Mike listened for a time, and then said, “Mother’s been on to you, hasn’t she?”
“What do you mean?” Rob said awkwardly.
“She had a few words with me,” Mike said, “after she read my last report. And I overheard a snatch here and there at Christmas while I was playing the piano and you were in the drawing room. There are some funny acoustics in that house.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“Tell her anything?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I know you wouldn’t. And don’t worry about me, either. She fusses at times.”
There was nothing to worry about, really. This was just a craze of Mike’s. People got them at times. Like the boy in the house who had spent the first half of term teaching himself to play the violin, and the second half whittling boats to launch in the stream that ran through the school grounds. The second enterprise had been as enthusiastic and pointless as the first, but less of a nuisance for everyone else.
“It’s funny,” Mike said.
“What is?”
“I don’t suppose I would have been interested in any of this if I hadn’t run across you that day.”
Was that true, Rob wondered. It might be, in a way. But probably only because Mike had been bored and looking for something to get interested in. It was a pity it had to be something like this which could cause trouble. But if it were just a craze it would pass quickly enough. He went back to his satisfaction at having left the Penfolds. There was a long open stretch of hill ahead.
“Come on! Let’s give them a gallop,” he said to Mike.
• • •
The Lent term seemed to pass even quicker than the Michaelmas term had done. Rob felt he had settled into school by now and got the measure of things. It was not exactly a case of roses all the way—he had one bad spell in midterm with two beatings in three days—but he had to admit he was enjoying life. The high spot came with the junior cross-country run in which, after holding third place for most of the course, he managed a burst of speed which put him in front. His name, R. Perrott, would be added to the hundred others inscribed on the base of the big silver cup and in June, at Speech Day, he would be given the small silver replica to keep. He felt a twinge of pleasure when he thought of it.
End of term was one of a succession of cold wet days. The post coach, taking them home, flung up spray from puddles that had formed where the road surface was worn. It rained almost continuously for three days after that, and then the April sun dried and warmed the land. Spring budded and sparkled. The chestnuts were in delicate green leaf and soon would be in flower. Spelled chestnut for the tree, Rob reminded himself, but chesnut for the horse. One more thing which everyone in the County took for granted but which for him represented a conscious effort. But it was an effort that got easier all the time.
He rode with Mike into Oxford to buy presents for Cecily’s birthday. From a distance they looked at the city, their horses reined in. Spires gleamed in the sunshine. Like Mike he would go there some day—to Christ Church which was where the Giffords had always gone. The House, as it was called, five hundred years old, brooded over by Tom Tower, having a cathedral inside its very walls for a chapel.
“Looks good,” he said.
One did not enthuse about things that impressed one: it was not customary. Mike said, after a moment:
“Yes. Do you see over there?”
“Those fields?”
“There were factories there once. Making cars. Not electrocars. The old kind, with internal-combustion engines. It was one of the biggest in England. Perhaps the biggest.”
The city was a jewel, the green fields a setting for it.
“Don’t tell me you’d like to see them back?” Rob said.
They still argued about the state of society, but less frequently. They recognized that they were on opposite sides and that argument got them nowhere. There was a pause before Mike replied.
“No, I don’t.”
He moved forward on Captain and Rob on Sonnet followed suit. They rode into the city, tethered their horses at an inn just off the High, and did their shopping. Mike found a silk shawl for Cecily, bright red with a crimson fringe. Rob bought her a pendant, a small opal on a thin silver chain. It cost more than he could really afford, but he knew she would like it. After that they window-shopped for a time. Everything in the shops here looked so much more solid, more real, than the flashy trinkets and gadgets of the Conurb. There was a lot of silver and polished leather. He looked longingly at a magnificent bow with beautifully feathered arrows in a silver-banded quiver.
A clock chimed and he pulled out the pocket watch which had been his Christmas present from the Giffords, to check the time.
“Do you think we ought to be getting back for luncheon?”
“Look,” Mike said, “you go on. I’ll see you at the inn. I’ve remembered, there’s a chap I’ve got to look up. About a horse.”
“I’ll come with you, if you like.”
Mike shook his head. “No need. It won’t take more than five minutes. I’d rather you ordered for me—they’re usually a bit slow at that place. I’ll have the steak pudding.”
Rob had an impression there was more to it than that—that Mike did not want him with him. Well, that was his affair. He nodded, and walked away in the direction of the inn.
• • •
At the beginning of the holidays Mike and Rob had done some fly-fishing on the river running through the grounds of Gifford House. They caught quite a few trout, some of which they cooked and ate out of doors, picking the firm, slightly pink flesh off the bones with their fingers. Rob commented on the color and Mike told him they were called salmon trout though they had no connection with the salmon family. Their flesh was pink because they fed largely on a tiny pink shrimp.
He had suggested they should go salmon fishing some time. In the last twenty years these had been coming up to the higher reaches of the Thames, and the Giffords had friends with a stretch of the river who had given the family a permanent invitation to fish it. They were the Beechings whom Rob had met a couple of times already. He was a huge, corpulent man, she a small, thin woman. They had no children of their own but liked the company of young people.
