‘I’m treating you to lunch at the Corner House – we haven’t been there for such ages,’ said Lily, getting up and opening the fitting-room door. ‘By the way, how did you manage to get rid of my mother?’
‘Oh – I told her about the new spring sale at Liberty’s. I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly in my life.’
It was Eleanor who had first spotted it, in the Births column of The Times. They happened to be staying at Silverton House while their mother convalesced from a riding accident. She had broken her wrist in a fall, and both of her children had come down from London to stay for a few days. Will read the notice which his sister placed, without comment, before him.
HOLLAND. On 16 April 1920, at Brunswick Square, Hove, to Ada (née Brink), wife of Captain T. Holland, a son.
Will stared at the announcement in silence, his heart trapped in a pincer movement of remembered guilt and relief. He had done the right thing back then, though whenever he recalled the scene of separation in its particulars it burned with the sharpness of acid. He had long dreaded the moment he would have to ask Ada to release him from their engagement; yet the miracle of chancing upon the only woman he had ever truly loved would give him, he believed, the impetus to go through with it. After all, a greater crime than abandonment would be to formalise a relationship in which neither partner was suited to the other. In the event, his fond assumptions had come to nothing. His own heart broken that August night in Kensington Gardens, he had arranged to meet Ada the day before his return to duty in France, and found himself breaking her heart in turn. It had surprised him. Will had foresight, but he was severely deficient in romantic imagination. While he knew that sundering a two-and-a-half-year engagement would be awkward, he had never properly appreciated the depth of Ada’s attachment to him, and as he stuttered through a confession of his doubts about their long-term compatibility, he noticed a disbelieving expression take hold of her features that genuinely shocked him. Had she not sensed that he had been withdrawing from her? No: apparently she had not. He blundered on. The long engagement had been a trial to her – it was not fair that she sacrifice herself to him – he should step aside and yield her to a more deserving fellow. By the time he had finished, Ada’s frame was trembling with an almost soundless sobbing, and for some moments she seemed unable to speak. But at last she looked at him.
‘You have talked as if you were doing me a favour – yet it seems I am the one in distress. Could you not have told me as soon as you knew that I had become – a burden?’ And Will then felt the full piercing shame of his behaviour. He could have flannelled a little more, but he had no spirit left in him. A few more broken phrases passed between them; when he stood up to leave he offered his hand to her – which she didn’t even turn her face around to refuse. He had walked away, though he had registered through his humiliation the faint euphoric pulses of what he knew to be his deliverance.
Four years ago, almost. The single morsel of comfort he stored on his way to the front the following day was that he had avoided the howitzer recoil of his mother’s wrath. He kept hearing reverberations of it, however, in the wry tone of Eleanor’s letters to him. On coming home from France at the end of the war he learned that Ada had married an officer in the winter of the previous year and was living in Brighton. By then his mother’s fury had abated, and their reunion passed off without any mention of Ada or of his disobliging conduct. But he could tell from an edge in her voice, from a stiffness in her smile, what a disappointment he had been to her.
He folded up the newspaper and passed it back to Eleanor, who gazed at him tolerantly over her new reading spectacles. Well, Ada was now a mother, and good luck to her. He sighed, then pointed a finger upwards to the bedroom where they could hear their mother moving about.
‘It might be a good idea if you don’t let her see that.’
The first week in May, Will was back in London and walking from his flat over to Lord’s, where the second day’s play of an MCC testimonial match had just begun. The cricket season, about to resume in earnest for the first time since 1914, had brought in the crowds, starved of the game, as of much else. Will was eking out his last days of leisure before returning to county cricket with M—shire. He did not savour the prospect. After the five-year hiatus, he was no longer confident of drawing on his old talent. When he had turned up for his first net the previous week, the bat had felt toylike and puny in his hands, and from the number of times the ball flew past his edge he suspected his eye had lost its former keenness. Three times he heard the clatter of stumps behind him – the death rattle! – and it began to seem extraordinary to him that he had ever managed to earn a living from cricket at all. He tried to encourage himself with the reflection that most of the older players would face the same predicament, returning to a profession that seemed quite alien after what they had experienced during the war. He had longed to play when he was out in France; now, nearly thirty-three and facing the expectant gaze of peacetime, he was not sure that he still knew how.
