PIKLE   KIP FENN   CONTACT

KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

Contents * Next chapter * Previous chapter

Chapter Nine
Arturo, Noteks and Old Photos

'On waking, the first thing I see is the wallscreen with the time, a message for my wife from her daughter, and a sunrise scene from Tahiti. As I move through my house, the temperature and lighting are just perfect. I go to the john, where the bowl 'knows' when and how long to flush. In the jacuzzi room, the water flow is controlled by a sophisticated central heating/plumbing system (and my razor has an automatic 'bristle thickness sensor'). In the kitchen/dining area, the stove, the fridge, the freezer, the dishwasher, the garbage processor, the breadmaker, the microwave, the mixer, the toaster and the coffee-maker (did I forget one gadget or ten) are all computer chip controlled to a lesser or greater degree. The lock on my front door is activated by a chip; as are the gate to the garage and the lights along the drive. My car has 137 computer chips controlling everything from battery state to traffic density information and seat angle. At work I use a keyboard, screen and phone, all completely reliant on computer hardware. In the office gym, even the traditional weights are in-chipped to provide display information. In the evenings, I don't lumber around the house being useful, mending our son's bicycle for example (the gears, suspension and lights are dependant on electronics) or seeing to a faulty window latch (it's hooked up to a sophisticated thief alarm). From morning to night, I've not used one appliance or piece of equipment that I could mend if it went wrong. On retiring, I find my wife in the bed. She's in-chipped too, for medical monitoring and hormone flow, but at least I can still fix her mood ­ some nights anyways.'
'Out of Control' by Chuck Harris (2049)

It is difficult not to believe that the Grey Years should be classified as the greatest catastrophe in human history. Certainly man himself, by means of war, never created as much devastation. One well-known historical demographer suggests the plague in the 14th century may have wrought a similar amount of damage proportionally; and a cohort of scientists give considerable credence to the idea that an eruption of Krakatoa and the subsequent climate disorder in the 7th century was so devastating that it affected human civilisation more profoundly than the Grey Years have done so far, or will be seen to have done a century hence. Whether true or not, more people probably died prematurely as a result of the Grey Years than the sum total of all the world's population at any one time up until about 250 years ago. Looking at the figures, a simple calculation shows that approximately a million people were dying each day during the Grey Years (or more accurately during the Grey Years and the subsequent year). Surely, every individual on the planet was affected (except the mentally ill and young children); and yet they all ­ we all, Homo sapiens ­ carried on about our lives as best we could, concerned as ever with our own shelter, food, energy, mating, parenting, working and socialising.

During the Grey Years, Lizette and Jay and I had kept our heads down, so to speak, working hard, living quietly, making a daily commitment to watching the news, and trying ­ if not always succeeding ­ to acknowledge our relative good fortune. Thereafter, with the return to a more normal climate, not much about our personal lives changed in 74 or 75. In the village, as everywhere, there was more obvious leisure activity outdoors. Local working parties formed to clean up the landscape (removing unsightly dead vegetation and planting new trees and shrubs), and we joined these whenever we had time. Lizette was an enthusiastic member of the Tilford Propagators whose main objective was to keep the working parties supplied with young plants, whether propagated at home (or should I say in the home) or bought with funds raised from charity events.

The Tilford Propagators had another source for their seedlings. In 72, and at Lizette's instigation, they took over, from an absent-but-willing landowner, a derelict commercial greenhouse. They repaired the structure and installed s-glass units, and then, rather than using it to grow their own produce, set up a parish species databank, with the aim of being ready for the day when regeneration could start. One of the group, a gardener by training, wrote about the project for a media outlet, and the concept took off more widely. It probably did more good keeping people busy, though, than in helping to restore the countryside. The earth contained plenty of dormant seeds and rootstock ready to sprout anew, and these tended to do so much better than the transplanted seedlings, which were easy prey to hungry, and fast-breeding insects. Damn it, nature will have her way, Lizette would say tetchily before explaining why some planting or other had failed. Underlying these petty complaints at nature I detected in Lizette a deeper and ingrained antipathy towards biology and biologists (although not, obviously, to hobby gardening and gardeners), although she would never admit this overtly. I imagined it was a bias that came with the territory of her academic discipline, after many years of education, training and peer involvement in materials science. Theoretically, all biology had long since been reduced to chemistry; and biochemistry had been a major discipline for over a hundred years. Nevertheless, biologists worked at the level of living matter, trying to control nature but willing to live with it, while chemists were incessantly trying to break matter apart and recreate it from scratch.

Today, 25 years on, a botanist or a dendrochronologist would be able to tell that something terrible had happened to the countryside around Tilford in the 70s but not many others. The last time I was there, in the mid-90s, the day the sale of Taunton House was completed, all was as lush and beautiful as it had been during my teens: the triangular green (still sloping, still a venue for cricket matches), the banks along the river Wey by the old bridge, the playground nearby, the pretty track to Elstead, once used by the monks of Waverley Abbey, a millennium earlier. In the 10s and 20s, Julie and I, or sometimes Alan too, would take the car to Elstead on a Sunday and walk through to Tilford for lunch at the Barley Mow, or to Tilford and then walk in the reverse direction to Elstead for lunch at the Woolpack. I loved that route, through the wooded edges of Hankley Common, with its surprisingly-high embankment above the Wey, views across the flood plain fields, and the oak tree with its hanging rope from where, with a leap, I could swing backwards and forwards above the river, or, in summer, jump for a swim.

Here on my screen is a nostalgic camclip of that rope swing, one taken by Horace, he who never dared to jump on the rope himself. There are two boys whose names I don't recall, as well as Jeff Zimmerman and myself, all playing the fool. We must have been about 15. I am fully dressed (and shoed) and swinging on the rope dangling above the middle of the river. I can't get any momentum to swing back, despite my writhing efforts. I must have miscalculated how much movement I needed to return to the raised river bank, or, more likely, one of the others had blocked a safe landing. The whole gang is laughing. After a minute or so I let myself fall into the river. There is much applause. Here's another bit of the same camclip. Horace must have lent the cam to Jeff for the rest of us are racing around trying to pull each other's trunks off. Horace is making a particular effort with mine! And, a few metres away, an old couple are trying to have a quiet picnic.

Under cover of the screaming antics on the screen, Chintz has crept into the room, and is giggling too.

'He's a sweetie.' She thinks the boy trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his privates is me, but it isn't.

Not all of nature recovered as quickly as that on the lush banks of the Wey, especially in areas of the world which had been most acclimatised to strong sunlight and high temperatures. Genera, thousands of them, which had taken millions of years to evolve, were wiped out in a few short years. Their ecological niches were filled by aggressive, quick-growing, quick-breeding species. In much the same way as the efforts of the Tilford Propagators were less than successful so were most of the many and varied grander schemes, in the 70s and 80s, designed to re-strengthen species, or in some cases reinstall vanished species from scratch, through DNA databanks or re-creation schemes licensed by the Agency for Genetic and Cloning Techniques (AGCT).

The AGCT was one of the first UN agencies to become fully functional again in the mid-70s, after the Second Jihad War, and in the last of the Grey Years. It required relatively insignificant levels of funding, and the disputes tended to be more agri- or bio-technical than political. But, at the same time, most of the UN's other institutions, including the IFSD, were starved of funds and, effectively, in mothballs. Debate about a new world order had been under way at the highest level since the end of the war. Some statesmen went so far as to say there was no way back for the United Nations, and it was not uncommon for commentators to mention the EIPD World Union study. While the international negotiations on the UN continued to be hampered by the Christian world's distrust of Al Zahir, Europe and North America were visibly considering other options. Soon after Al Zahir's assassination, though, in 76, the Islamic countries made clear their determination to negotiate seriously and quickly for the resurrection of the United Nations. With the world so needy, and so many institutions all ready and waiting to be brought out of mothballs, it became clear there was no realistic possibility of starting again from scratch.

Once the international negotiations began in earnest, they were neither very speedy nor transparent, which resulted in the European Union prevaricating over an extension of the mandate for REACH. When, finally, we were given a three year extension, to 79 (by when it was expected the EU would be ready to funnel its funds again through the UN agencies), we had lost six months' worth of operations. I took the EU's decision-making delays in my stride, but Jean-Michele could not relax. He would come into my office, close the door carefully behind him so as not to be overheard by my secretary, and rant about the failings of politicians. At project level, Jean-Michele had infinite patience, and would work through whatever problem, whatever hold-up until it was sorted; yet, oddly, he was hopeless at coping with the drawn out political processes of those above him, especially when the decisions they were making affected his work. The best way to deal with him in this mood was to let him rant and say little in return.

Several years later, when REACH was winding down, he did come once with Raisa to Taunton House, for a garden dinner party. While there, he moaned to me about having failed to secure a future position at a higher level. It was as if he'd come to visit with the sole purpose of quizzing me about this. I did not prevaricate. I advised him he would be better off sticking to a job not too far removed from the operational level where his best talents lay. He looked at me suspiciously, marched off to find Raisa, and left soon after. As Jean-Michele suspected, I had replied to discreet enquiries about him from various selection boards without whole-hearted praise of his managerial abilities. Since I was convinced his skills would be wasted if he moved too high up the ladder, I did not feel guilty about this. When the REACH office in London was closed, Jean-Michele went back to Italy with Raisa, where they married (we were invited to the wedding but did not go). We lost contact with them after that. Much later, I heard on the grapevine they had two children, and Jean-Michele was doing an excellent job running Italy's national agency in charge of emergency humanitarian aid.

***

During the Grey Years, and through to 75, everyone moved around far less than hitherto, not only was energy so expensive but there were tight and complicated restrictions on private and business vehicle movements (not least through the rotor arrangements). We ourselves rarely went beyond the confines of our work and home areas, and others, even regulars like Horace, came to see us much less often. By 76, though, transport had become marginally easier, and Horace began to reappear on our doorstep every now and then. On one occasion, in early summer, he brought Tim, his podgy brother, who we hadn't seen for several years. Although the active part of their joint property business had stalled during the Grey Years, they still owned and rented a score of buildings. They argued a lot, and Horace usually tied Tim in knots. I bet, Lizette would say, they squabbled as children; they love it. This particular visit, Tim appeared anxious and sullen. He sought, as soon as he could, a private conversation with me. I took him for a walk, through the village to the bowling green. In short, he was asking my help to persuade Horace against standing in the next election, due in the autumn when the National Coalition's five year mandate expired. According to Tim, Horace's health was deteriorating, and, by supporting increasingly bizarre causes, he was making a fool of himself in Parliament. I was not convinced that Tim's appeal was motivated by real concerns, and suspected some deep-seated, perhaps unconscious, sibling ploy to get one over on his older brother. It was true that Horace wheezed a lot, but then who didn't at 75, and that his political comportment had declined. I had seen media reports of Horace being suspended from the House of Commons for several days as a result of bad language against a Green Party MP. Nevertheless, he continued to lobby tirelessly for policies that would benefit his constituents. Moreover, among his 'bizarre causes' was one I could not help but approve of: he campaigned persistently for Great Britain to lead the march towards a new international order, and regularly cited the EIPD study on World Union.

Later that day, while Lizette and Jay took Tim over to see the Tilford Propagators' glasshouse, I sat in the garden with Horace. We drank a light refreshing Wiltshire wine he'd brought with him.

'Made by one of my constituents in the late 60s. Larry. Amiable man. Went bankrupt in 71. Had no choice but to put his land in the hands of the Department of Agriculture. From vineyard owner and sophisticate to farmer and muck-raker. Damn good wine though. Looking for investors to start the vines again. When he gets the land back. I'm considering. What do you think? Not as warm as it used to be. Could stay cooler. What do you think? Half the experts says the Grey Years have done for global warming and we're on the brink of an ice age, and the other half pontificate about faster climate change. Giving money to Larry, be like playing the lottery.'

'Tim says you're thinking of standing again.'

'If they'll have me. Selection committee's meeting next week. May invite me to continue, may not.' He said it with conviction as if he had no idea what might happen. 'What do you think, you've got your ear to the ground: warmer or cooler? vines or no vines?'

'I don't know Horace. Sounds risky to me. Hot or cold, people always need houses, but vines won't always grow. I thought you'd be ready to step down now, give some other likely lad a chance.'

'If the committee'll have me, and the voters want me, I'm still that likely lad.'

'You didn't even like Southampton when you were selected back in the 20s.'

'Long time ago.' His clipped delivery, which had become more exaggerated with age, softened and slowed down. 'Be 50 years in 77. Fifty years an MP. That would be an achievement.'

