Tyme's End (19 page)

Then, slowly, I turned and looked at Granddad. He seemed to meet my eyes, but he didn't speak or blink. I waited until I was sure. Then I knelt down in front of him and touched his jacket. It was rough and dry; I'd expected it to be cold. I could smell the tobacco smoke on his clothes. I leant forward, very gently, and felt the hard solidity of his chest against my forehead.

I said, ‘Granddad . . .' and heard my voice crack.

I looked down at my hand, clutching his lapel, and I couldn't remember how to make my fingers let go.

*

I stood up finally. I didn't know what to do. I picked up Granddad's packet of cigarettes, put them in my pocket and then picked up his lighter. I turned it over and over in my hands, watching my reflection slide across it in fragments. My mobile was in my other pocket but the battery was dead, and anyway I didn't know who to call.

I went outside and stood on the lawn where the drive curved. I thought,
Tyme's End must be mine now
. It made me laugh, but it hurt. It was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? I looked back at the blank windows. Granddad . . . I didn't even know if he'd gone home, before he came here. I hoped, desperately, that he hadn't – that he hadn't known why I'd run away, that he hadn't seen that I'd taken those letters.

I walked away, not looking where I was going. I think I was trying to find the gap in the wall, but my mind wasn't working properly. I walked and walked, pushing through undergrowth and raising my arms to protect my face from brambles. When I looked over my shoulder Tyme's End was still behind me. I'd walked in a circle. I didn't care. I kept on going, down a slope, through trees, until I had to stop on the edge of a river. It was peaceful here: not the dead, used-up calm that had filled the house, but a clean, impersonal peace full of running water. There were midges dancing in the cool air and I could hear the swish of cars on the road.

I sat down on the riverbank and smoked a cigarette, and then another. I didn't smoke, but they were Granddad's, and I knew he wouldn't want them to go to waste. I couldn't think straight. I kept fiddling with his lighter, holding it tightly, not letting the warmth go out of the metal. After a while I felt sick, but the smell of nicotine was comforting.

I thought,
I'm safe. Nothing's going to hurt me. It's over.

And after a while I felt something inside me thaw, and I put my head down on my knees, and cried.

.

.

1936

.

.

I

.

.

Someone said, ‘Falconhurst!' and I jerked out of a sweltering half-doze, reached hurriedly for my suitcase and staggered out of the train on to the station platform. I heard someone grumble and the door slam behind me; then the rumble and hiss as the train gathered its strength to leave again. There was a whistle and the smell of steam, and the little train drew away, filling the air with a grimy fog that shimmered in the sunlight and dispersed.

I stood blinking and disorientated on the platform, and looked about me. There were the customary embraces and greetings, not to mention a young girl waving her handkerchief until long after the train had gone out of sight; but I was alone, and no one gave me a second glance. It was a hot, quiet afternoon, but a breeze was already beginning to cool the sweat that had trickled down my face and soaked my collar. I was thankful for it; in Cambridge, when I left, the heat had been unbearable, an oppressive, un-English heat that reflected off the pavements and old stone, and in the railway carriage it had been no better. Here, though, the air was softer and newer, as though it had been freshly brewed, and I felt my heart lift as I breathed it in.

‘It's heavenly, isn't it?'

I didn't look round at once, presuming that whoever had spoken was addressing someone else; but when, after a few moments, I did turn my head, I found my gaze returned by an auburn-haired woman who seemed not to notice my confusion. She said, ‘You can simply
smell
the countryside. Isn't it gorgeous? London is so dreary in this heat.'

‘Yes, I'm sure you're right,' I said. She was standing in front of me, and I hesitated, wondering whether she had mistaken me for someone else.

Her eyes narrowed, and it was as if she had read my thoughts. She said, ‘I suppose you
are
Mr Gardner? Only it would be too typical of me to fasten on to a perfect stranger. You mustn't be too polite to tell me, you know.'

‘Yes, I am, but I –' I hesitated. ‘I wasn't expecting –'

‘I know. Jack said there was absolutely no need for anyone to lame-duck you. But I thought it was such a lovely afternoon for a walk. And to tell you the truth I was rather curious to meet you.' She gave me a frank, direct gaze that made me suddenly conscious of my sweaty collar and rumpled hair.

‘Oh, I see,' I said, and ignored a jab of disappointment that Jack hadn't come to meet me himself. ‘Well. Thank you.'

She smiled, revealing straight, shiny teeth, and held out her hand. ‘Edie Quincey. How do you do?'

