Homeland (14 page)

‘But they’re the most delightful people.’

Hanley gave an ugly laugh. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘Well, I can only say—’

‘Black marketeers.’ Hanley slapped the accusation down like a winning card.

‘I only remember one case involving some Poles,’ Bennett said patiently. ‘About three months ago. Is that the one you mean? I don’t believe I’ve read of any cases
since.’

‘But for every one that gets caught, there’s plenty more that gets away with it, isn’t there?’ Hanley insisted stubbornly.

‘I can only say that my own opinion of the Poles has been entirely favourable. I feel sure they’ll fit in very well here.’

Sipping his whisky, Hanley took a hard appraising look at Bennett over the rim of his glass, as if to make out whether the doctor had been a dangerous unconfessed liberal all this time, or was
temporarily misguided. ‘Perhaps you’ve been mixing with a rather superior class of Pole, Doctor. Medical men? Pilots from the airfield?’

‘I think I’ve met a pretty wide spectrum.’

Hanley’s eyebrows rose in an elaborate show of scepticism. ‘Well, according to what I’ve heard, there’s no holding them once they get a few drinks down their gullets.
Brawling. Shouting and singing in the streets. Keeping honest folk awake at night.’

Bennett thought it rich to hear drinking singled out for censure by a resident of Somerset, a county where in the not-so-distant past farm workers had been part-paid in cider, and where even now
it wasn’t uncommon to see a supine figure sleeping it off under the trees. But he suspected the criticism was aimed less at the drinking itself than the exhilarating effect it had on the
already animated Poles.

‘Breaking windows,’ Hanley added to his list of charges. ‘Trampling gardens. Not to mention the way they chase after anything in a skirt, always leading young girls up the
garden path. They’re real devils for that – everyone says so.’ His eyes glittered sharply.

‘The Poles certainly aren’t faint-hearted where love is concerned,’ Bennett said. ‘But to suggest they’re dishonourable is completely wide of the mark. Most are
very correct in such matters. They’re strict Catholics.’

‘Is that so? I always thought Catholics got to wriggle out of their misdeeds. One visit to the confessional and they start again with a clean slate.’

When Bennett failed to reply, Hanley put on a sudden mechanical smile, as if to correct a faulty mood, and said, ‘But maybe I’ll be proved wrong.’ His gaze, already travelling
back towards the door, was diverted by the young woman arriving at Bennett’s side. ‘Ah, Stella,’ he murmured with a marked lack of interest. ‘You know my niece, do you,
Doctor?’

‘Indeed I do. How are you, Stella?’

The fresh young face turned to Bennett and gave him a glorious smile. ‘Very fine, thank you, Doctor.’ To Arthur Hanley she said, ‘Lyndon won’t be long, Uncle. He’s
just having a wash.’

Hanley’s mouth twitched and twitched. ‘He’s back, is he?’

‘Yes.’

‘You met at the door?’

‘No . . . In fact he gave me a lift from home. It’s a wonderful bike, Uncle. He really loves it.’

Hanley stared at her soundlessly. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed to come out of the ground. ‘What, he just dropped by, did he?’

‘On his way back, yes.’ Then, as if to admit to the whole truth without delay, she added, ‘He took me for a quick spin round the village.’

Hanley’s gaze grew opaque, the mosaic of broken veins high on his cheeks flared with colour, and the air became heavy with suppressed anger.

‘So, you’re all related,’ Bennett said brightly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

It was a moment before Stella showed her usual spark. ‘And how long have you been living here, Doctor?’

‘Not long enough, apparently.’

‘If you don’t remember who’s related to who in this place, you can get into serious trouble.’

Bennett laughed. He had always liked Stella. She was a teacher at the village school. He had got to know her during the summer when they had whiled away many an afternoon in front of the cricket
pavilion. Stella’s father batted at number eight, Bennett at eleven, a position he’d accepted on the understanding that he would never be called upon to defend a wicket. Stella was a
good-natured girl, warmhearted, straightforward and outgoing. Despite the age difference, Bennett thought of her as a friend. She was one of the few women he felt he could tease without the
slightest risk of being misunderstood. With her open face, broad pink cheeks, blue eyes and coppery hair, she had a beguiling freshness. Tonight her hair was tangled from the wind and her outfit
plain, yet he had never seen her looking so pretty, and on a sudden whim he told her so.

She flushed a little. ‘Oh, it’s just the cold, I expect.’

‘No, no. You look radiant.’

