Tyme's End (20 page)

There was silence. Morton-Smith got slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the trunk of the tree and groaning a little. He looked me up and down, letting his eyes linger, finally, on my face. I tried to hold his stare, but I felt my face flush and glanced away in spite of myself.

He said, ‘You're at Cambridge?'

‘Yes.'

‘Reading?'

‘History.'

‘Where were you at school?'

‘I don't think you'd have heard of it,' I said.

He smiled, and his teeth glinted wetly. ‘Try me.'

‘Peltenshall Grammar School. It's quite small – I don't think it's –'

‘Ah.' The smile broadened. ‘A
grammar
school. That would explain the accent.'

‘I –' I swallowed. ‘I didn't know I had an accent.'

‘Very well,' he said, ‘the
lack
of accent, then. Don't worry about it. After all, why bother with an expensive education when one can produce nearly the same effect with elocution lessons? What does your father do?'

‘He was a clerk.'

‘Was he in the War?'

‘Yes. He was killed.'

‘What rank?'

‘Private.'

He had rattled off the questions at me like a barrister interrogating a witness; but at that he paused and scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘I see,' he said.

‘Do you?' I said. ‘What?'

There was another beat of silence. Then he laughed. ‘That Jack hasn't invited you for your social connections.'

‘Is that why he invited
you
?'

‘Or your charm.' He brushed a blade of grass idly off his shirtsleeve, then returned his gaze to mine. ‘That leaves your intellect or your looks. Which is it, do you suppose?'

I turned aside and breathed in the scent of summer, letting my eyes rest on the bronze beech leaves against the high blue of the sky. I felt as if years had passed since I got off the train at Falconhurst station.

Morton-Smith seemed to take my silence as an attack. ‘I'm intrigued, that's all. Please don't be offended. I'm as fond of the WCs as the next man.'

‘The –?'

‘Working classes, dear boy. Privates and all.'

‘I don't think –' I stopped; then, against my better judgement, started to speak again. ‘Look, I don't see what my father has to do with you, or – or anything. He's been dead for nearly twenty years – I never even knew him myself. And I'm not
your
guest. You needn't cross-examine me as if I've come here to touch you for a fiver.'

He raised his eyebrows, smiling gently, and opened his mouth as if to answer; but suddenly he seemed to think better of it.

Jack's voice came from behind me. ‘Gardner. Your drink. Anthony, go and do something useful, there's a good chap.'

It surprised me that Morton-Smith should smile and obey him without a word, but he did. Jack watched him leave then turned to me, holding out a glass of whisky and soda. I took it and drank thirstily without thanking him, and he started to laugh. ‘I believe you're already regretting having come.'

I looked at him and laughed too. ‘I was. But I'm feeling better now.'

‘He has that effect on most people. He talks an awful lot of rot.'

‘He didn't understand why you'd invited me.'

‘He doesn't need to.' A thought seemed to strike him, and he raised one eyebrow. ‘Do
you
understand why I invited you?'

‘I –' I took another mouthful of the whisky and soda; I was drinking it too quickly, but I couldn't help it. ‘I hoped it was because you liked my company.'

He held my gaze. His mouth was in a half-smile, and his eyes were steady and amused. For a moment I remembered with unexpected vividness the first time I had met him, when I'd caught his eye at someone's idiotic comment and we'd swapped a look of shared humour; I remembered the hours that had passed like minutes as we talked, and the way that I had finally stumbled drunkenly back to my rooms, dizzy with euphoria and pride. I had forgotten how good-looking he was, and his air of holding the world in the palm of his hand.

He said, ‘You're an idiot, Gardner.'

‘Thank you,' I said, and drank again, until there was nothing left in the glass but ice. My lips made a slurping sound against the rim. When I looked up he was grinning, and even in the merciless summer light he looked hardly older than I was. I held out the tumbler, and added, ‘If I can have another drink I won't regret having come at all.'

He took hold of my elbow. ‘Come and get it yourself. Edie's inside – she burns horribly, it's the red hair – and she'll be a model of courtesy, I promise.'

