classicist, author of Roman Society (Heinemann, 1933) which expounded the virtues of Imperial Rome—its organization, its rules, its ruthlessness—omitting many of its more interesting vices—vomitoriums, poisonings, slave boys. Young Leonora (many doubted such a beast had ever existed but it had) had lived in fear of him, desperate for his approval. He had died in 1952. She wondered, often, what he would have made of things now.
The fact that his own daughter had been forced, because of death duties, to sell Langford Hall, the Victorian Gothic manor house at the edge of the town, was something that still, nearly forty years on, gave her pause. Langford Hall was now Langford College, a private institution that at least taught respectable things, like History of Art, French classes, the Classics, of course, and so on. But no matter how respectable it was, she knew Father wouldn’t have liked it.
Leonora Mortmain took a deep breath. Thinking about her father brought back painful memories. She had been feeling older lately, and these days she kept thinking about the past. More and more. She had a final plan underfoot—one that she knew was right, but which sometimes made even her quail at the thought of what she was doing…
Something caught her eye, and Leonora sat back in her chair. A tall, darkish blond boy—well, she supposed he was a man now. He appeared outside the pub and started chatting to Mick Hopkins. He clapped the older man on the back as they laughed about something, his wide, easy smile infectious.
Leonora knew them both. Mick Hopkins had been at the Feathers for more than thirty years now. They said he was a good landlord—Leonora had never been inside the pub, though she had lived opposite it for forty years. She supposed he was an inoffensive man in his way, compared to some of the people she was forced to watch on a regular basis, but she didn’t care for him. He was responsible for so much of the bad behaviour she saw outside her window, and whenever she complained he brushed her aside, politely, but she could tell he was laughing at her…She hated that, hated it.
Her eyes fell, almost greedily, on the man he was with. It was Adam Smith, Philippa Smith’s son. Leonora watched him carefully, knowing she was spying, but just for once letting her curiosity get the better of her.
When he was eleven, Adam had won the top prize at Langford Primary, for outstanding achievement. Leonora had offered to pay his school fees. It was the right thing to do. He was an extremely intelligent boy, he had been offered a part scholarship, as a weekly boarder, to—School, and his mother couldn’t afford for him to take it up. Leonora had stepped in, enjoying the slightly surprised murmurs of approval that greeted the announcement that she was paying for his education. She would do it every year, she said, fund the brightest pupil from the school through to their graduation, as a memorial to her father.
But to Leonora’s immense displeasure, Adam had gone to the bad. His mother had died, suddenly, when he was almost eighteen, dropped dead in the street of a brain aneurysm. A terrible thing and a shock to everyone, but Adam had gone to pieces. He had failed, soon after his mother’s death, to get the results he needed for Cambridge, and he had gone on failing ever since. He didn’t seem to care about that fine mind of his after that; he would rather loll about on the street chatting and laughing like a common idiot, not like the gentleman he should be. She had had such high hopes for him, had seen it as her chance to create something out of nothing, and it had failed…Leonora Mortmain blinked, realizing she was staring rather too intently out of the window at the young man.
She rang the bell with fury, shaking her head querulously. Too tiresome to think about all that now.
‘Mrs Mortmain?’ Jean Forbes bustled into the room. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Mortmain?’ The ‘Mrs’ was a courtesy—no one quite knew why or where it had started, but no one dared call her ‘Miss’ now. Much less ‘Ms’, though some would have loved to have tried.
‘I am well,’ said Leonora, collecting herself once more. She looked out of the window, searching for composure. Her eye fell upon a girl in jeans and a light blue top, ambling slowly along the street towards where Adam Smith stood with Mick from the Feathers. ‘Tell me, who is that?’
The inhabitants of Langford believed Jean Forbes put up with a great deal. Leonora Mortmain didn’t pay well, and she was an extremely difficult woman, who almost went out of her way to be unpleasant. Poor Jean, people said. That awful, dried-up old crone—imagine having to live with her! Did you hear, she tripped Ron Thaxton up with her walking stick, because he was in her way? She told Jan Allingham that she believed charity should be in the home and nowhere else, when she came round collecting for Cancer Research. The list went on and on.
For her part, Jean knew they said it—on certain days, she couldn’t blame them for saying it. But luckily for Leonora, Jean’s nature was good and kind and, most importantly, patient. ‘You rang very loudly. I thought you were—’ she began.
‘What?’ snapped Leonora. ‘I asked you who that—’ She jabbed the window with a long finger, painted magenta and crowned with a thick gold and garnet ring. ‘—was.’
Jean looked now as if she were about to say something, but she thought better of it, and leaned out of the window. The girl and Adam had recognized each other, and were embracing, laughing heartily as they did so. He patted her on the back, lifting her up so her feet were off the ground as Mick went inside, leaving them chattering happily together. Jean screwed up her eyes.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Isn’t that Frank and Emily’s daughter?’
‘And whom might they be?’ asked Leonora Mortmain.
‘Tess,’ Jean said. ‘I’m sure that’s Tess Tennant. Ah! Bless her! Sweet girl. The doctor’s daughter. Dr Tennant? He came when you had that problem with your foot. You used to like her, remember, she went off to become a Classics teacher. She and Adam were such friends. Looks like she hasn’t seen him for a while.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Of course! Didn’t Carolyn Tey tell me that she’s joining Langford College in a couple of weeks? She’s the new Classical Civilization tutor there.’
‘Is this true?’
Jean blinked. ‘Well, yes, of course it’s true. Do you remember, Derek what’s-his-name had to leave before Christmas, he got shingles? They’ve been desperate for someone ever since.’ She looked at her employer, realizing she was gabbling, and sighed. ‘Carolyn’s signed up for a course, Mrs Mortmain! They’re going on a trip to Rome in May!’ Jean sighed. ‘Ooh. I’d love to go to Rome.’
Rome. Rome, in May. In the plans that Leonora had had when she was young, Rome had figured large. And it would mean she could go back to the house, legitimately go back once more, as a student, not as a young girl living there. Just once more, before she died. Leonora pretended to ignore Jean, leaning back towards the window, watching Tess who was explaining something to Adam. He stood listening intently to her, hugging himself, his hands tucked under his armpits. Tess ran her hands through her black hair, and it stuck up a little at the back. Rome. Rome.
‘Hm,’ said Leonora. ‘Well, I don’t remember her.’ She wrinkled her brow, as if searching for a memory.
‘You do remember, Mrs Mortmain,’ Jean said. ‘She used to play with Adam—Adam Smith all the time. Best of friends when they was little. It’s nice to see her again,’ she said ruminatively. ‘Nice to have a young face move back to the town, isn’t it?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Leonora slowly, not really listening. Her gaze had slid from the girl to the poster she was now reading, stuck crudely onto the old blackened wood of the archway. ‘Jean—ah, what does that poster say?’ she asked.
‘“Stop