'Is it 50 years? I didn't realise. I remember the party the night of the election. I came with Harriet and Crystal ... Harriet had just told me she was pregnant again...' I sunk into my own memories. The names of Harriet's children only had to flit into my consciousness for a second, and it was as though someone had knocked all the air out of me, and then dipped me in a wash of sadness. (Incidentally, writing these Reflections has helped me come to terms with the fates of Crystal and Bronze, although nothing can ease my regrets.)

'A real achievement. I'd be only the third person in history to serve 50 years as an MP in the British Parliament ­ that would be something to put on the cover...' I was not listening, instead I was wondering, for the thousandth time, if there might have been a course I could have taken that would have led to less anguish in the lives of Harriet, Crystal and Bronze. Horace stopped talking, and then restarted, insistently.

'What else does Tim say? Let me guess. Thinks I shouldn't. Bad for my health. Making an ass of myself. Thinks I should stop before I'm remembered for the wrong things. Let me tell you something about Tim ...' Horace's phone rang and he answered it. I probably went inside to urinate, it's what I usually did when there was a break in conversation. When I returned, he repeated the question.

'So, what does Tim say?'

'He is worried about your health. I can see why.'

'No affordable lung transplants yet.'

'And, yes, he does think you're past your sell-by-date. I'm reserving judgement.'

'Big of you.'

'How many times has the Speaker expelled you from the House now?'

'Lost count. He's a fool.'

'Who?'

'The speaker.'

'Why don't you tell him,' I said facetiously.

'What do you want me to do? Tidy up my diaries. Won't be a pretty sight.' Diaries! Now he certainly had my attention. I had no idea he kept a diary.

'Diaries?'

'You didn't know?' He knew I didn't know because he had never told me. 'I've a publisher ready and waiting; he's legally bound to keep it a secret until I say so. Won't publish till I step down.'

'When did you start? Why have you never mentioned this?'

'About 50 years. Only political, not much personal ­ except where personal is political. Didn't need to write personal, Caxton did that for me.' Having spent but a few years in government, and only as a lesser minister, I could not imagine there would be much of political interest in Horace's diaries. 'Never told anyone. Not Tim. Not boyfriends. You're the first. People clam up if they know you as a diarist; they keep you out of the inner circles. Good advice from Tindle when I office-boyed for him. Told Spoon once I was thinking of writing a diary, he said, "Don't do it. Don't ever do it. Is that clear." I'd started long since. I took his advice to heart, and never did do it ­ tell anyone that it is.'

Having failed to win me over to his cause, Tim tried a playful attack on his brother over supper, appealing to Lizette's common sense, and expecting Jay's support simply because the boy preferred him to Horace. But what started as banter descended into a full-scale row. Lizette screamed at them to stop and sent them out of the room, in the same way she used to deal with Jay when he was six and misbehaved. Jay found it all most amusing. But it was far from that. The brothers fell out for six months; and we never saw Tim again at Taunton House. Sadly, Horace did not achieve his 50 years in Parliament. He was reselected without difficulty, and, although right-wing parties were expected to lose seats in the forthcoming election, there was no real threat to Southampton, or so he said. But, about four weeks before the election, he suffered such a serious coronary thrombosis that he was obliged to stand down. Ironically, the Progressive Party chose a candidate nearly 50 years younger in his stead.

I went to visit Horace several times at a private hospital in Southampton, while he was recovering, and then later before and after his heart surgery. During one of these visits he explained that Tim had been anxious for him to retire from politics so that the two of them together could wind down their business (which, apparently, would take more effort and time than simply keeping it ticking over), and then retire fully, possibly abroad. If Tim thought Horace would leave Britain, he must have been prematurely senile.

***

A few weeks after the visit by Horace and Tim, and during the last ten days of Jay's summer holiday, we made our own journey, to Pembrokeshire, and then, on the way back, to Chew Magna in Somerset. It would have been very inconvenient to use public transport so we took our Toyota Ishfreel despite the cost of fuel and tolls (although the much-hated not-full-occupancy tax supplement had been scrapped by this time). I loved driving the Ishfreel, a saloon I'd bought in the late 60s which served us well enough for nearly a decade. It was the quietest car I had ever owned, but more than that it reminded me of the petrol-fuelled vehicles I had driven as a young man, the ones which had razor-sharp acceleration. Since 71, the hapless machine had only been used as a rotor bus for trips to the station or school or supermarket, and hardly ever been allowed out for a run on the motorway. This holiday was Lizette's idea, and focused entirely on her family, so driving the Ishfreel again was my private source of pleasure. Although I was happy to visit Samuel, Lizette's older brother in Chew Magna, I was less sure about the trip to Stackpole Haven, the Notek community five miles south of Pembroke. Jay thought we were making a long overdue friendly visit to Mercurio, Lizette's younger brother, with no ulterior motives, but Lizette's aim was for Jay to witness the harsh uncomfortable reality of Notek life (although she was also very curious about Mercurio's children).

To my mind, Lizette had long since lost any control over Jay's behaviour, his plans or his hopes, but this did not stop her trying to affect them (nor did her intelligence and a good basic understanding of psychology). I doubt she would have advised any other parent to behave in the way she did towards Jay. It was as though an emotional drive displaced her intellect. Jay, though, had learned well how to bluff and how to pretend he was listening; and he had perfected the art of underplaying his own knowledge about anything and everything. Whereas once he had used this technique to avoid being faced with genuinely more complex tasks, he now used it to maintain a secret, smug power over Lizette. When she tried to push him to do better on his maths or science course work, he would feign ignorance in the face of her expectations. Then he would pretend confusion at her exasperation, and, within minutes, they would be arguing without knowing about what. Whereas I had had some influence over Lizette's behaviour towards Jay while he was young, I had none left by this time.

Jay had taken the 16 exams earlier in the year, and achieved modest results. Lizette was not satisfied with his progress, and regularly made disparaging remarks about his grades, as if, somehow, this might spur him on to do better next time. One of Lizette's greatest fears was that Jay would drop out of school, something he could legally do at 17 (along with drinking, smoking and voting). Partly inspired by Mercurio's annual visits, Jay had developed a schoolboy interest in the Noteks, and often, at the pitch of his arguments with Lizette, would threaten to run away and join a Notek community. Lizette knew no more about what went on inside the Notek villages than I did, and what little we did know came from Mercurio (although Lizette discounted anything positive he said) and the media, which loved to expose Noteks as living way beyond social and cultural norms. Nevertheless, she felt informed enough to judge it bad (plagued with the deadly sins of sloth, lust, greed, pride, not to mention poverty, ill-health and inadequate hygiene) and that the sooner Jay saw the reality of Notek life, the sooner he would throw off his childish impressions.

We spent Saturday evening/night at Hereford with an old school-friend of Lizette's, arriving at Stackpole Haven around midday on Sunday. It was a surprisingly ordinary-looking village, similar to other rural hams planned and constructed in the 20s and 30s. A pond, a church-library, a grocery store and a pub called The Last Elm all clustered around a large oval green. Children were playing in one area of the green; groups of people seated at benches by the pub were eating and drinking; and bicycles were parked haphazardly all over the place. Lizette and Jay were both disappointed in their different ways, although I had no idea what they were expecting. A group of girls sitting cross-legged on the grass were busy knitting. When I asked for directions to the address we had for Mercurio, one of the girls, about 15, naturally pretty with long seaweed coloured hair, a spotted blue t-shirt, knee-length jeans, and bead bracelets on both arms, answered.

'Rio? You want my dad, he's over there, in the pub. We prefer it if you leave the car outside the village lines. Didn't you see the signs?' And she returned to concentrate on her knitting.

'Yes, sorry, but I didn't know where we would need to stop. We'll drive back and park now. In the pub you say? And your name is?' One of the other girls said something, and they all burst out laughing.

'Who wants to know?' she said. And they all sniggered. 'Friend of Rio's are you?'

'Yes. Sort of.' There was another whispered comment and more laughing.

'Yewla. My name's Yewla.' This time I heard the whisper, 'It's the tax men.' And they laughed again.

I returned to the car, pleased with my discovery, and pointed out the girl called Yewla, Lizette's niece, Jay's cousin.

A few people looked up as we entered the pub, but not Mercurio who was one of a group in the far corner playing chess. Jay noticed there were no screens or lottery machines. He said the place had the appearance of a heritage inn, and went to investigate the board games and books stacked on a dresser by one wall. Lizette and I observed Mercurio from behind until he became aware of our presence. I expected him to be horrified or perturbed at our sudden and unexpected arrival, but he wasn't phased at all. He expressed more delight than surprise, and calmly introduced us to the rest of his chess group.

We had made no arrangements about where to stay, thinking we would take advice on a nearby hotel from Mercurio, but the community had a guest house which was free that night, so Rio ­ as everyone called him ­ said he would take us there. On the way across the green, we stopped to say hello again to Yewla and her friends. This time she put her knitting down, stood up and came to give each one of us in turn, including Jay, a two-cheek kiss. Jay went bright red. (Jay to me a few days ago: 'You're making that up, I wouldn't have gone red.')

The cottage, a 19th century stone bungalow, was clean and tidy, and decorated with hand-woven fabrics, enamel artwork and ceramics. Mercurio helped us to carry the luggage in. Mercurio, Jay and I then left Lizette alone in the cottage for half an hour, to unpack and freshen up. We took the Ishfreel to a parking bay, and then accompanied Mercurio to a nearby farm where he needed to explain why he would be absent for a couple of hours. That afternoon he was due to service a harvester, he said, but it could wait until later. I had had no idea he was mechanic (why had I never asked?). He serviced and repaired all the community's farm vehicles. Jay was intrigued because he had thought the Noteks lived without all technology. Mercurio explained how there were many different kinds of Notek community, some purists refusing to use tools or appliances that had been made with modern electronic or computer-aided technology, some only rejecting technology invented within the last 50 or 80 or 100 years. Most, though, as with Stackpole Haven, chose a boundary before the electronic age, rejecting all use of chips, but with specific well-defined exceptions where electronic technology helped to preserve the environment or natural resources (s-glass for example). Mercurio said most Noteks liked to talk about their communities as celebrating and preserving sustainable human cultures including many technologies, and not as communities which rejected human development.

From the farm we returned to the guest house to collect Lizette before moving on to a pottery, which filled a large extension at the back of one of the brick buildings. In 50 years, it hadn't weathered anywhere near as well as the stone guest cottage which was four times as old. Mercurio introduced us to Esos his six year old son, playing in a sandpit with some friends, and Esos's mother, Andrasta. She was no older than 30, but her very thin visage and huge sunken eyes gave her a haunted look. There were a hundred pots, glazed and unglazed, all over the workroom floor, and she was trying to reorganise them to make more space on the storage shelves. Jay asked if he could try his hand at one of the pottery wheels. Andrasta, far from pleased at the intrusion, glanced at Mercurio as if to ask whether the disturbance was truly necessary; he winked, smiled and gave her an encouraging nod. As I watched Jay make a mess of the slippery clay, I had a sudden flash memory of being taken once by my grandmother Eileen to a pottery on the south coast.

From Andrasta's workshop, Mercurio led us to another similar building but without an extension. It appeared to house several adults and children, all of them busy with play or work of some description. Here Mercurio found Yewla's mother, May, much older than Andrasta but more comely, if I can use that old-fashioned word. May was not only Yewla's mother, but a member of the Esos co-op, thus indicating more of a pattern in Mercurio's affairs than he had hitherto suggested. Indeed, to my mind this was a very different Mercurio from the one we saw at Taunton House, more thoughtful, more interested in our good opinion, more robust. It was as if, in the past, he had deliberately exaggerated all the aspects of his life that he knew Lizette would despise.

Mercurio continued to guide us round (farms and workshops mostly, and a Notek shop on the main road some distance from the village centre) and explain about his life. I found the place remarkably ordinary, if somewhat quaint. I did notice the Notek community land looked cared for (and less damaged by the Grey Years) than other rural areas we had passed through, but then it was well known that Noteks nurtured their land well. This was one reason why, over the decades, they had been able to argue for and win special legal status. Jay was unusually enthusiastic with his questions, especially about Yewla, schooling and leisure activities; Lizette remained oddly quiet, confused or annoyed by Jay's enthusiasm.

