be without it, and hang the expense.’
‘Would you mind very much if I make a call and reimburse you?’
She hesitated. I took out my purse.
‘Of course. This way. It is in what was my husband’s study.’
She led me along the hall and into a book-lined room, the shelves bulging with legal tomes. The telephone stood on a desk by the window.
I waited until she had gone and closed the door behind her. Her footsteps retreated along the hall. Had she loitered, I would have put in an innocuous call to my housekeeper.
As it was, I took the chance of finding my London cousin, James, at home. He is Something-in-the-War Office and on close terms with the old colonel who has intimate knowledge of what every British officer who fought in the Boer War had for lunch on the day Ladysmith was relieved. James’s wife, Hope, answered. I exchanged the briefest pleasantry imaginable before asking for James. Hope keeps such a discreet silence over everything that you would be hard pressed to get beyond a weather report. Much as I disliked mentioning names over the telephone, I asked James what he could find out about Corporal Lawrence Milner and CaptainWolfendale. My excuse being, that they were so very brave and one of them would shortly help write the other’s obituary. James cottoned on in an instant, saying he would send me a telegram at home.
I left money by the telephone, and then returned to Mrs Hart. She walked me to the door.
‘I’ll tell Alison you called.’
‘Thank you. Good luck with the bazaar.’
All I had to do was report back to Captain Wolfendale that Lucy was not with Alison. After that, it would be up to him. Like Mrs Hart, he would probably blame Meriel and the play, seeing acting on stage as the root of all evil. Certainly amateur dramatics did seem to have revolutionised the lives of Lucy and Alison. Now they were young women who dared.
Nine weeks earlier
Everything seemed to Lucy to be a rehearsal: a rehearsal for the play, a rehearsal for the rest of her life. She dipped her toes in the stream and then slowly slid her feet into the icy water. She was Anna now, on the chapel picnic a year or so before the action of the story. This was how Meriel had instructed them to rehearse. ‘Go out somewhere, as your character, and never for a moment be yourself. Go onto The Stray. There you will meet Dylan. But he won’t be Dylan. He’ll be Willie. This is the situation: the time is a year before our story begins. You are about to set off on the chapel picnic. Just a little way off are the elders of the chapel, your neighbours and their children, your Sunday school charges. But you have wandered away, you and Willie, and find each other. What will you say, as Anna? What will you say as Willie? How will you look at each other, how near will you stand, will you walk?’
They decided not to follow Meriel’s instructions to the letter. They agreed that to be seen on The Stray bypeople who knew them would leave them feeling foolish, and exposed to mockery. It was a fine Sunday. Dylan suggested the spot.
Taking a moment on her own, away from children’s games, matrons’ bossiness over food hampers and lemonade, Anna Tellwright wandered barefoot on the bank alongside the stream. She conjured up the laughter and cries as her younger sister played games with other children. Playing her part as Anna, Lucy walked with that feeling that if she stepped off the beaten path, stood for a long moment by a certain oak tree, she would latch on to another life, the life that must be out there, waiting for her.
‘Anna.’
The voice was soft, almost a whisper.
She looked up. Dylan was Willie to the life. His trousers hitched a little too high, a look on his face that spoke deprivation, hunger, yearning.
‘Hello, Willie.’
‘Are you enjoying the picnic?’
‘I suppose so. The ham is nice.’
‘The ladies have put on a very good spread.’
‘They have.’
Silence. A long silence. Dylan picked a buttercup. He
‘Would you mind very much if I make a call and reimburse you?’
She hesitated. I took out my purse.
‘Of course. This way. It is in what was my husband’s study.’
She led me along the hall and into a book-lined room, the shelves bulging with legal tomes. The telephone stood on a desk by the window.
I waited until she had gone and closed the door behind her. Her footsteps retreated along the hall. Had she loitered, I would have put in an innocuous call to my housekeeper.
As it was, I took the chance of finding my London cousin, James, at home. He is Something-in-the-War Office and on close terms with the old colonel who has intimate knowledge of what every British officer who fought in the Boer War had for lunch on the day Ladysmith was relieved. James’s wife, Hope, answered. I exchanged the briefest pleasantry imaginable before asking for James. Hope keeps such a discreet silence over everything that you would be hard pressed to get beyond a weather report. Much as I disliked mentioning names over the telephone, I asked James what he could find out about Corporal Lawrence Milner and CaptainWolfendale. My excuse being, that they were so very brave and one of them would shortly help write the other’s obituary. James cottoned on in an instant, saying he would send me a telegram at home.
I left money by the telephone, and then returned to Mrs Hart. She walked me to the door.
‘I’ll tell Alison you called.’
‘Thank you. Good luck with the bazaar.’
All I had to do was report back to Captain Wolfendale that Lucy was not with Alison. After that, it would be up to him. Like Mrs Hart, he would probably blame Meriel and the play, seeing acting on stage as the root of all evil. Certainly amateur dramatics did seem to have revolutionised the lives of Lucy and Alison. Now they were young women who dared.
Nine weeks earlier
Everything seemed to Lucy to be a rehearsal: a rehearsal for the play, a rehearsal for the rest of her life. She dipped her toes in the stream and then slowly slid her feet into the icy water. She was Anna now, on the chapel picnic a year or so before the action of the story. This was how Meriel had instructed them to rehearse. ‘Go out somewhere, as your character, and never for a moment be yourself. Go onto The Stray. There you will meet Dylan. But he won’t be Dylan. He’ll be Willie. This is the situation: the time is a year before our story begins. You are about to set off on the chapel picnic. Just a little way off are the elders of the chapel, your neighbours and their children, your Sunday school charges. But you have wandered away, you and Willie, and find each other. What will you say, as Anna? What will you say as Willie? How will you look at each other, how near will you stand, will you walk?’
They decided not to follow Meriel’s instructions to the letter. They agreed that to be seen on The Stray bypeople who knew them would leave them feeling foolish, and exposed to mockery. It was a fine Sunday. Dylan suggested the spot.
Taking a moment on her own, away from children’s games, matrons’ bossiness over food hampers and lemonade, Anna Tellwright wandered barefoot on the bank alongside the stream. She conjured up the laughter and cries as her younger sister played games with other children. Playing her part as Anna, Lucy walked with that feeling that if she stepped off the beaten path, stood for a long moment by a certain oak tree, she would latch on to another life, the life that must be out there, waiting for her.
‘Anna.’
The voice was soft, almost a whisper.
She looked up. Dylan was Willie to the life. His trousers hitched a little too high, a look on his face that spoke deprivation, hunger, yearning.
‘Hello, Willie.’
‘Are you enjoying the picnic?’
‘I suppose so. The ham is nice.’
‘The ladies have put on a very good spread.’
‘They have.’
Silence. A long silence. Dylan picked a buttercup. He
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