of tea and coffee is wheeled clanking into the room by two members of the kitchen staff. Officers crowd round, jostling each other to be first in line. Dick Lowell, Larry’s Canadian opposite number, joins him by the doorway.
‘Bigger show than I expected,’ he says. ‘But my God, are they ready for it! What do you reckon? Boulogne? I say Le Touquet.’
Larry, who has known the target port for weeks, says nothing to this. He looks out through the high windows to the handsome grounds beyond.
‘Quite a place, isn’t it?’
‘Famous, too,’ says Dick Lowell. ‘Culpeper the herbalist lived here.’
‘Do you think I’ve got time for a wander round the grounds?’
‘Christ, we’ll be here all morning. There’s still the supply and logistic meetings to go.’
‘Do me a favour, Dick? If Woody comes looking for me, give me a shout.’
Larry leaves the library, and passes down the wood-panelled corridor and out through the south-east door to the gravelled forecourt. Here the rows of staff cars are pulled up, waiting to convey the top brass back to their bases. Beyond the line of cars, in a bend of the drive, stand two tall sequoia trees. The staff drivers have gathered in the shade of the trees to gossip, or just to doze.
Larry shields his eyes from the glare and scans the shadowed figures. He locates Kitty at last, sitting a little apart from the rest, reading a book.
He goes to her.
‘Still on
Middlemarch
?’
She looks up with a pleased smile.
‘Almost at the end now. Poor, poor Lydgate.’
‘I’ve got another book for you.’ He takes a book out of his shoulder bag. ‘You may have read it already.’
It’s
The Warden
by Trollope.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she says. ‘How sweet of you.’
‘There are so few good men in books,’ says Larry. ‘In good books, I mean. All the best characters are bad. But there’s one in
The Warden
. It’s the story of a good man.’
‘That’s just what I need,’ says Kitty.
‘Care for a walk in the park?’
She jumps up, slipping the books into her long-strap handbag.
‘What if they come out?’
‘We won’t go far.’
They go round the house and down a path that runs south between unkempt lawns. The once-grand gardens are suffering from neglect. Yet another casualty of war.
‘I think you must be a good man, Larry,’ says Kitty.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. Just a feeling I get.’
‘Not half good enough,’ says Larry. ‘Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and all I see is idleness and selfishness.’
‘Oh, we all think that about ourselves. Me most of all.’
‘So what’s to be done?’
‘We shall get better,’ says Kitty.
‘You’re right. We shall get better.’
‘I think loving people makes you a better person,’ says Kitty. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ says Larry.
‘But it has to not be selfish love. It has to be selfless love. And that’s so hard.’
‘That’s because it’s your self that does the loving,’ says Larry.
‘You love them for them, and then they love you back, and that makes you happy. So maybe it’s all selfishness in the end.’
The path leads to a circular terrace with a small stone monument at its centre. Round the stone base is a brass plaque on which lines of poetry are engraved.
Give fools their gold and knaves their power
Let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall
Who sows a field or trains a flower
Or plants a tree is more than all.
‘Do you think that’s true?’ says Kitty.
‘Well, I’ve never sown a field,’ says Larry. ‘Or trained a flower, or planted a tree.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘So I think it’s tosh.’
‘I think it’s tosh too.’
They stand by the curving stone balustrade and look down into an overgrown pond, and return to talk of love.
‘The thing is,’ says Kitty, ‘I can only love with all of myself. And if that makes me happy, well, I just have to lump it, don’t I?’
‘There is another side to it, you know? You have to
‘Bigger show than I expected,’ he says. ‘But my God, are they ready for it! What do you reckon? Boulogne? I say Le Touquet.’
Larry, who has known the target port for weeks, says nothing to this. He looks out through the high windows to the handsome grounds beyond.
‘Quite a place, isn’t it?’
‘Famous, too,’ says Dick Lowell. ‘Culpeper the herbalist lived here.’
‘Do you think I’ve got time for a wander round the grounds?’
‘Christ, we’ll be here all morning. There’s still the supply and logistic meetings to go.’
‘Do me a favour, Dick? If Woody comes looking for me, give me a shout.’
Larry leaves the library, and passes down the wood-panelled corridor and out through the south-east door to the gravelled forecourt. Here the rows of staff cars are pulled up, waiting to convey the top brass back to their bases. Beyond the line of cars, in a bend of the drive, stand two tall sequoia trees. The staff drivers have gathered in the shade of the trees to gossip, or just to doze.
Larry shields his eyes from the glare and scans the shadowed figures. He locates Kitty at last, sitting a little apart from the rest, reading a book.
He goes to her.
‘Still on
Middlemarch
?’
She looks up with a pleased smile.
‘Almost at the end now. Poor, poor Lydgate.’
‘I’ve got another book for you.’ He takes a book out of his shoulder bag. ‘You may have read it already.’
It’s
The Warden
by Trollope.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she says. ‘How sweet of you.’
‘There are so few good men in books,’ says Larry. ‘In good books, I mean. All the best characters are bad. But there’s one in
The Warden
. It’s the story of a good man.’
‘That’s just what I need,’ says Kitty.
‘Care for a walk in the park?’
She jumps up, slipping the books into her long-strap handbag.
‘What if they come out?’
‘We won’t go far.’
They go round the house and down a path that runs south between unkempt lawns. The once-grand gardens are suffering from neglect. Yet another casualty of war.
‘I think you must be a good man, Larry,’ says Kitty.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. Just a feeling I get.’
‘Not half good enough,’ says Larry. ‘Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and all I see is idleness and selfishness.’
‘Oh, we all think that about ourselves. Me most of all.’
‘So what’s to be done?’
‘We shall get better,’ says Kitty.
‘You’re right. We shall get better.’
‘I think loving people makes you a better person,’ says Kitty. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ says Larry.
‘But it has to not be selfish love. It has to be selfless love. And that’s so hard.’
‘That’s because it’s your self that does the loving,’ says Larry.
‘You love them for them, and then they love you back, and that makes you happy. So maybe it’s all selfishness in the end.’
The path leads to a circular terrace with a small stone monument at its centre. Round the stone base is a brass plaque on which lines of poetry are engraved.
Give fools their gold and knaves their power
Let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall
Who sows a field or trains a flower
Or plants a tree is more than all.
‘Do you think that’s true?’ says Kitty.
‘Well, I’ve never sown a field,’ says Larry. ‘Or trained a flower, or planted a tree.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘So I think it’s tosh.’
‘I think it’s tosh too.’
They stand by the curving stone balustrade and look down into an overgrown pond, and return to talk of love.
‘The thing is,’ says Kitty, ‘I can only love with all of myself. And if that makes me happy, well, I just have to lump it, don’t I?’
‘There is another side to it, you know? You have to
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