What is that out there? he demands, rising slightly. A truck of some kind? A jeep?
But wouldnt that just be wrong? Stan interrupts, refusing to be diverted.
Ransom flinches at the word wrong. He abhors moral imperatives. The word wrong hangs in the air between them, buzzing, self-righteously, like an angry black hornet.
Absolutely, Ransom finally concedes, smiling brightly as he sits back down again, of course it would be wrong. Of course it would be. I was just thinking out loud just trying the idea on for size brainstorming, if you like Although He pauses, thoughtfully. Although in my experience, which is as Im sure you can imagine pretty extensive (He pauses again, portentously.) Golf is principally a game of the mind, a game of strategy, after all Ive generally found that actually telling people about something like this a serious problem or a terrible catastrophe confronting them with it, unhelpfully, at an inappropriate moment, can often end up generating more hurt and distress than simply letting the whole thing unfold in a more gradual, a more natural, a more uh how to put this? A more organic way.
But if we just stick the book back on to the shelf again and say nothing, Stan interrupts, scowling, what happens when they do eventually find out? Wont I just cop all the flack for something that wasnt even my fault?
You? Ransom appears stunned by this humble teenagers fundamental grasp of basic, deductive logic. But why on earth would they blame you? Thats totally illogical! Like you say, it wasnt your fault He pauses, thoughtfully. Although if you hadnt come charging into the room, at the worst possible moment, like a bull in a bloody china shop
As Ransom speaks he darts a malevolent look towards his phone (where it currently sits, moistly but still disturbingly functional on the countertop).
Well who else are they going to blame? Stan snorts.
They might not blame anyone! Ransom declaims, indignant. They might not even notice anythings wrong. They might just put the staining down to a little natural wear and tear, or think that theres a touch of damp behind the bookshelf, or He pauses. Or an infestation of silverfish. Its a common enough problem, uh
He peers at Stan, enquiringly. What was your name again?
Stanislav, Stan enlightens him.
Polish?
Stan nods. On my dads side.
Really? Genes a Pole? Ransoms surprised.
Not Gene. I mean my real dad. Genes my stepdad.
Oh. Okay. Ransom accepts this information, impassively. Well, for all we know, Stanislav, (he promptly returns to the issue at hand), its entirely possible that nobody will get around to picking up this book and looking inside it for weeks months years, even. In fact its not beyond reason that we might actually be the last two people on the planet ever to handle this thing.
Not Gene. I mean my real dad. Genes my stepdad.
Oh. Okay. Ransom accepts this information, impassively. Well, for all we know, Stanislav, (he promptly returns to the issue at hand), its entirely possible that nobody will get around to picking up this book and looking inside it for weeks months years, even. In fact its not beyond reason that we might actually be the last two people on the planet ever to handle this thing.
He holds up the palmistry book with a suitably portentous expression.
I seriously doubt that, Stan quickly (and firmly) debunks his theory. Its a precious, family heirloom, not just some crummy, old book that nobody cares about.
But thats the very nature of an heirloom, dont you see? Ransom exclaims, frustrated. Theyre not especially important not in themselves. Theyre just old things from the past that represent stuff he rolls his eyes, boredly stuff about, urgh I dunno ideas and memories and feelings and shit, but they dont actually mean anything. Theyre not actually worth anything
Well you were interested enough to take a look at it, Stan mutters.
This house could suddenly go up in flames! Ransom leaps to his feet, dramatically. Tonight! Next weekend! An electrical fault! It could be razed to the ground! Then all this worrying and heart-searching willve been a complete waste of bloody energy.
Stan indicates, mutely, to a small, flashing smoke alarm which is situated on the ceiling directly above their heads.
A flood, then, Ransom improvises, irritated. A flash-flood and you barely have time to evacuate the place
In Luton?! Stan snorts.
Yeah. Why not?
No big rivers.
None at all?
The Lee, but that hardly counts.
No canals? No lakes?
Stan gives this some thought. I suppose theres always the lake over in Wardown Park, but thats
A burst water main! Hah! Ransom slaps the worktop, victorious. I rest my case!
These are Mallorys things, anyway, Stan persists (instinctively shielding the vulnerable clover from Ransoms violent show of exuberance). Theyre her dead mums things. They belonged to her dead mother, he reiterates (just in case Ransom was in any, remaining doubt about the objects sacred provenance). Mallorys the one youve got to be seriously worried about here.
