Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Fourteen: The Grey Lady

Danvers nursed a cup of black, tar-thick tea in his hands, and tried not to take up too much space. The little kitchen was crammed tight – with three children, three adults, and a large, coal-burning stove which made the air as thick as the tea.

It was a poor house, but there were some tokens of respectability. A few soot-blackened books on the shelf above the stove, an icon of the Virgin Mary, and an absence of visible alcohol made this by far the most salubrious house he had ever visited in the west Oxford slums. This was poverty, but it was poverty that had the wherewithal to clean. Yelavitch's wife, Anastasia, fought a daily battle against the coal-dust. And though her three boys were always covered in it, they weren't choking on it, which suggested she was having some measure of success.

At the moment, the boys were clambering over Danvers – one on his back, one hanging off his right arm, and one standing up in his lap, shouting "la la la la la la" into his ear. 

Danvers was weathering this storm quite stoically – even giving them a few absent-minded smiles – but their exuberance was obviously annoying Yelavitch. When he thumped his hand on the table and shouted "That's enough!" the boys scattered into various corners of the room, giggling.

But not for long. Danvers knew this game. They would creep back, inch by inch, as soon as their father stopped fuming. The aim of the game was to see who could get closest to the visitor before the next eruption of shouting. It was double points if you could get sooty handprints on his suit.

"You see what I have to put up with?" said Yelavitch, waving one of his large, beefy hands. "They can't spend a single moment of the day behaving rationally."

"They're young boys," said Danvers diplomatically. "They'll calm down."

"I heard you lost your job," said Yelavitch, gulping his tea with a grimace. "I couldn't believe it at first. But then they told me you were standing up for a mistreated woman, and the world seemed to make sense again. I can get you a few odd-jobs at the Chemistry Faculty till you find something new."

Danvers beamed and leaned across the table eagerly. "I was hoping you'd say that. You shave Professor Carver, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. Practically have to wipe his arse, the way he--"

Anastasia shouted something in Russian – presumably an admonishment for swearing – but Danvers leaned forward and pressed on: "And what if you couldn't shave him? If you'd sprained your hand or something? Would he go to a barber?"

"Oh, god no. He won't pay a shilling for something he could get done for free. The kitchen-boy does it if I can't."

"But suppose the kitchen-boy was out on an errand?"

Yelavitch frowned irritably. "What are you getting at, Danvers?"

"Could I shave him?"

"Why in god's name would you want to do that?"

Anastasia started shouting again – perhaps for blasphemy this time – even going so far as to clip him round the head with her tea-towel.

"It's rather difficult to explain," said Danvers, even though Yelavitch had now turned to Anastasia, and was shouting back. "All I can tell you is that it's in a very good cause, and that I'll move mountains to repay the favour, should you ever need anything from me."

This caused Yelavitch and Anastasia to stop shouting and become quite thoughtful. Presumably, if you had three children and not much money, you didn't lightly brush away a favour.

"You're not going to cut 'is throat, are you?" said Yelavitch. "I'd have enormous sympathy with you if you did, but he is my employer."

Danvers – despite the fact that his intentions were uncomfortably close to cutting Carver's throat – couldn't help being shocked. "I would never--" he protested, but Anastasia cut him off.