The Morning Gift

‘This is such a nice picture,’ she said when they had shaken hands. ‘It’s so friendly . . . the way the tree roots curve right down into the water. It was like that where we used to go in the summer, on the Grundlsee.’

‘Yes. It was done in the Lake District; I suppose it’s the same sort of landscape.’

‘Who painted it?’

‘Actually, I did. When I was a student. I used to dabble in watercolours a bit,’ he said, retreating into British modesty.

Ruth did not care for this. ‘It has nothing to do with dabbling,’ she said reproachfully. ‘It’s beautiful. But I suppose now you paint the river and the places round here?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I haven’t put a brush to paper for years.’

‘Why is that? Because there is so much to do here?’ she said, following him into the office.

‘Well, yes . . . but I suppose I could find time. One gets discouraged, you know, being an amateur.’

Ruth frowned. ‘I don’t want to be impertinent when you’ve been so helpful about getting me naturalized and now annulled – but I think that’s very wrong. An amateur is someone who loves something. In all the Haydn Quartets there is a part for an amateur – the second violin, usually, or the cello – but it’s just as beautiful.’

But the sight of the document Mr Proudfoot had prepared for her now silenced Ruth as she waded, biting her lip, through its several pages of parchment, its red seal, its Gothic script and the strange words in which she wished the law to know that she had never been laid hands on, or laid hands herself, on Quinton Alexander St John Somerville.

‘I don’t know if this will work, Miss Berger – some judges won’t accept an affidavit without medical evidence and Quin is determined not to put you through anything like that.’ He flushed, unable to pursue the subject.

‘Yes. He is being so kind – so very kind – which is why I must get this annulment through quickly so that he can marry someone else.’

Proudfoot, who had been led to believe that it was Ruth who was in a hurry, looked surprised.

‘Does he want to marry anyone else?’

‘Perhaps not he, but other people. Verena Plackett, for example.’

‘I don’t know who Verena Plackett is, but I assure you that Quinton can look after himself. People have been trying to marry him since he was knee-high to a goat.’ He pulled the formidable paper closer. ‘Now listen, my dear, because this document is unique and it’s complicated and you have to get it right. You must sign it exactly where I’ve pencilled it – there and there and again over the page – with your full name and in the presence of a Commissioner for Oaths. He’ll make a charge and Quin has asked me to give you a five-pound note to cover the cost. Any commissioner will do, there’s sure to be one in Hampstead. When you’ve done it, bring it back to me – I wouldn’t trust the post; if it’s lost we’ll miss the next sitting of the courts and then we’re in trouble. And if there’s anything you don’t understand, just let me know.’

‘I think I understand it,’ said Ruth. ‘Only perhaps you could wrap it in something for me?’ For her straw basket contained, in addition to her dissecting kit and lecture notes, the remains of Pilly’s sandwiches which, now that Heini was eating with them, she took back to Belsize Park rather than feeding to the ducks.

‘Don’t worry – there’s a cardboard tube – it gets rolled up and put inside. I’ll expect you in a few days, then. Take care!’

‘What do you think?’ said Milner, looking at Quin with his head on one side and an ill-concealed glint of excitement in his eyes.

Quin stood looking down at the drawer of fossil-bearing rocks which Milner had pulled open, first unlocking the storage room with rather more formality than usually went on in the Natural History Museum.

‘You’re right, of course. It’s part of a pterosaur. And I’d have sworn it was from Tendaguru. The Germans have got two casts like that in Berlin from the 1908 expedition. I’ve seen them.’

‘Well, it isn’t. Do you know where this was found?’

Quin, tracing out the beaked skull, still partly embedded in the matrix, shook his head. A wing-lizard, immemorially old and very rare.

‘On the other side of the Kulamali Gorge – eight hundred miles away. He showed me the place on the map. Farquarson may be no more than a white hunter, but he’s no liar and he knows Africa like the back of his hand. I’ve written down the exact location.’

Quin laid the bone back in the tray. ‘Are you serious? South of the Rift?’

‘That’s right. He didn’t know how important it was and I didn’t tell him. It’s a bit of luck, him not being a palaeontologist, otherwise we’d have everyone down on us like a ton of bricks. Whereas as it is . . .’

Quin held up a restraining hand. Milner had been six months in England, caught in the administration of the civil service which ran the museum, sorting, annotating, preparing exhibitions he regarded as a waste of time. That he wanted to be off again was clear enough.