I opened my mouth, wondering whether I should mention what she had said to me on the way from the station; but it was difficult, now, to remember exactly what she
had
said. In any case, there seemed to be no way of relaying it without giving it more importance than it deserved, and Jack was already propelling me gently but firmly towards the house. I leant into the pressure from his hand, feeling the same swell of delight and contentment that I'd felt on the station platform; and, as if he'd sensed it, he grinned at me.

‘Happy?' he said. ‘It's good whisky.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Yes. It is. I am.'

.

That night I woke sweating and struggling, hearing the silence ringing in my ears as if some loud noise had woken me. For a moment I was watching lines of grey men advance towards me over a moonscape of mud; and then I was staring into the dark, fighting to keep the nightmare at arm's length. I was tangled in the sheet, and it took me what seemed like an age of frantic effort to sit up and free my arms. I was wet all over with sweat and my pyjamas were clinging to my back and legs; but for all that I was cold, and I drew my knees up to my chest, shivering. I took deep breaths and concentrated on the moonlit room in front of me, making an inventory of its contents. I was at Tyme's End. I was safe. The terrible blank-faced figures surfaced again, and I pushed them away determinedly. In my dream there had been a smell like swimming baths and rotten meat, but now I could only smell the green, sweet smell of the garden outside. I dragged my fingers through my hair and wiped my hands on the pillowcase, steeling myself to lie down again and close my eyes.

There was a knock on the door. I said hoarsely, ‘Come in.'

It was Jack. In the half-darkness I could just make out that he was still dressed. A golden edge of electric light was spilling through the doorway. He said, ‘I thought I heard you call out.'

‘No. I mean – yes, I probably did. Sorry.'

‘Don't be absurd. What's up?'

‘Nothing. A nightmare.' I laced my fingers together and stared down at them. There was a silence, and I heard Jack dig in his pocket and light a cigarette. The faint smell of tobacco mixed with the scent blowing in through the open window.

‘You're too young to have nightmares,' he said.

‘It's my father's,' I said, without thinking, and then realised how peculiar it sounded. ‘I mean – it's about my father.' I glanced up, afraid that he wasn't listening, but he was watching me, his face intent. ‘I dream I'm in the trenches, about to go over the top. And then I see the enemy walking towards me. They're . . . grey. The whole world is grey. I have a revolver, and I fire at them, but it doesn't stop them. All at once I realise they're already dead, but they carry on walking towards me.'

‘And then?'

‘Then I wake up.' I laughed, but he hitched up one shoulder and only smiled faintly.

‘Do you want a cigarette?'

‘No. Thanks.' I leant back against the head of the bed, and felt myself relax slowly. It was comforting to sit and watch him smoke in half-silhouette. ‘It's queer. As if I've inherited my father's memories. I never knew him. He was killed before I was born, but I still dream about him. About the War. I know it's idiotic. I don't have any right to.'

‘I don't think anyone's possessive about their nightmares.'

‘At any rate, I dare say it was indigestion tonight,' I said, trying to laugh. ‘The food in college is so rotten it must have come as a bit of a shock to my system, getting something edible. And the drink too, I suppose.'

‘No doubt.' But there was a non-committal note in his voice. He'd finished his cigarette; he looked around for an ashtray, then came into the room, stubbed the end on the sole of his shoe and flicked the butt out of the window. He stood for a few moments looking out into the moonlight, so close I could have reached out and touched him. ‘I'm sorry about Anthony,' he said abruptly. ‘I don't blame you for thinking he's insufferable. And Edie and Philip can be tiresome. But they won't be here for long – only a couple of days, at the most – and then we can have a decent time.'

I said, ‘I thought –' He looked round at me, and I saw the pallor of his teeth as he smiled. I said again, awkwardly, ‘I thought . . . How long am I staying?'

‘As long as you want,' he said.

‘Oh. But the others –'

‘Damn the others.' He leant out of the window so that his voice was low, meditative, and half lost in the silvery darkness. ‘Compared to you, they're . . .' He said something indistinguishable.

I bent my head so that he wouldn't see me grin. I said, ‘It's very kind of you to say so –'

‘Nonsense. I'm glad to have you here. You were the only person worth listening to at dinner.'