He found the ground nearly full, even at this early hour. He could have gone to sit in the members’ stand, but he dreaded encountering acquaintances from pre-war days and the stilted effort to fill in the blanks – Which brigade …? So you must have fought at …? He hated talking about it, and had assiduously avoided all the reunions and regimental dinner invitations that came his way. After the enforced gregariousness of war he found that he much preferred his own company, and sitting amid a crowd of strangers watching cricket suited him best of all. He bought a score-card from one of the sellers, and edged his way along one of the middle rows in the Tavern Stand. Conditions were good. A phalanx of silvery-white clouds were massing overhead, and a late-spring moisture in the air would help the swing bowlers. He felt the awakened thrill of the game as it settled into its rhythm, the run-up of the bowler supported by the ring of fielders stalking in, the release of the ball, the tock of the bat meeting it, and then the retreat to positions to await the next ball: in, and retreat, in, and retreat, there was an organic steadiness to it, like a lung expanding and contracting. The umpire’s faint call of ‘over’, the switching of ends, a slight rearrangement of the field – and then it started again. Oh, if he could only sit here forever …
It was by degrees that his trance of absorption was disrupted. Usually he would forget all about his fellow spectators as he focused upon the game, his eye caught fast on the smallest ripples of activity in the middle. But from somewhere behind him a voice had crept into earshot and thrown his concentration. It was an old man’s voice, by the sound, not disagreeably loud or abrasive – but insistent. It seemed that the old fellow was commenting upon the cricket for the benefit of two much younger companions, a man and a woman. It was not an occasional remark, either, but almost a ball-by-ball narrative: ‘Hmm … he’s glanced that to square leg, taken a quick single … End of the over – fifty-four without loss.’ Will, helplessly intrigued, was soon eavesdropping on the trio’s chitchat. He wanted to sneak a look at them, but could not do so without obviously and vulgarly craning around. There was a jolliness about them he liked, and a mutual ease that made him think they were related. Yet something baffled him. The young woman – Molly, he heard her called – required explanation of the game, which the old fellow patiently supplied; but the young man (‘feller-me-lad’), from what Will could hear, was a cricket lover and seemed to know all about the players. So why was the old man describing to him the evidence of their own eyes? ‘Ah, he’s got that one through the covers … fielder’s fallen on his ar—backside (pardon me, Molly) … over the rope it goes.’
When the lunch interval came Will tried to retune his ear to something else, but found himself listening again to his neighbours. With the players off, the old gent had ceded the conversational reins to his two companions. They were now discussing family matters, and at first Will had to strain to pick up the quieter voices of the young couple. On first hearing mention of the name he thought he had imagined it, but soon it was on
their lips again: they were talking, with evident familiarity, about a certain Connie. He leaned back slightly, pricking his ears. Unable to help himself, he stole a quick glance round, first taking in the old cove, then the young woman, neither of whom he knew. He had to twist round in his seat to look at the young man, being directly behind him, and he started back almost in fright. He recognised that face, from a long time ago.
‘Um … Fred?’
‘Who’s that?’
Will looked more closely at him, and saw there was something wrong with the eyes. He couldn’t be, surely – ‘It’s Will – Will Maitland.’
‘Ah!’ came the reply. Will looked over in appeal to the young woman. She seemed to grasp the difficulty straight away, and with the briefest smile of reassurance she passed her hand over her eyes, a little mime that told Will for certain that Fred was blind. He now perceived a milkiness in the whites. In the meantime Fred had thrust out his hand, which Will took, and held for some moments. ‘I know what you were going to say,’ Fred said, amusement in his voice. ‘“Long time, no see.”’
‘I’m – I’m very glad to see you again,’ Will half gasped, blushing at his ungainly repetition of the word ‘see’.
‘Let me introduce you. This is my wife, Molly – and my grandfather, Roger Callaway. Will is an old friend …’ he added, with tactful vagueness.
‘I’ve been enjoying your commentary this morning, sir,’ said Will quickly.
The old man – who, on close inspection, was more ancient than Will had thought – threw up his hands, and seemed to smile beneath his drooping white moustache. ‘Nyuff, nyuff. Kind of you, sir. Young feller-me-lad here has to know what’s happening.’ He patted his hand gently on Fred’s knee.
‘So what are you doing here?’ asked Fred. ‘I thought you’d be playing for the county by now.’
Will replied that he would be, soon enough. When the old man was told which county, he became animated again. ‘M—shire, is it? Why, you must have played with Tamburlain.’
‘I did indeed, sir. He was a very dear friend of mine.’
Mr Callaway shook his head, and said quietly, ‘Poor man. Never saw such a batsman, before or since. Fred, didn’t you say Constance knew him a little?’ He turned again to Will. ‘Constance is my younger granddaughter. Perhaps you’ve met her – great cricket lover, of course …’
There was a slight pause, which enabled Fred to change the subject. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough, Grandpa –?’ He rose to his feet, then explained for Will’s benefit. ‘I need the gents, I’m afraid …’
Will, rising from his seat, said, ‘Perhaps you’d let me help you …’
‘No, no. You stay here with Molly. We should be back, oh, any time within the next two hours.’ He laughed as he took hold of the old man’s arm, and together the pair of them began, very slowly, shuffling along the row towards the exit. Will noticed other spectators looking at them curiously, and could almost read their thoughts: the blind leading the blind. He glanced over at Molly.
‘Should I have – let them go?’
Molly smiled. ‘Don’t worry. They always manage. I think they enjoy looking after each other.’
Will appraised her more closely now. She wore a wide-collared frock and a narrow-brimmed cloche hat; her hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob and her round, clear-skinned face was elevated from comeliness to beauty by the open charm of her smile. It seemed to suggest an eagerness to please, and an expectation that others would respond in a like spirit of warmth. They talked of how she and Fred had met. Gassed at Cambrai in 1917, Fred had been at a hospital in London to which Molly was a volunteer visitor, reading to the blind.
