In the name and the wurship of the holy, blyssydfull Trynite of our Lord jesu Crist, MCCCCLIX, and in the xxxviii, yeer of souerayn Kyng od Englonde and of France, Herry the Sexte, the iii day of moneth Novembre.
I John Fastolf of Castre, be Gret Jermuth, of the counte of N, Knyght, beynge in good remembraunce, albeit I am sykly and thorwh age infeb, bryngyng to mende and often revolvynge in my soul how this world is tra, and how, amongs all ethely thynges that is present for to come, there is noe thynge on this onstable world so serteyn to creature of man kende as is departynge out of this world in dethe, the soule from the wrechyd body, and noo thynge erthely so onsertyn as the oure and tyme of deth.
Preamble to the will of Sir John Fastolf, (known as Falstaff)
CHAPTER 81 JORDAN HILL
“Did I say I'd seen Abi yesterday?” asked Catherine at breakfast.
“No,” said Thorney between bites of toast. “No. How is she?”
“Fine.” Catherine carried on eating her muesli.
“Any news of Grim?”
“Not really. But he still sends her money.”
“Oh. I suppose he's working then.”
“Must be.”
“Oh. Strange I've never heard where.”
“She thinks it must be something very secret.”
“Hmm.” Thorney didn't think much of that. His work on Project Discovery was as secret as anything got these days. At least he supposed it was. “I'll have a look at the e-mails. See if there's anything from the boys.”
“I've already looked. There's nothing,” said Catherine, disappointed. Like most parents, the Huxtables would never get used to not being parents, not having children to worry about, not having any human purpose to their lives.
“No sign of them getting married yet,” said Catherine. She really meant there was no sign of grandchildren yet, a chance to be grandparents, and have a bit of life back into their empty.....Well it wasn't empty. Of course not. Catherine was still at the Oxford University Press and Thorney was doing more than ever. It was just nice having more to life than work. Having more than just each other. It wasn't really enough.
Doctor James Mortimer didn't have anyone. No wife any more. Not much of a family in Jamaica. None here in England. He just had the job. Helping Thorney out with HMS Discovery. Lucky to still have the job actually. Thorney had given him a month off to see to his Mothers affairs in Jamaica, and it stretched into two months while he wondered what to do with the remains of his life.
“Ah well.” Now he was talking to himself. “Bugeration.” He thought of washing up, but heard the time on the radio (he still listened to Radio 4) and said “The train.”
He had all ready oiled and greased his bicycle and pumped the tyres and everything last night. So he just had to put on his back pack, wheel the bike out, lock the door, then peddle to the station.
Thorney drove along Walton street, looking for a space outside the Bath Stone classical porticoes of the OUP building. Nothing. He pulled in on the other side by what looked like a Greek temple, but was really a bar inside a disused church. He paid no notice to a poster saying John Gilchrist would play there next Saturday.
“Usual time,” said Catherine “Unless I phone.”
“OK. Can you manage all that?” Thorney meant two shoulder bags and sports bag full of manuscripts and files.
“Yes.” Catherine grimly pulled them from the back seat “See you later then.”
“Right.” Thorney leant forwards for a kiss. “Bye.”
“Bye.” Catherine closed the door.
Thorney looked over his
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