Page 21 of The Gathering Storm

‘Darling,’ he said, taking her into his arms, ‘we don’t know what’s coming. All we know is that we can see the storm clouds gathering. We hope and pray the storm will pass us by. But just in case, we’d better have a damn’ good umbrella. That’s what I and Dowding and Tom Sopwith and all the rest are working on.’

She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Thank God I have you,’ she said. She thought about the war, the agonising waiting to hear from Jack, not knowing from hour to hour if he was still alive. His two brothers and his cousin Ned – who had been like a brother to him – had fallen in the war. He had been shot down, wounded, captured twice. He and she had survived, but their whole generation had been changed by the ordeal. That had been their war, Jack’s and hers. ‘If it comes, it will be the children’s war – Basil’s and Michael’s. And Barbara’s,’ she said.

Jack closed his eyes. He heard the words she didn’t say: You’ll be too old to go. It was one of those things a woman would never understand – that while he didn’t want war any more than she did, if it came he would want to go and fight, to protect her, his family and his world. It would be hard, intolerable, to be told he was useless and must keep out of the way.

Ellen’s polite cough from the doorway interrupted his thoughts. ‘Dinner’s ready, madam,’ she said.

She would tell Mrs Dyer when she got back to the kitchen that ‘they were spooning again’. She and the cook had both had to get used to it. It was nice in its way, to see how fond they were of each other, but that sort of thing was not done in the best houses.

Molly’s sharp eyes travelled from Basil’s face to the suitcase in his hand. ‘You’re in trouble again,’ she said. ‘What is it this time?’

‘Not my fault,’ he said automatically, then summoned his charm. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and said, ‘Hello, Aunty Molly. You’re looking very well. That colour really suits you.’

‘Don’t flannel me,’ Molly said, trying not to smile – Basil out to charm was hard to resist, and she was fond of him anyway. ‘What have you done?’

‘I lost my job, and I’ve had to move out of my lodgings,’ he said. ‘So I was hoping you’d take me in for a little while. Otherwise,’ he added pathetically, ‘I’ll have to sleep under a railway bridge, in the cold and the rain. And that will be so bad for my consumption.’ He coughed hollowly into a fist.

‘Oh, stop it,’ she laughed. ‘Of course you can stay here. But tell me you haven’t done anything really bad, or I shall feel obliged to tell your mother and father.’

‘No, I’m not wicked, just rather put-upon and stray-dog-ish,’ he said meekly. ‘And awfully hungry.’

‘Dinner will be an hour,’ Molly said. ‘Vivian’s not home yet. I’ll tell them in the kitchen to lay an extra place. Can you last until then, or should I ask them to bring you something to tide you over?’

‘Just a mouldy crust, or the scraps set aside for the dog will do – anything you can spare,’ he said, with deep pathos.

‘I’ll see what there is,’ she said. ‘Go on into the drawing-room, by the fire. You can leave your suitcase here. We’ll take it to the spare room later.’

In the drawing-room he found Charlotte sitting in an armchair by the fire. On the hearthrug, gazing up soulfully, was a loose-limbed young man in shirtsleeves and a Fair Isle sleeveless pullover, with dark hair flopping over his forehead. From these clues Basil divined that he was one of Aunt Molly’s pet poets. Her husband’s publishing house, Dolphin Books, published poetry, and Molly took it on herself occasionally to offer sympathy and basic nourishment to the tortured souls who produced it. ‘Otherwise they forget to eat, bless them,’ she had sometimes said.

Charlotte, who worked as an editorial assistant with Dolphin, was another ‘sort-of’ cousin – in fact, she was ‘Uncle’ Oliver’s niece, and sister to Richard, who had got Basil his first job after leaving school, driving motor-cars for Nevinson’s.

She looked up as Basil came in, and said, ‘This is a nice surprise. Molly didn’t say you were coming.’

‘I wasn’t expected,’ Basil said, approaching the fire. It was getting quite cold outside now the sun had gone down. He looked enquiringly at the flop-haired boy.

‘Oh, this is Leo Cust. Leo, Basil Compton. He’s a sort of cousin, works for the Bugle.’

The young man looked interested at this connection – the Bugle was known for its literary reviews – and began to scramble to his feet, but Basil waved him back down and said ‘Don’t get up. Not worth your while. I was sacked today.’

‘Oh, Basil!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing for your ears,’ Basil said. He looked at Cust. ‘Poet?’

Cust blushed. ‘I try. It’s what I want to do most in the world. And Mrs Blake says – she’s so kind – and Miss Howard—’

‘Mr Cust is working towards his first collection,’ Charlotte said briskly. ‘His poems are rather good. But, Basil, what are you going to do?’

‘Aunt Molly said I could stay here for a bit. I suppose I shall have to get another job of some sort. It’s either that, or go home to the Aged Ps.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Pained silences and reproachful looks,’ said Basil. ‘Mother mentally comparing me with Dad and seeing how far short I fall. You don’t know what it’s like, having an Übermensch for a father.’

‘I don’t have a father of any sort,’ Charlotte said.

‘Oh – sorry, Charley. I forgot,’ Basil said, trying to look contrite.

‘Anyway, I think Uncle Jack is a perfect pet,’ Charlotte said warmly.