Part 5 (2/2)

'What a wonderful imagination, darling.' Jessica says.

George Townsend sits in the breakfast room. His wife, Jessica, refers to it as the 'morning room' much more elegant! It has pale beige walls, highly polished walnut furniture and a light Aubusson carpet, patterned in large pale pink roses and green garlands, cover most of the polished floor.

The round table, at which George sits, is covered with a crisp white damask cloth set with Royal Albert crockery and Wilts.h.i.+re silverware; a large bowl of roses, their perfume mingling rather incongruously with herrings, dominates the centre. Curtains of raw silk are swagged back from the French doors, which look out onto the rose garden.

A tantalizing smell of porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and kippers wafts from the chiffonier set against the far wall. George eats his kippered herrings, toast and marmalade and drinks his tea, without seeing any of this because his mind is solely on his eldest son. George frowns. Stephen hadn't been the same since this b.l.o.o.d.y war. Not surprising, really. From what he'd heard it was a nightmare. Stephen had not said much about it, was quite taciturn when the subject was mentioned. He should get it all off his chest, George thinks, biting into his last piece of toast, but instead Stephen seemed more and more withdrawn.

George takes another sip of tea. Each time Stephen has returned from the Front George sees less of the fun loving boy and more of the sombre, withdrawn man he felt he did not know at all. How could he get Stephen out of his despondency? He has mulled over the problem for days. His most deep-seated fear he would never acknowledge. To do so he would, he felt be tempting fate in some obscure way. All who partic.i.p.ated in this d.a.m.ned war were vulnerable. Death did not discriminate. One only needed to think of the recent demise of Asquith's brilliant son. He'd thought about suggesting that they go over to the Grenthams to hunt.

The Grenthams were good friends of theirs with a large property in Yorks.h.i.+re. Stephen liked hunting and the new motor bike did not seem to have overly impressed. Or perhaps not, George remembers Stephen's desire for solitude. London, then! They could at last get some use out of the house he'd just recently bought in Belgravia, mainly due to urgings from Jessica. A complete waste of money he had thought. He sighs. How true it was that once you had children you never stopped worrying about them, whatever their age. He takes out the heavy gold fob watch. Where was Stephen? He'd promised to have breakfast with him. He taps his fingers on the table. Tap, tap!

Eight thirty! He would have to be off soon. Old habits died hard with George Townsend. He liked to be in his office in Manchester by nine thirty. He would be late this morning! His eyes wandered round the room for a moment, suddenly conscious of it. It was so quiet! The Messein clock on the sideboard ticked loudly and the sounds of the birds drifted in on the slight breeze with the strong, sweet scent of the roses. He loved this room. There was a large painting of his grandfather on one wall. Jessica didn't like it.

'It doesn't suit the decor, George,' she said, when he insisted.

'It's staying,' he retorted, knowing that his grandfather's lack of breeding, was what she opposed. She looked down her aristocratic nose at all his relations.

Jessica was a sn.o.b. That he was one of the richest men in the north didn't impress her. George's great-grandfather had been a self made man. A mill worker! A common weaver from the slums of Manchester, who by sheer luck, a keen and natural intelligence and exceptional good looks had inveigled himself into the family, who owned the mill where he worked. He had ended up by marrying the mill owner's daughter.

He had eventually inherited the mill and by this time was more interested in the money than the daughter. He'd made a few canny investments, mainly in property in Manchester, which had sky rocketed in value and doubled the inheritance many times over.

By the time George came along the Townsend's were very rich, but they were 'new rich' and often scorned by the blue bloods who looked down their noses unless it suited them to do otherwise. This was what annoyed Jessica.

There was a large painting of his first wife, Anne, on the far wall. He'd paid a fortune to have it done from a photo after she died. His gaze softened. Anne, his dearest Anne. How he'd loved her! Pain flickered in his eyes as he remembered that one brief, pa.s.sionate year together and then the agony of her death at the birth of Stephen. He'd been devastated and so lonely and miserable that when he met Jessica it had not been at all hard to succ.u.mb to her charms.

He'd fallen in love with Jessica, which had been strange because she was the complete ant.i.thesis of Anne. Anne had been shy and reserved and beautiful in a delicate, waif like way. Jessica was an extrovert, tall and regal with her blond hair upswept off a cla.s.sic face. He loved Jessica but the love he'd had for Anne only happened once in a lifetime.

His marriage to Jessica had produced two children, Marion and Raymond. His face darkened as he thought of his youngest son. Raymond was spoilt. There was no other term for him. All Jessica's fault, he thought ruefully, and his own he supposed for not putting his foot down years ago and given Raymond the hiding he deserved. Raymond had been expelled from numerous schools and they were having difficulty placing him anywhere reputable. His practical jokes were now the bane of everyone's life. He'd earned a good thras.h.i.+ng for the last one. Raymond had soaped a couple of the back stairs used by the servants and poor Gertie Wicklow had almost broken her leg. As it was, she'd sprained her ankle and couldn't walk for a week. George's face registered annoyance as he thought of his youngest son and then brightened visibly as he heard the firm, unmistakable tread of Stephen crossing the hall to the morning room.

