could have been modelling the car for a telly ad. She shushed onto the pavement in summer blue Prada, dangling a Zagliani python skin bag that you could have traded in for a small car. ‘Tori, lovely to meet you,’ she gushed. ‘That is what your friends call you isn’t it? I do hope we can be friends.’

  ‘Err, yep that’s me.’ (Ok I know it’s a bit lame, but you didn’t see her. I was gob-smacked, and down on my knees next to a drain pipe.). I stood up and looked at her. She had one eye covered by a blue eye-patch with an arc of sapphires where the eyebrow should be. I pulled my skirt straight wishing I had some detergent to scrub my trainers with.

  ‘Sindra Gains!’ she announced, hanging out her manicured right hand. I swear I didn’t know whether to kiss it, or plant it on my forehead and wail like a loony. I gripped it briefly before it fluttered away and she swung regally towards the tea shop's door. ‘Let’s go inside. My word, what a pretty blouse.’

  Bitch! It was a cheap top from George at Asda, and it had jam stains on the shoulder. ‘How did you get my mobile number?’ I asked her sourly.

  ‘Oh this is delightful,’ she enthused, as she subjugated the tea shop with her legs, perfume and handbag. ‘I love oldee worldee, don’t you? Such rustic charm and character.’

  I nodded, unable to decide if she was just taking the piss, or did she really believe the proprietor had intended the décor to be oldee worldee and not just oldee-wornee-outee.

  In one seamless movement she secured a table and placed our order. The tea shop’s silver haired clientele whispered to each other, eyeing Sindra Gains as though she might explode at any moment and shower them in Chanel.

  Sindra ignored them, assuming she had even noticed them in the first place, which seemed unlikely. ‘Have you heard of the Mackenzie Carmichael Foundation?’ she asked softly, as cream teas arrived on mismatched china. ‘We fund scholarships and research,’ she went on, ignoring the waitress. ‘We provided the finance for the archaeological dig you were on last week.’

  ‘Yes, I met your representative there,’ I said, resisting the urge to add my opinion of the dreadful woman who had interrogated me about Jack’s knapsack.

  ‘Oh my gosh! Wretched Imelda. What a drudge? She collects fossilised faeces for a hobby, did you know?’ she sneered. ‘Coprolites she calls them, but they’re still doo-doo darling. In fact she’s a world expert on dinosaur doo-doo darling. Gods, I bet her ‘phone never stops ringing. The A-list must be frantic to compare coprolites: Angelina and Brad, David and Victoria.’ She sipped her tea and pulled a face that would stop a station clock. ‘Of course I heard about your little run in with her. You broke one of her precious rules,’ she teased, rolling her one eye disdainfully. ‘You carried a bag on to the site, you naughty girl. I do hope it was Gucci at least.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ I gasped.

  ‘Good lord no,’ she hooted. ‘Wretched Imelda’s problems are her own. I don’t care what you did, darling. No, I’m here to invite you to MCF headquarters.’ She leaned close and added excitedly, ‘The old man himself wants to meet you.’

  ‘The old man?’ I echoed.

  Once more she leaned across the tea pot and whispered reverently, ‘Sir Mackenzie Carmichael, our founder.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s seen something in you, dear. Some quality that I expect he admires.’

  ‘What quality?’ I said, regretting it immediately, furious with myself for saying it as though I believed I had none.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest, darling, she said dismissively. ‘Oh dear, I didn’t mean it to sound like that,’ she sniggered. ‘No, I’m sure that whatever he has spotted in you, it will be some rare quality. Above all he values rarity, and he can spot potential in an individual better than anyone I ever knew. I just meant to say that he seldom shares his thoughts, even with me.’

  She pecked at a scone, ignoring the clotted cream and strawberry jam. ‘It’s not far. Fourteen minutes by car. I’ll pick you up and return you afterwards. We could meet at that café at the top of Caen Hill locks. I do so love the view from there, don’t you? Sir Mackenzie has scheduled twenty-five minutes for you at three in the afternoon, day after tomorrow. How does that suit? Good, that’s settled then.’

