by Peter D. Wilson

Donald had had a bad night, and the morning was not much better. He awoke with a thumping headache, a nasty taste in his mouth and a still nastier feeling of having done something very much worse than just getting drunk the previous night. The nature of it eluded him. What he did remember was a nightmare of finding himself chained in a dark, narrow space with a roof seeming to bear down on him. Perhaps it was a vestige of his horror, many years earlier, on reading a story in which the unfaithful wife of a mediaeval magnate awoke from a swoon to find herself buried alive in a sealed coffin.

Nothing more recent offered a clue to it. True, he had been chained at times, when there were particular reasons for it, but on the whole he had been treated fairly well throughout his years of captivity. The pressure had been mental, not physical. The worst moment had been the last, when the hideout was stormed and one stray bullet creased his forehead while another smashed a bone in his leg. He neither knew nor cared which side either of them had come from. He had been lucky; all but one of his kidnappers had been killed and so had two of the rescue party.

Heaving himself out of bed, he had second thoughts about the luck. The throbbing in his head deepened to such a pounding that he was forced to freeze until it subsided. Then he gingerly moved to the bathroom, splashed some water in his face and rinsed out his mouth. After that he felt strong enough to face some sort of breakfast. Real solids were out of the question, but he might manage a soft-boiled egg, and he hoped his wife would have some coffee ready for him; they had ceased to share a room when his thrashing about had made sleep impossible for her. However, she was not in the kitchen, so he filled the kettle and set it to boil while he tried to remember where the coffee was kept.

Then he found the note, a single sheet in an erratic hand with a smear of what looked like blood. "Dearest Don, I’m sorry, but I can’t take any more. Last night you really terrified me. Please, for your own sake as much as mine, get help before you do something completely unforgivable. I desperately want to come back to you, but I daren’t until you’ve recovered your real self. Please, please remember that you still have all my love, Josie."

So that was that. He’d really done it this time. What he had actually done he could not remember, but the trace of blood was ominous. The worst of it was that he could hardly feel surprised, except that she had put up with his treatment of her for so long. Whether he could brace himself to seek help was another matter. The shame of his degradation was too great to confess, and knowing that countless others were in exactly the same position was no help at all. What he suddenly realised he could do, and did immediately, was to search out every drop of alcohol in the apartment and pour it down the sink before he could change his mind. It was quickly done as most of the bottles and cans were already empty.

He could not remember what day it was and to find out had to switch on the radio, at very low volume. It turned out to be Sunday, so at least he was not expected at work.

How had he got into this disgusting state? There was no problem in the early days after his release. Of course he had been in hospital for weeks and it would not have been possible. Afterwards there were other constraints. Josie had had to give up their earlier marital home years before, when it became obvious that the kidnappers were not going to let him go in a hurry, and her apartment in West Yellowstone (merely a couple of rooms rented from a friend) was unsuitable for his convalescence, so they had stayed for a while with the Hamiltons in Ashton. There he might have had the odd drink with Bill, but Sal would have made sure that it stayed within reasonable bounds. The trouble started when he was at last medically cleared to go back to work at the Idaho National Laboratory and they found a place in Idaho Falls. Josie felt obliged to continue with her job in the tourist agency but stayed with him when she could; even so, he was alone for much of the time.

Reporting to Jim Monaghan on the first day back after the enforced five-year absence seemed very strange. "Welcome back, Don. We’ve missed you. How do you feel now?" "Pretty well, Jim, thank you, considering. And how’s everyone here?" "Well, as you’ve probably heard, there’ve been quite a lot of changes while you were away. The whole focus of the lab has altered. It’s all renewable energy, clean-up and waste management now. Your old project was chopped the year before last, I’m afraid." "I see. So where do I fit in now?"

Jim scratched his head. "That’s the problem. There’s nothing that really follows on from what you were doing before." There was a pause, and Donald began to fear a suggestion of early retirement on medical grounds. They were unlikely simply to sack him, at least while his ordeal was still fairly fresh in the public mind, but that mind tends to change like the wind and in the longer term his position looked none too secure. However, Jim had a more positive step in view, and his problem was how to present it in an attractive manner.

"Well, the big problems are still waste management and weapon proliferation. To some extent they come together in the issue of plutonium-contaminated waste. Of course no terrorist in his right mind would consider it as a source of weapon material, but you can’t tell that to some of the Greens, and in any case it’s an embarrassment in its own right. So there’s a scheme to collect the stuff from the various sites, separate out the combustible part - paper tissues, protective clothing and so on - incinerate it and extract the plute from the residue. That’s a chemical job, of course, but there’s a good deal of engineering involved as well." "In what way?" "Firstly in containing the dust from the incinerator, but that’s a specialised field in its own right. Where you might fit in is improving the remote-handling equipment. We’re long past the stage where shoving stuff in and out of glove boxes was acceptable, and in any case some of it needs shielding. That makes maintenance difficult, and of course if equipment breaks down, it becomes waste itself and adds to the problem, so for that reason alone apart from any others, extreme reliability is essential. It’s quite a challenge. How do you fancy helping to tackle it?"

"What’s the alternative?" "Frankly, I haven’t thought of one." "So it’s that or nothing, then." "I wouldn’t say that. There’s bound to be some engineering work to be done in almost any area, but it’s liable to be bits and pieces, and most of the projects are fully staffed already. I doubt if you’d find them much more appealing, anyway."