When Mercurio left us to return to work, Yewla and a half-brother, Almond, offered to show us Stackpole Quay and the beach at Barafundle Bay. I declined because my ankle had swollen up, but Lizette and Jay went, and gave me a full report later. That evening we congregated at Mercurio's house which, we discovered, he shared with Andrasta's sister. There were a dozen others, including Andrasta, May and her current partner, Mercurio's children and Almond. A large trestle table had been set up in the garden. Andrasta and her sister had prepared a splendid meal: a gazpacho-type soup, cold duck and many salads, and a 'delicious strawberry-filled ice-cream'. I am using Jay's memory here. We talked about this a few days ago, on his birthday, before he left on holiday. He enthused particularly over the ice-cream: 'A few years later, when I dropped out of Reading to join that Notek community in Cumbria, I expected to be eating that delicious strawberry-filled ice cream every day.'

Over supper and with the help of a potent elderflower wine (this I remember), Lizette's quiet manner gave way. Perhaps she had herself been bewitched by the peacefulness and harmony of the community and wanted to remind herself why life in the real world was real, or perhaps she was determined to try ­ for Jay's sake ­ to show up some faults in the Notek way of being. She began by asking a variety of seemingly innocent questions, but soon took on a more goading tone, grilling Jay and his friends about the community's economy. Before long, she was in full flurry claiming that if everyone were to become a Notek there'd be no science, no research, no development, no progress, no future. But she misconstrued the indulgent mood around the table, believing our hosts were not taking offense, and went so far as to accuse the Noteks of being no better than parasites, who were only able to survive because they fed off a developed and responsible society. Andrasta was the first to crack. She got up in a fury, collected Esos (who had ice-cream round his lips), and stormed off. At that moment, I too thought Lizette had gone over the top, especially given the gracious way Mercurio had received us.

Yet it was Lizette who suffered. Mercurio himself looked thoughtful and said little. He let his friends enjoy a deserved and sustained offensive against Lizette, using their well-rehearsed, almost religious, arguments. What is the point of science? of research? Why do we need development and progress? What do we have to hope for in the future? In what actual specific definable ways have electronics made life better? Why do we need camphones and computers and chips? What does your life have that ours doesn't? Why should man live to 95 rather than 80? Why has the world fought two abominable wars which utterly wrecked its ability to cope with a natural disaster ­ an inevitable natural disaster? How is life different now ­ really different in its essence ­ from 100 years ago, or 200 years ago?

The basic Notek philosophy counts on the following ideas (among many others): there is a natural limit to economic progress and to man's ability to enjoy wealth; capitalism has done well to get Western societies to this natural limit, but thereafter expectations of lives improving endlessly are counter-productive and damaging; wealthy nations should seek not seek 'sustainable progress' but 'sustainable balance'; and excess wealth should be fairly shared with those less well-off.

Lizette did her best to argue about how science should and could improve medicine, agriculture, energy efficiency and environmental protection, but the Noteks knew how to respond. They were not opposed to science and research itself, but to nine-tenths of it which was wasteful and unnecessary. In a fully-committed Notek society there would be sufficient funds for useful science, research and development. Lizette became increasingly irritated at not being able to score any useful points (not that Jay was listening, he'd long since been taken inside by Almond, ostensibly to look at paintings) and would have gone on for much longer, had Mercurio not intervened. He offered an olive branch by stating that Lizette's area of research, as far as he understood it, was the kind supported by the Noteks. But Lizette would not stop, her tongue loosened by alcohol, and so, eventually, Mercurio's patience evaporated. Why, he wanted to know, had Lizette never visited before now. Lizette's stock answer was that she had never been invited. I had always supposed this was true. Mercurio revealed that he had begged Lizette many times when they were younger, in their 20s and 30s to visit, and she had regularly scorned him and his invitations. Lizette looked extremely uncomfortable, and suddenly very tired. She glanced down into her empty glass, and then back up at her brother.

'Well I'm here now aren't I.' This was said with attempted defiance. 'Well I'm here now aren't I.' The second time the words carried a mixture of apology and sorrow. I was dumbstruck by the new information (Lizette had clearly deceived me about the relationship with her brother) and the change in her demeanour.

'Yes you are,' Mercurio said. 'Yes you are.' Then someone filled all the glasses again, and Almond suddenly appeared and said he was taking Jay to see the children's treehouse in a wood nearby. I leaned close into Lizette, put my arm through hers, awkwardly, and whispered so no-one else could hear.

'You were very brave to come here, and to speak out. It's as though you were prepared to be shot down in enemy territory. I didn't realise before but you've come here for a reconciliation, and in a moment, this moment it has been achieved. It wasn't that painful was it?' She nodded, meaning I know not what, and clutched my arm tighter. When I asked if she wanted to go, she said no.

I decided to divert the focus of conversation by asking about the prayer that had been said before supper: 'For what we are about to receive may our children, and our children's children, and our children's children's children be privileged to receive, amen.' This is how and when I first heard of the Church of Moral Atheism. It was a church, I understood, in the broadest sense of the word (any body professing a common creed) based on an understanding, a hope and a belief. The understanding was that god never was or never would be and that therefore we, human beings living in a complex society and world, must be responsible for ourselves, our fellow man, our fellow creatures, and the environment in which we live. The hope was that our children would have good lives, free of hunger, danger and disease. And the belief was to be in a fixed moral code acceptable to all humankind, only this had yet to be elaborated. The Church was a new fad, we discovered, which had been spreading through the Notek communities and elsewhere for several years. A few social academics and philosophers had written papers about the movement, Mercurio explained, and the International Notek Confederation (much larger and more important than when it was originally formed in the 50s) had launched a major study to define a moral code for the church that would be acceptable to a two-thirds majority of Confederation members.

We remained at Stackpole Haven for a further two days. Lizette and Jay did more exploring while I sat for hours in the pub talking with members of the community or reading in the library. Surprisingly, Lizette fell in love with her brother again. This was the first time, she confessed, since he was 11 when, in consequence of some huge grievance, she had relinquished her role as his guardian angel.

On the Wednesday, we drove to Chew Magna, to Samuel's three storey mansionette 'at the opposite end of the Sanderson family spectrum' as Lizette put it. The property came with a long drive, large well-manicured gardens, and several outhouses (a conservatory, a play room, an office). Samuel and Lynn had three children: the oldest Saul who worked with his father in their tidal engineering consultancy firm; Irene, who had travelled a lot before the Grey Years (and had visited us in Taunton House), worked as a journalist on women's magazines in London; and Mahonia, who continued to study architecture at Warwick University. All three lived away from home, although Irene was visiting at the same time as we were, and Saul lived nearby with his wife and baby son. Despite the rich trappings, Samuel and Lynn were hospitable and down-to-earth, and not at all pretentious. Again, I had been slightly misled by Lizette, who, I realised, could only see the members of her family through a magnifying glass.

Samuel was semi-retired, so both he and his wife had time to lead us on various trips. Lizette wanted to go to Weston-super-Mare, to lay flowers by her parents' memorial stone, and Jay went for a swim on the beach. Another time, Irene took Jay and Lizette out in the family skiff on a nearby lake, while I lunched with Samuel and Saul near their offices. Sanderson Engineering Consultancy Services, they told me proudly, had helped on tidal barrage projects in 47 different countries. The business had been healthy before the Toba eruption, but now, with post-Grey Years investment, they were overwhelmed with opportunities. This meant the firm would be able to expand rapidly if Saul wished.

They did not have to sell the technology to me. For 30 years or more ­ since the advances in systems durability and safe materials with long-term resistance to marine growth ­ we at the IFSD had promoted the exploitation of tidal turbines as a reliable and regular source of electricity for coastal areas. And yet, surveys said, we had not come close to fulfilling 10% of the potential demand for this kind of technology, even in those regions which fell well below the recommended minimum UN per capita power-consumption ratings.

I knew full well that Samuel had grown tired of the travelling and extended stays away from his family required by many of the company's contracts in the past, nonetheless, I decided to sing the praises of the UN's Wisdom Force. During its early heyday, in the 50s, there were nearly a million retired citizens from wealthy countries working in and for developing countries. The basic idea was that retired professionals of whatever ilk ­ engineers, surveyors, geologists, architects, teachers, doctors, software programmers, company managers ­ volunteered for terms of duty, of one to three years, with no other purpose than to transfer their knowledge to those less well off. The programme had run aground during the Jihad Wars, in common with many other UN functions, but was rebuilding itself in earnest. Although only minimum pay was provided, the programme's popularity stemmed from the way it made the voluntary contracts sound as pleasurable as a holiday: five star accommodation, excellent health and safety care, domestic help, a social network, and part-time hours to suit.

That same evening, at my suggestion, Liam Nash joined Samuel, Lynn, Lizette and me for a gourmet meal at The Wild Salmon in the centre of Bristol (Jay having opted for a film at the nearby superscreen). Liam, Diana's cousin, had stayed in contact with me since our first encounter at Diana's bio-fest. Apart from intermittent emails, we had met half a dozen times over the years, usually at his instigation, and usually for a lunch in London. Because he lived in this same area and worked in a similar industrial sector, I thought he and Samuel might get on (although there was a ten year age difference). But I had an ulterior motive. Liam, having retired some years earlier (and buried his wife), had signed up for a term of duty with the Wisdom Force, and was heading out to Namibia to help plan and build a new water filter manufacturing unit.

The five of us got on well. Lizette gave a more detailed report on our trip to Stackpole Haven, and we spent much of the time debating the pros and cons of Notek values. Liam and I ganged up against the Sanderson trio, all of whom were prejudiced against Mercurio. Lizette may have undergone a reconciliation with her brother, but her long-held views about the fundamentals of his way of life had not changed. Like me, though, Liam appreciated what the Noteks had achieved and what they were aiming to accomplish. Also, unlike the others, we were both willing to acknowledge that the Noteks had had a beneficial influence on our society, our culture. It was not until the waiter was serving coffee, though, that I managed to bring the conversation round to Liam's forthcoming venture to Namibia.

The following day we set off to return to Surrey. All in all, the tour had been a success, working out much better than I'd expected. Lizette had got tetchy with Jay now and then, but this was nothing unusual. She and I, though, did have one row on the way home. I was driving, Lizette was expounding on the great benefits of material science, and Jay was listening to music through his earphones (the Rainbow Sharks, he informed the other day, his favourite band for many years).

'You and Liam, last night ... defending the Noteks. I agree they could survive, but not at that comfort level. It's the energy provision that makes the difference and they wouldn't have so much if it wasn't for the s-glass, the polymers that make wind and water turbines so efficient, and h-fuel storage technology. And to subscribe to the notion that you can cherry-pick your science and research investment ... It's fatuous. Scientific development and invention doesn't follow prescribed patterns. If it wasn't for pure research into materials and matter, Liam's filters would be a hundred times more expensive, Samuel's turbines would still be stuck ­ literally by marine growth ­ in the pilot project development stage, and your great IFSD would be the International Fund for not-quite-so-Sustainable Development.'

I changed the subject.

'What do you think ... will Samuel consider the Wisdom Force?' There was silence for a few moments, and then Lizette erupted.

'You did it on purpose. You invited Liam, so as to encourage Samuel. I don't believe it. You sod.' I said nothing. 'I don't want my brother going off to some god-forsaken place halfway round the world, dragging Lynn with him. I can't believe you did that.' Lizette stormed on. She was particularly cross at the fact that I hadn't discussed my 'devious plan' with her beforehand, which was 'very uncharacteristic' of me. I did not mind being called devious, but I hated the idea that Lizette liked me being predictable, so I argued back ­ definitely not the right thing to do. Our raised voices, apparently, made no impact on the Rainbow Sharks, for Jay never removed his headphones once.

Three years later, in 79, Samuel and Lynn went to Lima, Peru, so that Samuel could help train Peruvian engineers to build their own highly efficient and low-maintenance tidal turbine units, instead of importing them from Japan, Italy or Britain. He took a one year contract initially, and then extended it by a further two years, which is how they came to be there when Lizette and I undertook our tour of South America in 81.

