would drive, but Lewis, who had given up his car six months before Jo’s death, chose the tube. Ealing was at one end of the Central Line and Theydon at the other, so he could sit in the train for an hour or more reading one of his favourite and frequently reread books, The Count of Monte Cristo.
Stanley met him at the station with Spot on the lead. Much to Spot’s dismay, they sat down on a seat outside the Bull because Lewis wasn’t a great walker.
“Quite like being in the countryside,” he said.
“We are in the countryside.”
This was answered by a half smile from Lewis and a shrug from his arthritic shoulders. “My brother George is coming to lunch,” said Stanley. “He’s looking forward to seeing you again.”
George was the only one of the Batchelors Lewis hadn’t liked. Too bossy and go-ahead.
“He’s recovering from a hip replacement.”
“It comes to us all,” said Lewis the GP, trying to be generous.
“Not to me, I trust. I try to keep all that sort of thing at bay by regular walks with Spot.”
George had already arrived and was seated in an armchair, his leg up and his stick beside him. His big, black Audi, driven by Maureen, was on Stanley’s garage drive, and she in what Stanley called “the lounge,” drinking sherry with a woman in her fifties with silvery-blond hair, wearing dark green leather trousers and a red satin blouse.
“We built this house, you know,” said George when Helen had handed sherry to Lewis.
“And you built Warlock,” said Lewis. “You didn’t put those hands in the foundations, I hope?”
No one commented on that. Lewis expected someone to say how sorry he or she was to hear of Jo’s death, but no one did. Lewis didn’t mind, he never knew what to say in response to condolence, but he thought it strange. Helen said lunch would soon be ready. Stanley let the dog out into the garden, and George, opening a huge photograph album, showed Lewis the sole picture of the qanats that existed. The entrance to the tunnels was crammed with grinning children, none of whom Lewis could recognise. George began talking about going there, when they found the place and where it was.
“I reckon I was the first of us to go in there.”
“It was quite brave,” Stanley said. “The whole thing might have collapsed, the roof fallen in.”
“Quell,” said George, “was more interested in any adults who might have gone in there, people we’d seen.”
“Who’s Quell?”
“Policeman. He came to George’s and we all went over and talked to him. Well, all—those we could find. Those who are still alive. There was me, Norman, George, and Michael Winwood, Alan Norris and that woman Rosemary he married—oh, and Daphne Jones. Daphne Furness as she is now.”
There was a silence, brought about as so often by the utterance of that name. Only Lewis repeated it. “Oh yes, Daphne Jones . . . This cop wanted to know about adults in there? What, brought along by one of us?”
“I suppose so,” said Stanley. “Even if we had, he or she would be dead by now.” Before he could say more, Helen came back to tell them lunch was ready.
It was a good lunch, much appreciated by Lewis, along with thenicely laid table, the silver and glass and the pink tulips in a Royal Copenhagen vase. Such beautifully prepared food and carefully chosen wine hadn’t come his way since Jo fell ill all those years ago. It softened his attitude to the Batchelors without making him wish to disclose who he thought that adult visitor to the tunnels might have been. Yet, he thought, as he increasingly did these days, at his age he hadn’t, what he had not long ago taken for granted, an indefinite future. He was one of the oldest of the tunnel occupants and would not, as he put it wryly to himself, eating his crème brûlée with gusto, see seventy-five again. Arthritis wouldn’t kill him but his dodgy heart might.
This reverie was interrupted by Helen’s offering him a “penny for your
Stanley met him at the station with Spot on the lead. Much to Spot’s dismay, they sat down on a seat outside the Bull because Lewis wasn’t a great walker.
“Quite like being in the countryside,” he said.
“We are in the countryside.”
This was answered by a half smile from Lewis and a shrug from his arthritic shoulders. “My brother George is coming to lunch,” said Stanley. “He’s looking forward to seeing you again.”
George was the only one of the Batchelors Lewis hadn’t liked. Too bossy and go-ahead.
“He’s recovering from a hip replacement.”
“It comes to us all,” said Lewis the GP, trying to be generous.
“Not to me, I trust. I try to keep all that sort of thing at bay by regular walks with Spot.”
George had already arrived and was seated in an armchair, his leg up and his stick beside him. His big, black Audi, driven by Maureen, was on Stanley’s garage drive, and she in what Stanley called “the lounge,” drinking sherry with a woman in her fifties with silvery-blond hair, wearing dark green leather trousers and a red satin blouse.
“We built this house, you know,” said George when Helen had handed sherry to Lewis.
“And you built Warlock,” said Lewis. “You didn’t put those hands in the foundations, I hope?”
No one commented on that. Lewis expected someone to say how sorry he or she was to hear of Jo’s death, but no one did. Lewis didn’t mind, he never knew what to say in response to condolence, but he thought it strange. Helen said lunch would soon be ready. Stanley let the dog out into the garden, and George, opening a huge photograph album, showed Lewis the sole picture of the qanats that existed. The entrance to the tunnels was crammed with grinning children, none of whom Lewis could recognise. George began talking about going there, when they found the place and where it was.
“I reckon I was the first of us to go in there.”
“It was quite brave,” Stanley said. “The whole thing might have collapsed, the roof fallen in.”
“Quell,” said George, “was more interested in any adults who might have gone in there, people we’d seen.”
“Who’s Quell?”
“Policeman. He came to George’s and we all went over and talked to him. Well, all—those we could find. Those who are still alive. There was me, Norman, George, and Michael Winwood, Alan Norris and that woman Rosemary he married—oh, and Daphne Jones. Daphne Furness as she is now.”
There was a silence, brought about as so often by the utterance of that name. Only Lewis repeated it. “Oh yes, Daphne Jones . . . This cop wanted to know about adults in there? What, brought along by one of us?”
“I suppose so,” said Stanley. “Even if we had, he or she would be dead by now.” Before he could say more, Helen came back to tell them lunch was ready.
It was a good lunch, much appreciated by Lewis, along with thenicely laid table, the silver and glass and the pink tulips in a Royal Copenhagen vase. Such beautifully prepared food and carefully chosen wine hadn’t come his way since Jo fell ill all those years ago. It softened his attitude to the Batchelors without making him wish to disclose who he thought that adult visitor to the tunnels might have been. Yet, he thought, as he increasingly did these days, at his age he hadn’t, what he had not long ago taken for granted, an indefinite future. He was one of the oldest of the tunnel occupants and would not, as he put it wryly to himself, eating his crème brûlée with gusto, see seventy-five again. Arthritis wouldn’t kill him but his dodgy heart might.
This reverie was interrupted by Helen’s offering him a “penny for your
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