Donald accepted what seemed to be inevitable with the best grace he could, and asked who was running the project. "Chris Bradshaw - I think you know him." "Yes, but didn’t you say it was a chemical job? He’s a physicist." "That’s right, but he’s always said that chemistry is only a branch of physics, and he was quite happy to take it on." This lack of professionalism was worrying, and Donald’s anxieties increased over the following week as he got to know the rest of the team, clearly the has-beens of the department. The whole job looked suspiciously like a cosmetic exercise to avoid the need for compulsory redundancies. He became increasingly depressed, and once in Josie’s absence he had an extra drink to cheer himself up. It didn’t work, so he had another, and so on.

That was the start of the problem. He still managed to stay more or less sober during the week, but more and more often, Josie coming south when her days off fell at the weekend found him truly drunk. Her attempts to persuade him away from the booze only angered him, the more so since he knew she was right, and anger led to violence. It was mild at first, just thrusting her away from him too forcefully as she tried to coax him back to sanity, but it gradually became more serious until the night of the disastrous assault.

The shock of her leaving and forcing him to recognise the gravity of his condition sobered him up, and he still had just enough will-power to sustain his resolution. It became a little easier with time, and to take his mind off his loss he took a more active interest in his work. It might have begun as a non-job, but he found he could make it into something substantial.

There was a further reason for working late. His neighbour, a divorcee in her early forties, started bringing him portions of pies or cakes "because I’m sure you don’t look after yourself properly." He was cautiously grateful, but when she hinted that if he needed comforts of another kind she might not be unduly reluctant, he took fright and from then on made a point of being otherwise occupied in the evenings.

That problem eased when she found a more pliable prospect, but by then he had reached a critical point in his project and for his own satisfaction needed to put the time in. Monaghan noticed and asked how it was going. "Pretty well, Jim. I think we could have a preliminary design ready in a month or two." "That’s good, because in the autumn there’s an IAEA seminar with a section on the subject, and it would boost the section’s profile if you presented a paper there." "But surely it should be Chris doing that?"

Monaghan agreed in principle, but strictly between the two of them thought that Donald would make a better job of it. Chris would of course be nominally the senior author, and would have to write up the chemical process anyway, while Monaghan would take responsibility for smoothing any ruffled feathers. In the event, Chris’s technical contribution turned out to be minimal so it was obvious that Donald should be the presenter, saving a good deal of embarrassment. Meanwhile Donald had to produce the bulk of the paper. He could in theory write it at work, but with frequent interruptions there he found it easier at home. That at least gave him a convincing reason for avoiding convivial occasions that might trigger a relapse into his former trouble. He wondered if Josie might return and perhaps accompany him to Vienna, but she had changed her telephone number and Sal Hamilton flatly refused to tell him the new one without being fully satisfied that there would be no relapse. In case Josie’s resolve weakened, she would not even forward letters.

Ten weeks later the paper was written and submitted for clearance, probably little more than a formality. Since Donald had never visited the IAEA headquarters he asked advice of those who had, and got a great deal more than he had bargained for. The airport was at Schwecat, fourteen miles from Vienna itself, but with a good bus service into the city, so there was generally no need to take a cab. There was of course a choice of hotels, and everyone he consulted had different ideas about them, but Chris recommended a place on the Stubenring (marked on a street plan), comfortable, friendly and within easy walking distance of both City Air Terminal and the Schwedenplatz Metro station on the line to the United Nations building. One point of caution was to buy tickets at the kiosk outside the station as none were available inside or on the train. Another was that the UN area was extra-territorial so he must be sure to have his passport and invitation handy. To reach it he should alight at Kaiserműhlen, just beyond the divided channel of the Danube, and head towards a drum-shaped building with several strings of much taller curved wings projecting from it; if in doubt, follow the crowd to passport control. Inside the main building there might be a queue at the reception desk, but it was worth waiting as orientation within the circular atrium could be confusing; once he had directions, there was usually a UNICEF display of some kind that would make a helpful point of reference. For lunch, there was a decent restaurant within the building on the ground floor at the far end of one of the longer wings; for the evening, the more famous establishments in the city tended to be over-patronised and expensive, so Chris generally went to one near the Gutenberg memorial (again marked), although it was a while since he had been there and standards might have slipped.

Donald felt overwhelmed and doubted whether he could remember much of it, so asked Chris to write out the main points for him. Then there was the little matter of travel to Vienna, a long journey taking the best part of twenty hours however he did it, and complicated by the difference in time zones. Moreover, although the city was better served by air than it had been a decade or so earlier, at least two changes would be needed. Even setting off at the crack of dawn and with good connections, he would arrive well into the following morning.

He was inclined to make light of this, but found himself more weary on arrival than he had expected, his luggage was heavier than intended and his leg was playing up enough to justify taking a cab to the hotel. It had made sleep almost impossible during the flight so he spent the afternoon in bed.

Fortunately his paper was scheduled for a session on the second day of the seminar, so there was a reasonable chance by then of recovering fairly well from the journey. Afterwards he could remember little of the first day, apart from the Brazilian delegate’s apologising for appearing in extremely informal attire as his luggage had been sent in error to Venice. There was a further delay when it was sent on from there to Vientiane. Donald never heard whether it had eventually reached its owner; he was reminded of the story about a very aggressive passenger at Heathrow who had given hell to a check-in clerk, leading the one behind to commiserate with her when his turn came and ask where the character was going: "Washington, but his luggage is going to Tokyo." He wondered what Senhor Dias could have done to deserve a double misdirection.

By the time Donald was due to present his own paper he was feeling more fully awake, and put in what with much relief even he thought to have been a tolerable performance. It aroused a good deal of interest, so much that discussion had to be cut short for the sake of the following speaker. However, at lunch time while he was collecting cutlery, one delegate whose question had not been accommodated approached, introduced himself as Neil Ainsworth and asked if he might join Donald.