***

On our return from the west country, I went immediately to an orthopedic specialist at Guildford Hospital. For years he had been treating the severe rheumatoid arthritis in my left ankle, and for years the pain and discomfort had grown progressively worse. I had survived so far through a combination of painkillers, a surprisingly comfortable ankle bandage-brace (thanks again to Lizette's beloved material science), and a micro-surgical reconstruction which miraculously helped enhance the joint for nearly two years. I also employed a walking stick and special shoes. This time the specialist proposed a second, more complicated (and costly) bio-engineered joint reconstruction. He promised it would give me a minimum of five years pain free hiking. I agreed. But, within 18 months, I was once again in agony. Late one afternoon ­ it must have been September 78 (Jay had not yet left for Reading University) ­ I was hobbling back from the bowls green, when I bumped into Sami. He wanted me to inspect the quality of his cucumbers (purple) and the size of his marrows (enormous). Now that rationing had come to an end, and Iona was no longer concerned that growing their own food might indicate hardship, Sami was keen to start exhibiting again. I hadn't been in his garden for years and the ostentatious fortifications took me by surprise. He confided that he used the security lamps to extend natural daylight, but that this was not illegal (energy use restrictions had not been fully lifted by this time) because they were only powered by energy collected from the s-glass on his own property. Most of this energy, he said, came from a huge new L-shaped s-glasshouse. Inside, he showed me an exotic array of tropical vegetables (but, oddly, no fruits). I thought Sami's efforts at excess gardening were eccentric if not absurd (certainly compared to Lizette's hobby gardening and the purpose-driven organic horticulture in Mercurio's community) but, nevertheless, I praised his efforts.

Which goes to show how a little hypocrisy can take you a long way ­ literally. After applauding his okra, cocoyams and dazzlingly-coloured chillis, he was ready to let me leave. But, as he unlocked the side gate, I needed to hold on to the fence to ease the pain in my ankle. He insisted on taking me inside for an examination. I gave him a brief medical history of my ankle and told him the name of my consultant to which he replied, 'Oh my god'.

Stupidly, I had allowed myself to accept treatment until then without doubting the advice of my surgeon. According to Sami, the reconstruction surgery on my ankle had been a waste of time, money and pain. There was constant pressure for doctors, he explained, to choose the least-cost option, regardless of whether this led to higher costs in the longer run, whether these costs were paid by the state or by the individual. It was ever thus, with the state trying to minimise short-term costs, and the medical establishment insidiously (or subconsciously if the word can be applied to an establishment) trying to maximise its income. What I needed was a new ankle, Sami said. It would be five times as expensive as one micro-surgical reconstruction but would last ten times as long. More importantly, he added, it would give me much greater mobility with far less discomfort.

'Go to the surgeon, ask for a second opinion or referral, to me at St George's. I'm so sorry that I haven't paid more attention to your discomfort before now. I never thought to ask. It's so very rude of me. We can do it half on the health service, or more, so it won't worry your insurance too much.' Iona had come into the room with a tray of drinks and edibles. I thanked him and her profusely. Although I did get myself referred to Sami within a few weeks, it was some months before I could undergo the necessary surgery. In the meantime, Sami's prescriptions and an improved ankle bracelet helped me control the discomfort. The new ankle, when it came, transformed my life: gone was the constant threat of pain day and night, gone was the routine of pills and cold-presses, gone was the ankle brace, gone was the stick, and gone was my chronic reluctance to leave the house or office to do anything at all. It was a magnificent ankle with, I guess, 85% of the movement of the previous one before it went bad. The monetary cost was high, even discounting the health service share, but there was an additional price to pay: not only was I obliged to inspect and applaud Sami's vegetables several times a season, which I didn't mind, but Iona took advantage of her husband's good samaritan neighbourliness and added us to her dinner party guest list, which Lizette did mind.

I should admit that I had no qualms about taking advantage of the most recent advances in bio-engineering despite my personal belief that Western societies had spent and were spending far too much money on medical research (and many other things besides). Politicians often find themselves in deep water when their private lives are put under the microscope; but I am no politician, and I have no psychological objection to classifying myself a hypocrite.

I spent the spring of 79 becoming accustomed to the way my new foot felt, and revisiting various walks around Tilford, especially my favoured hike across to Elstead (although it took a while before I could manage the whole distance one way, with a bus ride home). It was in this period that Lizette again became occupationally depressed. The year before, the year Jay left home, she had applied to take over as Sidney Jensen's departmental deputy, which would have given her more managerial responsibility, and allowed her to hope for a professorship in the future. Sidney, however, opted to bring in a younger woman, Olive Norrington, with an exceptional research track record. Lizette felt slighted. She made an effort through 79 to look for a new position, knowing we would be free to move anywhere as soon as my contract with REACH expired, but most of her applications were half-hearted. She went to two interviews, and was offered one position, in Norwich, but turned it down. By the end of that year, she had come to terms with spending the rest of her working life at Guildford University, a decision partly eased by a growing respect for Olive, who had (Lizette grudgingly admitted) enlivened the department.

***

I, on the other hand, could not come to terms with my situation. REACH's mandate (and my job) terminated in December 79 (administration of the ongoing projects was transferred to the European Union executive in Brussels). Surely my life was not over. I was 80, and relatively fit, all the way down from the mind to the ankles. (It would have been churlish to complain about the mild symptoms of rheumatoid arthritis elsewhere in my body which, with my ankle clear of pain, had become more noticeable.) Lizette was not insensible to my octogenarian angst and fears about retirement. She stepped up our social arrangements with trips to the theatre in London, more visitors at the weekends, and, inevitably, more tasks in the garden and bridge practice. It was around this time that Horace's book, Reflections of a Political Lightweight, was published, and that Lizette first proposed, half seriously, I write my auto-biography and call it Reflections of a UN Heavyweight.

Incidentally, Horace's book was a racy read. Not only did he reproduce as much printable Parliamentary scandal as could be squeezed into the story of his own career, but he had one truly newsworthy tit-bit which catapulted the book into the bestseller lists. He revealed ­ to much astonishment ­ that he had had a brief affair with Terrance Spoon. The same Terrance Spoon, now deceased, who had been married with four children, and had been prime minister for several years in the 40s. Unfortunately, the book and the revelation turned Horace into something of a media darling; he was able to make more of a fool of himself in broadcasting studios than he would have done if he'd still been an MP in the House of Commons. A newly-constructed heart certainly ensured his zest for attention continued unabated. At Taunton House, Lizette rarely bothered any longer to help me entertain him which meant I alone had to cope with his garrulous turns.

When I looked back on my life then, I realised that apart from a tedious period at the Department of Industry and Technology in the 20s, I had been very fortunate in the progress of my career. I had never had to struggle to find jobs, they had found me. I decided, therefore, it was finally time to be more proactive, to tout around for any modest employment. I drew up a list of people I could contact, and I tried to draft what I might say to them. This proved far from easy. I had never been good at keeping in touch with colleagues, and so there was no way to disguise a communication as having any purpose other than canvassing. 'Hi, how are you? By the way, I'm not doing anything at the moment. If you hear of any opportunities coming up ...' Ridiculous. I couldn't do it. The most I could do was mention, in the normal course of social contacts, my distaste for retirement.

In the summer of 80, I received a surprise call from Jude Singleton. Lizette and I had just returned from a week in the Midlands staying with Pete and Clarity, to find Jay camped out at Taunton House. A year earlier, he had dropped out of Reading University (having scraped into a course on 'The Information Interface' a year before that) to join a Notek community in Cumbria, and this was his first visit home. Lizette lost no time in losing her rag. She was shouting when my phone rang. Jude Singleton, who was around ten years older than me, must have been in her 90s. We had met occasionally while I was working for REACH in London Bridge; and we sent each other new year cards.

'Have you heard of Josephine Lock?'

'No.'

'Let me ask you another question then. How's your interest in old photos?'

'You know I sold my collection before leaving The Hague. But I follow the auctions onscreen, and I've been known to trek into London for an exhibition. It's one of my only pleasures these days.'

'Self-pity, that's not you Kip.'

'No, I've put it on, like a hat.' She laughed. 'So who is Josephine Lock?'

'Josephine Lock, née Shuttleworth. The only child of Ronald and Deborah Shuttleworth, later known as William and Deborah Caxton. Caxton left Deborah a very rich woman. She squandered some of it, but soon learned ­ with the help of a second husband who died in the 60s ­ to handle the power and guide the Caxton assets. She passed away last year, and left over a billion euros to her daughter. Josephine, who's about 60 now, was married to a Captain John Lock, but he too died years ago. There are several children on the scene who take up some of Josephine's time, and for whom a chunk of the inheritance will be earmarked. Much of the rest of her time and money is dedicated to various charities. But she has one abiding personal obsession ­ old photos. She already has a large collection, which is curated on a freelance basis by one of the specialists at Bradford. But now she has this money, she wants to do something big, something very big indeed. Are you there, Kip?' The shouting between Lizette and Jay had escalated, and I moved out to the garden to avoid any of it getting through to Jude.

'I'm here, Jude, all ears. How do you know this Josephine?'

'Green Aid. We both sit on an advisory panel. She's a special person, exceptionally humane and giving. She's spent most of her life working for charities of one sort or another. She's very attentive, with a tendency to become involved. Overly so. It's only with the help of tactful assistants she manages to get through a hectic schedule. I think it's a reaction to her father. It's as though she believes the very worst things written about him, and is trying to make up for his moral corruption with her own life. The photo thing, that's different, it's a private passion. A weakness, she calls it.'

'And she wants to do something big with this weakness?'

'She wants to starts a new museum on the origins of photography, here in London. In collaboration with Bradford if possible, but competing with it if necessary. She's proposing a generous budget: for a property, for acquisitions, for staff and for investing to provide a secure future for a minimum of ten years. But that's not all. She plans for the new museum to launch and lead an international project to create a single portal providing simple and efficient access to the world's most important early photographs regardless of their owners. She dreams of being able to switch on her screen and within seconds being able to use one portal to find any photograph over 200 years old by date, by artist, by subject, or by location along with a relevant encyclopedic-type commentary. And ...' She paused.

'And?'

'And, she's thinking of involving you.'

'Me? Why?'

'If it was the museum alone, she could pick any number of experts from here or abroad who would jump at the chance of such an opportunity, but the portal will be a different matter entirely, involving sensitive negotiations with historic photograph libraries around the world, and Josephine sees the two projects as integrally linked. She wants someone with your administrative and diplomatic experience to oversee the whole scheme and there aren't many like you, with time on their hands, and with such a detailed knowledge of old photographs.'

'She knows a lot about me?'

'From me, I'm afraid. Although not, of course, about your personal dealings with her father. You'd be paid, but not much. Not because she can't afford it. This is my interpretation, of course. She imagines you having ... wants you to have, the same passion for the project as she does. Do you want to meet her?'

The front door crashed as Jay left. After putting the phone down on Jude, I felt dazed and elated.

Four weeks later, I travelled by train to Tunbridge Wells from where a skinny youth with ear-rings and a dappled jacket drove me (in a Duo which took ages ­ I've always hated the Duos, with their minimal leg room) to Caxtonbury, a beautiful 15th century manor house, complete with moat, near Cranbrook. This is where Josephine lived when not in London. I was nervous throughout the journey, scared that I might not like her and that, if there was no chemistry between us, or that my earlier dealings with her father somehow interfered in our business, she would look elsewhere for someone to realise her dream. But Josephine created her own chemistry with people. We had already spoken several times on the phone, and she had researched me thoroughly. She wasn't at all how I had imagined her, a media celebrity elaborately made-up, with chic clothes and shaped hair. She wore a long hanging tan shirt over dark red slacks and appeared surprisingly small. There was no disguising of age in the flesh on her face, but nevertheless she had girlish cheerful features, and radiantly piercing eyes, which seemed ready to hypnotise. At a distance you would never tell how much energy she packed into that fragile body; close-up she was a controlled fire-cracker, not one that scares but one that enchants.

I spent the afternoon at Caxtonbury (a name which had been imposed on the property by Caxton). While being shown the gardens, Josephine talked about her father, who had died while she was still a teenager. She had come to the conclusion, many years ago, that he had been an astonishing man, astonishingly clever and astonishingly awful, but he had never deserved to die so young. I mentioned my earliest meeting with him, when he was a Shuttleworth and I was a schoolboy, but not my later encounters. Thereafter, neither of us mentioned her megalomaniac father again. We ate lunch with a quiet middle-aged man named Leo Vaughn, who helped Josephine store and catalogue her prints and negatives; then the two of them showed me a sample of the collection. Stunning. Josephine had upwards of a hundred rare early photographs and glass plate negatives, from the 1840s, and a thousand more from slightly later. Most of the rarest and important photographs had been bought, at very reasonable cost, from a French institution which, in desperation, had sold off some of its treasures during the Grey Years. Josephine was bubbling over with excitement as she tried to talk me through her different holdings, explaining the provenance of each print, or amusing me with an anecdote about its purchase. Leo was run off his feet, doing all the work, removing fragile prints, metal daguerreotypes and glass plate positives from their storage, giving them to me to examine and then returning each one to its proper place. I do not remember exactly what she showed me that day, but there was one of William Henry Fox Talbot's prints called 'Pencil of Nature' (not in good condition), a remarkable daguerreotype of Siberian workmen taken by J P Alibert, some beautiful Le Gray photos, and a Hippolyte Bayard albumen print of barricades in Paris (which reminded me of a Le Gray photo of Palermo after Garibaldi's conquest). I also recall several particularly appealing French stereoscopic daguerreotypes of reclining nudes, which were similar, but earlier, than the stereoscope prints I had owned. Josephine would have kept us both there until midnight, but Leo, who was heading all the way back to Bradford where he worked, had to leave after a couple of hours. He said he wanted to tidy up first, and suggested Josephine and I retire to a more comfortable room to discuss what they had nicknamed the Project.

