has the real thing in him. He’s doing a big thesis on the border sites, that’s why he’s working at our place for a year or so. It doesn’t pay much, so you can imagine he’s in earnest about his aspirations. He’s a nice boy,’ she said tolerantly, and a shade absurdly in view of the fact that she was perhaps two years his senior, ‘but somehow I don’t see him making it to the top. He prowls about the place, you know, on his own, and dreams of springing a dazzling surprise on the archaeological world some day. I don’t know! I see him ending up pretty much like Stephen, half- fulfilled and half-frustrated—a third-rater,’ she said, candidly and regretfully, ‘and knowing it.’
She talked of the limitations of her husband and her acquaintances in a perfectly detached way, quite without personal venom and certainly without any delusions. Charlotte could imagine her discussing her own imperfections, if the subject should arise, with the same critical precision.
The bank was directly across the street from the shop. Lesley rummaged in the depths of her calf handbag for a matching key-case as they crossed at the lights, and flicked out the smallest of the keys on the bunch it contained. ‘You won’t mind waiting a minute for me? They make a thing of this strong-box business, but ours mostly has rather dull securities and family papers in it. And Stephen’s will, I suspect. Not that he ever mentions it, or that I’ve ever asked him, but he’s the type to consider it a sacred duty to have everything in order for every emergency.’
‘It could be a virtue,’ said Charlotte rather drily, reminded of the unimaginably sudden aspect death sometimes assumes.
‘It
She disposed of her errand, and armed herself with cash, and they went to shop, the usual duty shopping for the household, the more esoteric lines which were not stocked and delivered locally; and a few items for her own pleasure. Then they loaded the purchases into the car, and went with free hands to view the delectable older parts of Comerbourne. Lesley set herself to be the most enlightening and intelligent of guides. Her knowledge was wide, and her taste was decisive and good.
‘I was born here,’ she said, sensing the question Charlotte had not asked. ‘Not here in the town, but only about four miles away, in a village. I used to be a typist in Lord Silcaster’s estate office. Not a very good one. That’s how I got to know Stephen. We used to do any typing that was needed for the Aurae Phiala publications, and for the few little books and articles Stephen occasionally produced. I was the one who mucked up his texts worse than any of the others, that’s what made him notice me in the first place.’
‘It sounds highly improbable,’ Charlotte said frankly. They were leaning side by side on the stone parapet of the oldest bridge over the Comer, and the same river that scoured so savagely at its banks upstream flowed beneath them here full, strong and smooth, partially tamed by two weirs in between. A few black-headed gulls wheeled headily above the water.
‘No, honestly I wasn’t much good. I wasn’t interested enough. And as I had this urge to correct manuscripts as I went along, and couldn’t read his handwriting, and didn’t know the first thing about Roman Britain, you can imagine he felt obliged to educate me. Looks like being a life-work, doesn’t it?’
There was no being certain how serious she was, or how flippant. Her lips were curved slightly in a mild, private smile. But she did not elaborate anything or withdraw anything, then. She took Charlotte companionably by the arm, and they turned back together towards the car park, and the Morris, and home. Not until they were drawing near to Moulden did she suddenly reopen, more gently and more directly, the subject of herself.
‘You’re wondering about Stephen and me,’ she said; a statement, not a question, and with nothing defiant or defensive about it. ‘Impossible not to wonder, isn’t it?’ And that was a question, and required an answer.
‘Quite impossible,’ said Charlotte, ‘since you ask me.’ It was difficult to feel any tension or embarrassment while Lesley felt none. ‘I do it regularly, about all the interesting people I meet.’
‘Good! So do I. But I know we’re a rather special case. For one thing, you have to realise that even three years ago Stephen was rather a different person—to look at, I mean, and to be with, and all that. Growing and ageing don’t work in a smooth, regular sort of way. A stunted little boy suddenly starts to shoot up like a weed, a plain adolescent turns into a beauty overnight, and well-preserved middle-aged men who reach sixty still looking forty- five suddenly make up the deficit and more than overtake their age, all in a few months. For no good reason that I can see. And for another thing, he began to take an interest in me just when I was on the rebound from a very unhappy love affair—the kind of let-down that alters not just your life but even your nature. He was kind, and attentive, and soothing. And I’d gone off passion. I married for safety, and comfort, and consideration. Not to be alone, and not to be vulnerable any more. Maybe a little for reputation, too,’ she said, with a serene air of examining her own motives in the light of a new discovery, and finding them credible, reasonably creditable, and slightly amusing. ‘My own family was pretty undistinguished, and Stephen had at any rate a respectable reputation in his own field—though I probably over-valued it at the time. So I married him. I think it was just as big a gamble for him, perhaps bigger.’
They had reached the rising curve in the road, where the plantation of young trees came into view, fringing Aurae Phiala with delicate pales of green.
‘Insecure young girls,’ said Lesley seriously, ‘are often happiest with much older men. They feel safe.’ And suddenly she laughed, a gay peal, refreshed by a whole day of escape from her selected cage. ‘Doesn’t always work out that way, though. Yes, you really must make the acquaintance of your great-uncle. Now there’s a handsome old dog! He knows it, too! He must have put in some agile footwork at times, to get this far through his life still single, and yet have all the fun he’s had.’
‘I’ve been hearing about his reputation as a lady-killer,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘Everyone tells the same tale about him, so it must be true.’
‘I speak,’ said Lesley feelingly, ‘as one of the many at whom he made charming and—relatively—harmless passes.’
‘I thought you might!’
‘But unfortunately—I suppose it isn’t surprising in the circumstances—Stephen is almost pathologically jealous of me, so it wasn’t much fun. It was pretty innocuous play, but I had to discourage it. Absurd, but even so it could have been dangerous.’
‘I suppose,’ said Charlotte casually, ‘you haven’t heard from him since he left for Turkey? He went straight from here to the airport, I was told.’
‘That’s right, he did. No, I haven’t had any word. He knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, you know. Neither has Stephen, I’m sure. But in the ordinary way we shouldn’t expect to, of course, he isn’t a writing man. Only books! And they’ve been friends long enough to take each other for granted, turn up when they feel like it, and shut up when they’re busy. They always get on well, except that they never can agree about Aurae Phiala. After all,’ she said simply, ‘it’s all Stephen has, and he’s never going to excavate it, not really, nobody’s ever going to put up the money. But he lives on the hope, and that’s enough.’
