of spring, of life opening and budding. A sudden impulse seized him to array himself to match his mood; new clothes for a new life.
In his office he wore the usual city manâs uniform of stripedtrousers and short black coat. His lounge suits were for the most part brown.
âIâve the very thing for you,â his tailor said, draping over his arm a dark red-brown cloth that on an ordinary occasion he might well have chosen. Guy shook his head. He wanted something unlike himself. He ran his eye along the bales: blues and reys and browns and checks, till his attention was caught and held by a smooth dark cloth with an unusual gloss. âThat looks like green,â he said.
âIt is, sir, a bottle green. Iâll show you it in the light.â He took it to the doorway. In the dark electric-lit shop it would have passed for black, but in the daylight, the green tinge was definite. âIt needs the sun though to bring out its true colour,â the tailor said. It was not only unlike any suit he had ever had himself, but it was unlike any suit that he had seen. Yet in no sense could it have been described as âloudâ.
âIâm not sure that itâs quite your style,â the tailor said.
âThatâs precisely what Iâm looking for. Something that isnât my usual style.â
âWell, of course, sir,
you
could get away with it.â
Guy smiled. He knew what the man was thinking. That a man who had played for England could wear anything and not be misunderstood.
âIâll have it,â he said, âand single-breasted. And could you give me a cutting so that I can get some hosiery to match. Oh, and one other thing. Itâs most important that it should be ready in a fortnight.â
Was he counting his chickens before they were hatched? Ordering new clothes, contracting for a flat. What a fool heâd feel if Renée treated him as a casual acquaintance, and he was left with an unusual suit and a flat he did not need. He shrugged. You should always plan things on the assumption you would win, as though things were going to turn out the way you wanted.
4
On the Thursday Guy went down to Fernhurst. When his father had gone there in the 1870s, the school, though it had been founded by Edward VI had only recently emerged from the status of a small West Country day school. Now, half a century later, it had taken its place beside Marlborough, Uppingham, and Tonbridge in the hierarchy of the system, with four hundred names upon its roll.
It was a three-hour train journey and Guy arrived late in the afternoon. It was not a half holiday, and the whole school was in form. It was a grey chill day, but the rain had ceased and the wind had dropped. He strolled through the main gate, past the sixth-form green towards the point below Big School where you could see the square Abbey tower in silhouette above the School House studies. The Abbey had been built in the twelfth century; the studies a century later, to serve as the Abbotâs quarters. It must have looked much the same when Edward VI endowed the school in 1550.
Guy let his eye travel round the courts to the succession of lighted windows in the classrooms. The Abbey clock struck three times. Quarter of an hour more to tea. He thought of all the boys behind all those windows whose hearts had quickened at the sound, just as his fatherâs had, just as his had done, just as his sonâs would do. He walked on through the cloisters, up the chapel steps. A new wing had been built as a war memorial. The roll of honour was engraved upon its walls. Four hundred names: name after familiar name. Of those who had come here on the same day as he, in September 1909, over half were dead, over half had not reached their thirties.
At the head of the stairs was a lectern, with a volume of parchment sheets each one containing the photograph of a boy whohad been killed, with his school and war records inscribed below.
In his office he wore the usual city manâs uniform of stripedtrousers and short black coat. His lounge suits were for the most part brown.
âIâve the very thing for you,â his tailor said, draping over his arm a dark red-brown cloth that on an ordinary occasion he might well have chosen. Guy shook his head. He wanted something unlike himself. He ran his eye along the bales: blues and reys and browns and checks, till his attention was caught and held by a smooth dark cloth with an unusual gloss. âThat looks like green,â he said.
âIt is, sir, a bottle green. Iâll show you it in the light.â He took it to the doorway. In the dark electric-lit shop it would have passed for black, but in the daylight, the green tinge was definite. âIt needs the sun though to bring out its true colour,â the tailor said. It was not only unlike any suit he had ever had himself, but it was unlike any suit that he had seen. Yet in no sense could it have been described as âloudâ.
âIâm not sure that itâs quite your style,â the tailor said.
âThatâs precisely what Iâm looking for. Something that isnât my usual style.â
âWell, of course, sir,
you
could get away with it.â
Guy smiled. He knew what the man was thinking. That a man who had played for England could wear anything and not be misunderstood.
âIâll have it,â he said, âand single-breasted. And could you give me a cutting so that I can get some hosiery to match. Oh, and one other thing. Itâs most important that it should be ready in a fortnight.â
Was he counting his chickens before they were hatched? Ordering new clothes, contracting for a flat. What a fool heâd feel if Renée treated him as a casual acquaintance, and he was left with an unusual suit and a flat he did not need. He shrugged. You should always plan things on the assumption you would win, as though things were going to turn out the way you wanted.
4
On the Thursday Guy went down to Fernhurst. When his father had gone there in the 1870s, the school, though it had been founded by Edward VI had only recently emerged from the status of a small West Country day school. Now, half a century later, it had taken its place beside Marlborough, Uppingham, and Tonbridge in the hierarchy of the system, with four hundred names upon its roll.
It was a three-hour train journey and Guy arrived late in the afternoon. It was not a half holiday, and the whole school was in form. It was a grey chill day, but the rain had ceased and the wind had dropped. He strolled through the main gate, past the sixth-form green towards the point below Big School where you could see the square Abbey tower in silhouette above the School House studies. The Abbey had been built in the twelfth century; the studies a century later, to serve as the Abbotâs quarters. It must have looked much the same when Edward VI endowed the school in 1550.
Guy let his eye travel round the courts to the succession of lighted windows in the classrooms. The Abbey clock struck three times. Quarter of an hour more to tea. He thought of all the boys behind all those windows whose hearts had quickened at the sound, just as his fatherâs had, just as his had done, just as his sonâs would do. He walked on through the cloisters, up the chapel steps. A new wing had been built as a war memorial. The roll of honour was engraved upon its walls. Four hundred names: name after familiar name. Of those who had come here on the same day as he, in September 1909, over half were dead, over half had not reached their thirties.
At the head of the stairs was a lectern, with a volume of parchment sheets each one containing the photograph of a boy whohad been killed, with his school and war records inscribed below.
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