Josephine and I talked non-stop, in the garden over tea, then in the drawing room (where all walls were covered in a patchwork of framed reproductions of old photos), and through a delicious supper (the cook doubled as a waiter and appeared happy to do so). While drinking coffee, the dapple-jacketed youth interrupted us to ensure I was taken back to the station in good time to catch the last train to Gatwick with a connection to Guildford. Over the next few weeks, by email and phone, we prepared a simple plan of action, which I then wrote up as a proposal and she discussed with her legal and financial advisers. I was to manage the whole project in two overlapping programmes. In one, it would be my task to prepare a detailed operational plan (with a budget breakdown, objectives, staffing levels etc.) for the museum, which, when ready, would be brought to a project development board set up and chaired by Josephine. Subsequently, and with the board's approval, we would purchase a property and appoint a curator who would handle the museum's furbishing, launch and operations. Josephine and I (and other advisers we chose) would buy the stock for the museum. She saw no reason why we shouldn't start this immediately, since it would be a long and stealthy task finding potential collections to purchase. The second programme would also involve me preparing a detailed proposal on how to approach the complex task of realising Josephine's dream of a single portal for the world's most important 19th century photos, getting it approved by the project development board, and then implementing it myself.

My retirement landscape no longer looked flat and barren.

***

For several days in a row now, I've had the pleasure of Guido and Mireille visiting in the afternoons. Today they have gone to Paris for a week, and then they'll be back in London for a few more days. They look middle-aged now, but they were still young people when Lizette and I visited them in 81. I couldn't say when the change took place. Although I communicate with Guido in Dutch by email and on the phone, when together with Mireille (the two of them are usually inseparable) we speak in English since Mireille's Dutch is no better than my French or Spanish. Where Guido hesitates over a word, Mireille completes his sentences for him. They are a sweet couple, but I do not feel close to them. They enquired politely about my progress on this book, though they both share a disinterest in the past or their families' heritages. Guido has never asked to see any of the chapters, and, when I've emailed him queries about our life together in Oldwijkgaarten, he's replied pleading a faulty memory.

Their son, Inti, is a waiter and a would-be movie actor. He studied drama in San Francisco. Mireille and Guido thought he would return to Ecuador, and are disappointed that he's decided to settle in the United States.

Mireille and Guido themselves are on the road half the year, touring all over South America with their famous Grupo de Teatro Quito. Whenever they have a new show start-up, Guido gives me net access rights so I can watch the broadcasts if I choose. Over the years, I have made attempts to tune in. I can see the theatres are full, and the audiences enthusiastic, but I don't watch for long. Theatre is meant for the stage not the screen, and in any case the flow-translation, which works well for business and basic communication, never gets close to interpreting theatre language adequately. I stuck with one of their shows, an adaptation of Amado's Gabriella, through from beginning to end, and it was fantastic, although, to my mind, it owed more to the 21st century film than the 20th century book.

I did see one of their plays for real, before they started Grupo de Teatro Quito, and while they were still in charge of Teatro Sucre. This was on the grand tour Lizette and I undertook in April 81. We were away six weeks in all, an exhausting six weeks, but one I could never have done without Lizette's companionship (and Sami's wonderful ankle). Bel, as in Belinda, who the Project had employed as a general purpose dogsbody and who worked out of Josephine's office in Soho, London (part of her extensive apartment), organised the itinerary for us. Although I did have Project business in both Lima and Rio, and thus her help with travel arrangements would have been partially legitimate, I paid her overtime out of my own pocket. Bel was as bright as a button and as sharp as a pin, and managed to buy us some government-controlled permits for the Galapagos Islands. Most people booked up two years or more in advance to visit the famous islands, but she discovered a special broker who dealt with permit returns and cancellations and was authorised to re-sell them. We went to Quito, then to the Galapagos Islands, followed by Lima, Cuzco, São Paulo and Rio. I could fill this chapter with details of the journey, but will restrict myself to a few highlights.

Six year old Inti was one such highlight. This was our first physical encounter. Content to have his own audience, he never stopped performing for us. Already at the airport he gave us a one minute show, a dance and a poem in Spanish, on the moving walkway. At the colonial-style house in the San Marcos quarter, owned by Guido and Mireille, Inti showed us the tiny amphitheatre, with seating for four, constructed in the corner of the elaborately tiled patio. There was a weatherproof screen there, and a cam connection. I recognised the place, for Inti and Guido had used it to talk to me by camphone. Inti looked not unlike Guido did at that age, but there was none of Guido's diffidence. I never once noticed the boy slope off to his room to do something on his own. He wanted to be with the adults and involved in their activities. And there was plenty of activity in the house. It seemed as though the phones were always ringing; and there were people coming and going all day, not only those connected with the show, but neighbours, or those who had worked for the community theatre during the Grey Years. Guido and Mireille had long planned to take a week off during our visit, but, because of the late switch in our schedule to accommodate the Galapagos Islands, we ended up arriving when they were much tied up with a production. Nevertheless, they made us feel very welcome. Our bedroom, although cramped, had been brightly decorated with a floor vase containing a large bunch of bird of paradise flowers. They reminded me of Diana.

Guido and Mireille were immensely proud of Teatro Sucre, not only of having restored the building and theatre in 69-70 (with Felix Montechristo's money) but in re-resurrecting the theatre as a going concern during the previous three years. Many of their shows were the talk of Quito, and consequently a sell-out. They knew how to choose the best touring groups, from as far afield as Europe, and they had a talent for putting on their own spectacular shows. The one we saw, De Aqui Hacia el Sol, a musical about the Grey Years, had been written by two local writers. It was designed and directed by Guido, although Mireille, as the co-producer, had also taken a hand in the direction. I thought it an exciting show, even without fully understanding the text, while Lizette judged it simplistic and over-cinematic. The story revolved around two families, rich Catholic and poor Quechua, with organ music employed effectively for the former and panpipes for the latter. What I remember most, though, was the dazzling way each aspect of the show moved progressively from dark to light and from grey to colour (I'd never seen Electralon material used so effectively).

I had been to Quito twice during my time at the IFSD. The old centre was a joy to wander around, with its craft shops, indian markets and trendy eating places; and it was certainly no trial to revisit the Baroque churches with their gold-rich interiors, although Lizette was more impressed than I by the religious relics. But I had not been to the Galapagos Islands. My expectations were so high that I couldn't fail to be disappointed, not by the islands, and definitely not by the tortoises, the iguanas, the boobies, but by the way we were led around like sheep, our every step ordained and monitored, and by the way the whole place felt like a wildlife zoo. I did, though, understand intellectually that these very restrictions were necessary to enable I, and many other tourists, to experience the islands' treasures. The park for giant tortoises, along with a UN-licensed cloning centre similar to one I'd seen in China for pandas, was interesting, as was the Galapagos Island Survival Foundation Exhibition which explained how the islands had coped with climate change excesses (updated to include the Grey Years) and sea level rises. The Foundation had been set up and supported for many years with IFSD money. The best part of the week was three days sailing around the smaller islands on a modern Brazilian-made ketch. We searched out sea lions, penguins, tropic birds and the waved albatross, and ate lobsters, crab, small tuna and goat all caught by our skipper and his son.

In Lima, we stayed with Samuel and Lynn, both of whom had fallen for Peru in a big way. Lynn rambled on incessantly about the Inca civilisation, while Samuel appeared genuinely happy with the work and the opportunity to pass on his learning. He hadn't realised, he said, that he would end up becoming involved in investment decisions, by dint of growing to like his pupils and wanting to help them. Moreover, he found it galling that some Peruvians might be getting rich on the back of his charity. Notwithstanding this and several other criticisms, he was very positive about the Wisdom Programme.

While Samuel and Lynn took Lizette sightseeing, I filled up the week on business. Firstly, I negotiated with the government's ministry of art and heritage for an agreement in principle to incorporate an important state-owned collection of photos in our universal portal. Secondly, I finalised a deal to purchase a private collection of 19th and early 20th century Andean photographs, including several by the Courret brothers and Martin Chambi. The seller and I had agreed on a price and conditions, but, months later, the government intervened to prevent the collection leaving the country. It was my mistake. There had been no formal legal requirement to do so, but I should have sought permission for the private purchase directly with the ministry of art and heritage. At the very least, I could have informed them about my negotiations. I was on a learning curve: the buying of historically-important art, or access to same, required different negotiating skills from those I'd employed for decades in the giving of welfare-important development aid. From Lima, we flew to Cuzco, for various trips, not least to Machu Picchu where I secretly relived, for a moment or two, the excitement of my early holidays with Diana.

In São Paulo, where we stayed in an unmemorable hotel, Lizette insisted on a city tour. It included lunch at the highest restaurant in the Southern Hemisphere, truly high enough to fully appreciate ant-man's achievements. I had dined there 20-30 years earlier, with a Brazilian minister, but then it had had some class, now it was no more than an over-priced tourist guzzleshop. On another day, we sought out the Museum of Modern Art, where I rediscovered the beautiful wood/metal panels by Hector Julio Paride Bernabo I'd once seen in Salvador. We also went to the world famous science museum, Museo Biomass, which used scintillating displays and 3D-integration exhibits to demonstrate man's use of wood and other vegetation to provide heat and fuel, and, of course, to show off Brazil's pioneering role in the modern history of biofuels, such as Vivido. Mostly, though, we were in São Paulo so Lizette could meet up with a Brazilian friend who had done a PhD and some lecturing at Keele University, and so I could spend time with Arturo, Fatima and his children, my grandchildren.

Arturo had retired from O Futuro and sold his ranch in Goiânia. He now divided his time between a huge mid-block apartment and sky-garden in São Paulo and a villa in the hills overlooking Florianopolis on Ihla de Santa Catarina. I never went to the villa, but from the camclips Arturo sent me, it looked glamorous, like a billionaire's home. The apartment in São Paulo was richly appointed also, with dark marble corridors and columns and gilt wall cornicing, both of which gave the place an ostentatious feel. Arturo himself had the appearance of a man who had lived too long. He had grown fat. Cosmetic surgery on his face had long since decomposed the features. He wasn't yet grotesque, but a cartoonist would have required little imagination to sketch him. If I exaggerate, it is only because there was nothing left of my son or his life that I could engage with. When I enquired about his cloned daughter Alicia (as I had done by email without any answer), he said she had behaved very badly and disappeared years earlier. Disappeared!

Arturo had two main interests: golf and tropical fish. The palatial apartment was full of fish tanks, some of them built into the walls. When the screens weren't in use they showed soothers, live broadcasts of fish swarms swimming in coral reefs. Arturo showed me his proudest possession: a tank with a dozen unremarkable slender fish, each one about ten centimetres long with blue and yellow partial stripes. He told me they were called Brachydanio AM, and asked if I had any idea where the name came from. I did not. Nor was I happy to know when he told me. The species had been named after him, Arturo Magalhães, because the pattern of the partial stripes, looked at sideways, showed quite clearly an AM marking. I assumed this was an accident, until Arturo told me otherwise. He was the director of a specialised lab which genetically manipulated such fish to order. When I reminded him that independent genetic experimentation on animals for commercial gain was banned at the UN level, Arturo shrugged his shoulders and explained that the Brazilian authorities had deliberately shown no interest in enforcing the international law.

I learned, during my two visits to the family, that Fatima, who I had not met before except by camphone, was about to have her jaw and forehead skin re-stretched and her earlobes extended. She proudly trumpeted, using a mixture of Portuguese and passable English, the various enhancements she'd already subscribed to over the years, such as the sockets ­ they looked like moles ­ for cheek miniscreens which she only wore on special occasions. Without a trace of modesty, she also mentioned her vaginal muscle implants. I responded, without thinking and enough subsequent embarrassment for the two of us, that Arturo must be a lucky man. Fatima's quizzical expression suggested she hadn't understood my remark, or that I had missed the point.

