Afterwards he made up the living-room divan for himself. Sometimes on cold nights he used to take off the mattress and put it by the fire, but nowadays it was firelight or ventilation. On his embarkation leave, he had looked around his room thinking he would probably never sleep there again; but he had guessed the wrong reason.
Soon after, his mother came in. He must be good to her, he thought, as if she were going into hospital with something worse than she knew. He found some sherry and they sat down to village gossip by the fire. It wasn’t, he thought, an ill wind for everyone; for she would make a good vicar’s wife if she were allowed to get on with it, unintrusive and kind. She was happy to find that he had stopped being difficult; they chatted quite gaily till, remembering something he had meant to ask before, he said, “By the way, Mother, what are you doing about the house?”
“Well, dear, really! You don’t mean to say that you’ve not written to the Trevors yet? It’s not fair, you know, to be unbusinesslike with friends, and they depend on it so much. As you didn’t write back about it, I naturally assumed you’d no objection.”
“Me? Whyever should they mind what I think?”
“Laurie! Didn’t you read my letter? Surely you do know this house belongs to you now?”
As she spoke it began to come back to him. It had been fifteen years ago, and he had forgotten with the deep forgetfulness which is not an accident. He had been just old enough to understand that it would be in the nature of things for him to outlive her; his grandfather’s death had been a terrible reminder of her mortality. He had thrown his arms round her and said, “But you’re not going to die or get married, so you’ll have it for ever.”
Now he didn’t know what he felt. For the present it was an empty possession; even if war regulations had allowed him to keep it as a weekend place, he couldn’t easily have used it with the vicarage a quarter-mile off. But it was something of his own, a fragment of the past that couldn’t utterly be snatched away. No one could cut down the damson or the cedar. “I’ll write straight away,” he said when they had discussed the business. “I’m sorry I left it.”
He was writing the letter when Aunt Olive, who had answered the telephone, snatched pencil and paper and began to take down a wire, her manner becoming tinged with gloomy importance.
“I’ll read it you word for word.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘Sharp attack last night doctor vetoes travel very sincere regrets and heartfelt wishes for your happiness Edward Lethbridge.’ ”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Odell. “Oh, dear. I was so afraid … I asked him if he really felt equal to it, but after what he said about Raymond … Besides—”
Laurie said, “I’m sorry he’s ill.” His wits moved slowly. Aunt Olive gave him a bright, nonreproachful look.
“Well, how lucky it is, isn’t it, that you’re here and able to step into the breach!”
Without quite looking at either of them, his mother said, “Of course I know it’s considered correct, but perhaps …”
Yes, he had read that part of the letter. He remembered now why Great-Uncle Edward had been so important. As soon as he became capable of thought again, he realized that there was, in fact, nobody else now.
“Would you like me to give you away, Mother? Unless someone’s coming who’d be better?”
“Who could be, darling? I know it’s rather sudden for you; it’s because we’re such a small family. At least,” she said, in the comfortable voice with which she had smoothed the minor crises of his schooldays, “you won’t have to worry about clothes.”
“I wish I could have put up a pip for you.”
“Darling, everyone can see why it was you didn’t have time for that.”
Yes, he thought, of course. He tried to remember how long the aisle was. It was quite a big church. “It won’t look too good. I mean I’m awkward to walk with, rather.”
“I shan’t find you awkward.” She got up from her chair and kissed him. “We must let Mrs. Joyce know about Uncle Edward at once; she was putting him up.”
“I’ll go,” he said; but it ended with the two women going together. The house was quite near, Mrs. Joyce buoyant and reassuring.
There was still the big cupboard in his room to be cleared for the Trevors. If he didn’t do it tonight, he would have to come back to the empty house tomorrow. It could be dealt with quite simply by throwing everything away.
He got a dust-sheet and began tossing things into it. It was something of a massacre, for he had eliminated the rubbish when he joined the army, with the idea of sparing his mother a depressing job if he got killed; what was left had all had value for him as little as a year ago. When he came to the fencing foil again, he thought it wouldn’t hurt to leave this in the bottom of the cupboard; it took up almost no room, and the Trevors wouldn’t fuss. Then he remembered that out of all that was here, this was the thing he had least occasion to keep.
He was sitting awkwardly on the floor, doing the kind of job for which it is natural to kneel, or squat on the heels. Suddenly he felt run to a standstill under the accumulated weight of the day’s wretchedness. He struggled to his feet, the foil still in his hand, its lightness coaxing his wrist and the heavy boot dragging at his foot. The guard rang dully as he let it fall.
Laertes, you but dally, I pray you pass with your best violence; I am afear’d you make a wanton of me. …
Laurie walked over to the window-seat. The curtains were gone, only the blackout stuff was left. He went and switched off the light. Now the night sky glimmered behind the damson-tree, and as his eyes cleared of dazzle, the stars appeared.
“You mustn’t worry any more, Spud.”
There would be frost soon on the pane. Laurie pressed his forehead to the icy glass and shut his eyes. He didn’t know why memories which had lain with his mind’s lumber for so many years, waking no more than a dim nostalgia, should return now to charge the present with so unbearable a weight of longing. On a stricken field littered with the abandoned trophies of his lifetime, he remembered a victory which had once seemed beyond the furthest reach of the most secret aspiration. But he only said to himself that he must have someone to talk to.
He put on the light and looked at his watch. His mother had only been gone fifteen minutes. Mrs. Joyce was a great gossip; half an hour would be the least.
He went down to the telephone, called Trunks, and waited. There might be a raid on somewhere, he thought, it might take an hour. He found he had got hold of a loose bit of trimming on the chair-arm and was pulling it off.
He had made it a personal call; he didn’t want to hear voice after voice saying that Mr. Lanyon couldn’t be found. There were women’s voices outside, already, at the gate. But they were village voices, and passed on.
“Have they answered yet?”
“No. Will you try again, please, it’s urgent.”
“The line has been busy but I am trying to connect you.” A bit of wire many miles off crackled and whispered.
“Hello, Spud.”
Laurie’s heart jerked violently, then steadied like a car settling into top gear.
“Hello, Ralph. How on earth did you know it would be me?”
“Never mind. Where are you speaking from?”
“Home.”
“Well, Spud, how is it? Not madly gay?”
“Well, so-so. Everyone’s out; back any minute, I expect.”
“Spud, relax. Forget it’s a telephone. We’re on our own. Loosen up, and tell me about it. House packed up?”
“Yes; I’ve been doing my room.”