Eating hampers serious conversation, so it was purely casual during the meal. Afterwards Ainsworth explained that he was interested in the INL scheme but puzzled by one aspect of it: what was the form of plutonium in the residues they were to treat? "Mostly oxide, I expect." "And you’re going to leach it out just with nitric acid?" "That’s right." "But plute oxide’s practically insoluble in nitric acid." "What? Are you sure? I mean, I’m no chemist, but plutonium is an actinide, isn’t it?" "Of course." "And actinides behave like lanthanides, and their oxides dissolve easily enough, don’t they" "Yes, but (if you’ll pardon the anthropomorphism) the early actinides don’t seem to know all that. They behave chemically just as though they were continuing an ordinary long series - uranium very much like tungsten, for instance. Lanthanide behaviour doesn’t kick in until you get to americium, and plute oxide behaves more like silica. I’m afraid you might as well try getting nitric acid to dissolve sand."

Donald was not going to give in too easily. "Just a minute, though. Other plants dissolve the oxide in nitric acid, don’t they?" "Yes, but they add fluoride as a catalyst. And to stop the fluoride from dissolving your equipment you have to add aluminium. If you do that, by the time you’ve finished you’re almost back where you started, only the plute’s mixed up with a mass of aluminium instead of the general muck, which I suppose is some improvement." "Hmm. That’s a bit of a poser. Thanks for pointing it out. I’ll have to discuss it with my colleagues when I get back." "I’d like to hear how you get on. Here’s my card."

So much for Chris’s "chemistry only a branch of physics," Donald thought. He must have a serious talk with him about getting a real chemist in on the project. At least he’d been spared the humiliation of being challenged on so basic a point within the meeting, but thinking of what might so easily have happened he got more and more irritated as the afternoon session wore on. Adding to his distraction, his leg was hurting rather badly again and he realised he had better have it checked when he got back home in case something was seriously wrong.

Waiting on the Kaiserműhlen station platform, he was still thinking on these matters when he was startled by a tap on the shoulder. It was Ainsworth again. “Excuse me, Dr. Harris, but I’ve been thinking about your problem." "Oh, yes?" "I believe there may be a way round it without too much trouble. If you - oh, here’s the train. We can talk about it once aboard."

At that point two last-minute passengers arrived, arguing vehemently in Italian. One of them was gesticulating wildly, not looking where he was going, tripped and stumbled into Donald, catching him not only with his shoulder but with a heavy briefcase behind the knee. The impact threw him forward, the injured leg refused to take his weight and he tottered over the edge of the platform. The train was too close for him to get out of its way.

*****

Mike Crampton was relaxing after a more than usually busy day, not expecting any interruption, and the ringing of the telephone startled him. "Michael, this is Sal." "Who? Sorry, I was napping." "Sal Hamilton, in Ashton." "Oh, Sal, hello, it’s good to hear from you." "I’m not sure you’ll think so when you hear what it’s about."

She explained that Josie’s husband had had a fatal accident while attending a meeting in Vienna, and that Josie herself was required to go and identify the body as no one there had known him well enough. In any case she would have to make the usual administrative arrangements. Donald had been travelling on duty so his department would take care of the costs, and had offered to provide an escort, but Josie knew none of the people there and in the circumstances would very much rather have a friend with her. Sal would have gone herself, only Bill had a very nasty dose of flu and she couldn’t leave him; she realised that it was a huge imposition, but was it at all possible that Mike might step into the breach?

He didn’t need to think about it; of course he would. The implications could be worked out later. Sal explained that on the provisional plans they had made, Josie would arrive at Heathrow about ten o’clock the following Tuesday; could he meet her there? Mike confirmed that he could. That flight would just miss the last connection arriving at a reasonable hour, and she would already be tired after a night on the plane, so intended to stay overnight in London and travel onward the next day; a nine-fifty departure looked reasonably convenient.

Mike first made sure that his deputy Terry Hankins was willing and able to stand in for him over the days we was likely to be away, and no more difficult substitution was necessary. That settled, the arrangements were quickly agreed. With some apprehension he wondered how he would react to meeting Josie again; it was a long time since learning that she was already married had put paid to some notions he had been cherishing on his own behalf. He still felt a flutter as she emerged from Arrivals, and was disturbed to see how she had aged since their last meeting, still more by her uncharacteristically emotional greeting.

Rather than stay overnight near the airport, he had booked rooms at a more agreeable hotel used by his travel company, and was not surprised when she withdrew to her own for the afternoon as she couldn’t face lunch. He took the opportunity to study a German phrase book picked up at the airport. However, by evening she was sufficiently awake to dine with him, and to Mike’s relief her composure seemed fully restored. Afterwards she gave him a heavily censored account of events since Donald’s discharge from hospital. Nevertheless she retired early and Mike called Terry to check on any problems that might have arisen in his absence, fortunately nothing needing his own attention. After that he went back to the phrase book, but he was tired himself and found it hard going.

In the morning Josie was fairly well recovered, very fortunately as an early start was needed, but she dozed again during the flight and Mike thought it best not to disturb her when lunch was offered. There was another time zone to cross, though nothing compared with the difference from the western USA. Despite his instant willingness to accompany her, having never visited Vienna he had wondered how he would cope, and been reassured to find that before setting out she had followed advice to inform the US embassy of her plans so that she could be met on arrival.

Colin Drysburgh of the Citizen Services department was used to this sort of thing and duly sympathetic to Josie in her bereavement. He knew something of Donald’s kidnap and was interested when she introduced Mike as an old friend who had been indirectly involved in the rescue; if he suspected that there was any more than friendship in the association he kept it to himself. The arrangement was to visit the police headquarters the following morning, but he was unsure whether she would be required to stay longer after the unpleasant task of confirming Donald’s identity; much would depend her ideas for a funeral.

