'Wel, it's different now. Since the war. These times we live in. But it was a bigger thing then. My mother wouldn't speak to me when the penny dropped. Not for about three weeks. Which is ages in her book.' Her lips twitched and a smal dimple showed that she was trying not to smile.
'What happened to him?' asked Laurence. 'Was he lost in the war?'
'Yes.' Her animated face seemed to freeze.
Then, seeming to think this inadequate information, she added, At Vimy Ridge. Just a tiny piece of shrapnel. A lethal sliver of hot metal burning its way through his brain. He wasn't touched otherwise.' She seemed momentarily lost. 'He was very ... beautiful,' she said.
Her head was resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair with his right hand and absent-mindedly tucked a strand behind her ear. She turned her face towards him just as his arm gave way and they both fel to the floor. He was more or less on his back, rubbing his arm to restore circulation. She pushed herself up to a half-sitting position, leaning over him. For a second she just looked at him. The fire popped. Then she reached out and dragged a cushion off the chair, putting it behind his head. The top of her own was framed by the window and the light of the sinking sun iluminated individual hairs like fine copper wires. He puled her towards him and kissed her. It was clumsy, the adjustment of unfamiliar bodies. Her mouth was little and controled at first and then became softer as he kissed her. His hand curved round the back of her neck and he moved it downwards, feeling the depressions of her colarbone, sliding under the neckline of her dress with his fingertips.
She puled away slightly but stil lay with the top of her body over his. Her eyes were grey and solemn, her eyelashes surprisingly dark. He noticed she had tiny freckles on her nose, so faint he had never seen them before. He watched himself touch her. She had looked so boyish, yet felt al curves and pliancy in his arms. This time she kissed him.
'This isn't about Richard,' she said after a long time. 'It isn't even about John. It's certainly not about Louise or the war or either of us feeling sorry for the other one. It's just about you and me.'
She traced his lips with her fingers. She was smiling.
Many hours later he woke in bed feeling cold. It was just light and at some point in the night they'd moved from the floor to his bed. Mary was nestled, fast asleep, between him and the wal, with his arm under her neck and her back curved into him, but the blanket had barely covered them both and his naked shoulders were cold.
He propped himself up awkwardly on one elbow and looked down at her. His fingers hovered over her ear; although he longed to touch her, he didn't want to wake her up. Her curls lay flat against her cheek. He felt a charge of happiness. It was as if the intensity of his gaze reached her because suddenly she gave a sigh, turning over and nearly knocking him out of bed. He held on to her and her eyes opened. She blinked a couple of times.
'Ooh, you're cold. You'd better kiss me.'
'Such self-sacrifice,' he said, puling her towards him.
She smeled warm and musky. His hand folowed the contours of her neck and shoulder. Moving to her breast he was filed with joy as wel as desire when he felt her nipple harden again beneath his fingers.
It was nearly lunchtime when they finaly got up. As she sat on the edge of the bed she picked up his copy of
Once out of bed he felt slightly awkward, although Mary seemed completely at home, both with him and with the acceleration of their relationship. He'd intended to make breakfast but by the time he had washed and shaved she had already puled the bed together, gathered up their discarded clothes off the floor, cooked scrambled eggs on toast and made a pot of tea. She was walking around in his dressing gown. He picked up a piece of hot bacon between his fingers. They had eaten nothing the evening before and he was famished.
'This is a good thing that's come out of al this unhappiness,' she said, her knife and fork clattering on the plate. 'One realy good thing. Us finding each other.'
He looked at her but didn't speak. He was happier than he could remember being in ten years but despite it al he felt an underlying disquiet.
When he returned from seeing her off at the station, the flat seemed quiet without her, yet it stil held echoes of her presence. He felt calm and hopeful. He was able to settle to work for most of the day. For the first time he could see that he might write his book and return to teaching. Al the while he deliberately left the washing-up, the two plates, two teacups, two knives and teaspoons, on the side.
Chapter Thirty-four
Charles's disappointment at finding that Laurence had dealt with Chilvers by himself was palpable. As a result, he insisted on accompanying him around during his next day's errands. Despite Laurence's half-hearted protestations that it would be too cold and too boring for Charles to drive him to the Bolithos', he was glad to have him as a chauffeur. Charles could even take him on to see Mrs Lovel, leave him there and stil have time to see his tailor as he'd apparently planned, while Laurence could go on to Fleet Street by bus. He had woken up determined to catch Brabourne at the paper at the end of the day.
First, however, he wanted to show the photograph to the Bolithos and Mrs Lovel. Even if they didn't recognise Edmund Hart, that would at least clearly exclude him from certain places and events. Tomorrow he intended to show it to Major Calogreedy, although he hoped to avoid Leonard Byers. Dr Chilvers could wait a week or so.
Before Charles started the car, Laurence handed the photograph to his friend without speaking.
'And this is?'
'You don't know?'
'Presumably it's Hart?' He shot a look at Laurence. 'Poor bugger. But no, I didn't know him, I'm glad to say.'
They reached the Bolithos' house at three. As he hadn't warned them he was coming, Laurence went in alone, leaving Charles in the car. For once Eleanor seemed as pleased to see him as Wiliam was. She took him into the sitting room, and there, playing with a toy car, was Nicholas, who looked up curiously as Laurence came in. He stood up, knocking over a line of painted toy soldiers as he did so. One roled under a chair; another was clasped in his smal hand. The boy's sturdy legs emerged from corduroy shorts, his socks had falen down and he wore a blue