After their visit to Oxford, Mike made a definite arrangement for the pair of them to ride over the following Friday. Then, on the Thursday, he himself backed out. It was the business of the horse again. His father had given him permission to look for another hunter and this coper in Oxford claimed he had the chance of a very good one. The opportunity of seeing it had come up earlier than he had expected, and he would have to take it. The man claimed other parties were interested.
“That’s all right,” Rob said. “We can put the salmon fishing off. We’ve time enough before we go back.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. The Beechings are expecting us for luncheon. I thought you could make apologies for me. They’ll be very disappointed if we both drop out.”
“If you think so,” Rob said. “I hope you get the horse.”
“So do I. Harry will have to look at it as well, of course.”
“Are you taking him with you?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it be more sensible?”
“I don’t think so.” He sounded slightly irritated. “Mr. Lavernham would have to examine him as well before we bought him.” Mr. Lavernham was the vet. “I want to see him myself in the first place.”
It seemed a cumbersome way of doing things, but presumably Mike knew what he was about.
“Fair enough. You’d better give me directions for getting to the Beechings’. Let’s go and look at a map.”
It was some distance from Gifford House, on the far side of a low ridge of hills. The sun was well up by the time Rob came to the river. He could see the Beechings’ house across the meadows, recognizable by a cone-topped tower nearby which Mike told him had been built by some eccentric ancestor: there were lots of follies of this kind scattered about the County. The arrangement had been to fish th
rough the morning and only after that call on the Beechings. He tethered Sonnet where she could crop comfortably and took up his position on the river bank.
For some time he had no luck. The salmon were there—he saw their long sinuous bodies, scales gleaming, rise to take flies—but they ignored his lure. It was a couple of hours before he got a bite. The fish fought hard and eventually broke loose. There was another long and discouraging blank period. Then, inside half an hour, he landed three, two of four or five pounds, the third an eight-pounder at least. The day was hot by now. He wiped sweat from his face and hands and decided it was time to call a halt. He was to be at the house before one, and it was after twelve.
He rode across the meadows in a glow of satisfaction. He would have something to show Mike when he got back. He was thinking about this when he saw a troop of horsemen galloping along the road, a field away. It was a sight which no longer caused apprehension, but he was curious. The patrols were made up of young men who liked the exercise and display, and the rivalry between troops which was chiefly shown in point-to-point races and riding events. They went out in the morning and evening, not in the middle of the day. And this was too big—much too big. Instead of half a dozen there was a score of riders. More, even. He watched them disappear along the road to Oxford and turned Sonnet toward the house.
He found confusion there, with servants dashing about in different directions. He called to one and got an unintelligible reply. He dismounted and was looking for a groom to take his horse when he saw Mrs. Beeching coming toward him from the house. She looked very white. Rob made a small bow of greeting, and asked, “Is there something wrong? Can I help?”
“Have you not heard the news?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been on the river.”
“A terrible thing.” Her voice trembled. “Terrible. Who would believe it could happen?”
“What’s happened, ma’am?” he said urgently.
“A rebellion. But why? How? It’s unbelievable. They’ve taken Oxford. And Bristol . . .”
Oxford, he thought. Mike. The man with the horse had been his excuse to get away. He must be in it. But it was all incredible. Violence was something that happened in China, or in the mindless drunken riots of the Conurbs. It could not happen here, in the peace and security of the County. And Bristol was the County’s capital, headquarters of the government.
“They can’t have taken Bristol. How could they?”
“They used guns.”
There was a world of shock and horror in her voice. Guns had been controlled out of existence for so long that the controls themselves had been forgotten. They were used in the war, half a world away, but not here in England. Not even in the Conurbs, where knives and blackjacks were the limit of the criminal’s armory. It was almost impossible to accept, yet he knew what she said must be true. Nothing else could explain the capture of the cities. Roger Penfold, he thought, and others like him . . . they must have smuggled guns back from the East somehow.
“I saw a troop of horsemen on the road,” he said.
“The vigilantes are forming,” Mrs. Beeching said. “But it may be too late. My husband has gone with them. He’s too old and . . . not strong enough. But he would go.”
Another time the thought of fat old Mr. Beeching riding into battle would have been laughable, but Rob did not feel like laughing. “I must get back.”
“Have something to eat first.”
Rob shook his head. “I’d better go.”
• • •
Gifford House had a deserted look. The stables were empty except for a horse that had gone lame a few days before. There was no groom to take Sonnet so Rob had to see to her himself. He was rubbing her down when he heard a sound and turned to see Mrs. Gifford.
“Have they all . . . ?” he asked.
“Gone with the vigilantes. Your uncle, too.”
“Do you know where they’re gathering, Aunt Margaret? I’ll go after them.”
“No. You’re too young.”
“I can use a sword. I got a good report for swordplay and fencing. I want to do something.”
“They don’t need the help of boys,” she said. “At least, our side does not. Where is Mike, Rob?”
