whether to strike a note of sorrow or of celebration. Had Beatrix died in her sleep, her age and mental alertness would have been counted as reasons to take comfort from her passing. As it was, one violent moment cast its shadow over a lifetime of serenity. At all events, Charlotte supposed Beatrix’s life had been serene, although the truth was that nobody had known her well enough to be absolutely certain.
For once, Jack’s waggish ways were welcome. He it was who prompted Charlotte to offer the scotches and gins everyone was silently craving and, from that point on, conversation and affectionate reminiscence flowed. The need to function as a group faded as the stilted mood of the funeral ebbed away. Jack began to monopolize Samantha’s attention with his lubricated and faintly lecherous wit.
Ursula drifted out on to the lawn to smoke a cigarette. And Maurice sought to reassure Charlotte about his stewardship of her inheritance.
“I think I can safely claim to have put everything in order, Charlie.
Not that it was difficult. Beatrix ran her affairs very efficiently.”
“I’m sure she did.”
44
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
“A formidable lady, in many ways. I shall miss her.”
“We shall all miss her.”
A peal of laughter from Samantha floated across to them and Maurice smiled. “Well, you and I will, certainly.” He grew more serious.
“I leave for New York tomorrow. Life—and business—must go on.”
“Of course.” Maurice seemed to spend half his time in the United States these days, which was not surprising in view of Ladram Avionics’ steady expansion in the American market. “And how is . . .
business?”
“Is that a polite enquiry or a shareholder speaking?” He grinned.
“Either way, the answer’s the same. Never better.”
“Then, either way, I’m glad to hear it.”
“But it means I shall have to leave you in the lurch where Jackdaw Cottage is concerned.”
“You’ve done more than I could reasonably have expected already, Maurice. It’s high time I took a hand.”
“What do you think you’ll do with the place? Sell?”
“I suppose so. That is . . . What else can I do with it? It’s what I should do with this house as well, come to that.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve told you so often enough. It would fetch a good price. And it might help you to . . . start afresh, so to speak.”
“You’re right. I know. But knowing and doing are two—” She broke off at the sudden realization that her voice was the only sound in the room. Jack’s guffaws had ceased. Samantha’s giggles had died.
Turning, she saw they were both looking towards the open French windows. Ursula was standing there. With a stranger beside her.
Derek left Fithyan & Co. early that afternoon and toured the bookshops of Tunbridge Wells in search of two copies of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography . He found only one and the assistant looked puzzled by his request to order a second, but she assured him that it would take no more than a couple of weeks to obtain.
Sitting in his car, he unwrapped the book and gazed at the face that stared up at him from the cover. According to what he had read on the back while standing in the shop, Tristram Abberley had died of wounds incurred while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.
Derek was not surprised therefore by the martial air of the photograph, clearly taken in Spain some time before the poet’s death. He was a slim good-looking man of about thirty, with short and already
H A N D I N G L O V E
45
receding hair above a clear and square-jawed face. His uniform was dusty and ill-fitting, the ruined wall against which he was leaning sun-baked and crumbling. But none of that mattered. The nonchalant angle at which he held a cigarette between the first and second fingers of his left hand; the disdainful arching of his eyebrows; the casual pose he struck against the wall: all these captured and conveyed the personality of one whose self-confidence could
For once, Jack’s waggish ways were welcome. He it was who prompted Charlotte to offer the scotches and gins everyone was silently craving and, from that point on, conversation and affectionate reminiscence flowed. The need to function as a group faded as the stilted mood of the funeral ebbed away. Jack began to monopolize Samantha’s attention with his lubricated and faintly lecherous wit.
Ursula drifted out on to the lawn to smoke a cigarette. And Maurice sought to reassure Charlotte about his stewardship of her inheritance.
“I think I can safely claim to have put everything in order, Charlie.
Not that it was difficult. Beatrix ran her affairs very efficiently.”
“I’m sure she did.”
44
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
“A formidable lady, in many ways. I shall miss her.”
“We shall all miss her.”
A peal of laughter from Samantha floated across to them and Maurice smiled. “Well, you and I will, certainly.” He grew more serious.
“I leave for New York tomorrow. Life—and business—must go on.”
“Of course.” Maurice seemed to spend half his time in the United States these days, which was not surprising in view of Ladram Avionics’ steady expansion in the American market. “And how is . . .
business?”
“Is that a polite enquiry or a shareholder speaking?” He grinned.
“Either way, the answer’s the same. Never better.”
“Then, either way, I’m glad to hear it.”
“But it means I shall have to leave you in the lurch where Jackdaw Cottage is concerned.”
“You’ve done more than I could reasonably have expected already, Maurice. It’s high time I took a hand.”
“What do you think you’ll do with the place? Sell?”
“I suppose so. That is . . . What else can I do with it? It’s what I should do with this house as well, come to that.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve told you so often enough. It would fetch a good price. And it might help you to . . . start afresh, so to speak.”
“You’re right. I know. But knowing and doing are two—” She broke off at the sudden realization that her voice was the only sound in the room. Jack’s guffaws had ceased. Samantha’s giggles had died.
Turning, she saw they were both looking towards the open French windows. Ursula was standing there. With a stranger beside her.
Derek left Fithyan & Co. early that afternoon and toured the bookshops of Tunbridge Wells in search of two copies of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography . He found only one and the assistant looked puzzled by his request to order a second, but she assured him that it would take no more than a couple of weeks to obtain.
Sitting in his car, he unwrapped the book and gazed at the face that stared up at him from the cover. According to what he had read on the back while standing in the shop, Tristram Abberley had died of wounds incurred while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.
Derek was not surprised therefore by the martial air of the photograph, clearly taken in Spain some time before the poet’s death. He was a slim good-looking man of about thirty, with short and already
H A N D I N G L O V E
45
receding hair above a clear and square-jawed face. His uniform was dusty and ill-fitting, the ruined wall against which he was leaning sun-baked and crumbling. But none of that mattered. The nonchalant angle at which he held a cigarette between the first and second fingers of his left hand; the disdainful arching of his eyebrows; the casual pose he struck against the wall: all these captured and conveyed the personality of one whose self-confidence could
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