“I have solved the button.”
Professor Quillibrace did not look up.
“I'm beginning to think you have too much time.”
“The button in the grass.”
“I know which button.”
Miss Stray smiled.
“The brown one?”
“Precisely.”
Blottisham sat down.
“It is a story about identity.”
Quillibrace sighed.
“Of course it is.”
“The button is lost from a blue shirt.”
“Yes.”
“Then it lies in the grass.”
“Yes.”
“A boy finds it.”
“Yes.”
“He gives it to his mother.”
“Yes.”
“She recognises it.”
“Yes.”
“She sews it back onto the shirt.”
“Yes.”
Blottisham spread his hands.
“Identity restored.”
Stray looked thoughtful.
“Was it ever lost?”
“Of course.”
“The button?”
“Yes.”
“Or its identity?”
Blottisham paused.
“The button was lost.”
“That's not quite the same thing.”
“It was separated from its proper context.”
Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.
“Ah. Context.”
“Exactly.”
“The button was still a button.”
“Yes.”
“So what was lost?”
Blottisham frowned.
“Its place.”
“Which is different from its identity.”
“Not entirely.”
“Why not?”
“Because things are what they are in relation to other things.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“That is a sentence.”
“A good one.”
“Not necessarily a true one.”
Stray looked at the table.
“I think the boy's marble is interesting.”
Blottisham looked puzzled.
“The marble?”
“Yes. The boy wasn't looking for the button.”
“No.”
“He was looking for his marble.”
“Yes.”
“And he found the button instead.”
Blottisham considered this.
“So?”
“So the button becomes important because the boy wasn't looking for it.”
“That's absurd.”
“Is it?”
“He finds it by accident.”
“Yes.”
“And then he gives it to his mother.”
“Yes.”
“She knows what it is.”
“Yes.”
“And puts it back where it belongs.”
“Yes.”
Blottisham smiled.
“Exactly. The narrative confirms my thesis.”
“What thesis?”
“That objects have a proper place.”
Quillibrace looked at Stray.
“Does it?”
She shook her head.
“I don't think so.”
“But the button goes back onto the shirt.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So that's where it ends up.”
“Where it belongs.”
“Perhaps.”
Blottisham groaned.
“Not again.”
Stray smiled.
“The story doesn't tell us that the button was unhappy in the grass.”
Blottisham stared at her.
“Buttons don't have feelings.”
“Then why are you so concerned about where it belongs?”
Quillibrace made a small approving sound.
Blottisham ignored him.
“The button is reunited with the shirt.”
“Yes.”
“The shirt needs a button.”
“Yes.”
“The button fits.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore—”
“Therefore,” said Quillibrace, “someone repaired a shirt.”
Blottisham looked annoyed.
“You are both determined to trivialise the story.”
“No,” said Stray. “We're trying not to make it say more than it does.”
“But surely the ending is significant.”
“What ending?”
“The button is where it was always meant to be.”
Stray smiled.
“Or perhaps it is simply where it is now.”
Blottisham looked at her.
“That distinction is unnecessarily subtle.”
“Perhaps.”
He looked at Quillibrace.
“Do you agree with her?”
Quillibrace thought for a moment.
“I think the button has had a remarkably eventful week.”
Blottisham frowned.
“That's not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I have.”
There was a pause.
Then Stray said:
“I wonder what happened to the marble.”
Blottisham looked alarmed.
“The marble?”
“Yes.”
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't start another story.”
Quillibrace returned to his newspaper.
“Too late.”
Outside, beneath the clothesline, the grass moved in the breeze.
There was nothing there.
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