The hotel where they were to stay, the same as Donald had used, was quite close to the Embassy and on the same street; the car dropped them there, and he would call for them the following morning when they were to see the police officer in charge of the investigation. Mike was surprised. "Investigation? I thought it was a straightforward accident." It probably was, Drysburgh thought, as the explanation given by the man who caused it was so ridiculous it must be true, but there might be a charge of manslaughter, or if a motive could be found even murder. "What was the explanation?" "I daren’t tell you. My wife nearly had hysterics when she heard it. We don’t wasn’t to make an exhibition of ourselves in the street."

The next morning he took them to police headquarters by the long way round the Ring. "You may as well see something of our best buildings while you’re here." "Our buildings?" queried Mike. "Well, we tend to think of ourselves as honorary citizens." On arrival Drysburgh stated his business and they were ushered in to see Hauptmann Strasser, whose name immediately made Mike think of "Casablanca", but there was nothing of the Nazi about this Strasser. He offered his deepest sympathy to Josie and apologised for the need to subject her to this ordeal, which she assured him she understood to be necessary however unpleasant. A female officer would accompany them to the morgue; Mike was welcome to go too if he wished, or he could wait for their return. "Oh, we’re coming back, are we?" "Yes, there’s a little further business. Nothing to worry about."

The officer, Anneliese Schmidt, was a motherly type and Josie was glad of her presence: despite the best efforts of the mortuary attendants, the body was in a distressing condition. Fortunately the face had been spared further disfigurement, and there was no doubt about the identity. Thinking of what their relationship had been, and how it might perhaps have been recovered had she shown more fortitude, she could not completely restrain her tears, and a woman’s company was very welcome.

Back in Strasser’s office, he asked what Josie wanted to be done about the funeral, as there were two possibilities: the body might be repatriated, though that would involve certain formalities and of course be expensive at several thousand dollars, or it could be cremated and the ashes shipped to a suitable address in the USA. Drysburgh, asked his opinion, said it was up to Josie but quite apart from the matter of cost, cremation would be by far the more practical course; she immediately agreed. The procedure would take some days to set up; would she stay for the service, or return? She would have to think about that.

Meanwhile there was one other thing: Professor Bertolucci, whose blundering had caused the accident, was not after all to be charged with any offence. Investigations so far had found no suggestion of premeditated malice nor any cause for it, and it would be regrettable to risk an international incident by pursuing a distinguished Italian academic unnecessarily. He would be allowed to leave as soon as he wished, but hearing that Josie had come was anxious to offer his apologies in person; would she be willing to accept them?

Josie wondered what Mike thought. "Well, it’s bound to be embarrassing, but the poor sod must be in agonies of remorse and it might help. You could notch up a credit or two with the recording angel if you agreed."

So they met, and it was quite as embarrassing as Mike had expected. Bertolucci overwhelmed Josie with abject apologies, but she took it well, and her assurance of having no hard feelings produced some of the desired effect. Mike however wondered what actually had happened.

"Ah, Signor, it is so absurd that I can hardly believe it myself. I was engrossed in an argument with Dr. Antonelli, we were getting rather heated, and to my sorrow I failed to notice Signor Harris standing there. I tripped over something, stumbled against him and he seemed to lose his balance. For some reason he could not recover it and fell off the edge of the platform." Josie told him that Donald’s injured leg had probably not regained its full strength and might have given way under him, and Bertolucci nodded: that must be it.

"But what were you arguing about, to get so excited?" Mike asked. Remembering Drysbergh’s wife, Josie reprovingly dug him in the ribs, and indeed Bertolucci had his head in his hands, muttering incomprehensibly. "What? I didn’t catch it": "I am so sorry, I am desolate that my clumsiness caused such a terrible accident over so trifling a matter." "What matter?" "We were disputing ... whether Pavarotti or Domingo was the greater singer." Josie stared, then burst into uncontrollable laughter that indeed threatened to become hysterical until Anneliese took her in hand. Had it been an Italian opera, that would have been the cue for a mad scene. Meanwhile, Mike somehow managed to keep a straight face and to ease the tension shook hands with the bemused Bertolucci, who accepted the gesture gratefully. When Josie had recovered her composure she offered her hand which instead he kissed effusively.

By that time she had decided that she could not in conscience take more time away from her work, and would it be fitting for Drysburgh to represent her at the cremation? He would gladly do that and arrange for the ashes to be sent to her; she thought the Hamiltons’ address the most suitable. Austrian regulations would require a certificate that a cemetery had a burial plot for the urn, but that was not to say she must use it if she had other ideas, as indeed she had. For the present she kept them to herself.

*****

Neil Ainsworth made his statement to the police. He had been talking to Dr. Harris and standing beside him at the time the Italians approached. Out of the corner of his eye he had been vaguely aware of Bertolucci and Antomelli but took no particular notice, as he was more concerned to see where would be the best place to board the approaching train. Consequently he had not realised the danger until Dr. Harris cannoned into him and then off the platform. He had no reason to suppose that it might have been anything but a tragic accident, nor had anyone else so far as he had heard.

The following morning’s session of the seminar opened with a minute’s silence in respect for Dr. Harris, then got down to the scheduled business. Neil’s heart was not really in it, and his mind returned to his last words with Harris. The flaw in the INL plan would probably be noticed before there was any commitment of material resources, but then it ought to have been spotted long before and had not. To be on the safe side he would write to the co-author listed in the programme. It might be tactful to append his thoughts to a note of condolence.