I met Ignacio, the oldest child, only the once, at a family meal, to which I went alone without Lizette because I saw no reason to inflict Arturo's kin on her. He arrived late, dressed in skin-tight clothes like a cycle racer, and had the confidence of someone much older than his 16 years. After giving a mock bow to Arturo who was watching an American golf tournament on the wallscreen, he planted a sloppy kiss on his mother's mole-marked cheek. Fatima was grateful for his presence, not angry at his tardiness. He sat down and delivered a quip that caused his younger brother and sister to laugh. He turned to me and said something in Portuguese which he asked Tina to translate.

'Welcome to Brazil, to the land of dreams.' He was barely with us an hour, before he rushed away.

Juliano, 13 years old, spoke rarely either time I was at the apartment, preferring the company of his games console and the largest screen he was permitted to use at any given time. The closest affinity I managed with him was for about half an hour when I feigned interest in one of the football games he was playing, and used my earphones to get a bitty sense of his commentary. As for Tina, only ten at the time, she was strangely aloof from all that happened around her, and would often fail to reply when spoken too. She had no time for the tropical fish or for Juliano's games, but she did enjoy dressing up. On one visit, she took me into her bedroom to show me a cat, Salvatore (named after a current singer). He was sky blue, which I found very disturbing. I had grown used to jet black tulips, purple cucumbers, lavender-flavoured berries, and had seen, onscreen, illegal genetically-modified hamsters and rabbits, plus I was trying to get my head around the idea of fish species created to order. But sky-blue cats ... I would not have thought it possible. The sight of it made me feel physically sick.

I was not using the translator earphones at this point, partly because they functioned inadequately with children who could not or would not make the effort to talk more deliberately than usual, and partly because Tina had sufficient English to complement my inadequate Portuguese. Thus, I was in a state of moral consternation for a full two minutes before I comprehended Tina's explanation: she preferred Salvatore orange, the colour he was dyed last week. Then she gave me a comb and asked me to groom him, which I did with relief.

The day we arrived in Rio de Janeiro, 8 May 81, was the day two chemists from Pittsburgh in the United States announced they had created life in the laboratory, and could do it again. The media went berserk with the news, and so did Lizette. As far as she was concerned this was the holy grail of scientific research. She stayed in the Leblon beachfront hotel all day glued to the screen watching interviews with the two scientists themselves, and the debates with politicians, religious leaders and others. One of the traits I loved in Lizette was her endless enthusiasm for science and scientific developments. Barely a week would go by without her returning home from work bursting with news of some discovery or invention reported by the science media during the day. Despite my limited knowledge I would usually encourage her to explain more, to colour in the scientific picture for me.

On this occasion, though, I had to leave Lizette to her own devices since, as in Lima, I had pre-arranged appointments on behalf of the Project. The oldest Argentinian photographs (mostly taken by itinerant US photographers such as Charles DeForest Fredericks), and the only ones we wanted for the portal, were held in a private collection, and the owner Max Voll, a billionaire, had agreed to see me in Rio. We met at the Club Militar, a glitzy restaurant in Urca at the back of a beach, directly beneath the Sugar Loaf. As with most of our eventual collaborators, Max was keen on the plan but wanted to be reassured that the benefits would meet the costs, and that public screen access to his collection through our portal would not compromise the ownership security attached to the photographs (i.e. that they would not be directly printable or downloadable). In terms of costs, all we asked is that the owners put copies of each of the photographs they had agreed to share into a database format that we would supply. On the benefits, I explained that we fully expected the portal to increase, not diminish, interest in the original collections, and that we would pass on 85% of the page view income. (The Project development board had already decided against free access and that our content pages would be billed on Solar's lowest mainstream charging level ­ close to 0.01 euros at that time.) I was not as technically knowledgeable as Max, but, having been sufficiently briefed by our technical advisers, I was able to provide confident assurances on portal copyright security.

Also that week, in-between day trips with Lizette to Petrópolis and Búzios, I negotiated portal access to the most important photographs owned by the Brazilian state, including several daguerreotypes from as early as 1840 by Louis Compte. And, miraculously, I was also able to buy, from Senora Maria Pedrosa, an archive of late 19th century Brazilian photographs for our collection which included 37 Ferrez prints! It is a negligible story but I cannot resist telling it.

I located Maria Pedrosa at the end of a trail which started with old auction catalogues. I had noticed a series of lots at one particular auction firm, spanning several years, which appeared to come from the same anonymous collection. I guessed there might be more. I contacted the auction house staff who gave me, somewhat unwillingly, the details of an agent they dealt with. Then, I engaged in a drawn-out email dialogue with the agent, who, eventually, set me up with a meeting. Maria Pedrosa, who was a similar age to me, had been a star of Brazilian soap operas in the 20s, 30s and 40s. She was very wealthy and lived in a mansion behind fortress-style walls in the Santa Teresa suburb of Rio. Four husbands had come and gone over the years. The last one, from whom she had inherited the photograph collection, died in the late 60s. She no longer ever left her home, but she did have a small army of live-in staff, and there was a constant stream of visitors. Not only were there many advisers and visitors wanting something from her, but there were the rich and/or famous who had once loved her on the screen and who petitioned to come to her weekly dinner parties. All this I had learned from the agent or my own research.

But she was one of the most memorable people I have ever met, both in body and in character. When I entered her opulent receiving room, she was standing seven or eight metres away with an elbow on a grand mantlepiece. She looked every inch a movie star, and could have been mistaken for half her age. Admittedly, my eyes were no longer very sharp. When we sat down in antique armchairs, she remained a good four metres away. At this lesser distance, her light-golden curly-haired wig looked real enough, but I could detect heavy layers of make-up designed to hide the age of her skin, and the clever way a slinky gold gown appeared to make her look youthfully slim and not agedly slouched. Whether she didn't care, or had no means to change it, her voice sounded croaky and old; and she farted constantly. The agent, a handsome dark man, around 40, impeccably dressed in a pressed white suit, sat in a third lounge chair. When Maria's English gave out, he translated; and then, later, when Maria and I had finished talking, he was the one with whom I finalised the details.

For nearly an hour, Maria quizzed me incessantly, wanting to know why I was in Brazil, what I'd done in my life, how old I was when I'd first had sex, how many wives I'd married and children I'd sired. She wasn't the least impressed by my career at the IFSD, although I could see she perked up when I mentioned my collaboration with Pam, the film director. She was very interested in the fact that I had a Brazilian son, and, when she enquired further about him, I told her, reluctantly, about his work. I thought she might kick me out ­ few other topics could elicit such violent reactions in people as cloning ­ but the reverse was true. She herself had a cloned son, she said, thanks to the O Futuro group; moreover, she thought she remembered meeting a techno-clinician called Arturo. When I enquired about her own son, she waved an arm (flashing inch-long purple nails) to dismiss my enquiry, as she had done with all my other questions. At the end of her inquisition she spent another half an hour giving me a well-rehearsed monologue résumé of her life story. Thus I learned that her mother had acted in a 1980s film, Edu, about the origins of cinematography in Brazil. On my request she asked her assistant to ensure I was sent a copy. It is a beautiful movie. I have it on Neil. Perhaps I can persuade Chintz to watch it with me this evening. I am missing Jay's near daily visits. I wonder if he would judge me as being too long-winded in this chapter. It is certainly taking me a very long time to write. I think my concentration is fading.

I realise that by naming certain early South American photographers, and Max Voll and Maria Pedrosa, I am giving them too much relative importance. Most of my negotiations for the Project were conducted by camphone or email, and I would certainly not have made trips, involving time and expense, to Lima or Rio without other reasons. The most important photographs and photographic collections we had earmarked for the portal were in Europe and the US, and therefore the only special journeys I made, during earlier years, were to negotiate portal access with the important curators and owners in East and West Coast United States, Moscow, St Petersburg (far too late for Alan or Anna), Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Paris, Marseilles and Milan. By early 82, we had appointed a director, Giselle Dufkova, to take charge of the photograph museum side of the Project ­ to be called The Josephine Collection ­ and we had poached Leo from Bradford to look after the photographs themselves. This meant that, much to my regret, it was sensible to hand over most of my photo-purchasing role to Giselle. By early 83, we had also appointed a technical director, Lorraine Lomax, who was to manage all the museum's computer-based operations, including the portal, which was to be known as Portia for no other reason than that its official name, the Universal Portal to the World's Earliest Photographs was too clumsy for common use.

The success of The Josephine Collection and Portia was largely down to the dedication and skills of Giselle and Lorraine. But it was Josephine, with her special talent for enthusing others and making the impossible sound possible, who was responsible for finding and attracting both women in the first place. I feel sure that if I had been the one to approach either of them they would never have considered leaving their highly-respected, well-paid positions. Yet, there was also a point where Josephine's ability gave out, she lost patience with detail, and got angry if she hadn't found anyone to whom a task could be delegated. Thus, the courtship of Giselle and then Lorraine followed a similar pattern: Josephine wooed them to the Project, and I married them to it; she fired their imaginations and made them believe in the dream, and I showed them why we should, and how we could, make it a reality.

Both Giselle and Lorraine were exceptionally gifted individuals. The former, a quiet studious lady, had spent 25 working years at the Société Française de Photographie and was looking for a new challenge. She loved the idea, as sold to her by Josephine, of abandoning Paris and working in London. Unfortunately, the Société Française de Photographie resented her leaving and it wasn't until the 90s, long after I'd gone, that it finally agreed to allow its photographs to be accessed through Portia. An American by birth, and with a much livelier personality, Lorraine had lived in London most of her life. Recently, she had spent five years helping the Royal Horticultural Society and its international affiliates launch a series of themed portals for universal read-only access to all existing and relevant pre-19th century publications. The results had been much applauded in the media.

***

I have raced too far ahead, and need to backtrack to the months following our South America tour. In June that year (81), Diana died, from kidney failure. I went to the funeral in Amsterdam. Guido arrived just in time on a delayed flight via Miami, having left Mireille to cope with looking after Inti and their theatre's busy schedule alone. We sat in a row with our friends Peter and Rudy. Peter's wife Livia was bedridden and in a nursing home by this time, having been crippled by a stroke. I don't know where Rudy's sister Ulla was. Nearby were Mireille's mother, Helene (exquisitely dressed but undeniably old), who had travelled from Paris with an escort, and Mireille's sister Veronique who had come from Geneva. It was not surprising to see them there since all the Rocard family had been very fond of Diana, as a consequence of her friendship with Didier (who had died a decade earlier). Diana's younger sister Dominique, her partner Waltar and their two sons, Jurian and Lukas, with their wives and several children sat in front of us, as did Dimi, Diana's oldest sister, who was in very good shape for 90 odd.

A haggard-looking Karl gave a moving speech, but one which neglected the middle portion of Diana's life, the part during which she had lived happily with me, and during which she and I had raised Guido. After the service, there was a wake at Karl's house, but neither Guido nor I wished to go. Instead, we took the train to Leiden for a nostalgic stroll around the town and through Oldwijkgaarten. Nothing had changed. Centuries of architectural history had not been affected either by the wars or the Grey Years. Our old house and the surrounding gardens appeared the same, well-cared for, with children playing on the lawns, and colourful roses blooming in the borders. I would have been content to walk in silence, but Guido had a need for confession. He felt guilty about having emigrated to South America and deserting Diana, especially as he was her only son. He never meant to stay away a lifetime. She had resented his distance, he confided (for he had never mentioned this before), and wanted to know if I had too. I said I had missed him greatly, but I'd never resented his choices, especially since I understood that he was devoted to Mireille, and that they had found a fulfilling life for themselves. Your mother should have appreciated that, I told him, so don't think about her resentment as anything other than an expression of her love. It may not have been apparent at times, I said, but you were the most important thing in her life, more important than Karl, me or even the theatre itself. At which point he burst out laughing, and said 'now I know you're re-inventing the past'.

We met up with Peter and Rudy later and took the tram to Rudy's house in the Amsterdam suburbs. There we spent a melancholy and, for me uncomfortable, evening talking about Diana. Peter's memory had begun to fail, and he was unable to censor out of the conversation his memories of and anecdotes about Diana and Karl; either that or, when talking about Diana, he became confused between Karl and me. Peter had known Diana together with Karl long before I came to the Netherlands, and then, when they reformed as a couple in Amsterdam, he and Livia both remained friendly with the two of them. This had not affected my friendship with Peter and Livia since, by then, I was seeing them infrequently (they only came once to Taunton House), and, until recently, they had always been careful to avoid discussing Diana in any context that involved Karl.

