Pale Hands 3

9.  The continued ringing of the telephone brought us both abruptly out of the past and Cambridge. ‘Your Father!’ I exclaimed. ‘My Mother.’ She whispered. ‘Richard Conyngham here: we’re at Waterloo and due to arrive [more…]



To begin with, it was a perfectly normal Tuesday: the usual saunter into the office, greeting people en passant – even if, in some cases, it was still only a frowningly vexed look, stepping aside. [more…]