  I didn’t recall agreeing, but I was intrigued. Apart from old misery drawers at Stonehenge, I had only vaguely heard of the Mackenzie Carmichael Foundation, and the mention of scholarships sparked my interest. It was discomfiting to discover, as I faced the prospect of student loans and perpetual debt, how like my father I was becoming. A scholarship would be brilliant. Apart from anything else it would earn me my father’s eternal gratitude.

  Sindra’s dark blue varnished talons began dissecting a scone, as though she expected to find a nest of scorpions inside it. ‘Now there is one thing, a most important point I must raise with you,’ she said, swivelling her eye up from the scone. ‘The Mackenzie Carmichael Foundation is justly proud if its work around the world, especially our poverty relief programmes in Africa. However, we go to enormous lengths to avoid publicity on any other matter. Even the
location of our headquarters is a closely guarded secret.’ Abandoning the scone she turned her attention to her teacup and drained it. ‘It would be best if you would keep this arrangement to yourself. In fact, it is an absolute requirement that you do so.’

  Frankly, I was getting really tired of people telling me not to tell anybody stuff. I had more secrets than a nymphomaniac nun. Everybody wanted my lips firmly buttoned, and some had even made me sign paperwork about it. ‘What’s so special about a building?’ I argued petulantly. ‘Surely the postman has to know where it is?’

  ‘I realise this must appear – err - unusual,’ Sindra cooed airily. ‘But I assure you it is for the very best of reasons, and I’m afraid it is essential that you agree. As to the postman, no he does not. Our mail goes to a box number. We collect it daily.’ She gazed at me, her one eye dulled by disdain. ‘Of course you can refuse. Needless to say that would terminate our relationship forthwith.’

  It all sounded a bit weird to me, but, naively, I did not think it was much of a big deal. ‘Does that include my parents?’ I asked.

  ‘No-one must know. I’m quite sure you’re old enough to make decisions without your parents. If we didn’t think so at MCF, we would not have contacted you.’

  ‘OK,’ I agreed lightly. I was bursting to ring Chloe, and tell her as soon as madam Long John Silver hoisted anchor and sailed out of the tea shop.

  Sindra seemed satisfied. She scattered fivers on the table and swished towards the door. Reaching for my mobile phone I made ready to start dialling as soon as she was out of sight. Her six inch heels flashed me a final farewell as she elegantly coiled her legs into the cockpit of her car. How could she drive in those? I wondered. The fluffy roar of the Lexus echoed between the old buildings and snaked off northward. Back towards the M4 and catwalk city, I assumed.

  Still no reply from Chloe’s phone.

  I ate Sindra’s scone and jam, pocketed a surplus fiver, which still left a generous tip for the waitress, and dialled the professor’s mobile. I had to talk to him before he left for Bristol University and vanished into academic isolation.

  He sounded really fed up. ‘It’s all nonsense of course,’ he complained, his voice echoing oddly down the phone. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re mothballing the site. I’ve got other commitments, so I don’t imagine we’ll be back here this season. I’m sorry if you were offering to volunteer, Tori. Normally I’d be delighted. You’re exactly the sort of enthusiastic young person we like on our digs. Perhaps you’ll get in touch next year – eh? I do hope so. Keep an eye on our website for news. Hopefully we’ll be back next spring.’

  ‘That’s good professor, but I need to speak to you now - about Jack. I could take the bus and be with you in an hour.’

  ‘No no, don’t do that. I’m sorry, Tori, but there’s really nothing I can tell you.’ He was beginning to sound panicky. All I wanted was to talk about Jack and ask him about the Mackenzie Carmichael people. What was he so scared of?

  ‘Just a few minutes professor, please. I could help you pack while we talk.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tori, but you already know as much as I do. This whole business is just too awful, really too awful,’ he said, his tone thick and tremulous. ‘I had his mother here you know. That poor woman. I feel so sorry for her. I really must go now, Tori. I’m very sorry ...’

  ‘Maybe we can do it on the ‘phone then ..?’

  ‘No! Not on the telephone. Don’t say a word. I’m sorry, but I really must go. Goodbye.’