Read Online The Very Thought of You by Rosie Alison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosie Alison
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us – you and me, together.”
“Happy?” he asked her. “So happy,” she said, “so very happy.”
He could not contain his own joy as he spun her round the floor, the music flowing through them and the tenor crooning his love song.
Oh sweet and lovely lady be good,
Oh lady be good to me…
Even now, ten years on, he could still remember her eyes reaching into his own. Later events could never quite cancel out what once had been. There was still that time, whatever came afterwards.
As he sat at his study desk preparing for the day’s lessons, his thoughts wandered back further, to the summer of 1914 – and the day when his mother had taken him out from school to watch a polo match in London. He could remember standing with his sister Claudia amidst the
Hurlingham Club’s ornamental gardens, waiting to see their brother William, whose cavalry regiment had just returned from India. It was a day of great excitement for them all; they had not seen William in over two years.
He appeared with a familiar wave, taller, darker-haired, more dashing than Thomas ever remembered. He had grown a lustrous moustache, and his powerful legs filled his riding boots.
“Our team is being drilled for a summer of tournament wins,” he explained casually.
That was a great afternoon for the Twelfth Lancers. They played with grace and speed and intuition. For a moment, when William fell and their mother Miriam rose with a cry, it looked as though the afternoon might be blighted. But William was unhurt, and his team played on to win the Subaltern’s Cup with ease.
Afterwards, a sea of coloured hats fooded the lawns as the spectators congregated for tea and sandwiches. Claudia danced about, euphoric to see her eldest brother, and entranced by the braid and brass buttons of the cavalry uniforms. Here was the full pageantry of the Empire, with its glinting array of young men. Claudia pulled Thomas along to watch the military band down by the lake. As the crowds died away, the bandsmen paraded with a final slow march, their spurs glimmering in the late-afternoon sunshine. Thomas noted the strange slow double-step performed with solemn grace even by the stoutest bandsmen.
Everyone knew that war was in the air, and the proud valedictory note of the brass band caught at the hearts of many mothers. Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination was everywhere discussed.
“If war happens, it will be over by Christmas,” was the line which Thomas heard passed around
Hurlingham that day.
Be thou my guardian and my guide,
And hear me when I call;
Let not my slippery footsteps slide,
And hold me lest I fall…
Even after war was declared, school went on as usual for Thomas. Beneath the soaring fan vaulting of Eton CollegeChapel, he continued to sing rousing Anglican hymns. Glancing upwards, the chapel’s carved medieval stone made any present troubles seem somehow insignificant.
We blossom and fourish as leaves on a tree –
And wither, and perish, but naught changeth thee…
Daily they prayed for those who had died at the front. Roll calls of boys’ names were read out, boys who had so recently walked down the school streets. But Thomas was still hedged in by his lessons, competing for the History Prize, and running for his house team. Never thinking much about the war, even when his brother’s cavalry regiment crossed the channel to France. Until his housemaster called him into his study after lunch one day.
“It was a dawn raid. He was leading his men with the courage you would expect. I’m afraid they were unable to retrieve his body.”
William, his indomitable brother, whose thick legs had strained the top lace of his riding boots.
Thomas was excused from afternoon school, and sent off to running practice. He ran and ran, and the breath of life streamed through his lungs, and the ground pushed up against his feet as he pounded along the track. But he could not stop himself imagining the alien landscape, and the random moment
“Happy?” he asked her. “So happy,” she said, “so very happy.”
He could not contain his own joy as he spun her round the floor, the music flowing through them and the tenor crooning his love song.
Oh sweet and lovely lady be good,
Oh lady be good to me…
Even now, ten years on, he could still remember her eyes reaching into his own. Later events could never quite cancel out what once had been. There was still that time, whatever came afterwards.
As he sat at his study desk preparing for the day’s lessons, his thoughts wandered back further, to the summer of 1914 – and the day when his mother had taken him out from school to watch a polo match in London. He could remember standing with his sister Claudia amidst the
Hurlingham Club’s ornamental gardens, waiting to see their brother William, whose cavalry regiment had just returned from India. It was a day of great excitement for them all; they had not seen William in over two years.
He appeared with a familiar wave, taller, darker-haired, more dashing than Thomas ever remembered. He had grown a lustrous moustache, and his powerful legs filled his riding boots.
“Our team is being drilled for a summer of tournament wins,” he explained casually.
That was a great afternoon for the Twelfth Lancers. They played with grace and speed and intuition. For a moment, when William fell and their mother Miriam rose with a cry, it looked as though the afternoon might be blighted. But William was unhurt, and his team played on to win the Subaltern’s Cup with ease.
Afterwards, a sea of coloured hats fooded the lawns as the spectators congregated for tea and sandwiches. Claudia danced about, euphoric to see her eldest brother, and entranced by the braid and brass buttons of the cavalry uniforms. Here was the full pageantry of the Empire, with its glinting array of young men. Claudia pulled Thomas along to watch the military band down by the lake. As the crowds died away, the bandsmen paraded with a final slow march, their spurs glimmering in the late-afternoon sunshine. Thomas noted the strange slow double-step performed with solemn grace even by the stoutest bandsmen.
Everyone knew that war was in the air, and the proud valedictory note of the brass band caught at the hearts of many mothers. Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination was everywhere discussed.
“If war happens, it will be over by Christmas,” was the line which Thomas heard passed around
Hurlingham that day.
Be thou my guardian and my guide,
And hear me when I call;
Let not my slippery footsteps slide,
And hold me lest I fall…
Even after war was declared, school went on as usual for Thomas. Beneath the soaring fan vaulting of Eton CollegeChapel, he continued to sing rousing Anglican hymns. Glancing upwards, the chapel’s carved medieval stone made any present troubles seem somehow insignificant.
We blossom and fourish as leaves on a tree –
And wither, and perish, but naught changeth thee…
Daily they prayed for those who had died at the front. Roll calls of boys’ names were read out, boys who had so recently walked down the school streets. But Thomas was still hedged in by his lessons, competing for the History Prize, and running for his house team. Never thinking much about the war, even when his brother’s cavalry regiment crossed the channel to France. Until his housemaster called him into his study after lunch one day.
“It was a dawn raid. He was leading his men with the courage you would expect. I’m afraid they were unable to retrieve his body.”
William, his indomitable brother, whose thick legs had strained the top lace of his riding boots.
Thomas was excused from afternoon school, and sent off to running practice. He ran and ran, and the breath of life streamed through his lungs, and the ground pushed up against his feet as he pounded along the track. But he could not stop himself imagining the alien landscape, and the random moment
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