21

‘How long has he been gone?’ said Dougie.

They were alone in the annexe. Julia was sitting on the bed, twisting her handkerchief in her lap, staring fixedly ahead. ‘Since Tuesday night. Richard rang me this morning, as soon as he heard from the school. He seemed to think he might be here.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I keep forgetting he’s no reason to trust me.’

‘Peter’s more likely to be heading home.’

‘I’m afraid that’s no comfort.’

Moved by her unhappiness, her sudden fragility, he sat down and put his arms around her. It felt like a long time since he had held her, properly held her. ‘Of course not.’

‘I don’t understand. He likes school.’ Her voice was muffled on his shoulder.

But she was remembering the last time she had seen him, when he had made such a fuss getting out of the car, and she was thinking of his complaints about lessons and boredom and not enough to eat and wondering whether there was something between the lines she had failed to read, whether he had been hinting at deeper worries, more serious trouble that he might have told her about if she had been in any way present in his life.

‘I liked school too,’ Dougie said. ‘It didn’t stop me running away once or twice.’

‘Then why did you?’

‘I wanted to see how far I could go before I was caught.’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘I can well imagine that.’

There was a knock on the door, they disentangled themselves, and Netta came in with cups of tea. ‘I’ll just put these down over here,’ she said.

Julia nodded.

Netta said, ‘Boys are more resilient than you think. You must try to get some rest.’

When she had gone, Dougie dashed the tea out of the window and poured them both a gin from a bottle he kept in a desk drawer.

Julia said, ‘This is agony.’

‘I know. We just have to wait it out.’

We. Now that was a comfort.

Later that night would seem more remarkable for what Dougie didn’t do than what he did. He didn’t go off and talk to Hugh, he didn’t mention the Queen, he didn’t take himself down to the barn and his canvases. Neither did he attempt to soothe her with empty phrases. Instead, while she lay awake, he sat up reading until the calm turning of pages lulled her into a sense of time passing.

The following morning, he was sleeping beside her and she was rearranging the cracks in the ceiling into faces, remembering Peter as a baby, when the phone rang. She got up and pelted from the room.

Netta was standing in the hall holding out the receiver. ‘Your husband.’

‘They found him,’ said Richard, in Richard’s voice.

‘Thank God. How is he?’ Her heart was beating wildly. ‘Is he all right?’

‘It appears so.’

‘Where was he?’ They found him, she mouthed to Netta. She hardly dared believe such a burden of fear had been lifted from her shoulders.

‘In Whitmarket.’

‘He must have been trying to get home.’ The word ‘home’ caught in her throat.

‘It appears so.’

‘Did they say why he ran away?’

‘They’ll deal with it.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

A pause. ‘Then I’ll tell Mr Rowsome to expect both of us tomorrow,’ he said, and rang off.

It was misty when Julia and Netta left Hertfordshire soon after dawn the following day, the sort of thin, grey, autumnal veil that tends to disperse with sunrise, and for most of the morning, as they picked their way through battered outer London suburbs, heading north and east, visibility had been good. Now, as they reached the fenlands, the views out of the car windows softened and blurred. Distance collapsed. It was as if someone were placing sheets of tracing paper over the world. What was ghostly became Gothic, the trees in the fields shapes sketched in charcoal, then pencil, then gone.

Netta felt blindly for the dashboard and switched on the headlamps. ‘How much further?’

‘I’m not entirely certain,’ said Julia. ‘We never used to come at it from this direction.’ From the low rumble of engines, it was evident they were driving through a heavily militarized area of bases and camps and airfields. As another lorry thundered by, she wondered how she could ever have thought Peter safe, his school a fastness, within such a zone. ‘Look, let’s stop somewhere. It’s getting worse by the minute.’

‘I’ll get you there,’ said Netta. ‘Don’t worry.’

Netta had arranged everything. She had borrowed the car and the hoarded petrol. Molly Coram had agreed to mind the children. A bean ‘medley’ had been prepared for the children’s tea and was waiting in the larder ready to go in the oven.

Kindness, thought Julia, could at times feel oppressive, somewhat controlling. Fiona would not have been anything like so kind; instead, she might have made her cross – or laugh – and either would have eased the tension. But she hadn’t heard from Fiona for months. That visit to Primrose Hill over a year ago had been, she now thought, a casting off.