As far as I could tell, Rudy's life had not been as rewarding as Guido's and, as a consequence, they had grown apart over the years ­ it wasn't only the geographical distance between them. Rudy had separated from his wife, who had taken custody of their child, Arnout. And, although Rudy had tasted success as a professional musician, his standard of living had fluctuated with the popularity of jazz.

Four months later, in October, Karl and Dominique organised a memorial service at a small theatre in Amsterdam, and I heard Rudy play for the first time in 20 years. He had such a sweet touch. There were other faces, familiar friendly ones who sang Diana's praises, or who acted out sketches, sad and funny, from her favourite plays. I was sorry Guido and Mireille had decided not to come, but they followed the event onscreen, and the three of us talked about it at length afterwards. I couldn't resist taking a personal swipe at Karl, for it must have been he who decided that the memorial service/show should include a two-hander sketch from Angelika Stockmann's The Children's Land. I asked Guido if he remembered, when he was about eight, being woken by his parents shouting at each other, and coming out of his bedroom to try and stop their argument. He did, along with a vivid recollection of being afraid that we might be about to break up, and that he might lose one of us. I explained that it was during the production of the Stockmann play in Antwerp that Diana had got back together with Karl, and that the secret relationship had been the root cause of the argument ­ although I didn't realise as much at the time. I was convinced Karl's staging of an exert from that play was no coincidence.

Diana's passing led me into sadnesses and regrets which went on, in one form or another, for weeks, and were then resurrected in the run-up to the memorial and in the weeks after that. The memories of her colourful, magical warm companionship could easily send me into a maudlin mood if I let them. And, obviously, I had regrets about the final years of our relationship, not only for myself, but also because of the possibility that our behaviour may have contributed, albeit slightly, to the decision by Guido and Mireille to leave Europe. But, although I felt truly privileged to have known her, to have spent part of my life in her orbit, and to have fathered her son, I could not regret our eventual separation, for then I would never have met Lizette with whom I experienced the most complete and rounded relationship of my life.

By contrast, I felt very little emotion at the news of Arturo's death. It was as though he had never managed to pierce his way through to my heart. He had arrived too late, when my emotions were already spread too thin. I tried to act as a father, and, I guess, he tried to behave as a son. A cynic might argue that for several years we played out our respective roles, one giving mock respect, the other providing financial support. Again, I am probably being too clinical in my assessment. While Arturo was here, studying, dependant on me, I'm sure I did care for him, as I do now ­ in a distant kind of way ­ for his daughter Tina, and his grandchild Maria.

Arturo died in 82, of skin cancer. I was too busy and tired to make the trip for his funeral, and so expressed condolences and made excuses to Fatima by camphone. She told me that Arturo was already suffering from the cancer when I was there, in São Paulo, but that he had not wanted to burden me with the knowledge. She also told me, nervously, that I had not been mentioned in Arturo's will. Before dying, however, he had proposed I might want a pair of his tropical fish, the Brachydanio AM. Fatima said she would arrange and pay for safe transport. I declined politely, as I did her offer for any other memento. She informed me the family would be leaving São Paulo and moving to live permanently at the property near Florianopolis, a place where her children's grandfather would always be welcome. I returned the offer, suggesting (as sincerely as I could manage) that she and her family should come to England one day and stay with us at Taunton House.

I cannot resist adding a short postscript to Arturo's story. When Tina was here a few weeks ago, she told me her father had left instructions for his ashes to be mixed with fish food and fed to the Brachydanio AM. Fatima had done as instructed, with a tear in her eye, but the fish died in transport to the villa near Florianopolis.

I could mention that, within three months of Arturo's cremation, the United Nations concluded, as part of the ongoing post war negotiations, a comprehensive, permanent and mandatory agreement on human and animal cloning. Concessions were made to the pro-cloning scientific and political communities permitting a greater variety of cloning activities and techniques than had been allowed hitherto under the previous UN code and by the AGCT. However, whereas the old rules were wholly inadequate (being neither mandatory or widely accepted), the new international law imposed such strict licensing and operational conditions, with punitive sanctions for non-compliance, that the commercial cloning operations in Brazil and China, for example, were finally obliged to close down.

***

Chintz has abandoned me. She declined to watch the old Brazilian movie, Edu, claiming that she hated all foreign language films; and she no longer pops in to see me when she's off duty. How can she be so fickle? Guido and Mireille have been and gone today, and Jay returns tomorrow. He will find me much weakened, and struggling to conclude this chapter.

However, he should be content to discover that I am skimming over his two year drop-out period, and the angst this caused Lizette who thought he would end up spending his life with the Noteks as Mercurio had done. On returning to Reading University (a move much applauded by Lizette), Jay continued with the same course, on 'The Information Interface', although he switched the focus of his modules away from scientific information towards social and environmental knowledge. Subsequently, he went to Birmingham to do a year's teacher training. Lizette was unable to suppress her disappointment at his career choice. Jay and I both had to cope, in different ways, with her infrequent, but nevertheless stinging, attacks over his lack of ambition and achievement. On the whole, by this time, Jay felt comfortable enough to spend some weekends at Taunton House (occasionally bringing boyfriends with him). But, if ever Lizette began to make snide remarks about his profession, he would engage her in argument for half an hour or so, then storm out and not return for several months. I tended to defend him, especially before any argument had escalated, and then after he had gone, but my interventions never served any purpose. Instead, they usually led Lizette into a semi-emotional attack on me, there being a surfeit of teachers in my background. Personally, I believe teaching is one of the most important and noblest of professions, and that Lizette was wrong to give her research undertakings far more value than her education work. Within a few days of such arguments, Lizette would find a way to apologise. In my case, where the apology was genuine, it was unnecessary. In Jay's case, the apology took the form of an unwelcome excuse without any trace of repentance for ­ what Jay rightly viewed as ­ her illegitimate judgement on him and his life.

My five years working on the Project passed all too quickly. In the preparatory stages, when Josephine chaired the development board, and we worked together as a small team, the meetings were often long and unstructured. And yet, such was the pleasure of Josephine's intensity and enthusiasm, and the nature of our endeavour, that I usually felt a touch of disappointment when she finally shuffled her papers together and said: 'Ladies and gentleman, enough. You have been so patient with me, and so generous with your time, I really must let you all go now. But we have made progress, haven't we, such progress.'

During 82, we acquired an interesting property near King's Cross (in Chalton Street, a stone's throw from the British Library), and, by 83, with Giselle and Lorraine both in place and formal committee structures operating, the implementation stage was well under way. Nevertheless, Josephine continued to be very demanding and involved, and this led to a spate of awkward arguments over minor decisions. Thus, wisely, Josephine agreed to step back leaving me to preside over most meetings. She continued, however, to chair the main development board which met to decide on key budget issues and the more important artistic questions, such as those concerning photograph purchases and the evolving parameters for Portia.

King's Cross was inconvenient for me, so, when the office refurbishment works were completed on the second floor (i.e. before the gallery areas on the ground and first floors), I planned to spend only two days a week there, with Bel organising my meetings accordingly, and to sleep over at a local hotel. When Josephine learned of this, she insisted I make use of the self-contained guest suite within her own apartment and join her for supper on a regular basis. Only when she advised me in advance that the suite would be occupied did I make alternative arrangements. Thus, we settled into a useful pattern, with the weekly supper together serving as our main point of contact.

Even with Josephine in the background, rarely a month went by without her causing one mini-crisis or another. Josephine, for example, continued to want everything done yesterday, while Giselle would not be rushed. She worked earnestly, kept long hours but became surly and uncommunicative if asked to speed up some action or other. The only effective way I found of dealing with this was to sit down with Giselle and look at the detail of the work required for a specific action. If I could demonstrate where a time saving was possible, she would accept it, and the surliness would evaporate. If I could not demonstrate where such a saving was possible, then at least I was sufficiently briefed to argue Giselle's case with Josephine. Another problem arose because of Giselle's dissatisfaction with Leo Vaughn. Having convinced the Collection's executive board of the need for a second curator to manage special exhibitions, she employed a compatriot, Henri Pouile, who was more than ten years younger than Leo. Thereafter, she began a very deliberate process of obliging Henri to encroach on Leo's responsibilities. Her idea was that either Leo would resign in protest, or Henri would end up taking charge of the main collections anyway. But Leo was no fool. As soon as he had sufficient evidence of Giselle's manipulations, he went straight to Josephine. She then came to me, insisting on fair play for Leo. I won't suggest it was easy, but, after three months, I did mange to persuade Leo to take the lesser position (i.e. curating special exhibitions). Moreover, I convinced Josephine that Giselle was right to have wanted to replace Leo, and that Henri was perfect for the job; and I gave Giselle a stern warning not to be so devious again. Much unpleasantness might have been avoided, I advised her, if she had only approached me early on with her doubts about Leo.

Although the Société Française de Photographie used the lame excuse of Giselle's defection to justify its obstructive attitude to Portia, I am certain its director, whom I personally went to see twice, resented our initiative. Britain's National Museum of Photography, Film and Television, in Bradford (which was only a few years away from its centenary) did not need the pretext of Leo's departure to precipitate stolid opposition, not to The Josephine Collection, which it fully supported, but to Portia. Arnold Cowerbridge, the museum's chief executive, argued publicly that the portal we were trying to build should be directed through, and launched from, his museum, a national museum with international credibility. Our venture, he told the Guardian newspaper, was doomed to failure. Even if we managed to launch Portia, he suggested, it should be called 'Partial Portia', he claimed, for it would not be able to provide access to a very significant number of the most important early photographs, such as those in the Bradford museum. When, in response, the Guardian came to me for an in-depth interview, I stalled, and went to Bradford to talk to Cowerbridge. He was an unpleasant looking man, half my age but equally tall, with a trimmed moustache, flary ears and a sneering mouth (not entirely disguised by the moustache). He smiled a lot, though, which improved his appearance and helped in conversation. His glass desk was devoid of clutter, and spotlessly clean.

I explained to Cowerbridge that Josephine Lock, who had pledged more money to the preservation and promotion of early photography than any other private donor in history, had been deeply offended by his remarks in the media, especially as they came out of the blue without any previous discussion. I reminded him that he had deflected all our approaches up until now. He smiled. Then I gave him a very brief résumé of how much we had achieved so far, leaving him in no doubt that we had made zero compromises on the scale of our venture and that we were on schedule. The smile drooped. Next I told him I had five important media interviews pending, but first I wished to clarify what potential if any there was for collaboration between his organisation and mine. Without giving him time to reflect on what I had said or to respond, I moved swiftly on to the second part of my pitch ­ a direct appeal to his vanity. I told him how much we admired and respected him and the museum, and that although Portia would survive and flourish without his support, this would be a pity, a great pity for those who used Portia and for Bradford itself. Which led me on, smoothly, to the substantial list of advantages for the museum of taking part in Portia. This was the same list as I had used on countless occasions with other archives, collections and museums: an additional revenue stream; a new and important service for the world (pompous I know, but sometimes pomp works) making the earliest photographs more available than they had ever been before; and improved exposure (so to speak) for each collection accessible through the portal. Only minor collections, I intimated, should be insecure about Portia, since their contributions would be outclassed by the larger institutions (such as Bradford) which held the most important early photographic items (such as Bradford's first negative). Nevertheless, I advised, without Bradford, Portia would not be Partial Portia, but 'Portia providing access to all the world's most important early photographs except those held by the Bradford Museum'. Naturally, I did not mention our difficulties with the Société Française de Photographie. And, finally, I closed the pitch with three offers, especially for Bradford, which had been agreed with Josephine and Giselle (we'd not yet employed Lorraine): a partnership on exhibition exchanges, allowing Bradford special rights, giving it temporary but regular gallery space in the capital city; a general effort in our signage, publications and websites to promote the importance of the Bradford archive and holdings; and, with respect to Portia, a specific acknowledgement of support from the Bradford museum.

Cowerbridge listened carefully to all I had to say, so carefully in fact that I suspected his refusal to negotiate earlier and his media outbursts were all part of a planned campaign to get as much out of us as he could. By the time I finished speaking, he was smiling again. He promised to think over my proposals. For the Guardian interview and others that followed, I trusted my instinct, making no counter-attack against him, and playing up the hopes of Josephine, 'our benefactor', that collaboration would lead to 'a fantastic new resource for the world of early photography'. A few weeks later, when Cowerbridge was in London, Josephine took him to one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in London, and, then, over the next three months Cowerbridge and I negotiated a substantial framework agreement (which is not to say that, subsequently, Giselle and Lorraine didn't have their own problems working with Cowerbridge's staff on the details).

