‘We’re finalising a very simple design – the receivers will resemble telephones. The user will speak to an operator who tunes you in to the correct year. When we can call each other across the decades, we’ll drastically cut down on the number of trips we need to take.’
‘Excellent news,’ Margaret said. ‘Radio communication will improve efficiency no end. But I’d query whether it should be Conclave-wide. That sounds rather… uncontrolled. Usage should be a privilege, held by the most senior employees, and sparingly extended to their subordinates. Then we can keep a tighter rein on the flow of information.’
‘If that’s what you want. We’ll need to hire operators. They won’t need to time travel, but they will need to be proficient in time travel technology – and ideally they should be up to speed in superluminal research. I think we should offer one of the roles to Barbara.’
Margaret closed her eyes. ‘We agreed not to contact Barbara. Didn’t we all feel that it would be cruel?’
‘Yes – when she was in no position to work with us. But if we were offering her a way back – an interesting, novel opportunity that would make good use of her skills – that wouldn’t be cruel at all. Don’t you see? Working with radios needn’t aggravate her symptoms at all. Her problem’s with circadian rhythm, and such – isn’t that what Angharad said?’
Shifting in her seat, Margaret replied, ‘I’m not sure it’s so simple. We don’t know whether Barbara has recovered enough to work anywhere. And if she has, she could still fall ill again.’
‘But surely—’
‘Honestly, Lucille, you haven’t thought this through. In the very best case scenario, she would be the topic of Conclave gossip. I won’t have her subjected to that. In the worst scenario, we would have to let her go again at some unspecified point, putting her through the same anguish. You know I’m right about this. Is she ever on staff when you travel into the future?’
She wasn’t. Lucille still wanted to offer Barbara a job. Barbara was free to turn them down; at least she would have the opportunity. Making the decision for her seemed wrong. ‘Barbara is one of the reasons why we were successful. Wouldn’t this be a good way to honour that? To show she’s still appreciated?’
‘Ah! You want to make a gesture.’ Margaret smiled broadly. ‘I have the very thing. Name your radio system Beeline.’
‘Name… the radio system?’ Disappointment crept into Lucille’s voice.
‘I think that’s a fine tribute. Now. Shall we discuss the budget you’ll need?’
*
‘Margaret wouldn’t even consider giving Barbara a job,’ Lucille said to her fiancé George. She was visiting him in Liverpool; they were in the kitchen of his parents’ two-up two-down, adjusting his crystal radio set.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said George. ‘That one hates to be shown up.’
‘You don’t think she’s doing what’s best for Bee?’ Lucille leant on his shoulder. His overalls smelt of car paint; he’d been working at the plant in Speke.
‘Only by accident,’ George said. ‘Bee’s better off without her help.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Because then you’d have to admit Margaret’s no good for you either.’
‘You wish I’d leave?’
‘You should work wherever you damn please. Just watch out for that Margaret. Never trust the aristocracy.’
‘She’s only got a minor title. Baronesses are one step up from commoners.’
‘She’s below you, queen.’ He donned the earphones and passed her a cigarette. They had played with radio sets since they were children.
‘What can you hear?’ she asked.
‘Storms. Singing. Footsteps. Someone singing in another language.’
‘Give over them earphones,’ Lucille said. ‘You have them to yourself all the other nights.’
‘It’s no fun without you. Besides, I get scared. You mock, but I do. Some of the voices are spooky. Like a ghostly voice’s calling my name. George! George! Hey! Get your ghosty hands off me!’ He protested as she wrested the earphones from him.
She snapped them onto her own head. ‘I can only hear whispering.’
Electronic noise drowned the words. The noise ceased. As clear as a tuning fork, she heard a Cornish voice say: Tinned sardines and fruit with evaporated milk. Lovingly decanted. Bee’s voice; Bee’s words.
‘What is it, queen?’ George was at once serious. He cupped Lucille’s face, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘What did you hear? Tell me.’
‘I was imagining things,’ she said. ‘Do you ever do that? Convince yourself you’ve heard something in the static?’
‘All the time.’
‘I just feel so guilty,’ Lucille confessed. ‘Bee’s going to be left behind. And I’ll still be carrying on there, year in year out.’
‘I do wish you’d leave,’ George said. ‘But we both know you won’t. Do you know what that means?’
‘What?’
‘You have to make the Conclave better, from the inside.’
She laughed. ‘How do I do that? The place never bloody changes. It can’t.’
He lit another cigarette. ‘You’ll have to think of something.’
8
JULY 2017
Ruby
Ruby still wanted to talk to Grace directly, to hear it confirmed that the dead woman was Granny Bee. Without much hope, she contacted the Conclave. She requested a meeting with Grace ‘to follow up on their recent conversation’. The Conclave said they’d get back to her. At least it wasn’t an outright refusal, although there was no guarantee Grace would comply. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Ruby did all of this without Bee’s knowledge. Bee didn’t want to contact Grace until she had a new discovery to offer the Conclave. But Ruby couldn’t wait that long to hear if Bee was in danger.
A week passed, and Ruby’s anxiety about Bee’s safety didn’t wane. It affected her sleep. She spent too long each night googling Grace on her phone. A pirated set of video installations, made by Grace some years ago, caught Ruby’s attention because of the title: Death and the Time Traveller. Ruby clicked on the first of the series, which yielded an interview with a newly recruited barrister in 2030, yet to take her first trip. She was filmed in black and white, perching at the edge of a slouchy leather sofa. At her side was a pot of aloe vera. Other than that the room was featureless. Grace, unseen behind the camera, asked Fay what she was looking forward to about time travel. Fay responded that she would meet her father for the first time since his death.
I want to give him books, ones he’d like, that were written after he’d gone. I want to show him photographs of the people he wouldn’t get to meet, and the events he wouldn’t get to witness. I want to ask his opinion on current affairs. I want to give him family gossip. I want to compare failings, because now I’m an adult I know what my failings are, and perhaps we could find common ground.
Her wistfulness touched Ruby, who had the strange sensation of recognising Fay’s face, but not being able to place where from. She discarded the thought. In 2017 this woman must still be a child; Ruby could only be confusing her with someone else.