There was a silence on the telephone and she could sense her husband ruminating, turning things over in his mind. Then he said, "Sam's partly right in what he's said, but maybe not altogether. In my experience you'll never insult anyone by letting them know they have a high monetary value. In fact, most of us rather like it, even if we have no intention of accepting the money offered.”
"Keep talking," Celia said. She respected Andrew's wisdom, his knack of going directly to the nub of any situation. He continued, "From what you tell me, Peat-Smith is a straightforward person.”
"Very much so.”
"In that case, I suggest you deal with him the same way. By being complicated, trying to outguess him, you could defeat your own purpose. Besides, deviousness isn't your style, Celia. Be yourself. That way, if it seems natural to talk money-or anything else -just do it.”
"Andrew darling," she responded, "what would I do without you?" "Nothing important, I hope.”
Then he added, "Now that you've told me about tomorrow, I'll admit to feeling a mite jealous about you and Peat-Smith.”
Celia laughed.”It's strictly business. It will stay that way.”
Now it was Sunday. Alone, in a first class no-smoking compartment aboard an early morning London-to-Cambridge train, Celia allowed her head to fall back against the cushion behind her. Relaxing, she began using the hour-and-a-quarter journey to order her thoughts. Earlier, she had taken a taxi from her hotel to Liverpool Street Station-a grim, cast-iron-and-brick Victorian legacy, frenetically busy from Mondays through Fridays but quieter at weekends. The quietness meant that few people were aboard the diesel-electric train as it rumbled from the station, and Celia was glad of her solitude. Mentally she reconstructed the past two weeks' events and conversations, wondering once more whose advice she should take today-Andrew's or Sam's. The meeting with Martin, while outwardly social, could be important for Felding-Roth as well as for herself. Sam's warning came back to her: "Let's not blow it by being crass!" The rhythmic sound of wheels over rails lulled her, and the journey passed swiftly. As the train slowed and pulled into Cambridge, Martin Peat-Smith-his welcome expressed in that broad, cheerful smile-was waiting on the station platform.
At age forty-one, Celia knew she looked good. She also felt it. Her soft brown hair was trimmed short, her figure slim and firm, her high-cheekboned face tanned and healthy from recent weeks out of doors and the unusually benevolent British summer, which was continuing today. Nowadays her hair held beginning strands of gray. This reminder of time passing rarely bothered her, though occasionally she camouflaged the gray with a color rinse. She had used the rinse the night before. She was dressed for a summer's day in a cotton voile dress of green and white, with a lacy petticoat beneath. She had on white, high-heeled sandals and a broad-brimmed white straw hat. The entire outfit had been bought in London's West End the preceding week because, when packing in New Jersey, it had not occurred to her she would need such warm-weather clothes in Britain. As she stepped down from the train she was aware of Martin's admiring gaze. For a moment he seemed lost for words, then, taking her extended hand, he said, "Hello! You look wonderful, and I'm glad you came.”
"You look pretty good yourself.”
Martin laughed and flashed a boyish smile. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, white flannels and an open-necked shirt.”I promised you I'd wear my suit," he said.”But I found this old outfit which I haven't had on for years. It seemed less formal.”
As they walked from the station, Celia linked her arm in his.”Where are we going?" "My car's outside. I thought we'd drive around a bit, then walk through some colleges, and later we'll have a picnic.”
"It all sounds great.”
"While you're here, is there anything else you'd like to do or see?" She hesitated, then said, I 'Yes, there is one other thing.”
"What's that?" "I'd like to meet your mother.”
Martin, surprised, turned his head to look at her.”I can take you to my parents' home right after we've done our tour. If you're sure that's what you want.”
"Yes," she said, "it's what I want.”
Martin's car was a Morris Mini Minor of indeterminate age. After they squeezed themselves in, he drove circuitously through old Cambridge streets and parked on Queen's Road by the "Backs.”
He told Celia, "We walk from here.”
Leaving the car, they followed a footpath to King's Bridge over the River Cam. At the bridge, Celia stopped. Shading her eyes from the bright morning sun, she said with awe, "I've seldom seen anything more lovely.”
Beside her, Martin announced quietly, "King's College Chapel the noblest view of all.”
Immediately ahead were serene lawns and shady trees. Beyond was the great chapel-a vision of turrets, sturdy buttresses and lofty spires rising over a glorious vaulted roof and stained-glass windows. The pale stone buildings of colleges on either side conveyed a complementary sense of history and nobility. "Let me do my tour guide act," Martin said.”It goes like this: We're an old foundation. In 1441, King Henry VI began what you see here, and Peterhouse, over to the south, is even older. It started 'the Cambridge quest for knowledge' in 1284.”
Without thinking, Celia said impulsively, "How could anyone who truly belongs here ever leave this place?" Martin answered, "Many never have. There were great scholars who lived and worked at Cambridge until they died. And some of us-younger and living--have a similar idea.”
For two more hours they alternately walked and rode, and in the process Celia imbibed the lore and love of Cambridge. Place names stayed with her: Jesus Green, Midsummer Common, Parker's Piece, Coe Fen, Lammas Land, Trinity, Queens', Newnham. The list seemed endless, as did Martin's knowledge.”As well as scholars who stayed, others have taken this place elsewhere," he told her.”One was an M.A. from Emmanuel College, John Harvard. There's another place of learning named after him.”
He gave his familiar, twisted grin.”I forget just where.”
At length, as they eased back into the Mini, Martin asserted, "I think that will do. We'll save anything else for another time.”
Abruptly, his face became serious.”Do you still want to see my parents? I have to warn you-my mother won't know either of us, or why we're there. The effect can be depressing.”
"Yes," Celia said, "I still want to.”
The terraced house, small and undistinguished, was in a district called the Kite. Martin parked on the street outside and used a key to go in. From a small, dimly lighted hallway he called out, "Dad! It's me, and I have a guest.”
There was a sound of shuffling footsteps, a door opened, and an elderly man, wearing a faded sweater and baggy corduroy trousers, appeared. As he came closer, Celia was startled by the physical resemblance between father and son. The older Peat-Smith had the same stocky solidity as Martin, a similar rugged, square-jawed face -though more seamed with age-and even a quick, shy smile as they were introduced seemed a duplicate of Martin's. When the older man spoke, the similarity ceased. His voice revealed a discordant, coarse, provincial twang; his sentences, roughly framed, suggested little education. "Pleased to meet yer," he told Celia. And to Martin-"Didn't know as you was coming, son. Only just got yer ma dressed. She ain't bin none too good today.”
"We won't stay long, Dad," Martin said, and told Celia, "The Alzheimer's has been a big strain on my father. That's often the way it is-it's harder on the families than the patient.”
As they moved into a modest, nondescript living room, Peat-Smith, Senior, asked Celia, "Yer wan' a cuppa?" "That's tea," Martin translated. "Thank you, I'd love some tea," Celia said.”I'm thirsty after our tour.”