On the whole, Lorraine caused me fewer headaches than Giselle. This was because, on the technical side, she was a wizard, and on the artistic side, where Josephine was more sensitive, she advanced no firm opinions. She did have a gratingly loud voice, and an abrupt manner on the phone. This was a considerable disadvantage because one of her principle responsibilities was to help make it as simple as possible for our collaborators to prepare their own collections for use through the portal. Where the collaborators were prepared to take advice and instructions by email, Lorraine was as patient as necessary; when they rang, though, wanting to sort out a problem directly, Lorraine's manner and apparent impatience led to a few complaints. I decided the best way to resolve this problem, which might get worse in the run-up to the launch, was to allow Lorraine an assistant, which she needed, and to ensure she not only took on a person with the right skills but gave him or her the technical liaison responsibilities. A more persistent migraine of a problem for me, though, was caused by Josephine's whimsical approach to Portia's development, and Lorraine's spiky reluctance to make apparently insignificant alterations to already agreed parameters. Mostly, I sided with Lorraine, much of whose work was more complex than Josephine or I could understand, and so I learned to try and divert Josephine from responding to my weekly briefings on Portia with impractical new ideas.

Steadily and unsteadily, smoothly and with hiccups, we moved towards the launch of The Josephine Collection in March 85. Using Josephine's millions we amassed a remarkable collection of 19th and 20th century photographs, books and other paraphernalia (although not equipment, this was a decision made early on) while Giselle and Lorraine, along with Henri, Leo and our other staff supervised the development of the facilities to house them. On the ground floor of the Chalton Street property we had three large galleries, and, on the first floor, two further galleries, a library/reading room and a meeting salon. The extensive basement was dedicated to storage, but, in addition, we had storage areas on each floor. With so many different photograph materials (papers coated with myriad kinds of chemicals, glass, metal, cellulose, ceramics, even wood and cloth) storage was a complex and technically-demanding business. After much heated discussion, and on Giselle's insistence (she nearly resigned over the matter) we had opted for an expensive storage concept which combined maximum light and atmospheric protection with compactness, flexibility and accessibility. From what I could tell, it paid for itself several times over within a few years.

Giselle and Josephine had two major run-ins prior to the launch, both caused by Josephine. Giselle was devoted to the concept of a launch exhibition entitled War and Peace. In a collection of Russian photographs I had purchased at auction, there was a stunning portrait of Leo Tolstoy. Giselle worked out, from the date, that Tolstoy must have been writing his great book at the time; and, from there, she developed the idea of using The Josephine Collection photographs to show contrasting images of the world at war and at peace in the 1850-70 period. In an uncharacteristic display of egotism, Josephine objected and said it would be more appropriate to launch with a special exhibition based on her own favourites from the Collection. (I suspected ­ Josephine forgive me for this ­ she may have been involved with a new man at the time, and wanted to impress him, but any such suggestion would have been way beyond the brief of my relationship with her.) In the end, we put on both shows, in separate galleries, thus temporarily reducing the permanent display area by one room. This was not so complicated since we had, in any case, planned to rotate the permanent displays every six months.

The second dispute came when we were beginning to make preparations for the launch party and the opening of the museum. Josephine turned up one day unexpectedly with a young black woman, Leona Sumani, so pretty she could have been an actress or model. She was to be the Museum's new public relations manager, Josephine commanded, and her appointment would be confirmed by the next meeting of the executive board. Giselle in a moment of stress, threatened to resign (again), whether because of Leona's looks or the way she was foisted on her, I'm not sure. She calmed down when I reminded her that she herself had been 'chosen' in much the same way, and that much of the museum's public relations would necessarily come through Josephine's personal connections. My own fury at Josephine's capricious behaviour dissipated quickly. The next time we were together in private (subsequent to Leona's sudden introduction) Josephine confessed to thoughtless actions and apologised sweetly. I doubted there had been anything thoughtless in her behaviour at all. Instead, I recognised an artful touch of dissembling combined with mock naivety. Nevertheless, I accepted the apology. The incident and my own sudden anger helped remind me how remarkable a person our benefactor was, that every cent we had spent had been hers, and yet, overall and relatively, she had been so uncontrolling, so undemanding, so uncapricious.

The opening of The Josephine Collection went better than we hoped. We held two launch parties. The first was for friends of the Project, who came from far and wide (such as Max Voll from Buenos Aires). The second was for the media and political and artistic celebrities. We ­ I should say Leona ­ streamed the invitations for both events over the course of a day each, so as to avoid crowding problems. Josephine, who never sought publicity for her own sake but who was fully aware of its usefulness, gave a handful of interviews to the most potent media, particularly those with strong outlets in the US. In addition, Leona farmed Giselle and me out to the lesser media, taking care to guide Giselle, who had a sloppy screen presence, to radio and print journalists (I knew this because Leona told Josephine and Josephine told me). We learned from the extensive, and largely positive, media coverage that The Josephine Collection was the first new major artistic institution in London since before the Second Jihad War. One commentator went so far as to say the opening of the museum presaged 'a reawakening of the city's cultural spirit', another called Josephine 'the Daguerreotype Angel'.

Several months later, a young and eager BBC-connected producer, Cos Williams, approached me (via Leona) wanting to make a quality documentary on the building of The Josephine Collection. I consulted with Josephine and the staff. We agreed on giving our full support, but on the condition that the programme only be broadcast or sold after Portia was up and running (we thought the opportunity of publicity such a programme would generate would be wasted if Portia was not yet operational). Cos agreed, and, thereafter, I spent one day a fortnight discussing progress and plans with Cos or being interviewed by his researchers in preparation for their further work with our staff. By taking such a focal position between Cos and the museum, I was able to direct, as it were, the director and help him to appreciate certain key aspects: above all the unique contribution of early photographs to our history, culture and society; but, also, Josephine Lock's unrivalled benefaction to early photography (on top of her humanitarian charity); the dedication of our staff; and the generosity of our collaborators without whom the development of Portia would not have been possible.

With her staff assistant and a dedicated team of knowledgeable, mostly retired, part-time volunteers, Lorraine managed to complete on schedule the detailed cataloguing and comprehensive search criteria for the tens of thousands of photographs in the Portia database. Whether originally positive or negative, whether albumen plates, salted paper or collodion prints, calotypes or daguerreotypes, Portia could display every photograph in a variety of forms, in real size and tone or enlarged to fill the screen, or, in the case of negatives or negative images, as a reversed image. A standard set of six buttons also allowed for limited tonal and textual adjustments. Accompanying catalogue information (date, size, subject, photographer, process, country etc.) was available onscreen with or without the photographs and could guide the viewer easily through the database to similar items. All the photographs (or information about them) appeared with a prominent link to their original collections.

Launching Portia, in February 86, was largely a virtual affair, superbly arranged and executed by Lorraine. We employed an external consultant to find us the net/email coordinates of relevant media contacts around the world, but Lorraine's team did almost everything else. Before seven days had passed, we registered a million hits, from nearly 50 different countries, three-quarters of them entering more than five content pages. Within three months, Portia achieved a weekly average of two million hits and an average income of around 60,000 euros, 50,000 euros of which was transferred automatically to our collaborators. More significantly, our collaborators all reported a doubling or trebling of interest in their own collections. In addition, we held a non-virtual party at Chalton Street, with attention focused, not on the exhibits, but on the wall and freestanding screens throughout the galleries. We all watched a display, programmed by Lorraine, showing off Portia's attributes and workings, and Josephine gave a short speech. She had a generous word to say about everyone involved with Portia and the museum, including me.

'And finally what can I say about Kip Fenn? He has been our guide, our leader, our commander, directing our travails with such foresight, patience and fairness that I doubt my dreams for this museum and for Portia would ever have been realised without him.' She stopped and looked around until she caught my eyes (I was standing with Lizette to the side and at the back, but I was taller than those around me). It was as though there were only two of us in the room. 'Thank you, Kip, thank you from the bottom of my heart.' And she blew me a kiss across the top of the crowd.

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE

Jay Sanderson to Kip Fenn and Lizette Sanderson

October 2079

I'm in Cumbria. In Caldbeck. I'm taking a year off uni. I should have talked to you about it, but I didn't decide till I went back to Reading last week. It hit me, all of sudden, that I needed some time to myself, some real time. I should have done it last year, before uni, but I can go back next October ­ I checked.

I know Mother will go potty when she reads this. I'm at a Notek community, it's bigger than Mercurio's, and makes money from Lake District tourists, but we're still rigorous, pre-electronic, like Stackpole Haven. I'm doing odd jobs, labouring mostly, but I'm learning fast, especially how the mill works. We buy in the grain (organic and certified Traditional, of course) from all over the place, and grind and mix different kinds of flour. There was a bobbin mill here on Cold Beck River once which had a wheel nearly 13 metres in diameter. It was said to be the second biggest in the world.

Brin is here too, he was the friend who came last Christmas and who Mother said must have been dragged through a hedge backwards ­ but then you said that about me too. Brin's graduated now, as an information officer at St Mungo's, the Caldbeck Notek Community Library. It used to be St Kentigern's Church. Kentigern, also called Mungo, was an early Christian missionary. I'm told, Kentigern means 'high lord' and Mungo 'my dear friend'. We live in an 18th century cottage, similar to the guest house at Stackpole Haven, made of stone. It's very basic, but homely.

Hope all's well with you. (How's the ankle Pa?)

November 2079

If you want to chastise or moan or argue, Mother, then direct your letters elsewhere ­ I won't be reading them.

December 2079

So sorry Pa not to be with you for your birthday, especially as you've reached the grand old age of 80. We're very busy, and, as always I'm very short of money for travel (no, that's not a beg ­ on your birthday that would definitely be out of order ­ you know I don't want any help). But I hope you like the tie, it's silk, and handmade by a friend. It'll look smart on you.

Love to Mother.

PS: We've a covering of snow, which should brighten up the trek to High Pike for midnight on new year's eve.

August 2080

Thanks for the prodigal son welcome. Not! I'll try again next year. As it goes, I've decided to spend a second year at Caldbeck.

August 2080

Pa, thanks for your letter, but sorry, I can't make it back again now. And I don't care if Mother 'doesn't really mean it'. But good luck with the photo project, sounds exciting.

November 2080

The wet summer was bad for our market gardens, and now the cold has come early. Much as I love this landscape, it can get very dreary at times. But I don't mind. Brin's taken over running the library. I'm his assistant, although I don't do much with books. I manage the Learning Exchange ­ did I tell you about this before? It's not much more than a card index which is used to put people wanting to learn a skill in touch with those who can teach it. And vice versa. It would be far easier with a computer (don't ever tell anyone I admitted that). It's the same principle as the barter markets, only with people's skills instead of their goods, and it takes a bit more managing. Yesterday, I had an enquiry from an accountant in Carlisle who wanted to learn calligraphy. We've two girls here into calligraphy, and one of them needed some bookkeeping assistance. It doesn't often work out so easily. If there's a lot of demand for one type of skill, then we try and set up a class. It could be here, or in Carlisle, or in Penrith, we're not as isolated socially as Mercurio's happy family. I also run the children's book groups (which I love doing), and organise the CMA (Church of Moral Atheism) meetings, which take place in the library. I hesitated for ages over joining the CMA (Brin hasn't joined), but most others here are members. Membership doesn't entail much more than a commitment to a decent way of living and sharing.

And did I tell you I do the school groups now. Once every couple of months, we get a school group coming to look round the community. I do a vote thing at the beginning giving them a choice of five out of ten possible places to visit (the mill, a farm, a market garden, the fish ponds, the library, a potter, a weaver, a beehive keeper, a herbalist ... did you know sticky willy is good for psoriasis?), and then, because they think they're being hard done by, they want to see more than they think they've been allowed. They press me for one more visit, and then another. I love the kids' enthusiasm, and the way they ask so many questions.

October 2081

Hi Ma, Hi Pa ­ surprise ­ I'm here at Reading, in a student pad with a couple of other lads, one who was brought up a Notek, and the other who's done a year with a community in Derbyshire. It was good to see you again. I feel bad about having stayed away so long. And I know it must have been dispiriting for you to watch me drop out and live with the Noteks (Ma especially ­ sorry). But, honestly, I feel the two years have done me a lot of good.

PS: I left the CMA. Brin never joined. He said there was something faintly homophobic about the emphasis on hope for future generations. I agree with that now. (He's left Caldbeck ­ did I say? ­ gone to Tierra del Fuego. But, as it goes, we'd split up by then. He'd become very introverted and antisocial.)