Stephen had gone inside after stabling his horse; Forbes, who'd been with the Townsend family for twenty-five years, fussed around him.

'I can do that myself, thank you Forbes,' Stephen said irritably as Forbes tried to help him off with his coat. 'I'm not exactly in my dotage.'

'Just trying to be of help, Master Stephen,' Forbes said, looking hurt.

'Sorry, Forbes old man, but I can do for myself.'

'Yes, Master Stephen. I've had your dinner suit cleaned and pressed for tonight. It's in your dressing room.'

'Thanks.' Stephen grimaced into the mirror as he combed his hair. That was the last thing he felt like, one of Jessica's elaborate dinners. Why couldn't she understand when he came home all he wanted was a bit of peace and quiet? He could well do without Jessica's kind of entertainment; the mindless chitchat, usually to people that he hardly knew.

He'd enjoyed dinner parties, once, eons ago. Now they bored him. He would listen politely but it all seemed so ba.n.a.l. Before he'd joined up he used to get pleasantly sozzled at dinner parties; used to laugh a lot, talk a lot.

Where had it all gone? He could do with a bit of laughter again! The girl on the drive suddenly came to mind. At least he'd got a laugh out of that little episode. G.o.d, he thought as he continued to gaze into the mirror, I feel ninety and I must be a sodding bore. He just couldn't seem to help himself, and the more people tried to get him out of his despondency, the deeper he sank into it. He combed back his thick, straight black hair, noting how his dark blue eyes had matching dark blue rings underneath.

'Lovely,' he muttered as he flung the comb down, 'b.l.o.o.d.y lovely.' He looked at his watch. d.a.m.n, he'd forgotten he was to eat breakfast with his father.

Before Stephen reached the morning room he smelt the kippered herrings and his stomach turned over. He hated herrings and why they had to have them for breakfast every morning he'd never know. His father was lighting a cigar when he walked in.

'Stephen,' he said, waving the cloud of smoke away, 'Thought you'd never come. Sit down. No...no...get something to eat first.'

'Sorry. It was such a beautiful morning that I decided to go for a ride,' and hurried on when George smiled, 'on Midnight.'

'Oh.'

'I haven't ridden him for ages, but I'll take the Harley out tomorrow. Give it a spin. See what it can do,' he said.

'No, no, only if you want to,' George said hastily.

'I do want to.'

'Good lad.'

Stephen poured himself a cup of tea from the teapot and then put a slice of toast from a covered dish on a plate. George looked at the toast. 'Surely you can eat more than that, lad. You're too thin. We'll not be able to see you soon.'

Stephen laughed shortly and took a sip of tea. 'This will do. Funny, when I'm away all I can think of is Maud's cooking. When I'm here I can hardly get anything down.'

'By the way,' he said, changing the subject. 'I had a strange encounter on the drive during my ride. That's one of the reasons I'm a little late.'

'Oh?'

'With a young girl I nearly ran into who called me a silly sod. Can't say I blame her. She did get a bit of a fright.' He laughed as he remembered the comic figure of Leah as she stood with her hands on her hips. George stopped puffing on his pipe and stared in surprise. Stephen had laughed! Well, wonders would never cease.

'Who was it?'

Stephen sipped his tea and then put his cup down, still smiling, 'Oh, some new maid who's just starting here.'

Stephen took a bite of toast. 'Look, I know I've been a bit of a wet blanket lately, but just bear with me for a bit, all right.'

'Of course, lad, of course, but you know you can talk to me about anything, anything.' He waited expectantly for a moment and then sighed. Stephen would talk when he was good and ready and not before, that was obvious. He shouldn't press him, but he couldn't help wanting to know what it had been like, but not if it was at Stephen's expense and he kicked himself for an insensitive fool.

Stephen was all too aware how his father felt. 'Don't worry about me. There's a lot worse off and I'll get out of whatever I'm in. Just give me time. There's another thing, too. I feel guilty as h.e.l.l taking this time off.'

George leant forward.

'Listen, lad, you can't win the war single-handed. You're here for a well-earned rest, so try to get it. Make the most of it while you can. The war'll still be going strong when you get back, you can count on that.'

How could he describe the war to any one? It was too obscene, too horrifying. It was bad enough at night when those scenes reran themselves through his brain.

George watched his son furtively, saw the emotions wash briefly. What's he gone through, he thought, to look like that? He felt a mad rage fill him. What right did anyone have to make young men endure such things? Where was the good in it? Most people had long ago lost sight of why Britain was at war and only wished it would end. Soon would not be soon enough. He got up from his chair.

'I must go Stephen. Just try to forget what you've been through. What about going over to Yorks.h.i.+re to do some hunting?' Seeing the look on Stephen's face he continued hurriedly. 'Or we could go to London; it might make a nice change.'

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