His brother became stuffier each time he met him; he had his good points however.
“Still busy, Geoffrey?”
“More than ever, Peter. Not making such an impact on the world as you though, Peter! I was so proud to see your name and face in the newspapers yesterday. Good to see that medal on your chest, and the promotion – you will be making the headlines while I remain a mere banker tucked away in a back office out of sight. I am so pleased for you – and respectful of your deeds, old chap! I know you will not want to spout off about it, so I won’t be asking you for all the details. You have brought glory to us all, you know. Lunchtime yesterday and today there were chaps asking was you one of us and I was delighted to say you was, outshining us all!”
True pleasure in his younger brother and not the slightest trace of jealousy that he was made lesser in the family. It was possible to forgive a great deal of stuffiness.
“Luck, Geoffrey. We came out of the clouds unseen at the right time and were able to put an end to that submarine’s killing of our merchant seamen. It’s a poor way of making war, sinking civilians from ambush, Geoffrey! I see it more like rat killing than fighting an honourable enemy, you know.”
“So it is, Peter! You are so right.”
His father was more restrained in his congratulations, no less sincere.
“Admiral before you are forty at this rate, Peter. What’s this of a young lady in Shoreham, my son?”
“Little more than an acquaintance yet, sir. Josephine Hawes-Parker – my mother says you know the family vaguely – still young and a friend, which is not to say she may not become more, sir.”
“Early days, in fact, Peter. Good family and faintly connected. Her father is in Washington, I believe – in fact, I am sure. Met up with the name dealing with American business recently. No objections from me if you look for a marriage there. Not that there would be if you choose to marry anywhere – you are old enough and ugly enough to look after yourself, young man!”
They laughed together, Peter’s mother inclined to be indignant – her son was not ugly.
“Oh, and well done for that bit of colour on your chest, my son. First in the family, us not being in the military line, generally speaking. Well-earned and does your future no harm. Good for the bank, too – not that that should be important to you. Any number of bigwigs catching my eye and offering a word of congratulation this couple of days. Very useful. You must do it again, my son!”
They parted to change, Peter swearing quietly that Oadby was not to hand to assist him with dress uniform.
Jennifer was not present to join them – apparently she worked long hours at the hospital, especially when a new batch of wounded came in from France.
“The figures are appalling still, Peter. Men going down by the thousand. Your Naval Brigade has been in the thick of it again.”
Peter wondered how the two unwilling recent recruits to the Brigade’s ranks had fared. He cared very little, he discovered. Neither man had been worthy of the name – he had no affection for the cowardly.
They took two cars to the Lancings, formal dress demanding space, for the womenfolk especially.
He had seen the Lancings’ seat before, a manor that had now been overtaken by the town, had new housing on three sides, all large, detached properties for the City men who travelled into Town every day, like the Nasebys.
“Will Lancing sell up, do you think, Father?”
“Get out of the area and let the developers pull down the old place and put up another hundred of ‘six-bedroom bijou mansionettes’ Peter? That is a quote from an estate agency, I would add, not my imagination!”
They savoured the ridiculous phraseology, almost admiring that sort of mind that could come up with something so pretentiously ridiculous.
“’Bijou’, Father? What exactly does that mean?”
“Small, delicate and elegant, I believe, my son. I looked in my dictionary, disbelieving, when I first saw it used for the redbrick monstrosities they are depositing all over Surrey and Middlesex.”
“Tasteless vulgarity taken to the nth degree, it would seem sir.”
“Well said, young man. Hush now, we must present ourselves, the Nasebys en masse, you at the front, Peter.”
“Not damned likely, sir. I may well walk in front of your coffin one day, but I shan’t claim superiority over you before then!”
“Well said. I stand rebuked – the fate of all fathers, they tell me.”
Lord Lancing stood next to his broad-hipped lady, welcoming his guests at the door, as was right. He was very slightly tipsy. Peter remembered that to be his normal condition at any time of day or night; he suspected that he took a double brandy on the hour, every hour, to maintain his condition.
“Good to see you, Naseby, and you, ma’am. Commander Naseby, you are most welcome to my roof, sir. Mr Naseby, Miss Ermintrude Naseby, I am glad to greet you.”
They made the appropriate mutters in reply and passed inside, leaving my lord to welcome the next comers.
At a glance Peter estimated a score of guests already present, stood in the large, old hall. It was unexpected to discover a country mansion in the town – inevitable, he supposed, considering London’s growth in recent years. Ewell had been a small market town, drowsily distant from the capital barely fifty years previously, was now a suburb of London. He suspected that the hall would very soon be demolished, almost as soon as the war ended and building started again.
His parents knew all those present, went through the series of introductions that brought him to their notice. Being Navy, he had been absent from local society for the previous decade and more, had become an unknown. Now, it seemed, all were anxious to meet him.
He spotted two other uniforms, both Army and general officers, well into their fifties, his father’s age. He came to attention as he met them, spotting breasts well adorned with campaign ribbons.
“Pleasure to meet you, Commander. Damned good job of work. Well deserved, that piece of ribbon!”
He made his thanks, said as little as possible. Stepping back, he found himself in the middle of a gaggle of young females, ages between seventeen and his own, he guessed. He presumed they were five of Lancing’s many daughters.
The eldest had a grin on her face, leading him to suppose his own emotions had been evident
“I’m Charlie Lancing. Surrounding you are Lottie, Mary, Effie and Silvie – we tend not to stand on formality. I’m Number One – the others are Three, Five, Six and Seven. Two is married and escaped our happy home and Four is male – according to rumour – and is elsewhere engaged in the military, staff officer to Sir John French. Eight, Nine and Ten are too young for company yet.”
They were overpowering, laughing, bright and enthusiastic. Fairly good-looking as well, he had to admit, all of middle height and prominent on bust and backside, definitely women, unlike the modern fad for the skinny, androgynous flapper. He much preferred females who were unashamedly that – sailors tended to be old-fashioned, he knew.
“Peter Naseby, ladies. I am pleased indeed to meet you.”
Charlie’s grin widened.
“I am to be your dinner partner, Commander, though there is such a shortage of males these days that we cannot produce a balanced table. I believe my father wants to marry me off – he has been introducing me to every single man he can discover, up to and including Colonel Wharton, ex-Indian Army, in his fifties, can’t be here tonight for his gout playing him up.”
“I don’t think I can compete with a colonel, Miss Lancing.”
“Not in rank, perhaps, sir. Do you have to go back to Polegate tomorrow? I am in London, I have a flat there, can’t stand the atmosphere here! I run a dress shop with a pair of friends – high fashion, our own designs. Drives my father mad that I can earn enough to make my own way. Do come and visit us for lunch on your way back.”