Red Shift

They were clear of the birch wood, by open fields. Television screens in the caravans flickered among the white bark.

“Corpse candles,” said Tom.

“Snob. They look cosy.”

“They are. Togetherness!”

“Don’t take it out on them. I’d rather not live in London; but I do want to nurse. It’s as simple as that.”

“I wasn’t stopping you.”

“You weren’t?”

“We’ll adapt,” he said. “You’ll get a fair bit of time off, even in training, and you can come home. It’s quick from London. I’m used to you every day, that’s all, knowing I’ll see you—Oh my God.”

Two men were putting up a For Sale notice in Jan’s garden.

“I was trying to tell you,” she said.

“No one does this to me.”

“No one’s doing anything to anybody.”

“What’s that, then?”

“I was trying to tell you. Mum and Dad have been given a unit in Portsmouth. We’re all moving. We’ve never stayed long anywhere.”

“I reckon it’s a pretty mean galaxy.”

He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. They went inside the house. There was a red light on the telephone answering machine. Jan pulled a face.

“What’s the matter?” said Tom.

“Mum has a patient who rings every day. It’s rubbish.”

“Not to him at the other end.”

“Precisely.”

“How can they stay sane, doing that work?”

“They never let themselves be involved. It’s in the training.”

“But they’re always on call, especially with that thing.”

“What, the Tam? There are some patients who’d rather talk to a phone than to Mum or Dad.”

“Get away.”

“They would. They feel safer. A tape recorder doesn’t want things from them.”

“A cassette confessor.”

“If you like.”

“An automatic answering divine. God in the machine.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Jan. “It’s only something that helps two people help a lot of others. It means they’re never out of touch.

“Or never in.”

“They’re busy.” She switched the tape on and spoke into the telephone. “This is Jan. I’m going to the caravan for tea, then Tom’s coming back to work.”

“Do you ever meet?” said Tom.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“Sorry.”

“OK. But it wasn’t funny.”

“No.”

They sat by the fire; landscapes were in the coals.

“Are you sulking?” said Jan.

“Thinking.”

“What?”

“Plans.”

“Secret?”

“No.” Tom fingered the stonework of the hearth. “I’ll miss this nonentity box.”

“I shan’t,” said Jan. “All our houses are bland, wherever we go. Dad has to buy and sell quickly.”

“It’s better than a caravan. It gives you room. Every way. Plenty of space for ducks on these walls.”

“You’re a snob.”

“Inverted,” said Tom. “I made my father a regimental gnome when I was ten: spent weeks of Free Expression on it at school.”

“What happened?”

“It melted in the rain. But he was chuffed at the time.”