‘They had children?’
‘Two daughters. A fair-haired baby like her father, called Lily, and a second daughter, Maria, who took after her Spanish mother. I was Lily’s godfather. Naturally, I did not see either of the children very often. Two or three times a year either I gave a party for Lily or went to see her at her school. She was a sweet and lovely person. Very devoted to her father and he was very devoted to her. But in between these meetings, these revivals of friendship, we went through some difficult times. You will know about it as well as I do. I and my contemporaries had difficulties in meeting through the war years. Lily married a pilot in the Air Force. A fighter pilot. Until the other day I had even forgotten his name. Simon Gilliatt. Squadron Leader Gilliatt.’
‘He was killed in the war?’
‘No, no. No. He came through safely. After the war he resigned from the Air Force and he and Lily went out to Kenya as so many did. They settled there and they lived very happily. They had a son, a little boy called Roland. Later when he was at school in England I saw him once or twice. The last time, I think, was when he was twelve years old. A nice boy. He had red hair like his father. I’ve not seen him since so I am looking forward to seeing him today. He is twenty-three—twenty-four now. Time goes on so.’
‘Is he married?’
‘No. Well, not yet.’
‘Ah. Prospects of marriage?’
‘Well, I wondered from something Tom Addison said in his letter. There is a girl cousin. The younger daughter Maria married the local doctor. I never knew her very well. It was rather sad. She died in childbirth. Her little girl was called Inez, a family name chosen by her Spanish grandmother. As it happens I have only seen Inez once since she grew up. A dark, Spanish type very much like her grandmother. But I am boring you with all this.’
‘No. I want to hear it. It is very interesting to me.’
‘I wonder why,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
He looked at Mr Quin with that slight air of suspicion which sometimes came to him.
‘You want to know all about this family. Why?’
‘So that I can picture it, perhaps, in my mind.’
‘Well, this house I am going to, Doverton Kingsbourne it is called. It is quite a beautiful old house. Not so spectacular as to invite tourists or to be open to visitors on special days. Just a quiet country house to live in by an Englishman who has served his country and comes back to enjoy a mellow life when the age of retirement comes. Tom was always fond of country life. He enjoyed fishing. He was a good shot and we had very happy days together in his family home of his boyhood. I spent many of my own holidays as a boy at Doverton Kingsbourne. And all through my life I have had that image in my mind. No place like Doverton Kingsbourne. No other house to touch it. Every time I drove near it I would make a detour perhaps and just pass to see the view through a gap in the trees of the long lane that runs in front of the house, glimpses of the river where we used to fish, and of the house itself. And I would remember all the things that Tom and I did together. He has been a man of action. A man who has done things. And I—I have just been an old bachelor.’
‘You have been more than that,’ said Mr Quin. ‘You have been a man who made friends, who had many friends and who has served his friends well.’
‘Well, if I can think that. Perhaps you are being too kind.’
‘Not at all. You are very good company besides. The stories you can tell, the things you’ve seen, the places you have visited. The curious things that have happened in your life. You could write a whole book on them,’ said Mr Quin.
‘I should make you the main character in it if I did.’
‘No, you would not,’ said Mr Quin. ‘I am the one who passes by. That is all. But go on. Tell me more.’
‘Well, this is just a family chronicle that I’m telling you. As I say, there were long periods, years of time when I did not see any of them. But they have been always my old friends. I saw Tom and Pilar until the time when Pilar died—she died rather young, unfortunately—Lily, my godchild, Inez, the quiet doctor’s daughter who lives in the village with her father …’
‘How old is the daughter?’
‘Inez is nineteen or twenty, I think. I shall be glad to make friends with her.’
‘So it is on the whole a happy chronicle?’