There was no immediate response but five weeks later he received an e-mail from Jim Monaghan thanking him for his thoughtfulness, acknowledging that the difficulty he raised had previously been overlooked, expressing interest in Ainsworth’s suggested solution to it, and offering him a consultancy on the project. Neil was astonished that no American chemist had been called in, but supposed that maybe there were issues of internal politics involved. In any case he was coming up to retirement and not disposed to look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth, so he replied that he was interested, and with very little difficulty an acceptable contract was soon agreed.

As it happened another three months passed before his first visit to INL and introduction to Chris Bradshaw, who struck him as a decent enough character but a surprising choice to head such a project. Still, that was none of his business. He was shown the engineering test rig and expressed due admiration, then at a team meeting presented his objections to the original process scheme, the way he proposed to overcome them, and the kind of design extensions that would be needed to accommodate it. The technology involved was familiar and he foresaw no need for much research; on the other hand he had known two instances where over-confidence in existing knowledge had almost led to disaster, so he recommended at least some confirmatory studies on a small scale, then inactive trials with a full-sized mock-up of the plant as it was intended to be. There were a few questions, not particularly demanding, and that appeared to be that for the time being. Money for jam, he thought.

Afterwards Bradshaw thanked him for his presentation and suggested a further visit during the pilot runs, to which Ainsworth agreed in principle; definite arrangements could be made nearer the time if it still seemed appropriate. It also occurred to him to mention that he had been talking to Harris at the time of the accident, and if there were any family living locally he would rather like to offer personal condolences; they might be pleased to hear how well his paper had been received.

Bradshaw explained that there was a widow, but he understood her to have been estranged for some time. Still, absence might have made the heart grow fonder; he had some telephone numbers and would make enquiries during the lunch break. It turned out that she was at the marital home in Idaho Falls and would be glad to see him. What time was his flight? A little after five. No problem.

Josie told him that it was lucky he had come just then as she happened to be closing the lease on the apartment; lucky for her, she meant, as she did want to know how Don had seemed. Pretty fit, Ainsworth thought, apart from the problem with his leg, which of course he hadn’t known at the time. No signs of the alcoholism that had blighted the marriage? None at all that he could see. Josie sighed and said she wished she had known; she had wanted all along to return to Don in due course, but had had no contact since running out in fear for her life. He must have shown extraordinary determination to recover so successfully. However, that was water under the bridge. At least she was glad that he had regained his self-respect.

In a lighter vein she wondered if Neil had visited the area before. He hadn’t, so she suggested that if he came again, he should allow time for a quick tour of the area. She worked for the tourist agency, and if the timing was suitable and other commitments permitted, would be glad to show him around. He thought that a very good idea.

It became reality the following spring when as expected he was invited to witness the pilot-scale trials of his process, which to his relief yielded no unpleasant surprises. He had arranged that Josie would collect him from his hotel the morning after his business was complete. On the way north they naturally had to stop briefly in Ashton, where Sal Hamilton welcomed him warmly: Bill was out, but expected back soon. Josie had told Neil about the relationship with them, but while she was out of the room he commented on something that had puzzled him: although she was relatively young and so had been her husband, there was no sign of parents or in-laws. Sal said it was a rather delicate matter, but there could be no harm in his knowing.

Josie was actually the daughter of Sal’s sister, who had gone off on a European tour, got involved with a rather loose bunch there, and after her return found herself pregnant. She had lost touch with the father; the only clue to his identity was a group photograph which Sal showed to Neil and as she said, named no one. It was a difficult birth and Yvonne died soon afterwards, so the Hamiltons had brought Josie up practically as their own. As for Donald, he had quarrelled with his parents over breaking away from a very strict religious sect in which they had positions of authority, and when they realised that he was to marry a "child of sin" it was the last straw for them: they disowned him completely and there had been no further communication. For all practical purposes they might as well be dead.

Neil took a second look at the photograph. It was the usual kind of holiday snap with people posing self-consciously in front of Sacré-Cœur de Paris, but there was something more, something about the group itself that stirred a memory. He asked which of the figures was Yvonne, and Sal pointed it out. Peering more closely at those beside her, he was convinced. "That’s my brother!" "What? It can’t be!" "I’m sure of it. I thought this photo looked familiar, and that’s why; he had another print of it, and I particularly remember the silly hat he was wearing. I believe he still has it - about the only relic of his mis-spent youth that his wife’s let him keep. And now I think of it, he did say that he’d been rather fond of that girl but lost her address when his wallet was stolen."

Sal called for Josie, and Neil signalled her not to speak for a moment. "Josie, do you mind my asking? What’s your blood group?" "Not at all, B rhesus positive, but why?" "That pretty well settles it." "Settles what?" Sal’s excitement burst out irresistibly: "Josie, we’ve found your father!" "What? Not you, Neil, is it?" "No, and just as well or my wife would have something to say about it. It’s my brother Dennis. Wait till I get home and tell him; he’ll be tickled pink."

"So will Bill when he comes in," said Sal. "But are you sure about your brother? Not all - er - mature gentlemen are pleased when youthful indiscretions come home to roost." "Don’t worry, he’ll be delighted. He and Molly have always wanted children but never managed it." "Will Molly take that view, do you think?" "Oh, she wasn’t around then. She knows there were a few wild oats before they met. Since then he’s strictly honoured the ‘forsaking all others’ bit - I don’t think he’d dare do otherwise - and she’s satisfied with that."

