sounding like an old man,’ said James with a laugh. ‘Boys aren’t supposed to think that far ahead.’
‘I know,’ said Andrew, ‘but can you really imagine all the long years of your life you’re going to be spending at Eton?’
‘I’m not like you,’ said James. ‘I don’t look much past next weekend. I try to enjoy today and not worry about what tomorrow might bring.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ said Andrew. ‘But I’m afraid my father has my whole life already mapped out for me. Eton, then Cambridge, study hard, but not too hard, leave plenty of time for rowing, maybe a blue, then I’m to join the family firm, settle down with a nice little wife and start breeding the next generation of Carltons so that they can do the same thing all over again.’
‘It must be a pleasant feeling in a way, though,’ said James. ‘Knowing what your future holds. Not having a mother and a father, my future is a little more uncertain. There’s no family business. There’s nobody who really expects anything of me.’
‘You’re free to make your own life,’ said Andrew.
‘But who knows what might happen?’ said James. ‘Think of all those young men, before the Great War, who were just like you. They thought they knew the exact paths their lives would run along, but they ended up getting blown to bits in muddy trenches.’
‘When you put it like that,’ said Andrew, suddenly rubbing his name out and clearing the window, ‘then my life doesn’t seem quite so bad.’
They arrived at the clinic to find a large black Rolls-Royce parked on the forecourt, with a uniformed driver standing proudly next to it under an umbrella.
‘That’ll be Miles’s people,’ said Andrew as they climbed out of the taxi. ‘His father’s rolling in it.’
Once inside the clinic they were directed to the sun terrace to wait for Miles. Despite the cold weather and the drizzle several patients were sitting out under umbrellas in Bath chairs, wrapped in blankets. By himself, off to one side, sat a man with a shaved head, his back turned to the others, staring out at the mist-shrouded mountains. He was wearing a high cravat tied round his neck and white cotton gloves, presumably to hide scars.
As James came out on to the terrace the man turned and looked at him.
He had had extensive surgery to his face. There was livid purple and yellow bruising around his ears and neckline, dotted with nasty black scabs, but the skin on his face was smooth and tight so that he appeared to be wearing a mask. The surgeons had done a very good job – if James hadn’t known that the man must have once been disfigured in some way, he would not have been able to tell. He looked bland and incurious. Even his eyes showed no emotion.
We learn so much about a person from their face. We can read every line on it. Yet it was almost as if this man had no face at all. It was impossible to read him.
James turned away, unnerved by the direct stare, and when, a few moments later, he glanced back, the man was still looking at him. He sat very still. He might have been a mannequin, a dummy in a shop window, for all the animation he showed.
James was relieved when the uneasy mood was broken by the arrival of Miles, hobbling awkwardly out on to the terrace on his crutches accompanied by his parents. His mother was wearing a long fur coat; his father sported a gleaming top hat and a magnificent set of bristling whiskers. If he had been wearing the fur coat he would have looked like some sort of exotic wild animal.
‘James,’ Miles shouted, smiling broadly. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
He tried to shake hands without falling over, and then introduced his parents. His mother was a little distant, but his father seemed genuinely pleased to meet James and shook him briskly by the hand.
‘I was worried I’d be leaving without seeing you again,’ said Miles. ‘I never properly thanked you for saving my bacon. I behaved like an ass, I’m afraid,
‘I know,’ said Andrew, ‘but can you really imagine all the long years of your life you’re going to be spending at Eton?’
‘I’m not like you,’ said James. ‘I don’t look much past next weekend. I try to enjoy today and not worry about what tomorrow might bring.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ said Andrew. ‘But I’m afraid my father has my whole life already mapped out for me. Eton, then Cambridge, study hard, but not too hard, leave plenty of time for rowing, maybe a blue, then I’m to join the family firm, settle down with a nice little wife and start breeding the next generation of Carltons so that they can do the same thing all over again.’
‘It must be a pleasant feeling in a way, though,’ said James. ‘Knowing what your future holds. Not having a mother and a father, my future is a little more uncertain. There’s no family business. There’s nobody who really expects anything of me.’
‘You’re free to make your own life,’ said Andrew.
‘But who knows what might happen?’ said James. ‘Think of all those young men, before the Great War, who were just like you. They thought they knew the exact paths their lives would run along, but they ended up getting blown to bits in muddy trenches.’
‘When you put it like that,’ said Andrew, suddenly rubbing his name out and clearing the window, ‘then my life doesn’t seem quite so bad.’
They arrived at the clinic to find a large black Rolls-Royce parked on the forecourt, with a uniformed driver standing proudly next to it under an umbrella.
‘That’ll be Miles’s people,’ said Andrew as they climbed out of the taxi. ‘His father’s rolling in it.’
Once inside the clinic they were directed to the sun terrace to wait for Miles. Despite the cold weather and the drizzle several patients were sitting out under umbrellas in Bath chairs, wrapped in blankets. By himself, off to one side, sat a man with a shaved head, his back turned to the others, staring out at the mist-shrouded mountains. He was wearing a high cravat tied round his neck and white cotton gloves, presumably to hide scars.
As James came out on to the terrace the man turned and looked at him.
He had had extensive surgery to his face. There was livid purple and yellow bruising around his ears and neckline, dotted with nasty black scabs, but the skin on his face was smooth and tight so that he appeared to be wearing a mask. The surgeons had done a very good job – if James hadn’t known that the man must have once been disfigured in some way, he would not have been able to tell. He looked bland and incurious. Even his eyes showed no emotion.
We learn so much about a person from their face. We can read every line on it. Yet it was almost as if this man had no face at all. It was impossible to read him.
James turned away, unnerved by the direct stare, and when, a few moments later, he glanced back, the man was still looking at him. He sat very still. He might have been a mannequin, a dummy in a shop window, for all the animation he showed.
James was relieved when the uneasy mood was broken by the arrival of Miles, hobbling awkwardly out on to the terrace on his crutches accompanied by his parents. His mother was wearing a long fur coat; his father sported a gleaming top hat and a magnificent set of bristling whiskers. If he had been wearing the fur coat he would have looked like some sort of exotic wild animal.
‘James,’ Miles shouted, smiling broadly. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
He tried to shake hands without falling over, and then introduced his parents. His mother was a little distant, but his father seemed genuinely pleased to meet James and shook him briskly by the hand.
‘I was worried I’d be leaving without seeing you again,’ said Miles. ‘I never properly thanked you for saving my bacon. I behaved like an ass, I’m afraid,
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