‘Not entirely. Lily, my godchild—the one who went to Kenya with her husband—was killed there in an automobile accident. She was killed outright, leaving behind her a baby of barely a year old, little Roland. Simon, her husband, was quite broken-hearted. They were an unusually happy couple. However, the best thing happened to him that could happen, I suppose. He married again, a young widow who was the widow of a Squadron Leader, a friend of his and who also had been left with a baby the same age. Little Timothy and little Roland had only two or three months in age between them. Simon’s marriage, I believe, has been quite happy though I’ve not seen them, of course, because they continued to live in Kenya. The boys were brought up like brothers. They went to the same school in England and spent their holidays usually in Kenya. I have not seen them, of course, for many years. Well, you know what has happened in Kenya. Some people have managed to stay on. Some people, friends of mine, have gone to Western Australia and have settled again happily there with their families. Some have come home to this country.
‘Simon Gilliatt and his wife and their two children left Kenya. It was not the same to them and so they came home and accepted the invitation that has always been given them and renewed every year by old Tom Addison. They have come, his son-in-law, his son-in-law’s second wife and the two children, now grown up boys, or rather, young men. They have come to live as a family there and they are happy. Tom’s other grandchild, Inez Horton, as I told you, lives in the village with her father, the doctor, and she spends a good deal of her time, I gather, at Doverton Kingsbourne with Tom Addison who is very devoted to his grand-daughter. They sound all very happy together there. He has urged me several times to come there and see. Meet them all again. And so I accepted the invitation. Just for a weekend. It will be sad in some ways to see dear old Tom again, somewhat crippled, with perhaps not a very long expectation of life but still cheerful and gay, as far as I can make out. And to see also the old house again. Doverton Kingsbourne. Tied up with all my boyish memories. When one has not lived a very eventful life, when nothing has happened to one personally, and that is true of me, the things that remain with you are the friends, the houses and the things you did as a child and a boy and a young man. There is only one thing that worries me.’
‘You should not be worried. What is it that worries you?’
‘That I might be—disappointed. The house one remembers, one has dreams of, when one might come to see it again it would not be as you remembered it or dreamt it. A new wing would have been added, the garden would have been altered, all sorts of things can have happened to it. It is a very long time, really, since I have been there.’
‘I think your memories will go with you,’ said Mr Quin. ‘I am glad you are going there.’
‘I have an idea,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Come with me. Come with me on this visit. You need not fear that you’ll not be welcome. Dear Tom Addison is the most hospitable fellow in the world. Any friend of mine would immediately be a friend of his. Come with me. You must. I insist.’
Making an impulsive gesture, Mr Satterthwaite nearly knocked his coffee cup off the table. He caught it just in time.
At that moment the shop door was pushed open, ringing its old-fashioned bell as it did so. A middle-aged woman came in. She was slightly out of breath and looked somewhat hot. She was good-looking still with a head of auburn hair only just touched here and there with grey. She had that clear ivory-coloured skin that so often goes with reddish hair and blue eyes, and she had kept her figure well. The newcomer swept a quick glance round the cafe and turned immediately into the china shop.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘you’ve still got some of the Harlequin cups.�
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‘Yes, Mrs Gilliatt, we had a new stock arrived in yesterday.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased. I really have been very worried. I rushed down here. I took one of the boys’ motor bikes. They’d gone off somewhere and I couldn’t find either of them. But I really had to do something. There was an unfortunate accident this morning with some of the cups and we’ve got people arriving for tea and a party this afternoon. So if you can give me a blue and a green and perhaps I’d better have another red one as well in case. That’s the worst of these different coloured cups, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I know they do say as it’s a disadvantage and you can’t always replace the particular colour you want.’
Mr Satterthwaite’s head had gone over his shoulder now and he was looking with some interest at what was going on. Mrs Gilliatt, the shop woman had said. But of course. He realized it now. This must be—he rose from his seat, half hesitating, and then took a step or two into the shop.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but are you—are you Mrs Gilliatt from Doverton Kingsbourne?’
‘Oh yes. I am Beryl Gilliatt. Do you—I mean …?’
