‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’
She gave a listless shake of the head, unable, it seemed, to rouse the energy for speech.
Armstrong sighed. ‘Well … thank you.’
He was glad to be outdoors again.
Armstrong found water for Fleet and then he and the horse made for the river. This stretch was broad and straight and at times the water appeared so still you might take it for a solid mass, till you threw something in – a twig or an apple core – and saw with what powerful rapidity it was carried away. On a felled trunk not far from the bridge, he unwrapped his own lunch and took a mouthful. The meat was good, and so was the bread, but the sight of the butcher’s greed had cut his appetite. He broke the bread into small crumbs and strewed them around for the little birds that came pecking, then he sat very still, looking into the water. Surrounded by robins and thrushes, he reflected on the disappointments of his day.
The failure of his visit to Mrs Eavis was bad enough, but the discovery that Ben was missing had lowered his spirits still further. He remembered the boy’s care in looking after Fleet. He pictured the way he had eaten so ravenously when Armstrong offered him buns. He reflected on the boy’s cheerful spirit. He thought of the dismal air in the butcher’s shop, the monstrous father, the browbeaten mother and the first son, dead at heart, and marvelled at Ben’s optimism. Where was the boy now? If, as the grocer’s boy had said, he was making for Kelmscott – for Armstrong and the farm – why had he not arrived? It was no more than six miles – why, a boy ought to cover that distance in only a couple of hours. What had become of him?
And there was the girl. What could he do to further matters there? His heart sank at the thought of a child caught between two families, the impossibility of making sure she was in the right place. And from the child, his thoughts turned to Robin, and then his heart almost broke. He remembered the first time he had held him. The infant had been so small and light, yet the whole of life was present in the tentative movement of his arms and legs. During Bess’s pregnancy, Armstrong had looked forward to loving and caring for this child, had awaited the day with excitement and impatience, yet still when the moment came he was overwhelmed by the strength of the feeling that swept over him. The infant in his arms obliterated all else, and he had vowed that this baby would never feel hungry or lonely or be placed in danger. He would love and protect this child, who would grow up a stranger to sorrow and loneliness. The same feeling rose in his chest now.
Armstrong wiped his eyes. The sudden movement made the robins and thrushes fly up and away. He got to his feet and answered Fleet’s greeting with a rub and a pat.
‘Come on. We’re too old to ride to Oxford together, and in any case I haven’t the time. But let’s go to Lechlade. I’ll leave you near the station and take the train. The boys will feed the pigs when they see I’m not back.’
Fleet harrumphed softly.
‘Foolish?’ he answered. He hesitated, one foot in the stirrup. ‘Quite possibly. But what else is there? I can’t do nothing.’ He swung into the saddle and they turned upstream.
Armstrong asked for his son’s lodgings. He made his way to a part of town where the streets were broader, the houses larger and well maintained. When he came to the street to which he had been sending letters these last two years, he slowed, uneasy, and when he came to Number 8 – large and grand and painted white – he halted at the gate and frowned. This was all too expensive by a long way. His own home, the farmhouse, was not overly modest, he did not hesitate to spend on the comfort and well-being of his family, but this grandeur was on another level altogether. Armstrong was not a stranger to fine villas – the accident of his birth meant that several grand households had opened their doors to him in his early years – and he was unintimidated by this display of wealth, yet he was troubled at the thought of his son residing in such a place. Where would he get the money for it? But might it be that he lodged in a single room in the attic? Or – was it possible? – perhaps there was another street in another part of town that bore the same name?
Armstrong entered by the second, smaller gate that lead by a narrow path to the back of the house and knocked at the kitchen door. It was answered by a girl of eleven or twelve with a lank plait and a downtrodden air, who shook her head at his suggestion of there being two streets with the same name.
‘In that case, is there a Mr Robin Armstrong here?’
The girl hesitated. She seemed at once to shrink into herself and to scrutinize him more intently. The name was plainly known to her, and Armstrong was about to encourage her to speak when a woman of about thirty appeared behind her.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice was hard-edged. She stood rigidly upright, arms folded across her chest, her face the kind that didn’t know how to smile. Then something in her altered. A subtle alteration in the set of her shoulders, something brazen in her eyes. Her lips remained set but gave the impression that if he played his cards right they had it in them to soften. Most people when they saw Mr Armstrong were so surprised at the colour of his skin that they saw nothing else, but some – women mostly – noticed that his face was very handsomely put together.
Armstrong did not smile and he put no note of coaxing cajolery in his voice. He carried apples for horses and marbles for small boys, but for women such as this one, he was careful to offer nothing at all.
‘Are you the lady of the house?’
‘Hardly.’
‘The housekeeper?’
A brief nod.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Armstrong,’ he said neutrally.
She gave him a challenging look, waiting to see whether the good-looking stranger was going to make any effort to please her, and when he met her gaze with a steadily indifferent look of his own, shrugged.
‘There is no Mr Armstrong here.’
She shut the door.
It was not an easy matter to linger in a smart Oxford street for any length of time, so, unwilling to draw attention to himself, Armstrong paced the streets that ran parallel. At every intersection of the path, he looked left and right, knowing he ran the risk of missing his object altogether, but when the hands of his watch had gone all the way round one hour and were halfway round the next one, he caught a glimpse of a slight figure with a long plait down her back. He pressed his pace to catch up with her.
‘Miss! Excuse me, Miss!’
The girl stopped and swung round. ‘Oh! It’s you.’
She seemed smaller and even more miserable in the open air than she had in the doorway.
‘Don’t let me hold you up,’ he said, seeing her shiver. ‘Come along. I’ll walk with you.’
‘I don’t know why she didn’t tell you,’ the girl offered before he had even asked the question. ‘Is it you that writes the letters?’
‘Yes, I write to him here.’
‘But he don’t live here.’
‘Doesn’t he?’
Now Armstrong was really puzzled. He had received answers to his correspondence. Brief and short – requests for money, mostly – but containing references to his own letters. He must be receiving them. Armstrong frowned.
The girl sniffed in the cold and turned a corner. She walked at a fast pace for such a small person.
‘Mr Fisher says “Never mind the letters” and puts them in his pocket,’ she adds.
‘Ah.’ That was something, anyway. Did he dare go back and ring that gleaming bell at the front step and ask for Mr Fisher?
As if she could read his thoughts, the girl told him, ‘Mr Fisher won’t be in for hours. Don’t hardly get out of bed till midday, he keeps such late hours at the Green Dragon.’