way through the old parlour to her own room where Edward-John lay asleep, his book on the floor.
The Bayliss farmhouse was, by that time, in darkness. Father and son had eaten the meal that the housekeeper had cooked and cleared. As it was the last night of Christopher’s leave there had been stuffed capon served with roasted potatoes, buttered parsnips, carrots and Brussels sprouts. This was followed by crème brulée which had the reputation of being Christopher’s favourite pudding. Roger had opened a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape which, having been preceded by a couple of large glasses of sherry, had left the two men relaxed enough to be unconcerned about the several long silences that fell during the course of the evening. After a glass or two of port Christopher excused himself on the grounds of his early departure next morning. His father got to his feet while they exchanged farewells, smiling at each other, wishing each other good luck. Although acutely conscious of the fact that this might well be the last time he saw his son alive or, come to that, dead, Roger’s manner revealed nothing of his anxiety for the young man who stood before him, smiling gamely.
Roger’s life, for as long as he was able to remember, consisted of an accumulating collection of compartmentalised feelings, many of them quite painful and which he had long ago decided were best dealt with by keeping them very muchunder wraps. As people had suggested at the time, he had probably been wrong to marry Frances. She was the only daughter of a neighbouring landowner, one of whose farms Roger had subsequently added to his own. He had met her when, at eighteen, she had been recovering from a bout of tuberculosis. She had told him, on their first meeting, that she thought it unlikely that she would ever marry as she wanted to be a farmer’s wife and since her illness no one would consider her healthy and strong enough for that role. Haunted, for reasons he did not analyse, by this confession, Roger found himself drawn to her and had, soon afterwards, proposed marriage and been accepted. Christopher, their only child, was in his first term at boarding school when she suddenly died of an illness quite unconnected to the tuberculosis. The boy had stood in Ledburton churchyard beside his father as the flower-laden coffin was lowered into the mud. Afterwards Roger had suggested that it might be better if, for a while at least, they did not speak of the dead woman who had been his wife and his son’s mother, as to do so was too painful for both of them. Christopher was sent back to school, returning, at the end of the term, to a house that was always to remain different from the one he had lived in when his mother was alive. To make up for this, his father indulged him, unstintingly bestowing on him the best toys, ponies, push-bikes, motorbikes and eventually sports cars, that he could afford. At the age of seventeen Christopher had expressed the wish to learn to fly so thatwhen war was declared it seemed both logical and attractive to him to join the RAF rather than take the place at Seale-Hayne Agricultural College which his father had arranged for him.
Alone on the upper floor of the farmhouse, Christopher had run a hot bath which, instead of relaxing him, had the opposite effect. He sat smoking in his bedroom, trying to suppress a familiar, rising anxiety, until the chill of the unheated room drove him to bed. Here, again, he ran through the events of his unfortunate encounter with Georgina and cursed himself for his stupidity.
Shortly after he started flying fighters he had shut down his feelings. Initially the knowledge that he had on several occasions escaped death by inches or by seconds had made him nervous in a healthy and predictable way, raising the hackles on his neck and providing him with a cracking yarn to tell over a pint. But, like many of his peers, the continuous pressure of his situation had begun to damage him. To begin with
The Bayliss farmhouse was, by that time, in darkness. Father and son had eaten the meal that the housekeeper had cooked and cleared. As it was the last night of Christopher’s leave there had been stuffed capon served with roasted potatoes, buttered parsnips, carrots and Brussels sprouts. This was followed by crème brulée which had the reputation of being Christopher’s favourite pudding. Roger had opened a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape which, having been preceded by a couple of large glasses of sherry, had left the two men relaxed enough to be unconcerned about the several long silences that fell during the course of the evening. After a glass or two of port Christopher excused himself on the grounds of his early departure next morning. His father got to his feet while they exchanged farewells, smiling at each other, wishing each other good luck. Although acutely conscious of the fact that this might well be the last time he saw his son alive or, come to that, dead, Roger’s manner revealed nothing of his anxiety for the young man who stood before him, smiling gamely.
Roger’s life, for as long as he was able to remember, consisted of an accumulating collection of compartmentalised feelings, many of them quite painful and which he had long ago decided were best dealt with by keeping them very muchunder wraps. As people had suggested at the time, he had probably been wrong to marry Frances. She was the only daughter of a neighbouring landowner, one of whose farms Roger had subsequently added to his own. He had met her when, at eighteen, she had been recovering from a bout of tuberculosis. She had told him, on their first meeting, that she thought it unlikely that she would ever marry as she wanted to be a farmer’s wife and since her illness no one would consider her healthy and strong enough for that role. Haunted, for reasons he did not analyse, by this confession, Roger found himself drawn to her and had, soon afterwards, proposed marriage and been accepted. Christopher, their only child, was in his first term at boarding school when she suddenly died of an illness quite unconnected to the tuberculosis. The boy had stood in Ledburton churchyard beside his father as the flower-laden coffin was lowered into the mud. Afterwards Roger had suggested that it might be better if, for a while at least, they did not speak of the dead woman who had been his wife and his son’s mother, as to do so was too painful for both of them. Christopher was sent back to school, returning, at the end of the term, to a house that was always to remain different from the one he had lived in when his mother was alive. To make up for this, his father indulged him, unstintingly bestowing on him the best toys, ponies, push-bikes, motorbikes and eventually sports cars, that he could afford. At the age of seventeen Christopher had expressed the wish to learn to fly so thatwhen war was declared it seemed both logical and attractive to him to join the RAF rather than take the place at Seale-Hayne Agricultural College which his father had arranged for him.
Alone on the upper floor of the farmhouse, Christopher had run a hot bath which, instead of relaxing him, had the opposite effect. He sat smoking in his bedroom, trying to suppress a familiar, rising anxiety, until the chill of the unheated room drove him to bed. Here, again, he ran through the events of his unfortunate encounter with Georgina and cursed himself for his stupidity.
Shortly after he started flying fighters he had shut down his feelings. Initially the knowledge that he had on several occasions escaped death by inches or by seconds had made him nervous in a healthy and predictable way, raising the hackles on his neck and providing him with a cracking yarn to tell over a pint. But, like many of his peers, the continuous pressure of his situation had begun to damage him. To begin with
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