Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [39]
George ushered her down a flight of stone steps to his dark blue front door, warning her that there wasn’t a railing any more. After a moment struggling with the lock, they were inside.
George’s hallway smelt faintly of boiled vegetables. Roz was occupied with this thought while he took her coat, and hung it with his own behind the front door. It was dark, too.
The blackout material was in place and the bulb had been removed to save electricity. George struck a match, lighting a candle. He handed it to Forrester, who examined it. Primitive technology, but effective enough. Reed had a candle of his own, and led her through into his front room. The front room consisted of a sofa, a threadbare rug and an unlit coal fire. In the corner, a big wireless sat on top of a bookcase stuffed with old hardback books. The place was kept spotlessly clean, but because the windows had been painted over with blackout paint, it was claustrophobic. Reed assured her that they ought to be safe in this room. He excused himself, taking his candle with him.
Roz placed her candle in a metal holder, and began exploring the room. Bernice would love this, she thought, it was just like exploring an excavated Egyptian burial chamber. The candlelight danced off the wall, casting pools of shadow. There was a portrait above the mantelpiece. The subject, an elderly man, bore a strong resemblance to George, but he was bearded and wore a military uniform that Roz knew came from a much earlier time than this. Edging forward, Roz bumped into a small coffee table, knocking the telephone off the hook. She carefully replaced the handset and continued her search. She examined the bookcase. A few scientific textbooks, a couple of spy novels. The Language and Customs of South Africa. She pulled the picture book down, and sat on the settee. The book fell open at a full-page photograph of ‘a Xosa maiden’. The image was murky, printed on poor-quality paper. The girl was about fourteen or fifteen, and was Zulu, not Xhosa, as a cursory glance at the dress confirmed. Her skin was relatively light and her nose was not as flat as a typical African. Despite that, the grinning face of this ‘Xosa maiden’ bore an uncanny resemblance to Forrester’s own graduation photograph. The girl in the picture was prettier. Roz read the caption — ‘The costume consists mainly of a blanket, beads, wire bracelets and bands round the ankles. At home the blanket is usually dispensed with.’ Her breasts were indeed covered, presumably so as not to offend the sensibility of the English reader.
‘Oh, you’ve found it. I was going to show you.’ George had come back with a tray of tea and toast. Roz held up the photograph.
‘It seems to have fallen open at this page,’ she said sardonically.
Reed blushed, but was unapologetic. ‘I got this book for my tenth birthday. You know, for years I couldn’t work out what she wore instead of the blanket. Is that how you dress at home?’
Only in your dreams, soldier-boy, Roz thought, but she replied, ‘It would certainly turn a few heads in Paddington.’
‘I meant at home in Africa,’ Reed explained patiently.
‘I wore the traditional dress once, at a costume party.’
‘You take your ikofu black because of the ukuzila.’ He handed her a mug of thick, black coffee.
‘I take it black, because I like the taste, not because of any tribal taboo,’ she snapped. At least I think that’s the reason. She sipped her hot drink. Reed had lit her a cigarette, which she gratefully accepted.
‘I pronounced the words right, then, Captain Forrester?
I’ve been swotting up ever since I found out that you’re a Xhosa.’
‘You pronounced them right, George.’ She leant a little closer. ‘And call me Roz.’
Outside, the bombs were beginning to drop.
6 Kill All the Butterflies
On his nineteenth move, the Doctor, playing Black, placed his knight on C5, threatening Steinmann’s bishop. The German had predicted this and