‘How do you do?' I said. ‘Oliver Gardner.' Both our palms were wet; when she released her grip I had to check an impulse to wipe my hand on my trousers.

‘Let's go, then. Have you all your luggage?' She glanced at my suitcase.

‘Yes, thank you. This is all I have. That is . . .' I followed her gaze and wished abruptly that my case were not quite so shabby, and that I had had more belongings with which to fill it. I straightened my arm, imperceptibly, so as to give the impression that it was heavier than it was. ‘Most of my things are in my trunk. Jack said there was no need to bring very much – only clothes, and so on.'

‘Of course,' she said, and gave me a bright, undeceived smile. ‘You must be a man after his own heart, travelling so light.'

‘I hope so.'

She looked away thoughtfully. Then, without a word, she jerked her head, like someone summoning a dog, and walked off. I followed her through the fuggy warmth of the ticket office and out of the station. We made our way down the High Street, past several shops and a public house, and although I had never been here before I knew, with a flicker of irritation, that I could have found my way perfectly well from Jack's instructions. I had read his letter so many times I had it practically by heart, and I had imagined myself arriving alone, cool and collected, greeting him with a casual handshake; but now I could see that I would be shepherded into his presence like a child. I glanced sideways at Edie, trying to stifle my resentment. I noticed, for the first time, that she was dressed in an eccentric, boyish fashion, and was walking with her hands pushed deeply into the pockets of her slacks. Her hair was in a dishevelled marcel wave, but strands were blowing across her face in the breeze, and the general effect was incongruously masculine. As I looked, she caught my eye and smiled; but it was a smile which made it clear that she had noticed – and thought the worse of me for – my curiosity.

She said, suddenly, ‘Your first time here, is it?'

‘At Tyme's End? Yes. I've only known Jack a few months.'

‘He thinks very well of you.'

I looked aside so that she wouldn't see me smile, and said, ‘I hoped I could deduce as much from his invitation.'

‘And you think well of him.'

‘Naturally,' I said. ‘If I didn't, I should hardly have accepted it.'

She opened her mouth as though to question me further, but seemed to think better of it. Instead she inhaled deeply, flinging her arms out in a clumsy, histrionic gesture. ‘
I
should have come anyway,' she said. ‘I don't have your scruples. Isn't it divine?'

To my relief, she didn't seem to expect a response. She took a few more loud breaths, her bosom heaving, then dug in her pockets, producing a box of cigarettes with one hand and a box of matches with the other. ‘Cigarette?'

‘No, thank you. I don't smoke.'

‘Oh, you will. Jack makes everyone smoke. It's his particular form of tyranny. One of them, at least.' She paused, cupping her hand around the match to protect the little flame. ‘Who was it said that a cigarette is a perfect type of a perfect pleasure, it is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied?'

I said, ‘St Paul, wasn't it?'

She grinned unexpectedly, as if I'd finally said something that met with her approval. ‘Actually, it was Oscar Wilde.'

‘Well, I was close, then.'

Her grin faded, and she gave me a sideways look, blowing the smoke upwards from the corner of her mouth like a street urchin. ‘How old are you?'

‘Nineteen.'

‘Ah.' She frowned, as if it were an intriguing and rather disquieting answer, and went on, in a thoughtful tone, ‘You're too polite to ask, naturally, but I'm thirty-two. Anthony – I think Jack said you hadn't met Anthony Morton-Smith before – is forty. Philip – but of course you know him, he's your tutor at Cambridge, isn't he? – is fifty-three. Jack is nearly forty-five.'

I had the disconcerting sensation that she was speaking another language. I said, ‘I'm sorry, I – I'm not sure I see your point.'

‘Oh . . . I'm afraid you might find us a little fogeyish.'

‘As you're not my host,' I said, ‘I don't see that you need concern yourself on my account.'

She caught my eye. Her face was serious, with something in her eyes that I couldn't identify; under different circumstances I might have thought it was anxiety, but the idea seemed absurd. She held my look, and then nodded, as though with reluctant approval. The corners of her mouth quirked up. ‘Fair enough.' We walked in silence for a few moments. Then, in a softer tone than she had used so far, she added, ‘What did you say your people did?'

‘My father was a clerk in a factory.'

She turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Golly,' she said, and then seemed to recollect herself. ‘I mean, Jack didn't say . . .
Was?
'

‘He's dead.'

‘The War, I suppose,' she said, glancing away.

‘Arras, 1917.'

She nodded again, as if it was unfortunate but only to be expected. Her eyes slid down to my suitcase, and lingered on the initials that were still just visible on the scuffed leather. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks.