Mallorys just a kid! Ransom swiftly pooh-poohs him. She probably wont even notice
Oh really?! Stan guffaws. You obviously dont know Mallory very well. Mallorys officially the worlds most uptight kid. Shes a neat-freak a lunatic. She pretty much has a heart attack if she steps in a puddle on her way to school. Top of her Christmas list last year was a shoe store and a lint roller.
Well I bet Mallory has loads of knick-knacks knocking about the place from when her mum was still alive, Ransom contends.
There was her mums old teddy bear Stan willingly concedes.
A teddy bear! Ransom throws up his hands. Perfect! What better memento of a loved one than a teddy bear?
but it was destroyed by moths, Stan finishes off.
Oh.
And there was her mums gold, heart-shaped locket with a tuft of her dads hair hidden inside
Bingo! Ransom snaps his fingers. Top that! Precious, wearable and sentimental.
but it was stolen from her locker at the swimming pool last year.
A lengthy silence follows in which Ransom stares, inscrutably, into the middle distance (pulling rhythmically and not a little repulsively at the hair under his armpit), until, So what the heck is that thing? he finally demands, pointing. A jeep, a van, a truck ?
Cheiro, Gene says, was this well-known
Palm-reader, she interrupts, and a clairvoyant. Yeah. I know all about him.
Valentine holds out her hand. Can I take a proper look?
Gene removes the ring from his little finger and passes it over. They are standing in the hallway together.
Although the storys probably just apocryphal. He shrugs, noticing how her make-up is perfect now (the bright, red lipstick no longer smudged at one corner but adhering neatly and faithfully to the smooth line of her lips).
Apocry-what? She grins up at him.
Apocryphal. Not genuine. My mother was a professional palmist. I suppose it was a rather convenient piece of lineage to have.
Valentine inspects the ring closely.
Its incredibly pretty, she murmurs. Is that a ruby?
As she pores over the ring, Genes eyes are drawn to the short, delicate fronds of auburn hair at the nape of her neck which protrude in irresistible wisps from below her scarf.
Is that a ruby? she repeats, glancing up.
A ruby? Gene starts. No. No, its actually a garnet. I believe its Persian. He apparently wore it on the little finger of his right hand to ward off evil spirits.
He smiles, drolly.
And the cigarette case? Do you have that, too? Valentine wonders (ignoring the drollery).
Pardon?
The cigarette case. Wasnt it the silver cigarette case that saved his life when he was stabbed by a disgruntled client in his New York apartment?
Gene looks bewildered.
Theres no official biography Valentine shrugs but you can find out all about him on the internet. His books still sell in bucket-loads theyre considered classics in the field. From what I can recollect, Im pretty sure he was raised in Ireland, although he finished up in California, working as a screenwriter
I get the general impression, Gene interjects (somewhat dryly), that his personal history probably always owed a certain debt to the screenwriters art.
So theres a powerful emotional connection with your mother, at the very least, Valentine ruminates.
Gene frowns, not following her logic.
They both enjoyed spinning the odd yarn. She grins.
He considers this for a second and then smiles himself.
Although if your mothers story is to be considered credible, she reasons, if the connection is biological, then youd actually be his great-great-nephew or something She raises a mildly satirical brow. I never got the impression that Cheiro was the marrying kind.
There was a sister, Gene muses, a Mary Louise Warner, but I suspect our connection mightve been by marriage alone.
Valentine continues to inspect the ring.
Anyhow Gene draws a deep breath, struggling to re-focus. I just didnt feel it would be right to let the incident pass without at least drawing your attention to it in some way. He glances down the corridor and indicates (somewhat limply) towards the child.
Valentine slips the ring on to her index finger, straightens out her arm and holds it at a distance (to admire it, in situ). Im really interested in palms, she murmurs, turning her hand over and inspecting her own, Im obsessed by the skin, in general, same as my dad was. Just how strong it is how tough and soft and durable. The skins actually the largest organ of the body. Did you know that?
Gene doesnt respond. Hes still peering over at Nessa who is currently having a loud, imaginary conversation on the heavy, black, Bakelite phone.
Just forget about the other thing. Valentine smiles (glancing over towards the child herself). Sashas so uptight about that kind of stuff. Nessas still a baby. Shes a free spirit. She hates to feel confined hemmed in by clothes, walls, rules And shes the worlds worst exhibitionist. Ive got no idea where
Valentine pauses for a second, mid-sentence, then frowns. I mean Im sure shell grow out of it. Its just this silly phase shes going through.