Coming Home (74 page)

‘Not so far, sir. But to be truthful, in a modern war a cavalry regiment does seem to be a bit of an anachronism.’

‘How would you feel about tanks?’

‘I'd be sorry to say goodbye to the horses.’

The Colonel shifted in his chair. He raised his head and his pale eyes gazed through the open window, to the gardens that lay beyond, washed in the gold of the evening sun. He said, ‘I'm afraid we will have to go to war. So many months slipped by, filled with compromise and treaty. For no point, as far as I can see. Hopes are extinguished, one by one. Just as Austria was extinguished, and then Czechoslovakia, and now Poland. And suddenly, it's too late. Poland is just a question of time. Hitler has no reason to mobilise. The German Army is ready to march the instant they are given the word. It must be soon. The first fortnight in September, before the rains of October. Before the muds of November can halt their tanks.’

‘And Russia?’

‘The great question mark. If Stalin and Hitler sign a pact, then Russia gives Germany the go-ahead to proceed. And that will be the start.’ He looked back at Rupert. ‘What about you? What will happen to you?’

‘Probably back to Palestine.’

‘This will be a war of air power. Edward will fly with the Royal Air Force.’ He reached for his glass, and abruptly finished his drink, tossing it down his throat as though it were medicine. ‘Pour me another, there's a dear fellow. And how is your own glass?’

‘I'm all right, thank you, sir.’ Rupert got to his feet and went to refill the Colonel's tumbler, and then returned to his place. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you.’

A gleam of humour crossed his host's features. ‘I thought we
were
having a word.’

‘No, it's…’ Rupert hesitated. He had never done this before and was anxious not to make a hash of it. ‘I would like to ask your permission to many Athena.’

There followed a moment's astonished silence, and then Colonel Carey-Lewis said, ‘Good God. Why?’

Which was an unexpected reaction and a bit of a facer. But Rupert did his best. ‘Well, I'm extremely fond of her, and I think she is of me. I know it's not much of a time to get married, with war on its way and no certainty of our futures, but I still think it would be a good idea.’

‘I don't know what sort of a wife she'd make.’

‘You sound doubtful, sir.’

‘She's always been such a fly-by-night. I suppose her mother all over again.’

‘But you married her mother, sir.’

‘Yes, I married her. And she has never ceased to entertain and beguile me. But by the time I married Diana I had loved her for years. You and Athena haven't known each other all that long.’

‘Long enough, sir.’

‘Have you discussed it all with her?’

‘Yes. Yes, we've discussed it.’

‘Army wife. Years of separation. All that?’

‘Yes. All that.’

‘And the future. The far future, when this terrible disaster that is hanging over us all is a thing of the past. What then?’

‘I can't say. I can only tell you that when my father dies, Taddington will come to me.’

‘Athena and Gloucestershire? Is that a good idea? She hates horses, you know. Won't go within a bloody yard of one.’

Rupert laughed. ‘Yes. I know that.’

‘And you still want to marry her?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘When?’

‘I think as soon as possible.’

‘Takes months to plan a wedding.’

‘We…well, we wouldn't have that sort of a wedding, sir. Athena has a horror of big weddings. I'm afraid it will be rather a disappointment to Mrs Carey-Lewis, but we thought something very small, or even a Register Office. I could get a special licence.’

‘Oh, well. It'll save me a bit of money. I suppose we have to be grateful for small mercies.’

‘I really do love her, sir.’

‘I love her too. She's a sweet and funny girl and I have always thought her quite enchanting. I am just sorry that you will have to face up to such uncertainty, but if the worst comes to the worst and you are torn apart, then Athena can always come back to Nancherrow and wait for you here.’

‘I hoped you'd say that. My parents, of course, would welcome her and make her as happy as they could, but she and my mother are chalk and cheese and I don't think the arrangement would be very comfortable.’

The Colonel said drily, and with some perception, ‘It's clearly unfortunate for you that your intended has no love of horses.’

‘Yes. Unfortunate. But not the end of the world.’

‘In that case, we seem to have talked it through. All I can say is, yes, you may marry her, and I wish you both all the good fortune and happiness that this cruel world will allow you.’

‘There's just one thing, sir…’

‘And what is that?’

‘When the others come down, don't say anything. I mean, don't announce an engagement or anything. If you don't mind.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, we've talked about it, Athena and I, but I haven't actually asked her yet. And she hasn't, actually, said yes.’

The Colonel looked a bit bewildered, as well he might. ‘Very well. Not a word, but get it all settled as soon as you can, there's a good fellow.’

‘I will, sir, and thank you.’

‘No point in letting these sorts of arrangements hang fire. Strike while the iron is hot, I always say. Otherwise, things are inclined to collapse.’

‘A bit like a soufflé, sir.’

‘A soufflé?’ The Colonel thought about this. ‘Yes. Yes. I see what you mean.’

The Nancherrow kitchen, on the Sunday mornings when there were a lot of people staying in the house, habitually simmered like a cauldron of furious activity. Despite opened windows and doors, the temperature, on this balmy August day, rose by the moment, causing Mrs Nettlebed to go red in the face and perspire freely, and her pesky ankles to swell like balloons over the straps of straining shoes.

