Perhaps she picked up the best of the reflections, for when he sat down all hope left her and she held him in a burning embrace, and they made the best love ever, he decided, at the crying out when she came.
Looking up, he saw the large melancholy head of a cow with big purple eyes fixed on them from over the hedge. Definitely not, he said to himself, unpeeling the frenchie before turning to help her, though minutes passed before he could stop her crying.
Back in camp a letter was waiting from Brigadier Thurgarton-Strang, in reply to one Herbert had written on joining up. His parents were on their way home by troopship and would get to Southampton in a month. As soon as Herbert could wangle a forty-eight hour pass they would like to see him and talk things over and please find the cheque inside for twenty-five pounds — a month’s wages at the factory, and about three months as a soldier. He smiled, looking at it back and front before slotting it into his wallet for use in an emergency, though thinking he might not cash it at all.
Strangers were demanding his reappearance in a stage play he had walked out of years ago. What did they want to see him for? Who were they, in any case? Who was he, come to that? He felt a mix-up of curiosity and resentment, at the idea of meeting people who had abandoned him for seven years. He wouldn’t even know what they looked like, nor they him, as if arranging a rendezvous by a lion in Trafalgar Square with someone you’d never seen, so that you might stand a few yards apart fruitlessly waiting for hours. Lord Nelson high above would recognize him before they did. Still, they were his parents, or claimed to be, so he had to respond to their curt summons, acknowledging that at least the cheque had been generous.
But should he go? Hard to say. In Nottingham he could have talked the matter over with Isaac, though in the end the decision would be his and nobody else’s. It wasn’t worthy of a grown-up to be uncertain when a brigadier wants to see you. There was nothing to do but, as with headmaster or foreman, do it with neither thought nor malice.
London was familiar, and he walked as if the streets belonged to him. You could still tell the place had been bombed, odd corners roped off, brambles proliferating behind wire fencing. Gower Street was shabby, but he supposed it always had been. Smells of petrol, coal smoke and plaster dust enriched the air. At eighteen he felt superior to everyone, a soldier with creases as sharp as his reactions in dealing with traffic when crossing the road, disdaining green lights and Belisha beacons. Boots were blackened to the utmost shine, gaiters blancoed, and a belt buckle that winked at whatever young secretary, darting from a door on the way to get her sandwich for lunch, might glance back at him.
The Underground train rattled along to Notting Hill Gate. He stood without strap-hanging, well enough balanced and controlled to stay upright at the stops and starts. Most of the people looked worn out, so closed in on themselves he wondered if they weren’t, in the words of Mrs Denman, sickening for something.
He found the place easily on his map, a small but three-storied cottage kind of house in a street south of the main road. Within the railings two wooden tubs stood by the door, each holding an evergreen. Herbert adjusted his cap — though there was no need — to conceal his hesitation, not willing to put a hand on the knocker. He saw himself walk smartly away, a jolt to the heart at such a move, for he would never afterwards make contact. But they’d know where to find him, so escape was impossible. It would be easier and more sensible to meet them.
He detected regret in the man who opened the door, at not having a skivvy to do the job. Times had changed. There were no servants now, at least not in this country, unless you were a millionaire or in the Labour Government, his father’s expression seemed to say. Herbert was led into a parlour whose bay window fronted the street. ‘Maybe we’ll have someone to look after us when we get back to the old place in Norfolk.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I’ll be out next year. And then we’ll see. Meanwhile this doll’s house costs ten pounds a week. Sit down, my boy, and let’s have a look at you. I hope you don’t mind sandwiches for lunch?’
Herbert’s head was level with that of this erect oldish bloke of nearly sixty who claimed to be his father, bald but for a few grey strands, a returning trace of rubicund in his face after the sea voyage. He removed his beret and stared into his father’s grey eyes. ‘Not at all, sir.’
Hugh smiled. Mufti or not, you could tell he was a soldier, straight and slender, head seemed more inclined to the ceiling than to anybody else’s level. He held Herbert’s right hand with both of his, instead of returning the handshake that was offered. ‘Do you know, my boy, we were never worried when you bolted.’ He spoke as if the escape was yesterday, though maybe it was to him. ‘We were surprised at first, a little annoyed, I won’t say we weren’t, but that was about all. I always dreamed of doing it from my school, but never had the initiative to carry it out. It was good of you to let us know so soon, though. The first thing I did was write to your school and tell ’em they weren’t to go after you. Don’t suppose they liked it, but they must have known better than to argue.’
Herbert smiled, at what must have been the longest ever speech from his father. All his fears about being caught had been for nothing. Bugger it! — almost came to his lips, though he considered his chagrin unjustified because, on looking back, it seemed he had rather enjoyed being a fugitive. ‘It was good of you to take it like that.’
They sat as if both were too big for the armless chintz-covered chairs. ‘Well, I didn’t think it would do you any harm, especially when you wrote and said you were working in a factory. Everything helps to make a man of a boy as long as he puts his back into it.’
Herbert struggled for a moment to keep his accent from straying. ‘I liked the life.’
‘I’m sure you did. A lot of my chaps came from such places in the Great War, as well as in this one. We had a few bad eggs, but most of them did well. And when they did well, there were none better.’
Expecting a shouting at, he felt at a loss, glad when the half-shut door was kicked open and the woman he supposed would turn out to be his mother came in with a tray of cups and saucers. Thick grey hair was tied back, showing her strong profile, and a string of brown beads fell over the white blouse covering a sloping bosom.
She must have known he had been in the house five minutes already, so had been waiting to compose herself for the moment of reunion or, more like it, hadn’t thought it necessary to break off what she was doing; the latter more likely, because pride grew out of her bone marrow.
‘I even have to learn how to make coffee — though I always could, you know.’ She set the tray on a shining walnut wood table between them. The crockery rattled, a sign of nervousness at the longed for meeting, he could only suppose. ‘How are you, Herbert? It’s been so long, such a dreadful time, not being able to see you. You were quite a small boy …’
‘Hadn’t started to grow,’ Hugh laughed.
He had already stood up, as you did when someone came into the room. She grasped his forearms, and he was embarrassed at the fervent kiss, at her eyes glistening with love and recognition, a definite tear in one of them. He hoped she didn’t notice the drawing back in his heart and hands. Could he believe she had dreamed of this reunion for years?
‘I can see you’re well,’ she said, ’and I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are. Apart from the height you’ve not changed a bit. You’re the replica of your father when he was your age. Isn’t he, Hugh? Just look at him.’