She shot her uncle a quick glance then, staring meaningfully at Bennett, did something odd with her eyes. He gazed at her questioningly, but she only repeated the strange eye movements. It
wasn’t until he felt a tug at his sleeve that he realised she was trying to draw him away.

‘Ah,’ he said, scouring his mind for a pretext. ‘Of course . . . the school . . .’

His little ruse was unnecessary. With a frown at Stella, Hanley was already swinging away, heading back to the group at the fireplace.

‘It’s Lyndon,’ Stella breathed as soon as her uncle was out of earshot. ‘He went and fell off his bike and I think he might have hurt himself. Would you have a quick look
at him, please, Doctor?’

With a last glance over her shoulder, she led the way out of the room and across the hall to the kitchen, where a young man sat lounging across the table, one hand propping his head, the other
holding a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, navvy-style. Seeing Bennett, the young man started to unravel his limbs and clamber to his feet, but Bennett waved him down.

‘You took a bit of a tumble, I gather.’

Lyndon settled his angular frame back into the chair, and Bennett saw a sharply sculpted face with a long nose, deep-set eyes, and dark hair flopping untidily over a high forehead.

‘I’m fine.’

Stella said, ‘He’s not fine at all, Doctor. He’s got a bump the size of an egg on his head and a twisted knee.’

Lyndon’s mouth turned down in an amused way, as though he found her concern endearing but misplaced.

He made no objection when Bennett asked, ‘May I?’ and examined the lump on his head.

‘Headache?’

‘Nothing I don’t deserve.’

‘Oh?’

‘I went over a wall and hit a . . . stone slab.’ He laughed silently and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘Look directly at me, please.’

The dark eyes that lifted to his were glazed and slow moving.

‘Is your vision fuzzy at all?’

An infinitesimal shake of the head.

‘Feeling sick?’

‘No.’

‘Dizzy?’

‘No.’

Bennett pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Well, there are no obvious signs of concussion, but if you experience any sickness or dizziness in the next twelve hours you should let me
know.’

Lyndon humoured him with a mild, ‘Of course.’

‘Could I look at the knee?’

Lyndon tilted his head back until he could see Stella, who was standing directly behind him. ‘Stella Maris?’

‘Yes, Lyndon?’

‘Be a good girl and get me a whisky, would you?’

‘Well, I . . . Doctor?’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ Bennett said.

For the first time Lyndon’s eyes came alive. ‘That’s a bit steep, Doctor,’ he protested lightly. ‘It’s not every night a chap finds himself laid out in a
graveyard.’

‘Alcohol isn’t recommended with concussion.’

‘But I don’t have concussion,’ Lyndon argued reasonably with a quick disarming smile. ‘You’ve just said so. And I’d feel a hell of a lot braver about going
next door if I had a quick nip.’

Bennett thought: I must be losing my touch, I almost missed it. He’s well away already.

Bennett nodded to Stella. ‘Just a small one.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Now if you’d show me the knee.’

It was swollen and bruised, but nothing appeared to be cracked, broken or torn. ‘The swelling should go down in a day or two,’ Bennett told him. ‘How’s the
bike?’

‘Mmm?’ Lyndon was lighting another cigarette, drawing the smoke up over his lip into his nostrils. ‘Oh, a dent, that’s all.’

‘What make is it?’

‘Umm . . . a Norton.’

‘The 500 cc with the overhead cam?’

But it was clear that Lyndon had no interest in machinery. His eyes sped to the door as Stella reappeared with his drink. ‘Thanks, Stella Maris,’ he murmured softly.

The whisky was neither small nor diluted, and Bennett realised with a touch of concern that Stella seemed to be unaware of how much Lyndon had already had to drink.

‘Is he all right?’ Stella asked Bennett.

‘Looks like it.’

‘Well, there’s a mercy!’ Sitting down, she gazed happily at Lyndon as he took a gulp of his whisky. She said to Bennett, ‘The wild boy went all the way to Bristol and
back this afternoon.’

‘That’s a fair run.’

‘And at record speed!’ Stella glared at Lyndon in mock disapproval, her eyes dancing. ‘We’re going to Lyme on Sunday. I’m
told
it’ll only take half an
hour. I’m
told
I’ll have to hang on for dear life. But we’ll see about that!’

Bennett scratched the side of his head like a schoolboy summoning his facts. ‘Now, let me see – I must have got
this
right at least – you two are cousins.’