“I don’t know. He said . . .”
“I want the truth from you.” There was cold anger in her voice. “I think I’m entitled to that. He’s mixed up in this, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.” Her look cut him like a knife. “I think so.”
“Tell me what you know. Everything.”
There was no point, he told himself, in keeping the confidence any longer. Even if there had been, he doubted if he could have resisted her demand. He feared her anger, wanted her not to hate him. He spoke of the meeting in Penfold’s study and of the things that had happened afterward.
When he had finished she said, “I told you at Christmas I was worried about Mike, and asked your help. Was this the best you could do? Wash your hands of the whole thing?”
“I argued with him.”
“Argued!”
“He only spoke of revolt at the beginning. I thought it was just a wild idea, that it couldn’t come to anything. The whole thing seemed crazy.”
She stared at him. “You were a runaway when Mike found you. A Conurban. Hungry and thirsty, dirty, frightened, in rags and a scarecrow’s coat. He helped you, looked after you, persuaded us to take you in, to make you one of the family. I hope you are happy over the way you have repaid him.”
She turned and walked out of the stable. Rob felt sick. Mechanically he went on seeing to the horse. If he could make his way to where the fighting was he might find Mike, perhaps help him. After that . . . Whatever happened he could not come back here. He supposed he would have to think about that some time but at the moment it did not matter.
He resaddled Sonnet and led her out. He had mounted and was riding toward the drive when his name was called. Mrs. Gifford stood by the back door. She called again and he went to her.
“Where are you going?”
“Away, ma’am.”
She put her hand on the rein. “I spoke too harshly to you. What’s done is done.”
Rob shook his head. “I’ve got to go.”
“The men have all gone,” she said. “Cecily and I are alone except for the maids. Stay with us, Rob.”
Her eyes held his. Her face was strained and old, but beautiful. He realized that she needed him, that this was a different acceptance from the other. He nodded and dismounted.
9
A Visitor at Night
THE DAY PASSED SLOWLY. THE telephone exchange was not operating and they had no clear idea what was happening. A peddler with his packhorse came by and filled the heads of the maids with rumors and alarms. There had been massacres. At Oxford the Cherwell had run red with blood. Hordes of Conurbans had smashed a way through the Barrier and were killing and destroying and burning everything in their path. All lies, probably—peddlers’ stories were notorious—but one could not be certain. Before going to bed Rob checked that all the doors were locked and bolted. A murderous mob would presumably break in through the windows, anyway, but it was something to do.
He went past Cecily’s bedroom to reach his own. She called him in.
“Are you all right?” Rob asked.
She was sitting up in bed. “I heard footsteps,” she said, “and I was frightened. Then I realized it was you.”
“There was nothing to be frightened of.”
“Why hasn’t Mike come back?”
“He’s staying with friends until the trouble’s over.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
The lumoglobe was not lit. There was only the flicker of the night light on the table beside her bed. The room was full of shadows.
“Kiss me goodnight?” she said.
He kissed her forehead and she snuggled down. As he went toward th
e door she said, “Rob?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Go to sleep. It will soon be morning.”
He went to his own room and stood for a long time staring out into the darkness before he got into bed.
• • •
The morning was somber with rain falling steadily from a sodden gray sky. Mrs. Gifford tried the telephone again but with no success. Rob suggested riding out to see if any of the neighboring houses had reliable news but she opposed the idea and he did not persist. The hours dragged by and for the first time Rob found himself missing the know-it-all reportage of the holovision newscasters. He went to the conservatory to water Mr. Gifford’s miniature trees. Rain still dripped heavily on the glass. He heard Cecily’s voice and then her hurrying footsteps. She was in the doorway, excited and afraid.
“What is it?” he said.
“Horsemen.” Her breast was heaving. “Mummy saw them from the drawing room. Coming up from the wood.”
He asked no more questions but ran, Cecily running with him. Mrs. Gifford turned from the window.
“Your eyes are better than mine,” she said.
There were half a dozen. He recognized Harry the groom first on a big bay horse called Miller, then Mr. Gifford.
“It’s all right, Aunt Margaret. It’s them.”
They went out into the rain and were soaking wet by the time the horsemen reached them. Mrs. Gifford looked up at her husband.
“What’s happened?”
“Haven’t you been told?”
“There’s no telephone. Are they fighting still?”
He shook his head. “It’s all over.”
“And?”
“It’s been put down. We weren’t needed. Everything is under control. My dear, you’re drenched through. Go back inside. I’ll come as soon as we’ve got the horses in.”
She did not move. “Mike?”
“I don’t know.” he said heavily. “I heard young Penfold was killed but it was only a rumor. Nothing about Mike.”
• • •
The rain stopped for a couple of hours in the afternoon and then came on more remorselessly than ever. The telephone was working again by teatime and Mrs. Gifford called several people but could get no news of Mike. His name was not on the provisional list of dead and wounded but it was known to be incomplete. The authorities were occupied with getting things tidied up. No list of prisoners had been issued yet.
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