Nine in the dining-room, and five in the kitchen to feed. No, she corrected herself, not nine in the dining-room, but eight, because Mrs Carey-Lewis had taken to her bed — a bilious attack, the Colonel had said, and would probably have to be taken a little tray. Mrs Nettlebed had accepted the bilious-attack excuse without comment, but privately she and Nettlebed had made up their minds that Mrs Carey-Lewis was simply worn out; all that junketing in London, and then having to come rushing home because everybody thought that old Mrs Boscawen was on her way out. She wasn't on her way out, of course, because, miraculously, she had rallied, but even so, the anxiety was still there, and the house crammed full of guests. Not very restful. If Mrs Nettlebed had been Mrs Carey-Lewis, she too would have retired to her bed, and not got out of it until things had calmed down a bit.

She stood at her kitchen table and rubbed flour, sugar, and butter briskly through her fingers into a large earthenware bowl, rather as if she were making scones. Whatever the season, and however high the temperature, the Colonel always enjoyed his hot pudding, and this Sunday it was to be apple crumble, sweetened with mincemeat and laced with a spoonful of brandy. The apples had already been peeled and sliced and lay, like pale-green petals, in the pie dish, waiting for the crumble. Hetty had prepared the apples, just as she had already peeled pounds of potatoes, cleaned two cauliflowers, chopped a cabbage, and hulled four punnets of fresh strawberries. Now, she was clattering about in the scullery, washing up what Mrs Nettlebed always thought of as ‘the oddses’, pans and bowls and colanders and kitchen knives and graters.

In the oven, a twelve-pound sirloin of beef on the bone was simmering away to itself, and through the firmly closed door, an aroma seeped — of rich meaty juices, mingled with the scent of the onion Mrs Nettlebed had tucked into the sirloin's flank. With it would be served roast potatoes, roast parsnips, Yorkshire puddings, horseradish sauce, gravy, and freshly made, red-hot English mustard.

The puddings, just about, were done. Two glass dishes, containing fresh strawberries and a chocolate soufflé, stood ready and waiting on the cool slate shelf of the larder. Once she'd popped the apple crumble into the hot oven, Mrs Nettlebed would start in on the Yorkshire puddings. Hetty could have made these, but she had a heavy hand with batter.

The kitchen door opened. Mrs Nettlebed, imagining that it was her husband, did not raise her head from her task, but said, ‘Do you think we should have whipped cream with the soufflé?’

‘Sounds delicious,’ said a man who was not Mr Nettlebed. Mrs Nettlebed's hands were stilled. She jerked her head around and saw, standing in the open doorway, none other but Jeremy Wells. Her mouth fell open in a delighted gape, and it occurred to her that at this moment, bang in the middle of getting Sunday lunch on the road, he was just about the only person whose unexpected appearance could fill her with pleasure.

She said, ‘Well!’

‘Hello, Mrs Nettlebed. What splendid smells of cooking. What's for lunch?’

‘Roast sirloin.’ She stood there, with her cap askew and her hands all floury, and beamed at him. ‘Dr Wells! You're some stranger.’ (In the old days, when he was tutoring Edward, she had always called him Jeremy, but as soon as he passed his finals and qualified, she had addressed him as ‘Doctor’. She reckoned he deserved it, after all those years of studying books and taking examinations. To save confusion, when talking about him, he was referred to as young Dr Wells, while his father, rather to that good man's chagrin, was relegated to old Dr Wells.) ‘What are you doing here? Did the Colonel send for you? He never said nothing to me.’

Jeremy closed the door behind him and came over to the table. ‘Why should he send for me?’

‘Mrs Carey-Lewis. She's poorly.
He
says a bilious attack, but me and Nettlebed thinks different. Tired out, I'd say, with one thing and another. Did you know Mrs Boscawen had been ill?’

‘Yes, I heard. But she seems to be over the worst of it?’

‘Some fright she gave us all. Everybody rushing home from London and Scotland and goodness knows where, thinking that she was about to breathe her last. It was as bad as that.’

‘I'm sorry.’

She frowned. ‘If the Colonel didn't send for you, then why are you here?’

‘Just to see you all.’ He reached out and took a bit of apple from the pie dish, and ate it. If he had been Loveday, she would have slapped her hand. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘All gone to church. Except Mrs Carey-Lewis. Like I said, she's in her bed.’

‘Perhaps I should pop up and see her.’

‘If she's asleep, then leave her sleeping.’

‘I will. Have you got a houseful?’

‘Bulging, we are.’ Mrs Nettlebed reached for her pie dish and began to sprinkle the topping over the apples, pressing the mixture down into a firm crust. ‘Athena brought her young man, Captain Rycroft, and Edward's got a friend staying, too. A Mr Callender.’

‘And Loveday?’

‘Yes, Loveday, of course. And Judith's coming back this morning.’

‘Where's Judith been?’

‘Staying in Porthkerris, with the Warrens.’

‘Is there enough lunch for me?’

‘What do you think, you silly thing? Enough and over, I would say. Seen Nettlebed, have you?’

‘No, I didn't see anybody. Just walked in.’

‘I'll tell him to lay another place…now why don't you go up and see Mrs Carey-Lewis. And if she's talking about getting up, you just tell her to stay where she is.
Hetty!
You nearly finished in there? There's more to be washed, and I need you to whip some cream for me…’