Sal hoped he was right but rather doubted it. However, that was someone else’s worry. Hers was to prepare the lunch for which the visitors would obviously have to stay after Neil’s astonishing discovery, so she excused herself and bustled around the kitchen. Bill, returning, caught her at it and wondered what was going on. "You’ll never guess." "No, of course I shan’t unless you give me a clue." "Josie’s here." "I know that. It’s her car outside. Very nice to see her again, of course, but what’s so special this time?" "It’s who’s with her. Of all people, her father’s brother." "Don’t talk nonsense, we’ve no idea who the father was." "We have now. Josie’s taking around an acquaintance of Donald’s who recognised his brother on that old photo of Yvonne’s." "I dare say he did, but I seem to remember that getting a woman with child usually takes a bit more involvement than appearing in the same photograph. Just as well, too."

Sal told him not to be silly, of course there was more to it than that; for a start he had the right blood group, one of the less common types. "That only means it’s not impossible. You’d need a DNA test to establish paternity." "Well, maybe it will come to that, but there’s an easier way. Send him a copy of the photograph and ask whether he’d bedded that girl." "Now why didn’t you say that in the first place?" "Because I’ve only just thought of it."

As it happened, the same thought had also occurred to Neil, who had taken what he hoped would be a tolerable reproduction with his own camera, probably not as good as a direct scan but with any luck sufficient for the purpose.

After they left, Josie commented that it would seem odd to start calling Neil "Uncle" rather than "Mr. Ainsworth" and he suggested that perhaps she had better not, at least for the time being. Even if confirmed to be true, it might arouse unworthy suspicions when they had to stay at the same hotel. That night, of course, she spent in her own apartment, but joined Neil for dinner. It reminded her of the time she had needed to beg a ride from Ashton with Mike, and wondered what he was doing now. Then she recalled a later occasion when he had solved another difficulty for her and she had asked in jest if he was going to make a habit of getting her out of holes. He had casually replied "If she would let him," and she wondered whether he had really meant it. Counting the business in Vienna, there had been three occasions now. For some reason the question had begun to seem rather significant.

The next day, stopping at Jenny Lake, she was again reminded of Mike and told Neil of his looking for the burial place there. He thought it might be interesting to see the spot, but she had no directions and remembered that it might be rather difficult to find. She mentioned that it was another Englishman who had told her the story, and suddenly realised that she was probably half English herself, a thought that had not previously registered. Perhaps she ought to look further into that side of her ancestry if the opportunity offered when she next escorted a tour there, supposing that the unconventional arrangement by which she occasionally did so were to continue.

Neil was astonished that she was prepared to leave it to such a chance; if the apparent relationship were indeed verified, would she not wish to visit her father immediately? She was reluctant to admit that the fare would be a larger slice of her resources than she could reasonably afford, but Neil sensed the difficulty and suggested that if it was inconvenient to spend so much time away from her work, Dennis would probably want to visit her. Before leaving her for his flight, he promised to prod his brother in that direction.

Back home his wife was duly astonished by the discovery and as eager as he was to confirm it. They made an early opportunity to visit Dennis, ostensibly for Neil to give an account of his tour, but that was soon out of the way and Joan then guided the conversation towards old times. Did Dennis by any chance still have that photograph of a group posing in front of Sacré-Cœur? No, it had been lost or discarded years before, but why did she ask? Neil explained that on his travels he had come across what he thought might be another print of the same shot and would like to see whether he was right or not; he had taken a copy of it and would Dennis like to check?

Dennis looked carefully at it and a slow smile spread across his face. "My word, those were good times." "So it is the same photo, then?" "Yes, definitely. What an extraordinary coincidence. How on earth did you find it?" Despite his assurance to Josie of his confidence in Molly’s likely attitude, Neil ducked the question until she went to make more coffee, then told of his visit to the Hamiltons. Did Dennis by any chance remember the name of the girl next to him in the group? Sadly, no, but "Hamilton" didn’t ring any bells. Might it have been Yvonne Lake? A moment’s thought, then "Yes! I do believe it was. My word, that takes me back. She was something really special, and no mistake." "Special enough to - er - economise on rent for the night?" "Well, yes, quite a few nights as it happened, but don’t tell Molly that. Actually she took a hell of a lot of persuading at first; not her usual style at all." "I didn’t know you could be so persuasive." "I wasn’t always the timid hen-pecked husband, you know. But what’s the point of all this?" "Just the small matter that the guide I had on that trip is her daughter, and evidently yours too."

This revelation left Dennis stunned, and Molly returning with the coffee wondered what had happened. Dennis feebly waved at Neil to explain. "Well, that is a bombshell," was all her comment, which Neil thought decidedly inadequate in the circumstances, especially considering the casual tone in which it was uttered. He was not aware that in view of various snippets that had come her way from time to time, Molly had long harboured suspicions of what might have gone on in Dennis’s bachelor days, and if anything was rather pleased that something tangible had at last turned up. "What’s she like, Neil?" "I thought her delightful. A credit to you, Dennis." "Probably more nurture than nature," Molly remarked a little sharply.

"Is she married?" she added as an afterthought. "She was, but her husband was killed in an accident about eighteen months ago. I was talking to him at the time, and that was the reason for my visits to the States - or rather, the subject matter was the reason." "Any children?" "No." A pity, Molly thought. Even step-grandchildren would be better than none. But then, if the girl was really as attractive as Neil seemed to think ... "Neil, do you have a photograph of her?" "There may be one or two in the camera." "Well, will you let us have prints if there are?" "Of course."

