The Golden Child. Penelope Fitzgerald

of course.’

      At that very moment one of the messengers (Internal), flat-footed in his buff overalls, padded in and laid a glittering bunch of keys in the in-tray.

      Waring took them dutifully. He was in trouble all round. There would be Haggie to console when he eventually got home, and he was within something and a quarter minutes of actually keeping the Director waiting.

      The Library, as Miss Rank had observed, was for the use of staff of a higher grade than Waring Smith, who did not earn enough to consult the many thousands of costly reference books. Buried deep underground, it adjoined the resource centres, studios and laboratories. There was a lift, but its operations were uncertain; so Waring ran down the circular iron staircase.

      ‘Hullo, Mr Smith. I didn’t know they gave you access to down here.’