Page 70 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

He scanned her face, and an idea came to him. She saw it arrive. ‘You’re not already married?’

She laughed, but it wasn’t a nice laugh. ‘No, I’m not married. And not like to be.’

She tried to push past him. He sidetepped to block her, and said, ‘What is it, Rose? You can tell me. What’s bothering you?’

‘Nothing’s bothering me. Leave me alone.’

‘Did you mind me kissing you? You didn’t seem to.’

She was about to snap at him, but the memory came back to her. ‘The kissing was nice,’ she said, in a tone slightly less abrasive. ‘But I can’t marry you. Now I’m going.’

He stood in bewildered silence as she passed him, out of the alley and out of sight. The celebration was over for both of them. They made their separate ways home, both miserable where they should have been happy.

When the meal was over and the concluding speeches and applause had ended, the bigwigs departed, including his lordship, who, with a final clap on Axe’s shoulder and the umpteenth congratulation, hurried after Lord Bexley and the MP, with whom he needed to speak.

Axe’s family clustered round him with hugs and excited chatter. Esther kindly said he looked very fine, a real gentleman. Ruth, bustling and officious, said he couldn’t keep the suit in that damp cottage, that she’d take it home to store in her own wardrobe. Her daughter Polly said what if Uncle Axe wants to wear it again and Ruth said where would he wear it to? Anyway, he can come and get it, can’t he? And Ruth’s husband Joe Perkins, the tiler, rolled his eyes at Axe, suggesting he thought that she might make him wear it some time. Job, the youngest brother, wanted to touch the medal, asked if Axe would wear it to church, said jokingly-but-not-jokingly that he’d like to borrow it some time. Would he get free drinks at the pub with it? he asked, revealing his motive.

The rest of the guests, freed from their seats, were milling around and chatting. Most of them wanted to come up and speak to Axe. People he knew. Faces he vaguely recognised. People he didn’t know at all. He heard himself called a hero so many times the word started to sound queer to him. His arm was getting sore from all the pumping of his hand. He had never had a headache in his life before, but he had one now. He bore it all, smiling, murmuring a word of thanks.

And then she was there, shining like a star so that he saw only her; the rest was in shadow. She placed her small hand in his large one and it was like being given the whole world.

She said, ‘How’s Dolly?’

‘She’s all right. She misses you.’

‘I miss her,’ she said.

They both knew it wasn’t Dolly they were talking about.

Then she was gone.

It was twilight when he got back to the cottage. He didn’t wait for the fireworks. The festivities had taken on a life of their own and didn’t need him any more.

Dolly barked shrilly, indignantly, when she heard him coming; as he pulled into the yard, Della whinnied from the paddock, and Cobnut answered. A breeze had got up at sunset and the velvet night was full of little stirrings and whispering, but underneath it was a great peace that sank into him, like water into a thirst. He got down from the cart, absorbed Dolly’s frantic love, unharnessed Cobnut and turned him out with Della. He checked that Willie Cox had seen to the ducks all right, then trod wearily into the cottage. He looked around blankly. It felt as though he had been away for years, and everything seemed unfamiliar, while images from the day jumped and flickered in his mind, distracting him. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do next.

Dolly sat down at his feet and looked up at him with an insistent gaze.

‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘I expect you want a bit of grub.’ He’d hardly eaten all day, but he wasn’t hungry. He was sated beyond appetite on unwelcome attention. Then he discovered what he really wanted was a cup of tea.

He had filled the kettle after breakfast, as was his habit (his mother again – never leave the kettle empty, what if the pump should fail?). He only had to stir up the range and boil it. Dolly followed him, as he moved about, like a little shadow, longing for him after a day alone.

‘She sends you her love,’ he said.

Bobby was sitting with Nina when the letter came.

Nina was tired of being pregnant. She wanted to be able to move about again. She wanted to be able to rest in at least one position that was comfortable. She wanted to be able to sleep. And the pressure of the baby on her stomach was giving her heartburn. Fear of the actual birth had faded before the desire to get it over with.

She talked to the baby when she was alone, and lately what she said to him was Hurry up and come out! She imagined him lazing about in the womb, warm and comfortable. Male creatures always managed to have females running round after them, she thought, mothers, wives, daughters, housemaids, Circassian slaves…They never had to lift a finger, unless there was a war – and how often did that happen? This baby was definitely a boy.

She paid no attention to the knock on the street door – she couldn’t have got up if she wanted to, but as Aunt Schofield had pointed out, they had a plethora of servants in this small house. Bobby was talking, and she heard only a vagueness of voices, a male one making an enquiry and a female one answering. A short exchange. No maid came in, so it couldn’t have been for her.

‘Do you think there’s any chance of your coming to the Isle of Wight?’ Bobby was asking. Her father rented a house there every summer and the whole family went. Nina and Mr Cowling had been invited in previous years. ‘Obviously not straight away, but, say, in August? You could bring the baby with you.’

‘The way I feel now, I don’t believe this baby will be here by then. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was still pregnant at Christmas.’

‘Oh, I remember that feeling,’ Bobby said. ‘But he’ll come all right, and you’ll be so excited you’ll forget all about it until next time. And then you’ll think, Why on earth didn’t I remember and say, “No thanks!”’

Nina was about to say something about next time when she heard Mr Cowling’s unmistakable tread coming along the passage. He had been working in the little parlour he had taken over for his business-room. He came in with a letter in his hand and a look of consternation.