And now he was like his father again. For a while, talking about books, he had been full of boyish enthusiasm, but now the mask was on, and it was a smaller version of the mask used by his father: courtesy, formality, the attitude of the considerate host. It's the war, you see: he had heard someone else say that, and had adopted it as his own defense. She wondered whether his preference for 'true-to-life' murders, as opposed to implausible country-house killings, dated from the death of his mother. Now he was looking around him, searching for something, inspiration perhaps. In a moment be would offer her cigarettes, whiskey, tea. It was hard enough to know what to say to a bereaved adult: with Billy she felt helpless. She decided to talk of something else.
She said awkwardly: 'I suppose, with your father working at GHQ, you get more news of the war than the rest of us.'
'I suppose I do, but usually I don't really understand it. When he comes home in a bad mood I know we've lost another battle.' He started to bite a fingernail. then stuffed his hands into his shorts pockets. 'I wish I was older.'
'You want to fight?'
He looked at her fiercely, as if he thought she was mocking him. 'I'm not one of those kids who thinks it's all jolly good fun, like the cowboy films.'
She murmured: 'I'm sure you're not.'
'It's just that I'm afraid the Germans will win.'
Elene thought: Oh, Billy, if you were ten years older I'd fall in love with you, too. 'It might not be so bad,' she said. 'They're not monsters.'
He gave her a skeptical look: she should have known better than to soft-soap him. He said: 'They'd only do to us what we've been doing to the Egyptians for fifty years.'
It was another of his father's lines, she was sure.
Billy said: 'But then it would all have been for nothing.' He bit his nail again, and this time he did not stop himself. Elene wondered what would have been for nothing: the death of his mother? His own personal struggle to be brave? The two-year seesaw of the desert war? European civilization?
'Well, it hasn't happened yet,' she said feebly.
Billy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'I'm supposed to go to bed at nine.' Suddenly he was a child again.
'I suppose you'd better go, then.'
'Yes.' He stood up.
'May I come and say good night to you, in a few minutes?'
'If you like.' He went out.
What kind of life did they lead in this house? Elene wondered. The man, the boy and the old servant lived here together, each with his own concerns. Was there laughter, and kindness, and affection? Did they have time to play games and sing songs and go on picnics? By comparison with her own childhood Billy's was enormously privileged; nevertheless she feared this might be a terribly adult household for a boy to grow up in. His young-old wisdom was charming, but he seemed like a child who did not have much fun. She experienced a rush of compassion for him, a motherless child in an alien country besieged by foreign armies. She left the drawing room and went upstairs. There seemed to be three or four bedrooms on the second floor, with a narrow staircase leading up to a third floor where, presumably Gaafar slept. One of the bedroom doors was open, and she went in.
It did not look much like a small boy's bedroom. Elene did not know a lot about small boys-she had had four sisters but she was expecting to see model airplanes, jigsaw puzzles, a train set, sports gear and perhaps an old, neglected teddy bear. She would not have been surprised to see clothes on the floor, a construction set on the bed and a pair of dirty football boots on the polished surface of a desk. But the place might almost have been the bedroom of an adult. The clothes were folded neatly on a chair, the top of the chest of drawers was clear, schoolbooks were stacked tidily on the desk and the only toy in evidence was a cardboard model of a tank. Billy was in bed, his striped pajama top buttoned to the neck, a book on the blanket beside him.
'I like your room,' Elene said deceitfully.
Billy said: 'It's fine.'
'What are you reading?'
'The Greek Coffin Mystery.'
She sat on the edge of the bed. 'Well, don't stay awake too late.'
'I've to put out the light at nine-thirty.'
She leaned forward suddenly and kissed his cheek.
At that moment the door opened and Vandam walked in.
It was the familiarity of the scene that was so shocking: the boy in bed with his book, the light from the bedside lamp falling just so, the woman leaning forward to kiss the boy good night. Vandam stood and stared, feeling like one who knows he is in a dream but still cannot wake up. Elene stood up and said: 'Hello, William.'
'Hello, Elene.'
'Good night, Billy.'
'Good night, Miss Fontana.'
She went past Vandam and left the room. Vandam sat on the edge of the bed, in the dip in the covers which she had vacated. He said: 'Been entertaining our guest?'
'Yes.'