‘When I first met him he was very depressed, of course, about losing his sight. So I would do my best to cheer him up, and started visiting him every day. That makes me sound more virtuous than I am,’ she added. ‘The truth is, I’d rather fallen in love, and I sought him out at the expense of the other men. You see, he had such a lovely face, and he would say things like, “When I wake up in the morning sometimes I don’t know whether I’m properly awake or still asleep –”’ She stopped, and blushed at herself. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’
‘Please, don’t apologise,’ said Will. ‘Do you mind my asking – um, why does he want to come here …?’
‘You mean to something that he can’t see? It was Connie’s idea. When Fred came back from France she used to take him out – to the park, or wherever – and describe to him what she saw. And then she thought to take him to the cricket, which they both love. It was just a school match, but she made sure he knew exactly what was happening. Fred said it was like watching it in his head. Unfortunately, I don’t know a thing about maiden overs or leg before wicket … but I’m trying to learn!’
‘You have the old man to help you.’
‘Yes! Isn’t he a dear?’ Here she leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Do you know, he’s eighty-five years old.’ Her round-eyed look of wonder was so guileless that he was almost betrayed into laughter. He hesitated before he next spoke.
‘And Connie – she’s well …?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s working at the Middlesex – otherwise she would have been here today.’
Will nodded. There was one piece of information he was suddenly eager to secure, but he wasn’t sure how he could without seeming impertinent. ‘And is she, um, still living at home?’
Molly took the question innocently. ‘No, she’s got a little flat in Regent’s Park Road. So we’re quite near to one another.’
He guessed from her use of the singular that Connie was unattached, though he took no pleasure in it. When he thought of their brief re-acquaintance in that August of 1916 it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. Their chance meeting at the Women’s Hospital, her dramatic surgical intervention, the night they danced at the party in South Kensington, and afterwards … it felt unreal in retrospect, a phantasmal interlude between those eternities in France. He had never been in contact with her since, partly out of an offended pride, but also out of a self-protective instinct. He could not bear to go through that again, to have come so close to catching the vital object of his life only to have it slip from his grasp. To renew the pursuit would have been mortifying, and friendship was out of the question: either he must have her entirely, or not at all. He had chosen the latter. He now realised that Molly had asked him a question.
‘I’m sorry –?’
‘I was just saying – Connie is coming to dinner at Thornhill Crescent this Friday, and I thought you might like to join us.’ He read ingenuous expectation in her face.
‘Oh …’
‘I mean, since you haven’t seen each other in a while –’
‘That’s extremely kind of you, but I’m – I have another engagement. On that night.’
Her look of regret seemed so sincere that, for a moment, he was tempted to change his mind and accept. She suddenly reminded him of Connie herself. How was it that he had never won the love of such a woman? Fred had managed it – and he was blind.
‘Oh well, perhaps another time,’ said Molly brightly.
But Will was distracted, having spotted the stumbling return of Fred and his grandfather through the polite commotion of spectators standing to make way. In a reflex of sympathy he too stood and moved towards them, arms outstretched, barking his shins against the seats, rather like a blind man himself.
21
THEY HAD ALREADY sat down to dinner by the time Connie let herself in at Thornhill Crescent. Friday evenings at the hospital tended to be frantic, and she had left late, and then had stopped off at the flat to change out of her uniform. As she walked past St Andrew’s she could hear the echoing strains of choir practice. Lights were coming on in the houses as the evening grew dark. This neighbourhood was so much a part of her that, a year on since her move to Camden, she still sometimes found herself absently boarding the tram to Caledonian Road.
As she approached the dining room her ea
r picked up voices she had not expected to hear, and she paused at the hall mirror to interrogate her reflection. She looked tired, and would now have to brace herself in anticipation of others telling her so. She quickly practised a smile – it seemed rather guarded and vulnerable tonight – and pushed open the door.
‘Hullo, everyone. Sorry I’m late.’
Her arrival caused little murmurs and trills of appreciation. On either side of her mother sat Olivia and Lionel, looking sleekly prosperous; she wondered what they were doing here. They rarely came to Islington unless there was a very particular occasion. Perhaps Molly had invited them. At the opposite head of the table sat her grandfather, who rose totteringly to draw back the vacant seat next to his.
‘Do sit down, my dear,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We’ve only just started.’
‘Where on earth have you been?’ asked Olivia, who had grown more matronly but no less impatient with the years.
‘At work – where else?’ she replied with a shrug. ‘And then I had to wait for a train from Chalk Farm.’
‘Some of us still have to use public transport, you see,’ added Fred. ‘Apparently Lionel and Olivia came here in the new motor, Con.’ Connie had noticed the car parked outside the house, but had not imagined for a moment she would know the owners.
‘It’s a Wolseley coupé, thirty hp, just been completely overhauled,’ announced Lionel, in the sort of tone that suggested that his audience might be impressed, though in fact none of them knew a thing about cars. Molly was helping her to the fish, a poached turbot in a béchamel sauce: she was an enthusiastic but nervous cook, and this dish, as she explained, was a first attempt. Connie found that it tasted better than it looked.
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