Part 2 (1/2)

A forkful of cake stopped halfway to Benny's mouth. 'Sorry?'

'Your accent gives you away.'

'My accent?'

'Yes, my dear.' Constance sighed. 'Do you know, I was hoping to go cruising before I came out ...'

Benny frowned. 'Isn't that rather the wrong way round?'

'I suppose so. My mother was going to come too.'

'Really?'

'Yes, she's very gay.'

'Obviously.' Benny ate her cake thoughtfully. She raised a finger to ask a question, then lowered it again. 'You know, I think we've been talking at cross-purposes...'

Constance glanced up. A plodding blue figure was moving down the street outside.

'Oops. Terribly glad to meet you, must be going.' She took off her hat, dropped the cake and scones into it and ran for the door. 'Do have the cream.' And she was gone.

Benny laughed out loud, once more incurring the displeasure of her fellow customers. She didn't mind paying Constance's bill at all.

After lunch, Bernice returned to her lodgings at Station Cottage. She'd popped into the art shop where Mr Sangster had provided her with some oils that she needed.

He'd regaled her with stories of the Boer War, straight, she suspected, out of some cheap paperback he was reading.

Station Cottage, as the name implied, was right next to the level-crossing over the branch line. Every two hours, a little train went past, carrying commuters to and from Norwich. The cottage had a little garden with just the right sort of light and facing, and Benny had set up her easel there, intent on painting the gentle hills above the town. Atop one of them was a monument of an old woman, sitting with her basket. This, she had been informed, was Old Meg, who, sometime last century, used to walk all the way to Sh.e.l.lhampton and back every day to sell her small goods. Good to be remembered, Benny thought, for something so everyday and difficult.

She made herself some sandwiches, and wandered out into the garden, putting a hand up to her brow to get a good, distant look at the work in progress. Quite good, really, for a novice.

'It's utterly wonderful!' boomed a familiar voice from the street. Alexander Shuttleworth was leaning on the fence, fanning his florid face with his panama hat.

'You must have been exhibited, surely? Have you sent anything to the National?'

'If I did -' Benny munched her sandwich, '- they would send it back with a note saying that it does not suit their present needs, and there would be a PS asking what it was actually of.'

'Oh, you sell yourself short, Miss Summerfield. I had a lady friend once who was an art lover, and she taught me some of the basics.'

'Really?' Benny arched an eyebrow. 'So do you think it's actually any good?'

'Absolutely topping. Sorry to intrude, by the way. I just popped over because I was bored. There's nothing to do at the museum, young Alec's sitting at the desk, and he's bored too, but I employ him to be bored so that I don't have to be. I wondered if I might watch you paint?'

'It's not exactly a spectator sport, but do come in. It is your garden.'

'Like a malevolent spirit, I can only enter where I am invited.' Alexander opened the garden gate and settled into a deckchair. 'Besides, that's the reason I started to rent the cottage when my sister died. I like meeting new people. Especially those down from Cambridge.'

Benny bit her lip. So far she'd managed to avoid the topic of her supposed studies at Newnham College. 'I'm afraid that I've never been to your old college.'

'King's, it was. They rather disapprove of you roving about, don't they?'

'Rather. Oh, listen, I met a woman on the run from the police today...' And she told the story of her encounter with Constance.

Alexander humphed. 'd.a.m.n Liberals! Pardon my French, loved one, but it's really going too far when you're in and out of prison like billyoh. I don't know why Asquith doesn't just give them the vote, well, for householders, anyway. What do you think?'

'I think that grown-ups should vote, full stop.'

'Good for you. You ought to meet my chum Richard Hadleman. He's chairman of the local Labour group. Young firebrand, just in his twenties. It'll be chaps like him that'll lead us into the next decade.'

'Probably.' Bernice turned back to her painting, not wanting Alexander to see her face.

A great commotion arose from behind the cottage, and the gates of the level crossing were raised. A moment later, plumes of smoke rose from a tank engine as it chuffed past, the warm smell of its boiler drifting through the garden and mingling with the roses. Alexander glanced at his watch. 'Dead on two. The world may be changing, but at least the trains still run on time.'

The scream caused some of the younger boys to look up for a moment.

The Upper School room in Farrar House had two balconies, each one with a cl.u.s.ter of chairs around it. One window was for the boys in general, the other for the Captains, four boys given special responsibilities for their house at Hulton College School.

At that moment, the Captains were beating Timothy with a tarred and knotted rope.

'Gag him, for G.o.d's sake,' Hutchinson, a tall boy with cropped fair hair, muttered.

'We don't want Wolvercote to think we're squealers.'

Timothy looked over his shoulder, clutching the cold metal of the radiator which he was bent up against. 'I had a dream, Hutchinson, a nightmare. Death was in it.

We all died. We were all killed. The whole of Farrar.'

'We all have nightmares from time to time,' Hutchinson told him, 'but one learns not to wake up screaming. Only four more now. If you can refrain from making a noise, we shan't gag you. D'you think you can?'

Alton wandered in at that moment. He was rather laconic for the Captains' taste, but had pa.s.sed the tests and pull-throughs designed for the new bugs with startling resilience. Especially impressive was his time on the gym rings, where he'd hung for a whole afternoon without the usual bleating. 'Excuse me, Captain,' he called, 'but form master's on his way up here. Saw him on the front stairs.'

'What on earth does Smith want?' Hutchinson muttered 'Oh well, let's not disturb his fair senses. Let bug up, we'll finish him later.'

Dr Smith entered, his fingers tapping his lip thoughtfully, just as Timothy was skulking back to the boys' side of the room. He was a short, dark-haired man, wearing a brown suit and an outrageous tie. The design of that tie summed up what the Captains thought of their new form master. It was colonial in nature, a swirling and colourful pattern such as one might expect to see on some foreign woman's clothing. As part of a teacher's kit, though, it was frankly inappropriate. The younger boys adored him, because he was homely and full of childish things. That was desperately bad for morale.

Still, the Captains stood to attention and saluted him.

'House master in the Upper!' bellowed Hutchinson, and the boys stood up.

'Who's that?' Smith turned back to the door, as if some one had come in behind him, then, realizing they mean him, grinned for a millisecond and waved a distracted hand. He was still wearing his usual bemused expression, as if he was continually missing the point of some joke. 'No, no, sit down. I came to ask... about cricket.' He suddenly pulled a tiny rubber ball from his pocket, and bowled it over arm at a startled lad reading Boy's Own Boy's Own in the corner. Gamely, the boy used the rolled-up paper to knock it back. in the corner. Gamely, the boy used the rolled-up paper to knock it back.

Smith caught it, grinning. 'Howzat? Oh yes, we'll put you in to bat.' There was general laughter.

The Captains exchanged glances. Hutchinson said, 'If you wanted to ask about the cricket team, sir, you could have summoned me to your rooms.'

'Oh good, do you know about cricket?'

Yes, sir. I was team captain last year.'

'Only I was wondering - ' Smith threw the ball into the air, caught it in his mouth, appeared to swallow it, and produced it again from his sleeve, why are there only seven people batting? Couldn't we include everybody who wants to play?'