I couldn't help laughing. ‘Are you including yourself?'

‘Certainly.' He brought his head back into the room and stood looking down at me, his face outlined by the moonlight. I couldn't see his eyes, and it gave me a strange, uncomfortable feeling not to know where he was looking. ‘Do you want anything? Water? A bromide? Whisky?'

‘No, thanks. I feel much better now.'

‘Good show. Sleep well.'

I lay down, putting my hands behind my head. His face was a study in white and dark, inscrutable, like a mask. There was a moment when neither of us moved; then he reached down and tucked me in. He did it silently, with a brisk, businesslike efficiency. I lay frozen with surprise. Then, without a word, he left the room and shut the door.

I stayed still, watching the dim shadows of the ivy on the wall, feeling a sudden, childish desire to cry; but when I thought about it, I knew I wasn't unhappy but full of a raw relief, like an exile finally allowed to come home.

.

.

II

.

.

When I woke up the next morning it was still early, so early that the light coming through my curtains was greyish and chilly. I leant out of the window and saw that the sun was just beginning to filter through the trees. The sky was a hazy silver-pink that would be blue later. The birds were making a joyous, raucous racket that made me wonder how anyone ever managed to sleep on past the sunrise.

I felt surprisingly fresh and alert, and before I had time to think I had dressed and left my room, creeping down the stairs into the hall. I opened the front door and took a deep breath. In spite of the birdsong the world was very still, and every leaf and blade of grass seemed distinct, like a cardboard cut-out; the whole scene gave the impression of a stage-set, a silent entr'acte, while the lead actor waited in the wings. As the air filled my lungs I had a strange, expectant feeling, as though in a moment I should understand something I'd been struggling with. But it faded as suddenly as it had come, and I was jerked rudely out of my dream by the insistent note of a motorbike. It grew louder until I saw the bike itself come down the drive and brake a few feet away, and its rider dismounted, laughing. It was Jack, of course: hatless, taking his goggles off, his hair over his face. He gave me a mock salute, already digging in his pocket for his cigarette case.

‘Good morning,' he said. ‘Sleep well?'

‘Yes, thanks,' I said, and looked away. I was obscurely ashamed of my nightmare, and I hoped that he wouldn't mention it; but somehow I was disappointed when he didn't.

‘Splendid.' He lit his cigarette. ‘Had brekker yet?'

‘No. I've only just got up. And I wasn't sure –'

‘Oh, it's Liberty Hall here – you must do as you please.' He put a casual hand on my shoulder. ‘Completely, absolutely as you please. Fancy a spin on the bike?'

‘No, thanks. I rather fancy going home in one piece.'

‘Oh, well. If you change your mind . . .' I felt the warmth of his fingers through my shirt. He dropped his hand. ‘I often go out on it early in the morning – you can get up to a respectable speed along the road to Tunbridge Wells. I recommend it.'

‘My mother would never forgive me if I got killed.' I meant it in jest, but something about the solemn, early-morning calm, and the way he was looking at me, gave it a weight I hadn't intended. ‘I mean –'

‘My dear chap, neither would I.' He smiled. ‘You're quite right. Don't play dice with death while you still have something to lose.'

There was a long silence. The sun had climbed, and now it was slanting through the trees into my eyes. The sky had gone from ashes-of-roses to a pale, delicate blue.

‘About last night –' I said, and stopped. Part of me wanted to pretend he hadn't seen me like that, sweating and unmanned by a bad dream, but the other part of me wanted to watch him remember, to know that he
had
been there and I hadn't imagined it.

‘Yes?'

‘Thank you. That is – thank you.'

He nodded, unsmiling, dropped his cigarette end on the gravel and stamped on it. ‘Do you remember what you said to Anthony, yesterday? I overheard you. You said that your father didn't matter any more.'

‘I don't think I said that ex—'

‘Perhaps not exactly. But you were right. Why should you have his nightmares?' He turned on his heel as if to go into the house, and the gravel crunched under his feet. ‘I've seen so many men ruined by their ancestors, in one way or another. You must leave all that behind. Leave
him
behind.'

