“Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Well, then, seeing as you insist. There does seem to be a type.” He struck a pose, pretending to spit on his hand and slicking back his hair. “The chaps here all have a certain something about them.” Edward did it in pantomime, scooting around the periphery of the MG, pointing out the splendid features, complimenting madam on her excellent taste and, when he learned that she intended to pay in cash, exploding in a little paroxysm of joy and excitement.

“Wonderful!” she clapped.

His tongue rattled on almost independently of his brain. His brain was estimating how high his stock was shooting up with Chiara. He could see it in her face. He smiled, terribly pleased with himself. “Can I tempt you with a cup of tea?” he asked.

“Oh, that would be lovely but I don’t want to get you in trouble and I should probably be going, anyway––I’m supposed to be meeting my sisters at Dickens and Jones for lunch.”

“Another time, then,” Edward said graciously.

“I should probably come clean,” she said. “There is ulterior motive for the visit. I don’t know if Joseph has mentioned anything to you, but I’m afraid it will be my twenty-first birthday on Friday. My aunt has taken it upon herself to organise a party for me.”

Edward sensed an opportunity. “That sounds lovely.”

“Oh, it’ll probably be dreadful. I’d much rather do something peaceful but everyone is coming and so the best I can do is make sure there are some interesting people there who I can talk to when it all gets a little too much. I was wondering whether I could twist your arm?”

“Friday,” he said. He pretended to muse upon it. “I’d like to say I’m busy enough so that I would have to change my plans but that would be a shocking lie.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Chiara was rollicking on about the party and who was coming and it was not the least bit interesting. Edward said it sounded wonderful, and how he was thrilled to be asked, and as he caught a glimpse of his face in the shining bodywork of the car he saw his mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes shining brightly. He was doing the right thing, behaving in the right way. He suddenly had an unpleasant feeling of dislocation. He had the feeling that he was in a film and that in a moment Chiara or someone else would shout ‘cut’ and he would be back at the Shangri-La, his hands and apron covered in gore, his eyes stinging with sweat, his prospects narrowed down again from a widening vista into a microscopic, insignificant jot. He mastered the feeling, dismissed it, and the moment passed. Chiara was saying that it was time to leave. They shook hands, hers smooth and cold in his, and he said, again, that he was grateful to be asked and that he was looking forward to it already. She held his hand a moment longer than usual and smiled brightly, right into his face.

“I’m looking forward to it a little more,” she said as she collected her bag and made her way back outside.

Edward poured himself a cup of tea and drank it with a smile on his lips. Hynde had watched the episode from the edge of the showroom. Edward held the teacup aloft and nodded in his direction. Hynde wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Edward smiled at him, his mood lifted. This was progress, he thought. He was making excellent, promising progress.

15

THE REST OF THE WEEK followed the same pattern as the days before it: he got to the garage early and left late, selling a car or two every day. It was long and monotonous and Edward distracted himself from the boredom with the promise of the weekend in the country. He had enjoyed his trip to the Hill. It had been, by some considerable margin, his most enjoyable day since he had been demobilised.

Friday was particularly busy and, when, he finished the shift, Edward was exhausted. He brushed down his suit in the bathroom and slicked his hair with pomade that he had purchased in his short lunch break. He bid Ruby Ward goodbye for the week and set off for the underground.

Halewell Close was near Withington. He had arranged with Joseph that he would take the train to Gloucester and be collected from the station. He embarked at Paddington and found an empty carriage. That was fortunate: his mood was tranquil and kindly, but not at all sociable. He wanted his time for thinking and he did not care to meet anyone else, though when a couple entered his carriage he greeted them pleasantly and smiled. As the train cut through the countryside, the sky gradually darkened. They eventually caught up with the storm up and peals of thunder rolled around the low hills.

They reached Gloucester at half past seven. Edward took his suitcase and waited under the station awning for Joseph to collect him. Rain lashed the street and thunder rolled overhead. A car sluiced through puddles of standing water towards him, the lights glittering on the wet asphalt, two long amber slashes. Lightning flashed. The car drew to a halt and Joseph reached across to open the passenger-side door. Edward abandoned the shelter of the doorway and ran for it.

“Alright, Doc,” Joseph said as Edward slid inside. “Cats and dogs tonight. How are you?”

“Tired. It’s been a long day.”

“You need a drink.” He offered a hipflask. Edward undid the top and took a swig. It was whisky. He took another slug, the liquid spreading warmth around his chest.

“That’s the ticket.”

“Course it is. Let’s get going.”

Joseph put the car into gear and they set off, leaving the lights of the town behind them and cutting out into the darkened countryside. They talked about the war as they drove west, the easy conversation helping to pass the time.

Eventually, Joseph turned off the main road, rumbling across a cattle grid and then passing onto a private drive, the entrance marked by two impressive stone pillars topped by electric lanterns. An engraving in one of the pillars revealed the name of the house beyond: Halewell Close. The evening was growing darker, and Edward could only see what the headlights revealed: the drive was lined by regularly spaced yew trees, and must have been a mile long. Joseph bore right around a shallow turn and the headlights cast out into darkness across a wide lake, the water sparkling. They swung back around to the left and the rough tarmac surface was replaced with gravel. It opened out as it approached a hill and then, as they crested the brow, the house below was revealed.

Joseph explained that Halewell Close was originally a farm, but had been rebuilt and added to over the years. It was set into its own private valley, amongst a sprawling beech wood, and was huge. It was stone-built, and of two and three storeys. Edward’s eyes darted across it: he picked out three granges, set into the shape of a U, the steep slate roofs and stone walls the colour of mustard. The granges surrounded a courtyard. The west range was the largest, comprising four bays, the other ranges having been added over the years. Lights blazed in leaded windows all the way across the house, casting a lattice of gold across the wide lawns. A row of stables could be found on the far side of a wide parking area and, at the end of the lawn, was a swimming pool and summer house.

Edward gaped. He had visited houses like this before, in this country and then all across Europe. He felt twitches of excitement in his gut. It was the lifestyle that it promised, rather than the house itself, that stirred him. He had grown accustomed to that, and come to expect it, before everything had changed. The prospect of returning to it excited him as nothing else possibly could. He gazed at the beautiful house and filled it with guests in his imagination, men and women in gorgeous evening clothes, tables full of fine food and wine, the way the light would refract against pieces of jewellery. He could almost smell the mustiness of the rooms, could almost see the light flickering from candles in their sconces. It was all so glorious. Expectation! He sometimes wondered whether it was more pleasant to him than the promise of experiencing it all. It was so pleasant to relish that he suddenly found his nervousness at the idea of a party full of strangers fading away.