44
‘ W hat are we going to do with them, though?’ says Essie, clambering, rather breathlessly into the car with her mother.
Janey stares at the deeds and the form, both of which she now has.
She had, with exceptional but, she believes, forgivable sneakiness, dated it yesterday, and is hoping she might be able to blame the post, but will that be enough?
They watch Morag and Gertie leave the terminal; there are no more flights today. It is four p.m. They are too late.
‘I can’t believe they won’t accept email,’ says Janey, as Essie morosely scrolls through the Land Registry web pages. Then she stops suddenly.
‘Huh,’ she says. It’s an old, cached page. She shows it to her mother.
‘No way.’
They look at each other, then Janey takes off at speed.
*
They gather reinforcements en route. Lish stands there with the expression on her face she employs when she is telling women to either push or not push and requires immediate obedience.
Milton is carrying a Tupperware container of his famous chicken stew, a rare delicacy most people would give anything for.
Essie smells it and realises she hasn’t eaten all day and Dwight nearly made her swoon and she could do with some to revive her, but her work isn’t done.
Amsan turns up; she has Yasmin in tow, a round, soft, huge-eyed beauty, wearing her usual faintly truculent expression and dragging her heels.
Daughters, thinks Janey, smiling faintly.
En masse, they descend into the basement. It is twenty to five.
*
Considering that the rest of them work out of Portakabins, or a dank porter’s lodge, Owen’s den is quite formidable.
It is a windowless corner of the basement, very warm but incredibly spacious.
He has two huge screens – how? what for?
– which appear to be showing some kind of massive star-based computer game.
Piles of tech litter the desk. His seat is a top-of-the-range black leather console chair. They look at each other in disbelief.
Owen spins around dramatically as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
‘Aha,’ he says, pointing his fingers underneath his chin. ‘My quizzers. We meet at last.’
‘We see you every second Thursday,’ points out Lish.
‘Ssh,’ says Janey, panicking while looking at her watch. ‘We need him on-side.’
Milton steps forward with his Tupperware and lays it quietly on Owen’s desk.
Owen frowns. ‘Has it got vegetables in it?’ he asks. ‘Because I’m allergic?’
Essie whips the tub away and stores it for later.
‘Owen,’ she says in her sweetest, most appealing voice. ‘Owen. Could we possibly use your fax machine?’
‘Is it for official hospital business?’ says Owen.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, no, then,’ he snorts. ‘Okay, next? And maybe next time bring cake.’
‘Owen,’ says Janey, ‘this is important. Really important.’
‘To you,’ says Owen, still eyeing the Tupperware with disappointment.
‘Have you got any cake?’ whispers Janey to Lish.
‘Johnson’s diet!’ says Lish. ‘Nothing!’
Owen is looking smug. ‘Well, nearly clocking-off time. I never work a second after my schedule.’
The others, who regularly work vast amounts of time over their schedule, for no extra money, try not to look furious.
‘Please, Owen,’ begs Essie.
‘For what?’ says Owen. ‘So you can totally ignore me in a pub again? I’m amazed you remember my name.’
Essie flushes bright red. She was awful that night. Angry and snotty and determined to look down on everything in Carso, even though those very same people were around helping her now.
She clutches the piece of paper, fingers shaking.
A small cough sounds at the back.
‘I’ve got some custard doughnuts,’ comes a soft voice from the depths of the gloom. Everyone turns round.
It is Yasmin, Amsan’s unfortunate daughter. Her dark hair glows in the soft light as she steps forward, rummaging in her handbag.
Owen stops suddenly.
‘He-hello,’ he stammers, in a much less assured tone.
‘Hello,’ says Yasmin in return. ‘I like your big computers.’
‘I’m management,’ says Owen quickly.
‘That’s amazing.’
She offers him the bag with two custard doughnuts.
‘I told you to stop buying those,’ mutters Amsan.
‘I haven’t even shown you the best bit,’ says Owen. ‘Come here.’
And he stands up, grabs the bag and, ignoring the rest of them, walks Yasmin into the centre of his Starship Enterprise control booth.
‘Wow, what’s that?’ she says, eyes wide.
He smiles in satisfaction at being able to tell someone something they don’t know. ‘It’s . . . a fax.’
‘How does it work?’
Amsan beckons urgently for the papers from Essie, who hands it over, panicked. It is five to five.
‘Well,’ says Owen, but Amsan has already smuggled the papers to Yasmin.
‘I mean,’ goes on Yasmin, ‘can it send anything? Could it send these?’
‘You genius,’ says Janey under her breath.
They watch as, anxious to show off, doughnut crumbs all over his beard, Owen, as if he is doing something profoundly difficult and sacred, punches the number into the fax machine.
It actually whistles and burrs, a noise familiar to the older generation and quite startling to the younger. Yasmin jumps, and Owen puts a tentative comforting hand on her forearm.
And slowly, ringed in darkness, they all watch the pieces of paper disappear. And then there is nothing to do but wait.