"Dennis, we must invite her over," she commanded. "What? Oh, yes, my dear." Neil pointed out that there might be some obstacle: he wasn’t sure whether it was pressure of work, the cost of the fare or some other reason, but she had not seemed particularly eager to make such a visit. "She’s probably worried about the reception she might get from a step-mother," Molly suggested, and Neil agreed perhaps a shade too readily that that might be true. She glared at him. "As for the fare, we can pay it, can’t we, Dennis?" "I suppose so." "Don’t sound so enthusiastic!" "Sorry, dear, I still can’t get used to the idea." "Of booking flights?" "No, of course not. Of having a daughter after all these years."

Neil pointed out that it didn’t have to be Josie making the crossing; Dennis, with or without Molly, could visit her. "All very well for you, Neil. You get your fare paid, and I suppose business class. For us it would mean either spending a fortune or going all that way in a peculiarly fiendish form of torture." "Isn’t it worth a fortune?" Molly demanded. "Well, if absolutely necessary, I suppose." "Come on, she’s your daughter, not mine. I shouldn’t be having to nag you into it." To put an end to this line of argument, Neil offered to tell Josie that she would be very welcome to come if the opportunity were to arise before her now more-than-putative father was in a position to visit her.

*****

The firm for which Josie occasionally escorted European tours had linked up with Dennison’s, in which Mike Crampton had an interest, so it was natural to use one of his coaches for the British section of the next trip, and in view of their known friendship to put her in charge of it. She had been glad to see that Terry Hankins was again the driver, and asked how Mike was. "Well, and pretty busy, but he asked me to say that he can probably get away for dinner with you if you can spare the time." "I think I can do that." She snatched a moment to call Mike and tell him so.

He arrived with a box of English chocolates for which she had previously confessed a penchant, and over the meal she told him her news, in particular how the question of her father’s identity had been resolved. "I hadn’t realised that there was any question, but now it’s been answered, are you going to see him?" "I’m not sure. I got a call from Neil to say that I’d be welcome, which was reasonable enough as he was the one I knew, but I’d have expected his brother to confirm it personally. I can’t help feeling that for some reason he isn’t too keen. There isn’t time on this trip, anyway." "Do you want to, eventually?" "Of course, as a matter of curiosity. I can’t pretend there’s any emotional bond." "Not to be expected when you haven’t even met. How did you get on with Neil?" "Fine. I thought it very kind of him to go out of his way, quite unprompted, to tell me about meeting Donald and being with him at the time of the accident. Sal and Bill liked him, too." "That’s certainly a good recommendation. Hmm. I wonder ..." "What?" "Would it help if I had a word with him and asked if he knew what the problem might be? If it’s hurtful he might be more willing to tell me than you directly." "I’m not sure. But it’s worth trying, if you wouldn’t mind." "Of course I shouldn’t."

It was a few days before he could make that call. He then introduced himself as a friend of Josie, who had told him about the discovery of her parentage. "Not by any chance the friend who escorted her to Vienna?" "Oh, so you know about that. Yes, that’s right. Anyway, I was talking to her the other day about the possibility of her visiting her father. She had your message that she’d be welcome, but was surprised that none had come from him and felt it suggested that he was rather reluctant. Do you happen to know what the position really is?"

Neil in fact was just as puzzled himself. He had been quite sure that Dennis and Molly would be delighted by the discovery, and was taken aback by finding himself if not completely mistaken, then at least some distance from the mark. Mike wondered if it might be Molly raising objections, but Neil was fairly sure it was Dennis himself. "There is one possibility (don’t let this go any further, I shouldn’t really be telling tales out of school), but I’ve an impression that he’s getting a bit tight-fisted in his old age. He demurred about the cost of visiting Josie in the States, and I know for a fact that he can afford it easily enough. I can’t help wondering if he’s afraid she’ll make some claim on his pocket." "Ah, that would make sense. Not that I think she’s likely to. Perhaps it would be best to hang fire until the situation becomes clearer." "I think maybe you’re right. But I’m glad we’ve had this talk. Let me know of any developments, and I’ll come back to you if the occasion arises."

Josie had given him her itinerary and hotel telephone numbers, but she was not immediately available so he left a message for her to call when convenient. When she did so he told her simply that Neil had noticed there did seem to be some problem with Dennis but he didn’t know what it was, and it was probably best to wait a while rather than force the issue. She agreed, and then said there was something else in which she would like his help; was he likely to be visiting Ashton or in that area fairly soon? As it happened the attorney who was dealing with his property there had raised an issue that would need his personal attention, while Dennison also wanted to discuss some business arrangements, and it would be sensible to deal with all three matters on the one visit. Josie was due for a couple of weeks’ leave in the following month, and when he checked, that time seemed to suit everyone else well enough. They arranged to meet at the Hamilton’s place.

The first call was on Harry Weinberg, the attorney, who explained that the problem was with the resident caretakers of the house, or rather with their scruples. Iris Carter had been in hospital for a few days, and to make things easier for her, Joel had taken upon himself some minor structural alterations. "But you know how hyper-conscientious she is. When she found out she was furious - said he shouldn’t have done anything of the sort without permission. Strictly true, of course, but when she told me about it I assured her that you would have no objection at all; I hope that was right." "Absolutely. As far as I’m concerned they can improve it in any way they like. They’re the ones living there." "That’s how I understood it. Unfortunately, even that didn’t satisfy her, and she had to have your personal approval. I pointed out that she could hardly expect you to come five thousand miles or whatever it is just to ease her mind, and at least she saw the sense in that, but insisted that if you were coming anyway you should go and see what had been done. Nothing I could say would shift her from that." "Don’t worry, there’s no problem. I’m going that way in any case. I’ve friends to visit in the town, and I’d like to see the Carters again; I’ve neglected them for too long."