By the time they reached Ely, which they managed by tailgating an army truck, they were both limp with the strain of concentration and breath-holding. Netta pulled over to a kerbside and rested her head on her hands. There was no question of going on, and they both knew it.

‘I must say, your headmaster knows his hotels,’ said Netta, taking off her mackintosh and unpinning her hat. ‘This is all very agreeable. And we’re right next to the loo, which is an absolute bonus. Which bed would you like?’

The room, with its Morris chrysanthemum wallpaper, the cheery little fire newly burning in the grate, the marble-topped washstand, glazed earthenware jug and bowl, was cosy enough. It smelled of toast and other people.

‘I don’t mind.’ Julia went over to the window and pulled the net curtains aside. Fog pressed itself against the glass, a white-out as impenetrable as any blackout. She couldn’t see as far as the other side of the street. All the unanswered questions about Peter’s disappearance came and went.

‘Did your husband make it to the school?’

‘No. Apparently he’s stranded in Bury.’

‘Perhaps it’s just as well.’ Netta kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the bed nearest the fire. ‘A good night’s sleep is what you need.’

‘You’re dreadfully pale,’ Netta said the next morning. She stepped into her skirt and zipped it up. ‘I wonder how the children have got on.’

Netta had never spent any length of time apart from her children. The previous evening, Louie, Matthew and Nick had been so present in her conversation you almost expected to see them stroll in from the foggy street or roll out from underneath the beds. It was as if the adventure of being away from them could only be conceived as an opportunity to return to their sides.

‘Did the airmen keep you awake?’

The bar at the Lamb Hotel, where they had taken their supper at a corner table, had been packed with grounded bombers’ crews, whose backslapping bravado had taken on a desperate edge of self-caricature as the evening wore on. (‘Pull the beer-lever, publican, there’s a good man! Pull the ruddy joystick, sir. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Chaps here are perishing for pints!’)

‘Not really,’ said Julia.

‘Perhaps there might be time to telephone Molly before we leave,’ said Netta, peering out of the window. ‘Fog’s lifted. Nice day for it. Golly, I had no idea we were so near the cathedral.’

As they drove the short distance to Crossfields, Julia stared out of the car window at the brown hedgerows, the stubble fields with smoke rising, the broad views and open skies that the fog had blanked out yesterday. Up ahead was a familiar stand of trees. ‘Next right,’ she said.

They turned off the road and pulled in through the gates. From the far end of the long gravel drive, Crossfields was a pretty, white Regency building surrounded by pretty, green fields. Close up, the windows had an institutional air about them and the paintwork was peeling. The school could not have been anything other than what it was, except the country house it once had been.

They parked beside the only other car in the drive. This was their old car, Julia noted with a shock of recognition, or rather Richard’s (since he had been the one who had paid for it and was the only one who drove it).

‘I’ll wait here,’ said Netta.

‘I might be ages. You could visit the cathedral.’

‘Mustn’t waste the petrol.’ Netta reached into the back seat. ‘I’ll be fine, I’ve got my book.’

When Julia went through the main entrance, a blend of smells greeted her: metallic, woody, chalky, not washed behind the ears. A bell rang, and she could hear shrieks, banging desk lids and doors.

Then she saw her husband. He was standing under the board in the hall, gazing at the gilt letters that recorded the fallen of the last war, a memorial to little boys who had become big boys and, in due course, names on a casualty list. He would recognize some of those names and be able to put childish faces to them, for Crossfields had been his prep school, too.

When he turned, it was obvious that he was in two minds whether or not to acknowledge her presence. Then he nodded and fixed his gaze about two yards past her left shoulder. He was in the uniform of the LDV, the Home Guard, and looked well in it.

Well, you’ve trumped my governess suit, she thought.

Over the past months, Julia had identified a number of things to dislike about her husband, as you come to find someone you’ve hurt deserving of it. Reminding herself of these sustained her now. The alternative was to submit to the hollow sadness that the sight of him had provoked.

