Gunner Kelly

need. But there was nothing he could do about it now, for there was already a muddy farm Land Rover and a couple of boys on bicycles stacked up behind him—he could see them in his rear-view mirror—and peasants were the same the whole world over; whatever they said they liked nothing better than not to give way for men in suits driving gleaming cars.

Resigning himself to delay he started to settle back more comfortably into his seat, looking round casually into the field dummy1

beside him—

It took every bit of his accumulated experience not to jerk upright again, but instead rather to hold the casual glance just long enough for ordinary unconcern, and then to continue slumping down as he would have done if he had never before seen the man striding across the field towards him.

There was no mistake—

He returned his gaze to the youth on the tractor for a moment, and then tipped back his head against the head-rest to study the roof of the car, as though surrendering to boredom.

In fact, he never had seen the man before, not in the flesh. But there was no mistake from the photographs, close-up front full-faced, side and quarter-face, and long-shots snapped craftily to set him in the context of ordinary men—no mistake, even though he was here before he had been anticipated, dressed like any labourer too . . . creased open-necked shirt, stained khaki trousers stuffed into rubber boots—English ‘Wellingtons’, although the great aristocratic Iron Duke with whom mad old Blucher had kept faith at Waterloo had surely never worn anything so bucolic—

No mistake—the face and the size of the man, even the solid, inexorable stride of the man across the rough pasture of the field—

like a tank, thought Benedikt subjectively, out of the printed record

— tank-commander, Normandy 1944 . . . and that had been before he had ever been born, before Mother had met Papa even . . . even

—unthinkably—when Mother and Father had been enemies, before they had been victor and vanquished—

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He felt something touch the car, and twisted sideways towards the sound.

“Sorry, Mister—” one of the boy-cyclists, a snub-nosed, cheeky-faced fourteen-year-old, alongside him now while squeezing past, addressed him briefly “—I ain’t scratched it—got rubber grips, see

—?” He indicated the handle-bars of his cycle with one momentarily-free hand before pushing down on the pedals to accelerate away.

“You get on out of ‘ere, Benje, an’ get off the bloody road!”

shouted the farm labourer. “An‘ you, Darren—your mum’s been lookin’ for you—”

The second cyclist whipped past Benedikt, in desperate pursuit of the departing Benje, who had swerved skilfully past the front wheels of the tractor.

“Little buggers!” The farm labourer shook his fist at them as Darren made a rude two-fingered signal backwards at him before swerving in Benje’s wake.

“Problems, Cecil?” David Audley rested for a moment, grasping the top railing at the labourer’s side, and then leaned on it, observing the road up and down.

“No problems, Doctor Audley.”

Cecil? Benedikt’s concentration was side-tracked against his will away from David Audley by the incongruous name. Benje and Darren were bad enough—they were both English Christian names he didn’t know . . . But Cecil. . . that was an exclusively aristocratic English name—wasn’t there a renowned English lord, dummy1

whom Mother had mentioned, who had lectured to her at Oxford—

Lord David Cecil—

“Bobby’s never going to get that trailer out,” said Audley. “Not if you want to keep those gate-posts, anyway.” He looked straight at Benedikt, before turning back to Cecil. “I bet you a pint of best bitter.”

“Ahh . . . That’s where you’re wrong, Doctor.” Cecil didn’t turn round. “Right ‘and down, lad— a bit more— steady! STEADY!” He drew a deep breath. “Bobby’s goin’ to learn—make it a pint of that Low-en-brow, right?”

“You’re on. Low-en-brow it is.” Audley came back to Benedikt. “I trust your business is not urgent, sir?”

Benedikt blinked at him through the thick lenses, playing for time.

“Please?”

Audley considered him for a moment. “You . . . you-are-going-to-Duntisbury-Royal?” He spoke with exaggerated clarity, paused for an instant, then smiled helpfully. “That’s-all-there-is-down-this-road—” he pointed “—Duntisbury Royal?”

Benedikt nodded like a half-wit. “Duntisbury Royal . . . yes.” He let his attention stray away from Audley, back to Cecil, who was shouting and gesticulating at the unfortunate youth on the tractor.

“Left ‘and down—not too much— STEADY—”

The tractor roared and jerked.

“STOP!”

“Duntisbury Royal?” repeated Audley, catching a pause in the youth’s agony.

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Benedikt came back to him. “So!” The man was some years younger than Papa, but the years had also been