I didn’t return to class that afternoon. I went home, complaining to my mother of a sick stomach, and thought about packing a bag and running away before anyone could discover what I had done. I lay on my bed, the tears coming quickly, then found myself in the bathroom, vomiting hard, feeling the tension of perspiration and humiliation combining to condemn me. I was probably still there when our headmaster appeared in the shop downstairs, not to purchase a leg of lamb or a few pork chops for his tea, but to inform my father of the complaint that had been made against me, of the most hideous and vile complaint, and to instruct him that I was no longer welcome as a student in his school, that if he had his way I would be dragged before the magistrates on a charge of gross indecency.
I stayed in my room, a curious sense of calm overtaking me as if I was no longer of my own body. I inhabited a different plane for a short time, an ethereal presence watching this young, hopelessly confused lad sitting on the side of his bed, lost to the world but interested to find out what might happen next.
I was sent away from home later that day and within a few weeks most of the bruises and welts that my father had inflicted on me had begun to heal and the scars across my back and face had lost some of their sting. My left eye unsealed itself and I was able to see normally once again.
I made no protest as I was kicked out on to the street, where Mrs. Carter watched me as she watered her hydrangeas and shook her head, disappointed at where her life had brought her, for she knew in her heart that she had been born for more than this.
“Everything all right, Tristan?” she asked.
The vicarage reminded me of something from a picture postcard. It was located at the end of a small cul-de-sac with a short road leading up to it lined with trees that were just beginning to shed their leaves, and its windows were bordered by a lush spray of dark green ivy. I glanced towards the immaculate front lawn, taking in the row of ferns and bedding plants growing next to a corner rock garden. It was idyllic, a stark contrast to the small flat above the butcher’s shop in which I had spent my first sixteen years.
In the hallway, an enthusiastic small dog ran towards me, an inquisitive expression on his face, and as I reached down to pat him, he balanced with his hind legs on the floor and his front legs on my knees, patiently accepting all the pats and caresses that I was willing to bestow, his tail wagging in ecstasy at the attention.
“Bobby, get down,” said Marian, shooing him away. “You’re not frightened of dogs, are you, Tristan? Leonard couldn’t bear to have one near him.”
I looked at her, laughing a little; Bobby was hardly an intimidating presence. “Not in the least,” I said. “Although we never had one. What breed is he, anyway? A spaniel?”
“Yes, well, a King Charles. Getting on a bit now, of course. He’s almost nine.”
“Was he Will’s?” I asked, surprised that I had never heard Bobby’s name mentioned before. Some of the men over there had spoken about their dogs with more affection than they did their families.
“No, not really. He’s Mother’s, if he’s anyone’s. Just ignore him and he’ll stop pestering you eventually. Let’s go into the drawing room, I’ll just let Mother know you’re here.”
She opened the door to a comfortable parlour and I stepped inside, Bobby in tow, and looked around. It was as comfortable as I had expected it to be, the firmness of the sofas suggesting that the room was probably kept for special visitors, of which I, apparently, was one. I glanced down to find the dog sniffing around my ankles. I caught his eye and he stopped immediately, sitting on the floor and staring up at me, seemingly uncertain whether or not he approved of me yet. He cocked his head to the left, as though deciding, then began the process of trying to climb me once again.
“Mr. Sadler,” said Mrs. Bancroft, coming in a moment later, looking a little flustered. “It’s so good of you to call. I’m sure you’re very busy. Get down, Bobby.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I said, smiling at her, lying, pleased that Marian followed her mother in almost immediately with a pot of tea. More tea.
“I’m afraid my husband isn’t here yet,” she said. “He did promise to join us but sometimes he gets distracted by parishioners on the way home. I know he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“It’s quite all right,” I said, unsettled by the fine china cups being set out on the table with their painfully small handles. Since Will’s mother had appeared, my right index finger had started to shake in that uncontrollable manner once again and I rather feared that if I attempted to drink from one of them I would end up with its contents poured down my shirt.
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon, though,” she muttered, throwing a quick look out of the window as if that might ensure his timely presence. She was very much her daughter’s mother, an attractive woman in her early fifties, composed, well turned out, elegant. “Have you both had a nice day?” she asked eventually, as if this were nothing more than a social visit.
“Very nice, thank you,” I said. “Marian showed me around the city.”
“There’s not much to see, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I’m sure that a Londoner must find us terribly boring.”
“Not at all,” I said, even as Marian sighed audibly from the armchair next to mine.
“Now, why would you say that, Mother?” she asked. “Why must we continually believe that we are less than those who happen to live a hundred miles away?”
Mrs. Bancroft looked at her and then smiled at me. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” she said. “She does get in a flap sometimes over the smallest things.”
“I’m not getting in a flap,” she said. “It’s just… Oh, it doesn’t matter. It just irritates me, that’s all. Continually putting ourselves down like this.”
There was a touch of the irritated teenager about Marian now, quite different from the self-assured young woman with whom I had spent most of the day. I glanced towards the sideboard, where a series of portraits of Will, taken at various points during his life, captured my attention. In the first, he was presented as a young boy, smiling cheekily in a football outfit, then he was a little older, turning around and staring as if he had been taken by surprise. And in a third, he was walking away, his face invisible, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed low.
“Would you like to take a closer look?” asked Mrs. Bancroft, noticing my interest, and I nodded, going over to the sideboard, where I took each one down individually and examined it. It was all that I could do not to run my finger along the contours of his face.
“You don’t have any pictures of him in uniform, I see.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bancroft. “I did have one. When he first enlisted, I mean. We were terribly proud, of course, so it seemed like the right thing to do. But I took it down. I don’t want to be reminded of that part of his life, you see. It’s in a drawer somewhere but…”
Her voice trailed off and I didn’t pursue it. It had been the wrong question to ask. A moment later, however, I noticed another portrait, this one of a man who was wearing a uniform, although not the type that Will or I had ever worn. He had a placid expression on his face, as if he were resigned to whatever Fate had in store for him, and a rather extraordinary moustache.
“My father,” said Mrs. Bancroft, lifting the picture off the sideboard and staring at it with a half-smile. Her other hand caressed my arm for a moment in an unconscious gesture and I felt comforted by it. “Neither Marian nor William ever knew him, of course. He fought in the first Transvaal conflict.”
“Oh yes,” I said, nodding. When I was growing up, the Boer War and its predecessor were the great conflict memories of my parents’ generation and they were often talked about still. Everyone had a grandfather or an uncle who had fought at Ladysmith or Mafeking, laid down their lives on the sloping hills of Drakensberg or come to a horrible end in the polluted rivers of the Modder. People spoke of the Boers, a race who had simply chosen not to be overrun by invaders from a different hemisphere, as the last great enemy of the British people and their war as our last great conflict. A bitter irony, I suppose.