quiet. It’s a quiet place, Robert.’
‘It’s certainly restful for me.’
‘Oh, and Blounce is giving up the shop.’
‘Good Lord. Why?’
‘Going to Jamaica to die.’
Blounces had run the Hartingsford Magna shop since elms immemorial. Vicars came and went, but not Blounces. The churchyard was full of them. The window of Blounce’s contained nothing but juniper back-ache pills. A perfect pyramid, since none was ever sold.
Aunt Maud cleared away the daube and brought the syllabub. It was miraculously light. He knew that she knew that he knew how excellent it was, so he didn’t mention it.
‘The Summer Exhibition’s rotten again this year,’ said Aunt Maud.
‘So I gather.’
‘You’ve not been?’
‘No.’
‘Too many distractions in the big city. What are people talking about in London?’
Many country people, in every other way perfectly rational, believe that the streets of London are paved with intelligent conversation. It amused Aunt Maud to share that belief.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, with contented ineptitude.
‘Have you see any Lichtenstein?’
For a moment he thought she was talking about the place. He had seen bits of it, briefly, from the Arlberg Express.
‘Oh, the painter. No, I haven’t.’
Aunt Maud cleared away the syllabub and brought the coffee. The whole garden smelt of warmth, all the individual scents of flowers and crops were gathered under the wings of the sun, and reissued smelling of warmth.
They moved from the upright canvas chairs to the deck chairs. He moved his chair into the sun. Aunt Maud poured out the coffee.
‘Titmus seems to be handling his bowlers quite well,’ she said.
‘Yes. It’s the batting that’s letting Middlesex down.’
‘Have you been to Lord’s this year?’
‘No.’
‘It’s all underground films, these days, I suppose. Four hundred Japanese bottoms. It sounds rather monotonous to me, but I daresay it’s more amusing if you see it with friends.’
Aunt Maud cleared away the coffee. He didn’t help, because giving pleasure was her hobby. He lay back and closed his eyes, the lids red and transparent against the sun. By dozing he paid Aunt Maud a compliment. Then he opened one eye and peered at the sky. There must surely be something there, a spirit, an emanation of good intention? Surely there must?
The joy that Robert was feeling was pure love. He loved Aunt Maud, and Aunt Maud loved him. And neither would ever express that love, for fear that it would go away.
Hartingsford Magna was the only place in England where he didn’t need to make jokes. As he entered the village he thought: Caution. You are entering a joke-free area, and that was the last resemblance to a joke he needed to make until Fangham’s taxi drove him out again to Foxington Station, and he thought: Caution. You are leaving a joke-free area.
When Aunt Maud returned after doing the washing up, they came nearer than usual to expressing their love.
‘Thank you. That was a lovely lunch, as always,’ he said.
‘Good to have someone to appreciate it, as always,’ said Aunt Maud.
Chapter 7
Sorrows
October, 1946. Robert was a day boy and others of the boys were boarders. Boarders were people who were better than day boys who were people whose noses ran. Boarders knew more than day boys because when the day boys went home the boarders went upstairs and had sin upstairs, whatever that was. You didn’t know everything when you were young.
Robert wanted to be good and serve his God. Sometimes he would fool around and all the boys laughed but this was not what life was for. Life was for fighting against sin upstairs but it would be foolish to admit this to the boarders. Robert was quite a strange boy because he had led a sheltered life, but he thought that people jolly well ought to lead sheltered lives.
One day Big Joan was cleaning the corridor with her mops and brushes. Not only was Big Joan a bit of a tease but she was something to do with sin upstairs. Robert walked past Big Joan and she said: ‘Hey, don’t I get a kiss?’ and he went along the corridor which smelt of rissoles and carrots, and he went through a swing door, which led to the cloakroom where the day-bugs left their coats. There was dark green paint everywhere. His childhood was inextricably bound up with dark green paint.
In the cloakroom were Stevens Major and Sewell and Waller. They were boarders.
Sewell said: ‘Do you love Big Joan, Bellamy?’
Robert said: ‘No,’ and turned red.
‘Don’t you like girls?’ said Stevens Major.
‘No,’ said Robert.
They laughed. They were enemies. Perkins and Thomas and Willoughby were friends and he wished that Bernard Howes was a friend, but these were enemies.
Waller came at him and grabbed his arm. Robert wasn’t afraid of people in ones but there were three of these. There always were.
Sewell grabbed his other arm. He was ashamed of not liking girls, and besides it wasn’t true.
‘I like some girls,’ he said.
He was angry with himself for saying this. He lashed out, but there were three of them and they pinned him against the wall. Sewell smelt of sick and Waller smelt of feet.
‘Which girls do you like?’ said Stevens Major.
He didn’t answer. They twisted his arm. Stevens Major kicked him.
‘Which girls?’ said Sewell, twisting his arm some more. He wasn’t going to tell them, but they kicked him and twisted his arm until he thought it was going to break, and his eyes were full of tears, and eventually he told them.
‘Cerise,’ he said.
They let go. The door opened and Big Joan came in. If he had hung on a bit longer they would never have known.
Big Joan looked at them suspiciously, and smiled at Robert. Her smile turned him to jelly.
The three boarders ran off down the corridor, shouting: ‘Bellamy loves Cerise. Bellamy loves Cerise,’ and behind them the door went boing-boing-boing.
September, 1948. Bernard Howes had come to his new school and now a year later Robert followed him. He wished he could be friends with Bernard Howes, who was superior without being snotty.
