Maxwell's Island Read Online Free Page B

really leaves me.’
    He decided to bring her back to earth. ‘Your visitor?’ He gestured up the path. ‘Millie.’
    The giant woman waved her fingers coquettishly.
    â€˜Oh, yes, Millie.’ Mrs Troubridge pulled herself together with a final quiver. ‘Miss Troubridge is compiling our family tree and she has had quite remarkable success.’
    Maxwell the historian rose to the bait. ‘Having an unusual name like Troubridge must have helped her enormously,’ he said.
    â€˜Only
our
branch is Troubridge,’ said Mrs Troubridge sternly. ‘There was just my sister and me and, of course,
Mr
Troubridge at the end. No,’ she sighed. ‘If Miss Troubridge or I should die, then that will be the end of the line, I’m afraid.’
    Maxwell was stunned by the hubris of the little woman. To assume that death was an optional extra showed extraordinary optimism. Or pessimism, depending on the point of view. His innate politeness reasserted itself. ‘I am remiss, Mrs Troubridge. How is Miss Troubridge, these days?’
    â€˜Gadding,’ snapped the little woman. ‘There’s no other word for it. And since she became a platinum surfer, there’s no stopping her. But putting pen to paper for those of us who are not so computer-oriented, nothing. But, no,’ Mrs Troubridge returned to the thought before one. ‘Millie’s surname is Muswell.’
    â€˜Ah, like the Hill.’
    Mrs Troubridge stepped back, amazed. ‘No,Mr Maxwell. The name Muswell denotes a boggy or mossy place. Not a hill. You do surprise me, being a supposedly intelligent man.’
    Doing his best to look fairly bright, Maxwell turned back to his bicycle. ‘I really must go, Mrs Troubridge,’ he said. ‘I will be late for school, else. But perhaps you would like to bring Millie round for tea this afternoon? I’m sure Jacquie would love to meet her, and anyway we have a favour to ask you.’
    The little face lit up. ‘Babysitting?’
    â€˜In a way.’ Maxwell had managed to swing his leg over the crossbar and was finally on his way. ‘We’re going away and wondered if you would feed Metternich.’
    As he swept away, up the slope and off to the left at the top of Columbine, he could still hear her plaintive cry. ‘But Mr Maxwell! What if there’s another Incident?’
    Â 
    Leighford High School was looking slightly more battered on its second day of term. It was staggering, Maxwell had never ceased to think, how the work of six whole weeks for a posse of cleaners, builders and decorators could be completely undone in less than a day. The students of Leighford were no different from those of any other school, averaging them out and chopping off the ends of the graph in that cavalier way statisticians have. And yet he had never visited another school, college or indeedan institution of any kind without remarking to himself how less dog-eared that place seemed compared to good old Leighford. He wondered if the hotel in the Isle of Wight was really quite ready for this influx. He wondered if they would hold him personally accountable. Whether he would have to do the washing-up to pay for all the broken bedside lamps, shower fitments, beds, windows and other sundries which he feared Year Seven would leave in their wake.
    Only the Head of Sixth Form’s office still maintained the old standards. Japanese Zeros snaked over the unsuspecting US Fleet in
Tora! Tora! Tora!
above his desk. An impossibly Sixties
McCabe & Mrs Miller
screamed ‘beautiful people’ from the poster of the same name. And Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds weren’t enjoying orienteering very much in
Deliverance
. But as long as these
films memoirs
and others like them were there, Maxwell could drift off into fond movie moment, thanks to his wife’s eagle eyes on eBay.
    He reached for the phone, still depressingly County Hall kitsch though it was.