Modem Times 2.0 - Michael Moorcock [8]
—New Statesman, May 31, 2010
MARIA AMIS, JULIA Barnes, and Iona MacEwan, the greatest lady novelists of their day, were taking tea at Liberty one afternoon in the summer of 2011. They had all been close friends at Girton in the same class and had shared many adventures. As time passed their fortunes prospered and their interests changed, to such a degree, in fact, that on occasion they had “had words” and spent almost a decade out of direct communication; but now, in middle years, they were reconciled. Love’s Arrow had won the Netta Musket Award; The Lime Sofa, the Ouida Prize; and Under Alum Chine, the Barbara Cartland Memorial Prize. All regularly topped the bestseller lists.
In their expensive but unshowy summer frocks and hats, they were a vision of civilized femininity.
The tea rooms had recently been redecorated in William Morris ‘Willow Pattern,’ and brought a refreshing lightness to their surroundings. The lady novelists enjoyed a sense of secure content which they had not known since their Cambridge days.
The satisfaction of this cosy moment was only a little spoiled by the presence of a young man with bright shoulder-length black hair, dark blue eyes, long, regular features, and a rather athletic physique, wearing a white shirt, black car coat, and narrow, dark grey trousers, with pointed “Cuban” elastic-sided boots, who sat in the corner nearest to the door. Occasionally, he would look up from his teacakes and darjeeling and offer them a friendly, knowing wink.
“And should we feel concern for the Irish?” Iona determinedly asked the table. She had always nursed an interest in politics.
“Cherchez l’argent,” reflected Maria.
Thinking this vulgar, Julia looked for the waitress.
11. LES FAUX MONNAYEURS
Things were happening as we motored into Ypres. When were they not? A cannonade of sorts behind the roofless ruins, perhaps outside of town; nobody seems to know or care; only an air-fight for our benefit. We crane our necks and train our glasses. Nothing whatever to be seen.
—E. W. Hornung, New Statesman, June 30, 1917
The buying power of the proletariat’s gone down Our money’s getting shallow and weak.
—Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006
JERRY’S HEAD TURNED on the massive white pillow and he saw something new in his sister’s trust even as she slipped into his arms, her soft comfort warming him. “You’ll be leaving, then?” she asked.
“I catch the evening packet from Canterbury. By tonight I’ll be in Paris. There’s still time to think again.”
“I must stay here.” Her breathing became more rapid. “But I promise I’ll join you if the cryogenics …” Her voice broke. “By Christmas. Oh, Jesus, Jerry. It’s tragic. I love you.”
His expression puzzled her, he knew. He had dreamed of her lying in her coffin while an elaborate funeral went on around her. He remembered her in both centuries. Image after image came back to him, confusing in their intensity and clarity. It was almost unbearable. Why had he always loved her with such passion? Such complete commitment? That old feeling. Of course, she had not been the only woman he had loved sounselfconsciously, so deeply, but she was the only one to reciprocate with the same depth and commitment. The only one to last his lifetime. The texture of her short, brown hair reminded him of Jenny. Of Jenny’s friend, Eve. Of the pleasures the three of them had shared through much of the ‘70s when Catherine was away with Una Persson …
Looking over Eve’s head through copper hot eyes as her friend moved her beautiful full lips over his penis, Jenny’s face bore that expression of strong affection which was the nearest she came to love. His fingers clung deep in Eve’s long dark hair, his mouth on Jenny’s as she frigged herself. The subtle differences of skin shades; their eye colours. The graceful movements. That