Harvest of War by Hilary Green

appeal. He reminded himself that he had not seen his parents since he’d finished his officer training, over a year earlier. He had not enjoyed that leave and his heart sank at the thought of repeating the experience, but he felt duty-bound to make the effort. So he crossed London to Marylebone Station and took a train for Denham. It was late April and the beech trees were flaunting their new green leaves, while the understory was carpeted with white wood anemones. Watching the scenery slip past, Tom was possessed by a wave of nostalgia for boyhood wanderings and reminded that his childhood had not been entirely bleak. He hired a pony and trap at the station to take him to the Hall and as they drove through the gates he was struck by the air of neglect. Weeds were growing up through the gravel and the lawns were untrimmed, and as he drew closer he saw that the paintwork around the window frames was peeling. He knew labour was short, because of the war, but he was surprised that things had been allowed to deteriorate to this extent.
    The door was opened by Lowndes, the family butler, and Tom was shaken to see how much he had aged since his last visit. He could never remember him being a young man, but now his hair was completely white and the hand that held the door open shook slightly. Tom had not given any warning of his arrival, which perhaps accounted for the expression of something close to alarm that crossed the old man’s face when he recognized him.
    â€˜We weren’t expecting you, sir. Sir George is in London, at his club, but Her Ladyship is upstairs in her boudoir. If you’ll wait in the drawing room, I’ll tell her you are here.’
    Tom thought of the scenes he had witnessed at Victoria station, but reminded himself that he had not let anyone know he was on his way back, so he could scarcely complain that no one had come to meet him. Nevertheless, he could not dismiss a lingering feeling that even if he had told his parents it would not have made a material difference. He went into the drawing room and stopped short. Above the mantelpiece an oblong of unfaded wallpaper, edged by a line of dust, stood out starkly.
    Tom swung round to address the butler’s departing back. ‘Lowndes, what’s happened to the Stubbs?’
    The old man turned back, his shoulders drooping. ‘Sold, I believe, sir. A matter of paying off a gambling debt.’
    Tom drew a deep breath. So, his father’s gambling addiction was getting worse, apparently. He felt sorry for the old butler, who had served the family for so long. ‘Thank you, Lowndes. That is all.’
    When the man had gone Tom looked around the room and quickly realized that the painting was not the only thing missing. Two smaller watercolours had vanished, as had a silver rose bowl and a Chinese vase. He began to see the room as a stranger might and noticed that the furniture was dusty and the carpet worn threadbare in places. His sense of disquiet deepened.
    Lowndes returned. ‘Her Ladyship asks you to go up, sir.’
    No rush to embrace the returning soldier here, then! Tom climbed the stairs and found his mother sitting at her embroidery frame in a room cluttered with examples of her work. Cross-stitched cushions were heaped on every chair, pictures were thrown over the backs, table runners and bell-pulls were scattered on every other surface. The evidence, he saw for the first time, not of a hobby, but of an obsessive escape from reality.
    His mother looked up from her work but did not put down her needle. ‘Good afternoon, Thomas. I hope you are well.’
    He walked over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well enough, Mother, thank you. And you? How are you?’
    â€˜Oh, much as usual. Have you eaten? Would you like some tea?’
    â€˜Later, perhaps.’ He tipped some of her work off a chair and set it close to her. ‘Mother, I want to ask you something. Did you know that the Stubbs painting has