Part 37 (2/2)

Victoria smiled indulgently at the tall white-haired gentleman in the flamboyant cape. She was wearing sungla.s.ses and a light summery dress of a decent length. Her hair was loose down to her shoulders. She decided that the gentleman was rather overdressed for the hot June weather.

The playing of a string quartet, by turns spiky and lyrical like a chain of unfettered thoughts, wafted in from the Oxford garden outside. The exhibition of Mr Do-do-dodgson's photographs, many of them newly discovered, was attracting good business. Not that business mattered the costs had been covered by a hefty donation from an anonymous benefactor anonymous benefactor.

'And he was a brilliant mathematician,' the gentleman continued. 'Served rather good lemonade as well. And m.u.f.fins.'

Victoria had been miles away. Years away. Floating above the trees of an old Oxford garden, where a rather petulant little girl was having her photograph taken. The little girl's father fussed round the photographer, generally holding things up.

Enough to try the patience of an oyster.

It was one hundred and fifty years ago and nearly teatime.

The sunlight was slightly yellowed.

The past was always in sepia.

On the gallery wall opposite Victoria, amid the posed studies of children and Carroll's own drawings of dancing Gryphons and Mock Turtles, there was a photograph of a little girl on a stone seat under a tree. She was clutching a doll and looked like someone else. The photograph was labelled 'Sitter Unknown'.

'Don't cry, Victoria Waterfield,' said the gentleman in the cape.

She could not conceal a sudden look of fear. 'Harris,' she said. 'Victoria Harris.'

'Of course, m'dear. I won't give away your secret.' He had sat down beside her. His eyes twinkled with rea.s.suring kindness.

She tried a half-hearted smile. 'Someone said just that to me last week as well. An eccentric man with an incredible scarf. He said he was a Doctor.'

He looked a little taken aback. 'Eccentric?' He peered round the gallery to see who else was there.

'I think he was teasing. He said he would appear but three times. He told me to see if I could spot him.'

'Did he indeed? And have you?'

She glanced round the gallery as well. 'I don't think I could miss him.'

'Well, I'm the Doctor too.' He grinned and shook her by the hand. 'How do you do? Confusing, isn't it?'

Victoria didn't find it in the least bit confusing. 'The Doctor sent you, didn't he?'

Another look of bemus.e.m.e.nt. 'Well, yes. I suppose he did.

In a manner of speaking.'

'He was always very kind. Is he well?'

'Infuriatingly so.'

'I do wish he was here. And dear Jamie too.'

'I thought... He He thought someone should call by just to see how you were settling in.' thought someone should call by just to see how you were settling in.'

It seemed to be about twenty years too late for that sort of visit. 'Tell him I'm fine,' she said quietly.

'Good,' said the gentleman and studied her for a moment before returning his attention to the exhibition.

She wondered how much the Doctor knew. Or how much he had told this gentleman, this doctor.

She had slipped away as quietly as possible after what was probably now referred to as the 'New World Event'. It had been too much to take in. The hurt of delusion was too deep.

Instead, she returned to old haunts.

Mrs Cywynski's garden was filled with a mix of the blue poppies, gentians and figworts from the parcel that Charles Bryce had sent Victoria years ago.

Victoria had never seen him again, although she met his wife briefly at the opening of the Memorial Gallery. A cool, polite meeting. The 'Tibet Event' was never mentioned.

'The garden's just like the Himalayas, dear,' said Roxana.

'But murder to keep the cats off.'

There were fourteen cats at the moment. A baker's coven.

She seemed to have completely forgotten the other lodger in her husband's room.

'The police came looking for you. But I told them you had gone abroad and I never heard from you.' The old lady was as redoubtable as ever. 'You could always come back. I'll clear the coven from upstairs.'

Victoria hugged her and declined courteously. She accepted a jar of rhubarb chutney 'Ten years old, so just about ready, dear' and left promising to stay in touch.

She had also found her mother's grave.

She dreamed it first. Three-tiered, overgrown by wheels of weeds, in a place she had pa.s.sed a dozen times.

In the dream, Daniel Hinton was there, pus.h.i.+ng aside the undergrowth to lay a small bunch of bluebells on top of the slab.

She visited Highgate and found the grave where she had seen it in the dream.

Sacred to the Memory of My Dear Wife EDITH ROSE WATERFIELD.

Mother of Victoria Maud Who Fell Asleep On The 23rd day of November 1863 Aged 37 years

Kind, Gentle, Loving And Beloved

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