While Martin's father walked into a tiny kitchen, Martin went to kneel beside a gray-haired woman who was seated in a baggy armchair with a flowered cover. She had not moved since they came in. Putting his arms around her, he kissed her tenderly. Once, Celia thought, the older woman had been beautiful and even now was handsome in a faded way. Her hair was neatly combed. She was wearing a simple beige dress with a row of beads. At her son's kiss she appeared to respond a little, and gave the slightest smile, but not, it seemed, of recognition. "Mother, I'm your son, Martin," Martin said; his voice was gentle.”And this lady is Celia Jordan, She's from America. I've been showing her around Cambridge. She likes our little town.”
"Hello, Mrs. Peat-Smith," Celia said.”Thank you for letting me visit your home.”
The gray-haired woman's eyes moved, again with that tantalizing hint of understanding. But Martin told Celia, "There's nothing there, I'm afraid. No memory left at all. But where my mother's concerned I allow myself to be non-scientific and keep trying to get through.”
"I understand.”
Celia hesitated, then asked, "Do you think that if your research progresses, if you discover something important soon, there might be a chance...”
"Of helping her?" Martin answered decisively, "Absolutely none.
No matter what's discovered, nothing will revive a dead brain cell. I've no illusions about that.”
Standing, he looked down at his mother sadly. "No, it's others who'll be helped someday soon. Others who haven't advanced this far.”
"You're sure of that, aren't you?" "I'm sure some answers will be found-by me or someone else.”
"But you'd like to be the one who finds them.”
Martin shrugged.”Every scientist would like to be first in making a discovery. That's human. But"-he glanced toward his mother-"it's more important that someone discover the cause of Alzheimer's.”
"So it's possible," Celia persisted, "that someone other than you could get there first.”
"Yes," Martin said.”In science that can always happen.”
Peat-Smith, Senior, came in from the kitchen with a tray containing a teapot, cups and saucers, and a milk jug. When the tray was set down, Martin put his arm around his father.”Dad does everything for mother--dresses her, combs her hair, feeds her, and some other things less pleasant. There was a time, Celia, when my father and I weren't the closest of friends. But we are now.”
"Tha's right. Used ter have a lot of hot arguments," Martin's father said. He addressed Celia.”You want milk in the tea?" "Yes, please.” "Was a time," the older man said, "when I din't think much of all them scholarships Martin an' his ma was set on, I wanted 'im to go to work wi' me. But 'is ma got the best of it an', the way it worked out, Vs been a good lad to us. Pays for this place, an' most else we need.”
He glanced at Martin, then added, "An' over at that college, I hear he ain't done bad.”
"No," Celia said, "he hasn't done badly at all.”
It was almost two hours later. "Is it okay to talk while you're doing that?" Celia inquired from the comfortably cushioned seat where she was reclining. "Sure. Why not?" As he spoke, Martin, who was standing, thrust a long punt pole away from him; it found purchase on the river's shallow bottom, and the awkward flat-bottomed craft they were sharing glided easily upstream. Martin seemed to do everything well, Celia thought, including handling a punt-something at which few people were skilled, judging by others they had passed on the river and who, by comparison, were bumbling their way along. Martin had rented the punt at a Cambridge boatyard and they were now on their way to Grantchester, three miles southward, for what would be a late picnic lunch. "This is personal," Celia said, "and maybe I shouldn't ask. But I was wondering about the difference between you and your father. For example, the way you each speak-and I don't just mean being grammatical...”
"I know what you mean," Martin said.”When my mother was talking, before she forgot how to, she spoke much the same way. In Pygmalion, Bernard Shaw called it an 'incarnate insult to the English language.'" "I remember that from My Fair Lady, " Celia reminisced.”But you managed to avoid it. How?" "It's one more thing I owe my mother. Before I explain, though, there's something you have to understand about this country. In Britain, the way people speak has always been a class barrier, a social distinction. And despite some who'll tell you otherwise, it still is.”
"In the academic world too? Among scientists.”
"Even there. Perhaps especially there.”
Martin busied himself with the punt pole while considering his next words. "My mother understood that barrier. Which was why, when I was very small, she bought a radio and made me sit for hours in front of it, listening to the BBC announcers. She told me, 'That's the way you'll speak, so start copying those people. It's too late for your Dad and me, but not for you,' "Listening to Martin's pleasant and cultured, though unaffected, voice, Celia said, "It worked.”
"I suppose so. But it was one of many other things she did, including finding out what interested me at school, then discovering what scholarships there were, and making sure I went after them. That was when we had those fights at home my father talked about.”
"He believed your mother was overreaching?" "He thought I should be a stonemason, like him. My father believed in that English rhyme that Dickens wrote.”
Martin smiled as he quoted: let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper station.
"But you don't hold a grudge against your father for that?" Martin shook his head.”He simply didn't understand. For that matter, nor did 1. Only my mother understood what could be accomplished through ambition-and through me. Perhaps you realize now why I care so much about her.”
"Of course," Celia said.”And now that I know, I feel the same way.”
They lapsed into a contented silence as the punt progressed upriver between green banks and leafy trees on either side. After a while, Celia said, "Your father said you pay for most of what both your parents need.”
"I do what I can," Martin acknowledged.”One thing I do is send in an agency nurse two mornings a week. It gives my father a break. I'd like to use the nurse more often, but...”
He shrugged, left the sentence unfinished, and expertly brought the punt alongside a grassy bank under the shade of a willow tree.”How's this for a picnic site?" "Idyllic," Celia said.”Straight from Camelot.”
Martin had packed a hamper with some prawns, a Melton Mowbray pork pie, a fresh green salad, strawberries and thick, yellow Devonshire cream. There was wine-a respectable Chablis-and a thermos of coffee. They ate and drank with gusto. At the end of the meal, over coffee, Celia said, "This is my last weekend before going home. It couldn't have been nicer.”
"Was your trip here a success?" About to reply with a platitude, she remembered Andrew's advice on the telephone and answered, "No.”
"Why not?" Martin sounded surprised. "Sam Hawthorne and I found the ideal director for the Felding-Roth research institute, but he didn't want the job. Now, everyone else seems second-rate.”
After a silence, Martin said, "I presume you're talking about me.,, "You know I am.”
He sighed.”I hope you're going to forgive me for that delinquency, Celia.”
"There's nothing to forgive. It's your life, your decision," she assured him.”It's simply that, thinking about it just now, there were two things...”
She stopped. "Go on. What two things?" "Well, a little while ago you admitted you'd like to be first in finding answers about Alzheimer's and mental aging, but others might get there ahead of you.”