The business with Dennison took a little longer. He introduced Mike to a proposed additional partner, Jerry Shaw, who presented his ideas for developing the business. They seemed soundly based, but chiefly affected the American side of it and as far as Mike could see would make no difficulties for his, so he was quite happy for them to arrange things between themselves. Wishing them luck, he set off for Ashton.

Carter’s modifications to the house amounted to an extended porch with steps up to it on one side and a ramp for a wheelchair on the other, just in case of need. To Mike it seemed well conceived and constructed, and in Iris’s presence he congratulated Joel on his handiwork. With their anxieties soothed on that score, he suggested that in case a similar situation should arise in the future, he could provide them with a formal written authorisation to do whatever they liked. Iris thought that too sweeping, and he should add a condition that except in case of emergency, he or his agent should approve a sketch and description of the work to be done before it was started. He thought it paradoxical that it was she who insisted on limiting their discretion, but if that was the way she wanted it, why should he complain?

It was agreed that he would draft the document and bring it for them all to sign the following morning. He also had a friend who had heard quite a lot about the house and the story behind it; would they mind if she came along to see it? Not at all, they would be delighted, and perhaps they could stay for lunch? That would probably not be convenient, as there was something to be done that might take more than just the afternoon, but a light mid-morning snack might be appreciated. Mike stressed the "light" but on past experience was still fairly sure that afterwards, lunch would be superfluous if not unthinkable.

The Hamiltons had a warm welcoming for him but Josie hadn’t arrived yet, and Mike asked if they knew what it was that needed his help. It meant going north again and was likely to take all day, but beyond that they had no idea. He told them about the odd behaviour of Josie’s father and the conclusion he had reached with Neil about it, and they too thought it best not to push the matter too hard; the news must after all have been a severe shock to Dennis, however well it might turn out in time.

Josie arrived soon afterwards and told him of her ideas. She would like to see the place near Jenny Lake where the clue to Donald’s kidnappers had been found, but would need his help to find it. Her request went further: if he thought it permissible, she wanted to bury his ashes along with those of the family group already there. Mike could see no objection; from the account he had read of those burials, and what he had seen himself, no one had ever needed to ask permission before depositing the ashes, and their presence was simply accepted with reverence. One more could hardly cause any offence.

Next day they set off with a spade stowed behind the front seats. First they had to call on the Carters, only a slight detour from the main road. The spread that Iris had prepared confirmed his suspicions, but he said nothing and resolved to make a real attempt at doing it justice; being warned, Josie had limited her breakfast to a glass of orange juice. At the introduction he was amused to notice significant glances between the Carters; all right, if that was what they were thinking, he’d had similar thoughts himself. It was no surprise when Iris asked if she was the young lady for whom Mrs. Hamilton had asked, it must have been three or four years back, if he was a suitable person to give her a ride to her home town. Yes, and he thanked her for providing a favourable reference; as they probably gathered, she had been very agreeable company on that trip. He then produced the document they had discussed, it was duly signed and Josie witnessed the signatures, to Iris’s evident relief. Then of course she had to show Josie round the house, pointing out all the little touches that she and Joel had added since Mr. Crampton had so kindly allowed them to use it.

Meanwhile, Joel rather hesitantly asked Mike - although of course it was a personal matter and none of his business - whether there were any developments in view between him and Josie; nothing at present, he said, although there was no telling about the future. Then he realised why Joel had seemed a shade apprehensive, and reassured him that whatever happened, nothing at all was likely to affect the arrangement they had about the house.

Getting away from them took some time; it was ages since they had seen him and they hoped it would not be so long until the next time. However, Mike eventually pointed out that they had a long way to go and must get on. They had a good run up to West Yellowstone where Josie collected the urn from her apartment, then they headed off through the National Park and beyond towards Jenny Lake. Evening was approaching, but the sun still shone, bringing out the glory of the fall colours. By the time they reached the viewing point it was almost dropping behind the Tetons, touching the clouds with gold: it promised a fine display, but Mike was concerned about finding the way if darkness should fall. He did have a little difficulty in identifying the right path through the trees, since as on previous occasions the vegetation had changed since the last visit. Approaching the clearing, they were puzzled by a curious sound which proved to come from an elderly woman’s clipping the grass around the little pillar in the centre. Something about her seemed familiar, and when she stood up he realised why. After her first surprise she asked had she not seen him before? In fact, had he not been with the army party that had been digging there for something a year or two before?

He confirmed it, explained their purpose and asked if she had any objections. "None at all, the more the merrier, as they say. In fact if you’ll tell me the name I’ll get our Jack to carve a little stone for it." "We really don’t want to put him all that trouble." "Oh, it’s no trouble, he’ll love doing it. Keep him out of mischief for a little while, anyway. Just leave a marker on the spot; I’ll be back tomorrow, but the stone will take a bit longer." "It’s really very good of you, Mrs ...?" "Scattergood, Audrey Scattergood." "Well, you’ve obviously been scattering a fair amount of good here." She beamed, and then thought of something else: "Have you seen that nice Captain Martin lately?" He was afraid not, but saw no reason to elaborate, promising to pass on her good wishes if the opportunity arose. "Well, I can’t do any more tonight. I’ll be off now." "Good night, and thank you."

The hole was quickly dug, Josie placed the urn and Mike smoothed out the earth above it. Josie took his hand and stood with bowed head for a few minutes. A few tears fell. Then she straightened up, breathed deeply, and five years seemed to have dropped away. "Mike, do you remember, that time in Blenheim Park, when I asked if you were going to make a habit of getting me out of difficult situations?" "Yes, very well. Why do you ask?" "Because I think, at last, that I’m ready to let you."

© Peter D. Wilson, 2010

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