She looked at him, wrinkling her brows a little. An attractive woman, Mr Satterthwaite thought. Rather a hard face, perhaps, but competent. So this was Simon Gilliatt’s second wife. She hadn’t got the beauty of Lily, but she seemed an attractive woman, pleasant and efficient. Suddenly a smile came to Mrs Gilliatt’s face.
‘I do believe … yes, of course. My father-in-law, Tom, has got a photograph of you and you must be the guest we are expecting this afternoon. You must be Mr Satterthwaite.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘That is who I am. But I shall have to apologize very much for being so much later in arriving than I said. But unfortunately my car has had a breakdown. It’s in the garage now being attended to.’
‘Oh, how miserable for you. But what a shame. But it’s not tea time yet. Don’t worry. We’ve put it off anyway. As you probably heard, I ran down to replace a few cups which unfortunately got swept off a table this morning. Whenever one has anyone to lunch or tea or dinner, something like that always happens.’
‘There you are, Mrs Gilliatt,’ said the woman in the shop. ‘I’ll wrap them up in here. Shall I put them in a box for you?’
‘No, if you’ll just put some paper around them and put them in this shopping bag of mine, they’ll be quite all right that way.’
‘If you are returning to Doverton Kingsbourne,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I could give you a lift in my car. It will be arriving from the garage any moment now.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I wish really I could accept. But I’ve simply got to take the motorbike back. The boys will be miserable without it. They’re going somewhere this evening.’
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. He turned towards Mr Quin, who had risen to his feet and was now standing quite near. ‘This is an old friend of mine, Mr Harley Quin, whom I have just happened to run across here. I’ve been trying to persuade him to come along to Doverton Kingsbourne. Would it be possible, do you think, for Tom to put up yet another guest for tonight?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it would be quite all right,’ said Beryl Gilliatt. ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to see another friend of yours. Perhaps it’s a friend of his as well.’
‘No,’ said Mr Quin, ‘I’ve never met Mr Addison though I’ve often heard my friend, Mr Satterthwaite, speak of him.’
‘Well then, do let Mr Satterthwaite bring you. We should be delighted.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Mr Quin. ‘Unfortunately, I have another engagement. Indeed—’ he looked at his watch ‘—I must start for it immediately. I am late already, which is what comes of meeting old friends.’
‘Here you are, Mrs Gilliatt,’ said the saleswoman. ‘It’ll be quite all right, I think, in your bag.’
Beryl Gilliatt put the parcel carefully into the bag she was carrying, then said to Mr Satterthwaite:
‘Well, see you presently. Tea isn’t until quarter past five, so don’t worry. I’m so pleased to meet you at last, having heard so much about you always both from Simon and from my father-in-law.’
She said a hurried goodbye to Mr Quin and went out of the shop.
‘Bit of a hurry she’s in, isn’t she?’ said the shop woman, ‘but she’s always like that. Gets through a lot in a day, I’d say.’
The sound of the bicycle outside was heard as it revved up.
‘Quite a character, isn’t she?’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘It would seem so,’ said Mr Quin.
‘And I really can’t persuade you?’
‘I’m only passing by,’ said Mr Quin.
‘And when shall I see you again? I wonder now.’
‘Oh, it will not be very long,’ said Mr Quin. ‘I think you will recognize me when you do see me.’
‘Have you nothing more—nothing more to tell me? Nothing more to explain?’
‘To explain what?’
‘To explain why I have met you here.’
‘You are a man of considerable knowledge,’ said Mr Quin. ‘One word might mean something to you. I think it would and it might come in useful.’
‘What word?’
‘Daltonism,’ said Mr Quin. He smiled.
‘I don’t think—’ Mr Satterthwaite frowned for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know only just for the moment I can’t remember …’
‘Goodbye for the present,’ said Mr Quin. ‘Here is your car.’