The meeting was held in the headmaster’s study, a command post of sorts overlooking the drive. It was noticeably warmer than the rest of the school: panelled, fusty, lined with books that appeared unread or unreadable. In addition to Mr Rowsome, Peter’s housemaster Mr Lavery was also present. Rowsome’s right leg was shorter than his left, and he wore a built-up, hoof-like shoe. Lavery was a fidgety asthmatic. Corky and the Lav, the boys called them.

‘First, let me set your minds at rest,’ Rowsome was saying. ‘Your son is quite well, as you will shortly see for yourselves. A little tired, perhaps, which is only to be expected, but otherwise no harm done. I know you will be as relieved about that as we are.’

Lavery said, ‘A grazed knee was the extent of the damage. But Matron soon put that right.’

Ever since Julia had entered the room, she had been unable to keep her eyes from straying to ‘Bertie’, a stuffed otter mounted on a wooden plinth that stood on the corner of the headmaster’s desk. It was wearing a miniature knitted school cap and scarf and was said to put new boys at their ease. It did not put her at ease. Shifting in her seat, she wondered if Matron had also put right the after-effects of the caning Peter had undoubtedly received for running away. ‘I gather he went missing on Tuesday night.’

‘That’s right,’ said Lavery. ‘He gave us the slip at some point before lights out.’

‘In that case, why did you wait so long to inform us?’

Rowsome adjusted the shoulders of his academic gown. ‘Boys generally do this for dares,’ he said, in a tone he most likely reserved for mothers. ‘Usually, they show up hungry and thirsty the next morning, having spent the night camping out somewhere nearby. Once we established that he was not in the grounds or immediate vicinity, we put you in the picture immediately. No need to cause unnecessary anxiety, after all.’

‘They’re in loco parentis, Julia,’ said Richard. ‘They must deal with these things as they see fit.’

‘Anything could have happened.’

‘I acknowledge your concern, Mrs Compton,’ said the head, ‘but you must understand that our boys do have resources to fall back upon. Peter won his Pioneer badge only last month. He will have known how to light a fire and forage, and so on. In fact, he was caught stealing milk bottles from doorsteps.’ A wry smile. ‘Not the type of foraging that we encourage, of course.’

‘Please be assured, my wife and I are very grateful for your efforts,’ said Richard, ‘and very sorry indeed for the trouble he’s caused. There are better things to do in wartime than hare about after boys who should know better.’

It was one thing for the school to present a united front, thought Julia. It was another for Richard to join it – and rope her in too. ‘But he must have had a reason for taking off like that,’ she said. ‘Did something happen to upset him?’

‘Quite the contrary,’ said Lavery, jiggling his foot. ‘The night he disappeared he was in remarkably good spirits. It was Ciné Club that evening, and he does enjoy Ciné Club.’

‘All the same, I know my son. This isn’t like him.’

‘Julia, please,’ said Richard. ‘It was a stupid prank. He’s safe, and that’s all that matters.’

‘Forgive me for venturing into the philosopher’s realm, Mrs Compton,’ said Rowsome, ‘but to what extent do we really know anyone? In our experience, the boy himself often doesn’t know the reason why he acts the way he does. And, in any case, one can’t always trust their explanations, which can be rather fanciful. The important thing, which we have impressed upon your son, is that he must understand that the rules are there for his benefit and must not be broken.’ On a nod from him, Lavery left the room.

When he returned a moment later, Julia’s first thought was that they had brought in a chum or a friend to vouch for Peter’s good spirits, his contentedness at school, and then, with the dizzy sense of stepping into space, she realized this stranger was her son. So much for the assertion that she knew him.

Thin bony wrists protruded from the cuffs of a blazer that had been several sizes too big when she had bought it over two years ago. The round boyish face she remembered had new planes and angles. There were dark smudges under his eyes. The child was not gone, yet shaping up within him was the young man he would become.

Her heart turned over. ‘Peter!’

For a fraction of a second, his gaze met hers. In it, she saw an odd blend of emotions, overlaid by wariness.

‘Have a seat, Compton,’ said the headmaster.

Peter sat in the empty chair between his parents and stared ahead.

Mr Rowsome said, ‘Would you care to offer your mother and father an explanation for your behaviour?’

A silence.

‘Compton?’

‘I’m awfully sorry, sir. I won’t do it again.’

Mr Rowsome said, ‘That’s not what I was asking you.’