She had finished her cigarette; she flipped it carelessly into the roadway and dug her hands into her pockets. Then, as if on a sudden impulse, she stopped in her tracks and took a firm hold on my arm. I halted, thinking for a moment that she had stumbled, but she was standing quite still, looking up at my face.

‘Oliver – if I may call you Oliver –'

I said automatically, ‘Of course.'

‘Oliver,' she repeated, as if I hadn't spoken. ‘Listen to me. Jack . . .' Her voice died and she cleared her throat. ‘Jack would be a very poor pattern for imitation. If you were to come to regard him as . . . a sort of father, that would be – unhealthy. For both of you. It might be better to . . . be circumspect. That's all.'

I stared at her, at a loss as to how to respond.

She seemed to register my confusion, for she laughed a little, but her eyes stayed steady. ‘I'm sure you think it's impertinent of me to say so when I've hardly known you ten minutes –'

In spite of myself, I said, ‘Yes.'

‘I know. It's perfectly insufferable, and none of my business, and naturally you'll ignore me,' she said. ‘But I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned, and I can't help regarding it as my duty to . . .'

‘To warn me off?'

She turned aside, as if my gaze was making her uncomfortable, and brushed her hair off her forehead. ‘Yes. If you like. Yes.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘But I don't think I quite understand what you're getting at. You're his guest, too, aren't you?'

‘Yes. I don't mean – it's simply that . . . Well, you're very young, and perhaps you might be out of your depth.'

‘Because my father was a factory clerk?'

She shook her head with a quick, impatient movement. ‘No, of course not. That's neither here nor there. Jack is . . . What can I say? He's used to getting his own way.'

I took a deep breath, feeling my shirt cling unpleasantly to my ribs. I wished, for a second time, that she hadn't come to meet me; the happiness I had felt at the station was tainted now. I said, ‘I suppose you'd like me to turn round and go back to my mother.'

‘Yes, perhaps.' She sighed, on the edge of a laugh. ‘But I'm not such a fool as to suppose that you will.'

I waited; then, as she said nothing more, I started to walk again. A light wisp of cloud had drifted across the sun, and the brightness of the day had faded a little.

‘Forgive me,' she said. ‘I'm an interfering old besom.'

‘Not at all. It's kind of you to . . .' I struggled for a courteous phrase, so transparently that she looked up and laughed; and her expression was simultaneously so apologetic and so humorous that I couldn't help laughing too. ‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I'm sure you meant it kindly. But Jack is my friend.'

She blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. ‘Let's not mention it again.'

‘Never.'

We walked in silence for a few moments, until she pointed out the church tower, rising above the treetops, and slipped her arm casually through mine. I adjusted my step to hers, and answered politely enough to her chit-chat; but I felt a deep, childish resentment that she had spoiled my gladness, and it wasn't until we reached Tyme's End, and Jack came striding across the grass to meet me, that I could forget that unwelcome warning.

.

The house was dark inside, although every door and window seemed to be wedged open, and the air was fresh and sweet-smelling. I should have liked to explore it room by room, but Jack led me through without pausing, except to take my suitcase and drop it casually at the bottom of the stairs. Then we emerged from the back door on to a broad lawn, where croquet balls and mallets lay abandoned on the ground and a man was apparently asleep in the shade of a great bronze-leaved tree. I stood and took in the wide sweep of the lawn, the stone steps and sundial, filled with a strange ache that was half envy and half joy.

Jack walked over to the man lying on the grass, and said, ‘Anthony,' and gave him a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘Wake up. Let me introduce Oliver Gardner, one of Philip's protégés at Cambridge.' The man grunted and looked up, shading his eyes.

I held out my hand in his direction and said, ‘How do you do?'

‘How do you do?' he said, without moving.

‘Gardner, this is Anthony Morton-Smith,' Jack said. ‘He's exceptionally talented and exceptionally bad-mannered. I put up with the one for the enjoyment afforded me by the other.'

At that Morton-Smith grinned and sat up, affecting not to see my outstretched hand. ‘So . . .' He tilted his head so that his hair fell across his forehead. He was swarthy and hadn't shaved; I could see a greasy gleam of sweat where his shirt collar was unbuttoned. ‘Why are you here?'

‘Because I was invited, I suppose,' I said, smiling.

‘Of course,' he said, without returning my smile. He turned, pointedly, to Jack. ‘I should have asked why you invited him.'

Jack glanced at me and said nothing but, ‘Will you have a drink, Gardner?'

‘Thank you,' I said, and stood awkwardly looking down at Morton-Smith while Jack strode back towards the house, whistling.