At that moment the car was indeed pulling up by the post office door. Mr Satterthwaite went out to it. He was anxious not to waste more time and keep his hosts waiting longer than need be. But he was sad all the same at saying goodbye to his friend.
‘There is nothing I can do for you?’ he said, and his tone was almost wistful.
‘Nothing you can do for me.’
‘For someone else?’
‘I think so. Very likely.’
‘I hope I know what you mean.’
‘I have the utmost faith in you,’ said Mr Quin. ‘You always know things. You are very quick to observe and to know the meaning of things. You have not changed, I assure you.’
His hand rested for a moment on Mr Satterthwaite’s shoulder, then he walked out and proceeded briskly down the village street in the opposite direction to Doverton Kingsbourne. Mr Satterthwaite got into his car.
‘I hope we shan’t have any more trouble,’ he said.
His chauffeur reassured him.
‘It’s no distance from here, sir. Three or four miles at most, and she’s running beautifully now.’
He ran the car a little way along the street and turned where the road widened so as to return the way he had just come. He said again,
‘Only three or four miles.’
Mr Satterthwaite said again, ‘Daltonism.’ It still didn’t mean anything to him, but yet he felt it should. It was a word he’d heard used before.
‘Doverton Kingsbourne,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. He said it very softly under his breath. The two words still meant to him what they had always meant. A place of joyous reunion, a place where he couldn’t get there too quickly. A place where he was going to enjoy himself, even though so many of those whom he had known would not be there any longer. But Tom would be there. His old friend, Tom, and he thought again of the grass and the lake and the river and the things they had done together as boys.
Tea was set out upon the lawn. Steps led out from the French windows in the drawing room and down to where a big copper beech at one side and a cedar of Lebanon on the other made the setting for the afternoon scene. There were two painted and carved white tables and various garden chairs. Upright ones with coloured cushions and lounging ones where you could lean back and stretch your feet out and sleep, if you wished to do so. Some of them had hoods over them to guard you from the sun.
It was a beautiful early evening and the green of the grass was a soft deep colour. The golden light came through the co
pper beech and the cedar showed the lines of its beauty against a soft pinkish-golden sky.
Tom Addison was waiting for his guest in a long basket chair, his feet up. Mr Satterthwaite noted with some amusement what he remembered from many other occasions of meeting his host, he had comfortable bedroom slippers suited to his slightly swollen gouty feet, and the shoes were odd ones. One red and one green. Good old Tom, thought Mr Satterthwaite, he hasn’t changed. Just the same. And he thought, ‘What an idiot I am. Of course I know what that word meant. Why didn’t I think of it at once?’
‘Thought you were never going to turn up, you old devil,’ said Tom Addison.
He was still a handsome old man, a broad face with deep-set twinkling grey eyes, shoulders that were still square and gave him a look of power. Every line in his face seemed a line of good humour and of affectionate welcome. ‘He never changes,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Can’t get up to greet you,’ said Tom Addison. ‘Takes two strong men and a stick to get me on my feet. Now, do you know our little crowd, or don’t you? You know Simon, of course.’
‘Of course I do. It’s a good few years since I’ve seen you, but you haven’t changed much.’
Squadron Leader Simon Gilliatt was a lean, handsome man with a mop of red hair.
‘Sorry you never came to see us when we were in Kenya,’ he said. ‘You’d have enjoyed yourself. Lots of things we could have shown you. Ah well, one can’t see what the future may bring. I thought I’d lay my bones in that country.’
‘We’ve got a very nice churchyard here,’ said Tom Addison. ‘Nobody’s ruined our church yet by restoring it and we haven’t very much new building round about so there’s plenty of room in the churchyard still. We haven’t had one of these terrible additions of a new intake of graves.’
‘What a gloomy conversation you’re having,’ said Beryl Gilliatt, smiling. ‘These are our boys,’ she said, ‘but you know them already, don’t you, Mr Satterthwaite?’
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