‘Top of the form!’ Stella’s face was a mirror for her emotions, and as she threw a shy grin at Lyndon there was no mistaking the strong affection there.

Lyndon took another sip of his drink and, having put it down on the table, picked it straight up again and knocked the rest back in one gulp. ‘Dutch courage . . .’ he murmured.

‘Poor boy,’ Stella commiserated, reflecting his mood instantly. ‘All these people . . .’ She offered this thought to Bennett with a rueful glance. ‘It’s a bit
hard . . . But, Lyndon dear, best to get it over and done with . . .’

‘Do I really have to go and change?’ he asked gloomily.

She shook her head. ‘Too late now. Best go in as you are.’

They all stood up, Lyndon slowly. He was taller than he’d first appeared, and thinner, with wide angular shoulders that seemed to cut into his sweater like wire.

‘What am I supposed to talk about?’ he asked Stella.

She shrugged helplessly.

He tilted his head to one side as if to beg for a proper answer.

‘Well, I . . .’ She turned to Bennett in appeal.

‘I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask,’ he said. ‘But rationing’s a safe bet, I suppose. And the petrol shortage.’

‘Petrol,’ Lyndon repeated bleakly.

Scurrying footsteps sounded in the hall. They looked towards the door as Janet Hanley appeared. ‘Lyndon,
there
you are!’ Her appalled gaze took in the lack of movement or
urgency, the cigarette, the empty glass. ‘Do hurry, please!’ she cried in a voice that shook with agitation. ‘Your father’s getting so anxious.
Please.
’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You know he can’t bear—’ Stalling wordlessly, she pushed her hands down at her sides.

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Lyndon walked to the door and reached out as if to touch his mother’s arm, but with a darting bird-like movement she moved rapidly away.

Bennett followed Stella across the hall.

‘Oh dear . . .’ she murmured under her breath. ‘All my fault.’

By the time they entered the living room Lyndon was at the drinks tray, pouring a fresh glass.

Arthur Hanley’s voice rose from the other side of the room. ‘Lyndon!’ It was like a call to arms. ‘There you are! Come and meet everyone.’

Lyndon replaced the cap on the whisky bottle and screwed it up tight. In the moment before he swung round to confront the room Bennett saw on his unguarded face an expression of misery.

‘He didn’t want any fuss,’ Stella remarked as they watched him join his father. ‘He didn’t want a gathering.’

‘It was meant well, I’m sure.’

‘But he doesn’t know half these people. I can’t imagine why Uncle asked them. Who’s the grey-haired man? And the odd-looking one in glasses?’

‘The one in glasses is called Creasy. He’s some sort of drainage expert. And the grey-haired man’s a retired solicitor from North Curry.’

Stella sighed, ‘Oh dear –
useful
people. It won’t work. Lyndon will just run a mile.’

Watching Lyndon standing at his father’s side, mouth set, eyes hooded, it seemed to Bennett that he had already put himself at a considerable distance.

‘What’s Lyndon going to do now he’s home? Does he know?’

‘No idea at all.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of time.’

A short hesitation before she said, ‘He seems very restless.’

‘He wouldn’t be the first. I couldn’t settle at all when I left the army.’

Stella tore her eyes away from Lyndon. ‘But weren’t you already a doctor then?’

‘I was. But I wasn’t at all sure what sort of a doctor I wanted to be. I’d always intended to specialise, but when I resigned my commission, well, my health was ropy, our first
child was on the way and there weren’t any jobs, not for men with dicky lungs just back from the war at any rate. General practice was the only option.’

‘What had you hoped to specialise in?’

‘When I started out, surgery. But during the Great War I became more interested in lung injuries. Not just because I had duff lungs myself, though that was a part of it of course, but
because the whole thing was so badly handled then. Men with burnt lungs, with asthma and chronic bronchitis and all the other things you get from gas damage, were more or less told to go away and
get on with it. Not regarded as curable, you see. It was a bad state of affairs, and I wanted to do something about it. When I got home and realised I had very little chance of specialising –
well, I got very down. Then Marjorie, bless her, insisted on taking me away on holiday. Bundled me onto a train to Scotland. We hadn’t much money so we stayed in this little place in the
Highlands and just walked and sat by the fire and talked. By the time we got back, the fog had cleared. I realised there was nothing to stop me from starting a local clinic, developing treatments,
corresponding with like-minded specialists. Changing things from below, if you like. And that’s what I did. Not huge changes, of course. Not anything that was publishable. But enough, you
know. Enough.’