Read Online A Future Arrived by Phillip Rock - Free Book Online Page B

the obvious choice to train and lead such a group, but politics being what they are, there’s no guarantee he would be chosen. I will have to go to work on it with my usual quiet diplomacy and Byzantine intriguing. It’s all extremely hush-hush at the moment. If Fenton got wind of it he’d go smashing his way through the War Office cliques like a bull in a china shop ruffling feathers and stomping on toes. So mum’s the word, please.”
    She gave his hand a quick squeeze. He was about the same age as her husband, and yet he looked years younger. A fine-boned, delicate face that would have been pretty had it not been for the sardonic twist to the mouth and the vulpine eyes. “You always look out for him.”
    He turned to her and kissed her softly on the cheek. “And you, Winnie.”
    T HEY BURIED John Harum Coatsworth on Saturday morning, a cloudless day, the High Street thronged with shoppers. It was a simple ceremony—as Coatsworth would have wished—and Charles’s eulogy was brief, if heartfelt. The vicar, mindful of the fact that many of those in attendance were servants from the Pryory, wished to read the passage from Matthew that began with … “Well done, thou good and faithful servant …” but Hanna dissuaded him and he chose a selection from Isaiah instead. The last of Coatsworth’s three favorite hymns was sung and then the casket was carried into the churchyard.
    Massive oaks shaded lush, damp grass and old gravestones. The vicar intoned a prayer.
    â€œIn the midst of life we are in death …”
    The younger parlormaids, dressed in their best frocks, fidgeted at the back of the crowd, casting anxious glances toward the bustle of the High Street. They had been given a holiday until five that afternoon and they yearned to make the most of it.
    â€œâ€¦ of the Resurrection unto eternal life. Amen.”
    The mourners dispersed, the servants hurrying—without appearing too eager—toward the excitements of the town: the F. W. Woolworth’s, the tea shops, and the pubs.
    Winifred, holding a fidgeting Kate firmly by the hand, and trailed by the twins, both wearing expressions of almost theatrical somberness, walked over to where her husband stood talking with Martin and Charles and William Greville. The Hon. William, seven years younger than his brother, was a giant of a man who could easily have shouldered the casket to the grave without the aid of his fellow pallbearers—could have, that is, if his right knee, shattered by a bullet in 1917, had been up to the strain.
    â€œWe’re all expected at the vicarage for sherry,” Winifred said.
    Charles shook his head. “Tea. Glynis Masefield made cress sandwiches and a Madeira cake.”
    William, his knee aching from kneeling at prayers, rubbed it vigorously and scowled. “Oh, bugger that. I’m for a pint or two at the Rose and Crown.”
    â€œSo am I,” Charles said, “but I’d best attend. It would embarrass Mother and disappoint Glynis terribly. You chaps sneak away. You won’t be missed.”
    The three men took him at his word and trailed the crowd moving along the gravel path toward the street. William cast a final glance over his shoulder at the grave.
    â€œPoor old codger. I was the bane of his life. God, how he dreaded my coming down from Eton on hols, usually with two or three of my friends—rowdies all. We were always trying to find some way of breaking into the wine cellar. He managed to foil all our schemes, but it left him a nervous wreck. Oh, well, de mortuis and all that. He was a decent old soul.”
    â€œYour father will miss him,” Fenton said.
    â€œLord, yes. That was all he talked of when I telephoned him from Dublin yesterday—that and the uncivilized food. Poor Father. Never been ill a day in his life. He finds the whole hospital routine quite beyond his understanding. Dulcie just left one in Leicester.