her to post the letters she had so carefully stamped. ‘Think you can manage that, Mrs Langstone?’
She went downstairs and opened the street door. She was so tired and angry she wanted to cry. Outside lay freedom, albeit for only an hour. She paused in the doorway to savour the grey pavement, a taxi, the east wall of the chapel and a grey sky. So that’s what paradise looked like. An absence of Shires and Trimble.
As she stepped onto the pavement, the taxi’s rear window slid down. A thin and very elegant woman stared at Lydia, who came to an abrupt halt.
‘Hello, Lydia,’ said the woman, and the dream of freedom died a premature death.
‘Hello, Mother,’ said Lydia.
Rawling’s solitary pub was called the Alforde Arms. Rory ate bread and cheese by the fire in the saloon bar, and washed down his lunch with half a pint of bitter. In India, he would often daydream about this sort of day — a simple lunch in a village pub, logs smouldering on a hearth, a muddy walk under a grey, wintry sky swirling with rooks.
While he ate, he summarized to himself what he would report to Sergeant Narton when they met this evening. It wasn’t a great deal: the Vicar had received a letter from New York which purported to be from Philippa Penhow; she could indeed have written it; and if it was genuine it offered a plausible explanation for her disappearance and her silence, particularly if one allowed for the shame she must have felt in allowing Serridge to seduce her in the first place. There was also the fact that Mr Gladwyn seemed to like Mr Serridge. Finally — and this was the only really disturbing piece of information he had acquired — Captain Ingleby-Lewis had sold Morthams Farm to Serridge. Lydia Langstone’s father was somehow involved in this. He had a disturbing sense that the boundaries of the whole affair had shifted, and that even his own role in it might not be what he had assumed it was.
After lunch, he ordered a second half-pint. The landlord was ready to chat, though some of his attention remained with the farm labourers talking in the other bar.
‘You on holiday or something?’ the man enquired.
‘Yes — just a day trip. I fancied stretching my legs and getting a bit of country air.’
‘I thought you were a townee. You can always tell. From London, maybe?’
Rory agreed that he was.
‘Strange that,’ the landlord said, resting his elbows on the counter between them. ‘Your idea of a day out is coming down here. Our idea of a day out is going up to town.’
‘The grass is greener, eh?’ Rory picked up his glass and began to turn away.
The landlord was not going to be deflected so easily. ‘What I say is, human beings are born dissatisfied. They always want something else, something they haven’t got.’
‘That’s very true.’ Rory glanced out of the window: the light was already fading and there were spots of rain on the glass. ‘Though at present I must admit I don’t feel much enthusiasm for walking back to Mavering.’
‘You’re making for the station?’
Rory nodded.
‘That won’t take you long,’ the landlord said. ‘Twenty minutes’ brisk walk, if that.’
‘Took me rather longer on the way here.’
‘Which way did you come?’
Rory described it as best as he could.
‘That’s the long way round.’
‘Somebody gave me the directions.’
‘If you carry on down the road and take the field gate on the left, there’s a much shorter route. Unless it’s closed for some reason.’ The landlord turned his head and bellowed at the labourers in the public bar: ‘Jim? Nothing wrong with the footpath to Mavering, is there?’
‘Which one?’ came an answering bellow, and another roar of laughter.
‘The one by Nartons’, you daft fool.’
‘There weren’t this morning. That’s the way I came.’
‘Nartons’?’ Rory said abruptly. ‘What’s that?’
‘Mr and Mrs Narton’s place,’ the landlord said. ‘The path’s on the left, just beyond it. Follow that, and you come out by Mavering church, same way you came but much sooner. That’ll make life a bit easier for you, eh?’
‘You’re looking fearfully pale, dear,’ Lady Cassington said. ‘Are you sure you’re eating properly?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mother,’ Lydia said. ‘I haven’t got long — I want to find something to eat and I need to post these letters.’
Lady Cassington glanced down at the pile of neatly stamped envelopes that lay between them on the rear seat of the taxi. ‘You’ve actually got a job?’ She made it sound like an unsightly skin condition.
‘Yes.’
‘How odd. Marcus hasn’t stopped your allowance, I know that for a fact — he told me himself. Think yourself lucky, my dear. Some men would have had no hesitation whatsoever.’
‘I don’t want his money.’
‘Nonsense. Anyway, you should be at home. I simply don’t know where you’ve found all these silly ideas. A woman’s place is by her husband’s side.’
‘You didn’t stay by yours,’ Lydia pointed out.
Lady Cassington stared at her.
‘My father’s, I mean,’ Lydia said.
‘That was quite different. Circumstances alter cases. You’ve seen what sort of man your father is.’
Lydia stared out of the window at students carrying piles of library books and wearing brightly coloured scarves. The taxi was driving north through the quiet squares of Blooms-bury. Lady Cassington screwed another cigarette into her tortoiseshell holder. When she next spoke, her voice was gentler.
‘Marcus says he told you he’s joining the Fascists.’
Lydia nodded.
‘They’re obviously rather impressed with him — he’s just the sort of recruit they’re looking for. I saw Tom Mosley the other night, you know, and he told me that if they had more young men like Marcus they could be forming a government in eighteen months. Fin thinks Mosley’s quite the coming man and it’ll do us no harm as a family to have someone on the inside. Marcus will be working with Rex Fisher at first, I understand, so he’s in safe hands.’
‘How is Fin?’ Lydia asked, trying to deflect the conversation from Marcus to her stepfather.
‘Very well, thank you. He sends his love, by the way. He’s frightfully pleased about Marcus, of course.’
Lydia listened to her mother’s voice running on and watched the students. She wondered what it would have been like if she had been able to go to university. She could have had a proper job afterwards. She could have earned?500 a year and had a room of her own. Her life would be full of people who led interesting and uncluttered lives, unencumbered with the routines, obligations and possessions that filled the existence of families like the Langs-tones and the Cassingtons.
‘Talking of Rex Fisher, by the way,’ her mother went on, ‘I think he’s rather interested in Pammy.’
Lydia blinked. ‘But he’s old enough to be her father.’
‘Nothing wrong in that. Fin’s older than me, after all. I think it can make a marriage more stable if the man’s older.’
Lydia thought that stability was the last thing that her sister wanted from life. She said, ‘Do you think Pammy likes him?’
‘I know what’s in your mind. The Fishers are nobodies despite the title. One used to see old Fisher about occasionally but no one ever met the mother. But Rex himself is all right. Did you know he was at school with Wilfred Lang-stone? Apparently they were quite friendly. Anyway, Fin thinks he and Pammy would do very well together, and so do I. I mean, he’s fearfully rich, you know. One can’t argue with that.’
Lydia stared at the back of the driver’s head on the other side of the partition. The taxi chugged round another pigeon-streaked square of grimy London brick. She took a deep breath.
‘The thing is, I don’t want to go back to Marcus. I made a mistake in marrying him.’
‘Nonsense, dear. Many people feel that, especially if they’ve had a bad quarrel. It’s enough to give anyone the hump. But you have to put all that behind you. You know, if Marcus goes in for politics, he’s going to need a hostess. If he gets into the House eventually, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t, he’ll need you even
