The rhythm method is the curse of Adam Appleby's life and the cause of his children's. As his thesis awaits its birth in the British Museum, his wife studies the thermometer at home. But it seems that "Vatican Roulette" has failed them again.
'His novels engender a flowing sense of fun...Lodge's wit...like that of Wodehouse, froths around and out of characters...hugely enjoyable'
Harriet Waugh in the Spectator
Adam was flooded with excitement, and felt an urgent desire to communicate it. He gave Camel, who was dozing at the neighbouring desk, a nudge. Camel woke with a start.
'What is it?' he said crossly.
'I'm on the brink of a literary discovery,' whispered Adam. 'You remember months ago, when I was still working on Merrymarsh, I wrote to his publishers asking if there were any unpublished Mss around?'
'I seem to recall something of the kind.'
'Well, they must have passed on the letter to the family, and I've had this letter from Merrymarsh's aunt, niece I mean. Look.' He passed the letter, scrawled in green biro on black-edged mourning paper.
'She sounds a bit potty,' said Camel, handing back the letter. 'And I thought you'd lost interest in Merrymarsh.'
'Well, I've got it back now,' said Adam. 'Don't you see? There's bound to be something publishable here. Good for an article or two at least. There might be some interesting letters. Merrymarsh was a hopeless writer but he knew some good ones.' Camel gave him an ironical glance. 'So you're going to chuck criticism and go in for scholarship?'
'Well, criticism hasn't got me anywhere,' said Adam defensively. He was prevented from continuing by signs of disapproval from neighbouring readers. His voice had been steadily rising in volume during their conversation. Adam returned to the silent perusal of his letter. Well, why not, he thought. Why not abandon his unfinished and unfinishable thesis, and start afresh on the letters of Egbert Merrymarsh? There was nothing very difficult about editing, was there? With luck he could finish the job by June and get his Ph.D. And then he would get it published. He saw the neat, slim volume in his mind's eye. The Letters of Egbert Merrymarsh, edited and with an introduction by Adam Appleby. It was the sort of thing the Sunday reviewers would fall on with cries of glee. 'Mr Appleby has performed a valuable service in bringing to light these documents of a vanished, but peculiarly fascinating corner of English literary life...'
Adam began to feel distinctly cheerful. Perhaps Barbara was not pregnant after all. Now he came to consider the matter calmly, it was obvious that she could not possibly be pregnant. How often in the past had they worried themselves into gloomy certainty that conception had taken place, only to be disproved, and how absurd it always seemed afterwards that they should have entertained any anxiety at all. Of course Barbara was not pregnant. He would ring her up and tell her so, at once. And tell her about the letter.
In the phone booth, Adam discovered that he had run out of change. He went to the postcard shop near the Elgin Marbles, and obtained a handful of threepenny bits at the cost of purchasing a sepia likeness of the British Museum. When he finally rang Barbara, however, there was no reply. Mrs Green was evidently out, and probably Barbara had taken the children to the park. Adam thought of his wife pushing their creaking, lop-sided pram through the grey, damp afternoon in Battersea Park, past the ghost-town of the Fun Fair, closed for the winter, brooding on her possible pregnancy, and a pang of pity and love transfixed him. If only he could reach her, and assure her all was well.
