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He had just stuffed a handful of Pringles in his mouth when the door of the bar swung open. A tall red-haired figure clad in deep purple stood in the doorway for a moment before walking lithely forward into the room. The door clicked shut behind her. Women were certainly allowed into the lounge bar of the Queen of Scots, in fact some would say the provision of tables and chairs actively encouraged them to come in.

But Christopher knew that once ensconced they were expected to know their place, which was in the corner, wearing a woolly hat at all times regardless of the ambient temperature, and drinking a womanly drink such as Dubonnet and lemonade while not drawing attention to themselves in any way. However, there was still instinctive resistance to women with an aura of ownership of self and surroundings, who walked decisively up to the bar and ordered whisky and water, without the tiniest hesitation on the threshold to try and judge whether the atmosphere was hostile or welcoming.

And as for walking smoothly and lithely over to the chairman's table and speaking directly to him before the meeting even reached an appropriate hiatus -. And had been the chair since the beginning of time, he didn't add. If she hung around for long enough, she would work it out for herself.

Her hair stood up attentively in dark red spikes. Jock - you were looking into an application under the Sites of Special Scientific Interest scheme. In fact, I'm seriously displeased. I understood we had plenty of time to apply.

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The Deeds of the Disturber (Book 5, The Amelia Peabody - Library

But with me going to Canada for three weeks, there was an unavoidable delay There was silence at the two tables, and a babble of inconsequential conversation from the rest of the bar. Actually, Christopher reflected crossly, not relishing the idea of 'his' organisation being scrutinised under the microscope of an outsider's gaze, the content of the meetings was often fairly inconsequential too. Big Dave spoke up at last. He had got to his feet and was now towering over the woman, making her appear almost fragile by comparison.

Christopher decided he quite liked her sleek style and the way she refused to acknowledge Big Dave's size and menacing tone. She ignored it. Most of the inhabitants of Pitkirtly were only there because their fathers, mothers, grandmothers and so on had lived there, and they couldn't think of anywhere else to go. The others - the ones in the new houses in Upper Pitkirtly - spent all their time and energy commuting into Edinburgh to work and so fortunately had nothing left for community activities, although Christopher had been living in fear for a while that they would decide to infiltrate PLIF and would take it over and insist something was actually done about improving the local area.

Or, as far as he could tell, any category. Well, it was hard to tell how old she was.

Cecilia Peartree

Any age between twenty-three and sixty-five, was Christopher's guess, and he wouldn't have dared to put anything that specific into words. A big banner? There was a collective groan. Christopher shifted slightly in his chair to try and conceal the scruffy leather jacket that was hanging on the back of it. The sky was darkening outside in an ominous way, and just as the door of the bar swung open again there was a portentous roll of thunder with the accompanying sound of massed raindrops landing on the pavement.

The man with the silly wee beard and the look of the sixties about him made his entrance. He had a bland face which was at the moment fixed, as far as could be determined under the beard, in a painful-looking pleasant smile. He went to the bar, running the gauntlet of a group of regulars, who gawped at him, no doubt wondering which of them had fallen foul of the local authorities. After getting his half pint, the man swivelled round in mid-sip, perhaps trying to catch as many people's eyes as possible before his question. Are you a local resident? So you'll be getting your funding through us in future.

Without being interrupted. By anybody. She seemed to be looking meaningfully at Steve Paxman as she said it, but it was impossible for Christopher to tell what was in her mind. Her expression was cool and calm, her speech quiet and rational.


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It was a novelty in a woman. Well, that's why we meet here, you see. Christopher willed him to shut up. Steve Paxman was looking at the old fool with an expression of sympathetic interest which must surely be false. Nobody could possibly find Jock sympathetic, or in any way interesting for that matter. He tried not to feel ashamed of his haste in dismissing her idea.

Perhaps he should be more open to new ideas; perhaps he was just being lazy about it. Christopher realised Steve had been addressing her. He raised his head, deciding it might be a good idea to watch what was going on as well as listening, in case he missed anything. He looked at his watch. He made a note. It was only by an extreme effort of will-power that he forced the words out of his mouth.

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They tried to hide behind his teeth but he was ruthless. Afterwards he wondered why he had bothered. The gathering broke up after that: their innocent pleasure in taking part in being responsible enough members of the Big Society to serve on a steering group had been dented, and Christopher just wanted to be on his own to get to grips with the new situation. He unintentionally found himself walking up the road with Amaryllis. I couldn't resist the name. It was just so ridiculous Actually, I used to live in a village at one time.

It was small and cosy, everybody knew everyone else. There was a village hall with coffee mornings and whist drives. I acted in the local drama group. There was a village school with about twenty pupils. The sun shone every day and there was honey still for tea You know what I mean?