“We were arguing when we left Jo’s. One thing led to another. I said that if she would do such a thing to her own sister, and if she’d kept that from me, what else had she done?”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know what got into me that night. I’ve always hated jealousy—thought it was uncivilized. But she’d been pushing me away for months, refusing to talk about our wedding, making excuses not to stay with me … and suddenly it all seemed to make sense. I accused her of … things. Whatever came into my head. And then I thought of Lewis Finch, and of all those ‘business’ meetings she’d claimed they’d had. I accused her of sleeping with him. I said … I said Lowell was right, she was no better than a whore, sleeping with Finch to get what she wanted.”
“What happened then?” Gemma asked softly.
“She laughed. She stood there and laughed at me. She said I didn’t know the half of it … that it had cost her his son, and that she’d only learned too late what it meant to really love someone. I yelled at her, said it had cost her more than that—served her bloody right, too—and then I told her what Lewis meant to do. The instant those words left my mouth, I knew I’d gone too far—queered everything—and I said I hadn’t meant it. We had an appointment with my father the next morning, to put the plan to him, and we were supposed to have talked to Jo after the party that night. I thought we could smooth it over, somehow, go on with things.… But she went very quiet, like she was listening to something … then she laughed again. ‘The gods have given me a sign, Reg. So sod off,’ she told me. I argued—begged her, even—until finally she said she’d meet me at the pub.”
“And you walked away,” said Gemma.
“Yes. And the terrible irony is that I didn’t know—I never knew, until you told me—that Lewis Finch’s son was the busker in the tunnel.”
LEWIS FIRST SAW IRENE BURNE-JONES ON a July evening in 1942, when Edwina sent him in the pony trap to fetch her from the station. Irene was actually her second cousin, Edwina told him, her husband’s brother’s granddaughter, but always one for simplifying, Edwina merely referred to the girl as her niece. Her family’s house in Kilburn had taken a direct hit from a stray bomb, and Irene would be staying with them while her parents sorted things out.
This information Lewis absorbed with some trepidation. William was away, having been allowed to visit his parents for a few weeks now that the bombing had lessened considerably, and as Lewis missed his company he thought it might be nice to have someone about for the short term—but on the other hand, he wasn’t sure he could imagine a girl fitting in with their usual summer routine of walks and bathing and fruit-picking. His intimate knowledge of girls was based on his sister, and Cath had never shown the least inclination to do the sorts of things boys did.
He had hardly recognized his sister when he’d gone home to the Island for a visit in April, his first in more than two years. Cath had got a job in a shell-making factory, and she looked an alien creature when she came home in her bright-colored overall and turban; then within a few minutes she was gone again in a cloud of scent and the click of high heels. Whenever her name was mentioned, Lewis saw a look pass between his parents, and once or twice when he walked into the room, he’d had the feeling he’d interrupted a discussion.
But Lewis had been much more interested in roaming the neighborhood, trying to adjust to the sight of piles of rubble, or cleared, weed-covered lots where his house and the homes of his mates had stood. It had made him feel quite odd and hollow, and at the end of a week he’d felt a secret bit of relief at the thought of returning to Surrey.
A snort from Zeus brought his attention back to the road, and he tightened up the reins automatically, clucking to the horse soothingly. John Pebbles had taught him that, and the memory reminded him, as did so many things, of how much he missed his friend.
In the spring of 1941, John, against the pleas of both his wife and Edwina, had joined up, and was now serving as a sergeant with the 8th Army in North Africa. Lewis had taken over many of his jobs by default. The care of the horses had become solely his responsibility, as William was rather frightened of them, and as William was not mechanically inclined, Lewis maintained the seldom-used automobiles. But he and William tended the garden and chopped firewood together, and they helped Edwina with other tasks round the house and the estate to the best of their ability, as there was no one else.
To Lewis, it seemed as if the war had gone on forever. He could hardly recall the days before rationing, and even the enormous portions of meat Cook had fed him when he first arrived at the Hall were now a dim memory. They were still luckier than some, he supposed, with their garden, and in the winter of ’41 Edwina had bought pigs and chickens, so that they had at least an unlimited supply of fresh eggs and the occasional rasher of bacon. Of course, the feeding and care of the animals had fallen on Lewis’s head as well, but he didn’t really mind except for the slaughtering of the pigs, with whom he was inclined to make friends.
Did girls like pigs? he thought, and then he wondered what on earth he would say to her on the ride back from the station. A glance at the angle of the sun told him that it was later than he’d thought, and he clucked again at Zeus to hurry him up. Edwina would have his hide if he daydreamed along until he was late.
• • •
SHE STOOD ON THE PLATFORM BESIDE an enormous suitcase. Lewis looked up and down to be sure, but there was no one else, and he breathed an inward sigh of relief. The girl looked about his own age, and seemed quite ordinary and not as frightening as he’d expected. She wore a red and white gingham dress with socks and sandals, and had hair the color of old pennies pulled back in a neat plait, but the best thing was that when she saw him looking at her uncertainly, she smiled and waved.
“Are you Lewis?” she said when he reached her. “Aunt Edwina said you’d meet me. I’m Irene.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Lewis picked up her bulky suitcase and maneuvered it into the back of the trap. “What have you got in here? Stones?”
Irene gave him her warm smile again and jumped up into the trap unassisted. “Just about everything I own, or at least everything we could salvage from the wreckage. And I didn’t mind that you were late, except I was trying to think what I’d do if you didn’t come at all. I’ve never tried hitchhiking, and I didn’t know if anyone would be brave enough to pick me up with this monster of a suitcase.”
Lewis glanced at her, surprised. He and William had never quite got up the nerve to try hitchhiking. “You could have telephoned,” he pointed out. “There’s a call box just next to the platform. This isn’t exactly the wilds of Africa, you know.”
“How old are you?” Irene asked, apparently unperturbed by his sarcasm.
“Fourteen in January,” he answered, sitting up a bit straighter as he backed up Zeus and got them started in the opposite direction.
“I’ll be fourteen the week before Christmas. So I’m older than you.” Irene’s triumphant grin was so infectious he couldn’t help smiling back.
It was a perfect July evening, the air still soft and smelling of newly mown hay. The road ran through leafy, light-dappled tunnels, and there was little sound expect for birdsong and the soothing clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.