Exeter, not the general. “He went to another world, Mrs. Bodgley."
Mrs. Bodgley had been rummaging in a drawer for spoons. She straightened to her full height and transfixed Smedley with a stiletto eye.
"Did you say, ‘Another world'?"
"Yes, I did."
"Oh.” Mrs. Bodgley pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “How very curious!” she murmured, and returned her attention to the cutlery.
He had never felt so helpless in his life. He was appalled to discover that his hostess had no resident servants, only “old Tattler's daughter who comes in twice a week to do the rough cleaning.” Moreover, Mrs. Bodgley did not seem to find that situation remarkable. He had not realized how much the war had changed things.
She began peeling spuds. He could not help with that. He might possibly make beds, but she assured him the beds were already made up. There was no shortage of linen. She had trunks and trunks of stuff she had brought from the big house, she said. Perhaps he could just look through that one and find some more plates?
He had run out of fags. He could not even walk into town to buy some—partly because he was a hunted fugitive, mostly because he had no money. Oh hell! How had he ever blundered into this bog?
Rumbling nonstop as she prepared dinner, Mrs. Bodgley spouted news of his old chums, and he felt the chill of the war's grim shadow. Wounded, wounded, dead, dead, dead ... She talked of the difficulties the school was having now, for although she was no longer wife of the chairman and hence Honorary Godmother, she had maintained her interest.
She asked what his plans were now. He had to confess that he had none. He had always assumed that he would return to India, where he had been born, following in the guv'nor's footsteps. The Government of India would probably prefer men with two hands, but he had some gongs and he was Sir Thomas's son ... but the police were after him now. Whatever happened in the next week or two, that blot would never fade from his record. Scratch India.
He kept thinking of Exeter's Olympus—dressing for dinner in the jungle, house servants galore ... but that mythical world was wilting under the clammy breath of reality. Magical powers and miracle cures, prophecy and vindictive gods ... how could anyone believe such ravings?
Oh, for a cigarette!
The time came to harness up the pony again. Mrs. Bodgley set off for Greyfriars and the station. Smedley wandered out into the garden. The vegetables were well tended, the flowers needed work. He removed his jacket and tie. Clippers or lawn mower were beyond him, but he found a hand fork in the shed and set to work on the weeds. When that palled, he established that he could use a hoe, after a fashion, and even rake leaves.
The scent of fresh earth reminded him of the trenches. But this was an autumn afternoon in England. He was Home. Thick hedges and ivy-furred walls enclosed him like a womb. There were leaves overhead and white clouds. He could hear a chaffinch and the pigeons. He had done his bit, his war was over. Home! Blighty! A fierce contentment seized him.
After a while he realized that his invisible hand had gone, and he had not wept all day.
The trap came jingling back, with Exeter driving. Smedley went to open the yard gate for them, but of course Alice was there. Alice was a girl. Confused by the strange shyness that suddenly possessed him, he hastened back to his gardening. There, at least, he would not have to listen while Exeter discussed old Bagpipe's murder with his mother, if they had not already gone over that.
An hour or so must have drifted by before he heard a mechanical rattling. Exeter came around the corner, grinning cheerfully and pushing a lawn mower. “Escaped!” he said. “Tired of talking! You've got a good show going here."
He hung his jacket and tie on a branch. After a few passes across the straggly lawn, he stopped and glanced at the hedges. The lane outside was a cul de sac, with no traffic. He took off his shirt, to work in his undervest. The ladies were busy in the kitchen, he said. They wouldn't notice. It wasn't quite gentlemanly, but it did make sense. Smedley removed his shirt also, and went back to killing weeds.
His mood of lonely content had faded. Every time he caught sight of Exeter's bronzed shoulders he thought of those ritual scars the man must still have on his ribs. How could he have gone native like that? What little he had said about the Service had made it seem like a very worthy cause. Olympus had sounded like a true outpost of civilization. But spears and mutilation and painted faces ... those were not pukka!
Dinner was a strange meal. Even with all the windows open, the sepulchral dining room was dim and breathless. Its monumental mahogany furniture would have seated twenty without trouble, so the four of them clustered at one end of the table, Smedley paired with—and tongue-tied by—Alice Prescott. If either of the ladies had ever studied the culinary arts, the food did not bear witness. They both wore dresses, but not evening dresses, and of course the men had nothing except the clothes that Ginger had acquired for them from the mythical barrow. The total absence of servants screamed wrongness.
As compensation, the wines were superb. Everyone became a little louder than usual.
Exeter hardly had a chance to eat. Whenever he paused, either Alice or Mrs. Bodgley would fire more questions at him. He repeated much that Smedley had heard before. He added a lot more. Mrs. Bodgley raised her eyebrows a time or two, but never expressed a doubt as the unlikely tale unfolded.
If Exeter was making it up, or had imagined it all, it was astonishingly detailed and consistent. Reluctantly, Smedley began to sense belief creeping back again, and odd stirrings of something that felt strangely like relief. He was too close to being tipsy to work that out.
After the cheese, the men declined port, and all four moved out to the little crazy-paving terrace to sit on a pair of extremely uncomfortable wrought-iron benches and watch the sky darken and the stars awaken. Alice brought coffee. Mrs. Bodgley disappeared and returned with cobwebs in her hair and a very dusty bottle in hand.
"This is older even than I am,” she said. “It's part of a stock of wines and spirits that Gilbert laid down for Timothy when he was born. It seems only fitting that his friends should enjoy them. Edward, will you do the honors, please?"
It was an angel of a brandy.
There was only one thing wrong with the day now.
"Captain?” Mrs. Bodgley boomed. “Mr. Exeter? What am I thinking of? I do believe there are still some of Gilbert's cigars in the humidor. Would either of you care..."
It was a goddess of a cigar. Corona Corona, finest Cuban.
"Listen!” Alice said. “That can't be a nightingale? This late in the year?"
"Well?” Mrs. Bodgley demanded, shattering a reflective silence. “What are your plans now, Mr. Exeter?"
Smedley jerked out of a reverie. Good question!
"I do wish you would go back to calling me Edward, Mrs. Bodgley."
He had asked that several times. Smedley was amused to see the redoubtable Mrs. Bodgley not in perfect control of her tongue, but he knew that this evening must be a devilish strain on her. She must feel haunted by ghosts of past, present, and future—son, husband, and better days. She deserved a medal for even trying.
"Tch!” she said. “I keep forgetting. What are your plans now, Edward?"
"I want to enlist, of course; do my bit."
"Naturally. I would not expect anything different of a Fallow boy."
Alice shifted on the bench at Smedley's side. He thought she was about to speak, but she did not.