under the circumstances. 'The old girl' could only mean Steerforth's mother, for Jones was not the sort of man who could refer to his wife in such terms.
Margaret Jones, the Margaret Steerforth of 25 years before, was still an attractive woman — one of those women who fined down with age. Her beauty had not faded, but had mellowed to serenity which not even the present strain had disrupted.
'My dear,' Jones took his wife's hand in an easy, affectionate way–
he did everything with the same air of confidence, 'this is Mr Audley, from London. He is representing the Minister of Defence.'
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Audley muttered a few conventional words awkwardly. He still thought of her as Steerforth's wife, and had to force himself to address her correctly. She looked at him as though she could sense the cause of his confusion, but was far too well-bred to let it disturb her.
'It's good of you to come, Mr Audley,' she said evenly. 'The Air Force authorities have been very considerate. As you can imagine, this has all been rather a shock to us, the past coming back so suddenly after all these years.'
Jones took the pause which followed–Audley could think of no appropriate reply–to introduce the older woman who hovered at Margaret Jones's shoulder.
Audley took in the blue-rinsed white hair and well-corseted figure.
Not quite
'I heard, Martin. As Margaret said, the authorities have been most considerate. And you are connected with the Royal Air Force, Mr Ordway?'
It seemed simpler to say that he was. Mrs Steerforth dabbed her eye with a handkerchief.
'It took me back many years to see those young officers carrying the — carrying my son. So young, they were. Always so young.
Just like Johnnie and his crew. You were too young to take part in the war, Mr Ordway?'
She looked at him. Then her eyes unfocused, dismissing him.
'He was such a fine boy, Mr Ordway. And such a good pilot–they dummy4
all said so. I miss him still. We all miss him.'
She spoke as though Jones, right beside her, did not exist. Yet clearly she wasn't trying to be offensive: hers was simply the narrowed viewpoint of the elderly, the self-comforting assumption that her feelings would be shared by all sensible people. An assumption in this case probably fed by an obsessive love.
Jones seemed resigned to her disregard, but her words hung embarrassingly between them and she pressed on to make things worse, focusing on Audley again.
'And this is my granddaughter,' she said with emphasis, '—my son's daughter.'
The baby girl of this morning's file was a tall, thin ash blonde, and there was no doubt about her parentage. She had not only her father's fairness and bone structure, but also the same haughty stare. Only it was coloured now by indifference, not discontent: Steerforth's daughter evidently found her father's funeral something of a bore.
The Jones boys, both in their late teens, were less thoroughbred and more sympathetic. Where their step-sister looked bored they were obviously intrigued with this forgotten chapter from their mother's past.
'My dear,' said Jones, 'I've invited Mr Audley back to the farm for a drink. I can show him the way and Charles can drive you back. It was rather a squash coming, anyway.'
The elder Jones boy hastened to protest his ability with the family car and his mother seemed almost pleased by the prospect. It dummy4
occurred to Audley that she saw him as a target for her mother-in-law's proud memories rather than a welcome guest.
But the opportunity was too perfect to miss, whatever ulterior motives prompted it, and he accepted with the merest pretence of reluctance.
As he led the way to the car he caught a glimpse of Roskill talking earnestly with a young man holding a notebook. Prising out the list of mourners. He caught Roskill's eye briefly, and had no time to avoid being snapped by a photographer who seemed to spring up from nowhere.
'Have you had much trouble with the Press?' he asked.
'Not more than I expected. None with the locals–I was NFU
chairman last year and I'm well in with them. We had a few chaps from London–they must be damn short of news. But I was civilised with them and they were reasonable enough. There's no story to be had here anyway.'
They reached the car, and for a moment their eyes met over the roof.
'He was a good pilot, you know,' said Jones conversationally. 'But I wouldn't have described him as a fine boy in a hundred years. He was a selfish bastard.'
Obviously, reflected Audley as they drove off, there was little to be gained from a gentle approach either. Jones had accepted him with too little surprise to be trapped into revealing any long-held secrets he still wished to hold.
'You didn't say that 25 years ago.'
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'I don't remember what I said 25 years ago. But I had squadron loyalties then. And I hadn't met his widow then, never mind married her.