‘I won’t do it again, sir. I promise. May I go now? I have lessons.’

Julia laid a hand on his sleeve. He shrank from her. This rejection was more total, less voluntary, than his usual retreat from affection in a public setting. Her throat closed.

The head exchanged a glance with Lavery. ‘Lessons can wait for now, Compton.’ He got up from his chair. ‘You might like to spend a little time with your parents, since they’ve come all this way to see you. I’ll ask Mrs Rowsome to bring in some tea.’

If the headmaster had imagined that Peter would be more forthcoming when he was alone with them, he was wrong. Nothing would induce him to talk about his disappearance or the reason for it. Instead, he kept apologizing, as if repetition could compensate for a sincerity that was absent. He was hiding something – that was obvious. Of course, they were hiding something too. They were hiding the fact that what used to be a family was now three separate people.

In Julia’s case, that silence was entirely self-protective. In Richard’s, she guessed, it would have more of a legal basis.

After about half an hour of this, Lavery collected Peter, and he went off with evident relief to rejoin those lessons he found so boring.

Julia placed their cups back on the tea tray. ‘He’s angry with us.’

For a moment Richard seemed to see those words rather than hear them: it was as if they were floating in the air, nothing to do with him. Then he shook his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘He’s ashamed of himself. And so he should be.’

‘I wonder whether he has felt abandoned, stuck in school all this time.’

A thin smile. ‘You would know about abandonment.’

She chose to ignore the thin smile. ‘Perhaps this wouldn’t have happened if we had visited him.’

‘I did,’ he said.

‘You did what?’

‘Visit him.’

She was so astounded she could not speak.

He got up from his seat, went over to the window and looked down on the drive. ‘Not often. I took him to a cricket match in the summer. He seemed to enjoy that. One or two other occasions.’

‘You never told me.’

‘Why should I? What business is it of yours any more?’

She was filled with anger so pure it was beautiful. ‘And how did you explain the fact that I didn’t come with you?’

‘That is not your concern. What is important is that he accepted my explanations.’

‘I can’t believe you would do such a thing!’

‘How’s the boyfriend?’ he said.

In the headmaster’s study, tea remains littering the desk and a weak sun struggling in, they seemed like characters in a poor stage play. She was disgusted by her role in it.

‘Goodbye, Richard.’ She picked up her handbag and headed for the door.

He followed her. ‘In future, you might make the effort to see him.’

She stopped and turned. ‘I was strongly advised not to.’

‘Not by me.’ He held the door open for her; but then he would have held the door open for Hitler’s wife, if Hitler were married. ‘If I were you, I should find another adviser.’

When they returned to Traddles later that afternoon and Netta was subjecting Molly Coram to a military debriefing, down to bowel movements, Julia was surprised to find Dougie in the annexe. Then she saw he was packing.

‘You’re going away?’

‘Just for a few weeks. Blackpool, to start with.’

‘Oh.’ Her face fell. The day had disturbed her profoundly; she had been counting on the ‘we’ lasting a little while longer.

‘You’ve only yourself to blame,’ he said with a smile. ‘When I told Hugh what we were talking about the other night he leapt at it.’ He closed his case. ‘How did it go?’

‘Mmm,’ he said, when she finished telling him.

‘Peter’s hiding something.’

‘It’ll come out eventually.’ He opened his case and stuffed in another book. ‘By the way, which film did they show?’

‘Which film?’

‘At the Ciné Club.’

She marvelled at his self-absorption. ‘I’ve no idea.’

The door of the dorm banged open. The Lav came in. ‘Pierce, hand me that torch, if you please. Lights out means lights out. And lights out means no talking. All of you, settle down.’ He took the torch from Pierce and waited, a wheezing silhouette.

‘Any further disturbance and you’re all on jaggers.’

‘Jaggers’ was detention.

The door closed.

Hughes said, ‘When they caught you, did they put you in handcuffs?’

Peter turned over in bed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Running away had won Peter considerable status in the dorm, in his house and in the school at large. Even the Birmingham boys were impressed. This was no cause of satisfaction to him. He wasn’t nine with a scar to show off; he was eleven with a deep wound to hide. He didn’t suppose it would ever heal over. In the darkness, he poked it, prodded it and made it bleed again.