Three to See the King

tarpaulins.’
    This wasn’t entirely true, of course, as my preferred dwelling would always be one of tin. The real problem was that I felt unable to tackle the climb again without Michael being present, and he hadn’t left the canyon for some time now. As a result, neither had I. Every time the others trooped home for a break I’d made some excuse about staying behind to help out, and they’d believed me because of my well-known independent ways. A little later the next batch would arrive, noisily enthusiastic as they came down the ramps and ladders, and I would be amongst the first to greet them.
    As it turned out, there was only a trickle of people this evening. The few who descended and headed for the encampment were nowhere near enough to replace those who’d just left, and vaguely I wondered what had happened to the rest.
    ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s time to have something to eat.’
    I was aware that the camp would not be Mary Petrie’s kind of place at all, so rather than head there directly I took her on a brief tour first. We followed a meandering route along the various planks and footpaths as I showed her the excavations where I’d been involved, and then we called on Steve and Philip. They were carrying out some maintenance on one of the hoists. The moment Steve saw Mary Petrie he stopped work and started giving her a full technical explanation of how it operated. I could tell she wasn’t at all interested in the subject, and thought she showed remarkable forbearance in listening politely until he’d finished. After asking one or two questions in the manner of a visiting dignitary, she then began slowly to move away, leaving Steve stranded in mid-sentence as he rambled on about ropes and pulleys.
    He turned to me with a blank expression.
    ‘Been busy here?’ I enquired.
    ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘People only dig at half-speed when Michael’s not around.’
    ‘Where is he today then?’
    ‘Surveying the far end of the canyon.’
    ‘With Alison Hopewell?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That makes a change. Er … look, I’d better go and catch up with Mary. Otherwise I’ll risk incurring her wrath: you know what she can be like.’
    ‘I do indeed,’ replied Steve. ‘But all the same it’s nice to see her again.’
    ‘Suppose it is, yes.’
    Mary Petrie had meanwhile wandered along to the clay beds, where she stood gazing vaguely at the work in progress.
    ‘By the way,’ she said, when I joined her. ‘I met another of your friends up in the city.’
    ‘Who was that?’
    ‘Patrick Pybus.’
    ‘Oh, him,’ I said. ‘He’s not a friend really: he just tagged on to me, that’s all.’
    ‘Well, he speaks very highly of you.’
    ‘Does he?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘You seem to be quite popular.’
    ‘That’s because I know all about tin houses,’ I pointed out. ‘As soon as they’ve started building from clay they’ll forget I exist.’
    While we were there I took the opportunity to show her the site for the kilns. It was evident she was beginning to tire, however, so I next steered her towards the encampment, where food was about to be served. As usual, a place was set aside for me at one of the tables, and I think this impressed Mary Petrie. Nonetheless, I was concerned that she might object to sleeping under the tarpaulins. If she did, I had no idea how I would resolve the matter.
    During supper I noticed that quite a lot of the conversation was about Jane Day and her outburst during the afternoon. I would have expected her opinions to be condemned out of hand, at least publicly, so I was surprised to hear a number of sympathetic comments, even from those who fully accepted that clay was better than tin.
    The debate drew swiftly to a close when Michael Hawkins returned. He was accompanied by Alison, who looked somewhat drained and retired immediately to bed. I then took the opportunity to introduce Mary Petrie to Michael. He was charm itself, welcoming her warmly and disclosing that the plans for the first houses were now ready.
    ‘We’ll start digging the foundations tomorrow,’ he announced, glancing at me. ‘How are the kilns coming along?’
    ‘Not too bad,’ I said. ‘Although we’re a bit short-handed.’
    A troubled look crossed Michael’s face, and he cast his eyes around the tables.
    ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Where is everybody?’
    ‘Up in the city of tin, I suppose.’
    ‘Well, could you do me a favour and count how many we’ve got