‘I know he wasn't rich –'

‘That isn't what I mean. Oh, that's what Anthony would mean, or Edie. But no. I don't mean your father the factory clerk, although God knows he won't do you any favours – I mean your father the man. We're all the children of the dead, Gardner. Leave them where they are. We don't owe them anything.'

‘But –' I hated saying
but
to him.

‘What?' He laughed. ‘“If ye break faith with us who die/We shall not sleep”?'

Though poppies grow in Flanders fields
. . . My mind completed the lines, unbidden. ‘I can't help dreaming about him.'

‘No,' he said, and his voice softened. ‘No, Gardner, you can't. But you can start to understand that all he did for you was conceive you.'

‘All he did?'

‘Gardner, you will be a great man. A scholar, a soldier, a poet, perhaps. But you don't owe anything to the past. You owe everything to the future. And that, at least, is a debt you can pay.'

I stared at him, torn between pleasure that he thought so well of me and a kind of unidentifiable discomfort. And as if he sensed both impulses, he grinned and jerked his head towards Tyme's End. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘Enough of this. Let's have breakfast.' He put his arm round my shoulders. I could feel the warmth of his body, and I was glad of it.

I nodded, and let him lead me back inside the house.

.

By eleven o'clock it was already hot. I had chosen a book at random from the shelves in Jack's study, but I found myself too sleepy and languid to read it, even in the relative cool of the drawing room. Edie had wandered in without a word and draped herself sideways over the armchair near the window; she was wearing pyjamas, and her hair was in a tousled mess that made her look more boyish than ever. She yawned, and when I yawned too she caught my eye and smiled. There was an easy, undemanding quality to her silence, and for the first time I could understand why Jack had invited her.

The door opened. Jack's voice said, ‘What are you doing frowsting in here, Gardner? Do you fancy a bathe? There's a marvellous place on the riverbank, behind the house.'

Edie looked up, watched him for a moment, then turned her head away again.

I sat up. ‘Yes, thanks. Let me get my togs.'

‘No need. Edie won't be coming, will you, Edie?'

She met his eyes, and shrugged. ‘No, I don't think I shall.'

‘Good.' He looked back at me. ‘I thought we might take a luncheon basket down with us.'

‘That sounds delightful,' I said, glancing at Edie. Her face had a neutral, closed look, and she didn't return my gaze.

‘Buck up then, or I shall be nothing but a smear of grease, like a melted pat of butter. I don't know how you can stand it in here.' He turned on his heel and I heard him whistling as he crossed the hall.

I said, ‘Edie, if you wanted to join us, I'm sure you'd be most welcome –'

‘Are you? How amusing.'

‘I mean – that is –'

‘Oh, Oliver, for God's sake,' she said, swinging her feet on to the floor and walking to the window. ‘Jack is appallingly rude to me because he knows he'll get away with it, and it gives him pleasure. But it isn't your business.'

‘Why do you let him?'

She reached out and pulled sharply at a tendril of ivy, peeling it away from the windowsill. ‘I suppose you think you wouldn't?' There was a silence. ‘Why don't you go and have your little picnic? I'm sure it'll be heavenly beside the river. I simply adored it the first time Jack took me there.'

‘Edie –'

‘I'll have Anthony to keep me company. Or even Philip, if he's finished his letters. Have a lovely time.'

I watched her for a few moments, then took my leave silently. I remembered what Jack had said:
They won't be here for long
. . . I couldn't help wondering why he surrounded himself with people like Edie and Anthony; it was as if an athlete should surround himself with cripples. But I pushed the thought away guiltily, because it was unfair to think badly of Edie and traitorous to think badly of Jack.

‘Ah, Gardner. Give me a hand with this, won't you?' Jack was in the doorway with the luncheon hamper. He tilted his head over his shoulder at the bottles on the table behind him. ‘Champagne, lemonade, ginger beer. Bring them all if you can't decide.'

‘All right,' I said, laughing, loaded my arms with bottles, and went out after him into the sun.

We made our way to the far end of the lawn and through the trees, grinning and swearing as we caught our feet in the bracken and reeled under the weight of our burdens. After five minutes or so we came to the river and Jack led me downstream, to a place where the water rattled over stones and then widened and deepened. The banks sloped down to a wide, calm pool. The surface reflected the sun and the trees, so that the world was green and gold, muttering and chuckling to itself, smelling of moisture. I drew my breath in.

‘Like it?'

I looked at him, and he grinned.

‘Not too bad, is it? Put those bottles down – we can chill them in the water, over there, where it's shallow.' He set the hamper down on the grass. ‘Here's our lunch. Better bathe first, though.'

‘This is – it's –' I shook my head. Edie had been right: it
was
heavenly. I could feel the sun on the back of my neck and sweat prickling in my armpits and groin, but the fierce heat was almost pleasant, like pain when relief is imminent. I sat down and started to pick at my shoelaces with damp fingers.

Jack was already in the river by the time I had undressed, and I felt myself honour bound, under his amused eye, to plunge into the river without hesitation. The first iciness of the water took my breath away, and I heard myself give a husky shout of protest, but after a few frantic strokes I found the coolness on my skin delicious, and I rolled over on to my back, gazing up at the treetops. Jack murmured something, but the water was rustling in my ears and I couldn't hear the words. I held my breath and sank, watching the sunlight fall into wrinkles as it struck the surface above my eyes; then I floated again, twisting and diving just to feel the water moving over my body. When I put one foot down the mud oozed between my toes. Jack drove a fan of dazzling drops into my face, and I splashed him back. For a little while we played like schoolboys, laughing and yelling, until I begged for pax so that I could catch my breath. Finally I collapsed, exhausted, on the grass, letting the sunshine dry my skin, and watched Jack wade over to the bottles and wrestle good-naturedly with the champagne cork. His hands were wet, and it took a good deal of time before he could get a purchase on the bottle.

I opened my mouth, but there was nothing I could have said. I would have liked to tell him that I was perfectly, absolutely happy; I would have liked him to know that I had never expected to feel like a child again, irresponsible and safe, as I did now. But there was no question of putting it into words, even to myself. Instead I lay down, my chin on my hands, feeling the sun on my back, and inwardly thanked the world for existing.

We stayed on the riverbank for hours, slipping in and out of the water according to whim, eating a little here and there, as if the picnic were not lunch but rather an eternal elevenses, although we gave the champagne the attention it deserved. The morning turned into afternoon, and the sun swung slowly round, and we swam and read and dozed, hardly talking. I thought occasionally of the others, but it was only to be glad I was here, with Jack, without them. Sometimes, when I moved, I'd catch his eye and he'd smile at me. The champagne had gone to my head, and the ground beneath my hands tilted sleepily, first one way, then the other.

It was late afternoon. I drowsed, watching the blades of grass in front of my nose, feeling the new heat on my back as the shade retreated. Jack had been swimming, but after a few minutes I heard him get out of the water, and little flecks of cold landed on my shoulder blades. His shadow paused, and I started to turn my head to look up at him.

He said, ‘Don't move.'

I paused, waiting. Then I felt something brush my ribs, just to the left of my spine – a little impact, like the tap of a finger – and then trace a light, ticklish line down my side. The grass in front of my eyes blurred, filling my head with a green glow.

‘Stay still,' Jack said. There was the crunch of dry grass under his feet and the sense of something warm close to me. Then he put his hand on my back, paused for a second, and rocked back on his heels. ‘All right, you can move now.'

When I propped myself up on my elbows he was cupping his hands together. He opened them, tilting them carefully towards me, and I saw a beetle in his palm. It was a metallic green-gold, its carapace edged with a delicate fuzz. It waved its antennae with a dignified air, seeming to wonder what it was doing in Jack's hands. I leant over him to get a better look, and he looked at me and grinned. I said, ‘Gosh.'

‘It's like jewellery, isn't it?'

‘What is it?'

‘A rose chafer, I think. It must be rather confused, to end up here. They like flowers.'

I held my finger out to it, and let it examine my nail. It shone magnificently in the sun, like a squat, ponderous king wearing green and cloth-of-gold.

‘We should probably go back to Tyme's End,' Jack said, his eyes still on the beetle. ‘It must be nearly time for tea. Edie will think we've drowned.'