cup. But at least here there were no gawpers from school.
‘What do you want to talk about?’
Faith fiddled with her napkin, losing the composure she had shown to the waiter. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me turning up like that.’ She looked at him, awaiting his response.
He gave a shrug, non-committal. In a way he
did
mind: she had put him on the spot, obliging him to make a public spectacle of his friendship—if that was what this was—with a St Ursula’s girl. ‘It was a surprise.’
‘A nice one?’
He gave a faint nod, unsmiling.
‘I just wanted—’ She looked away from him, gazing through the window as though her attention was caught by something. ‘I wanted to say sorry for being so prickly—you know, when we argued. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since. I shouldn’t have got annoyed like that.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you said you were sorry on Sunday.’
The cappuccino arrived, in heavy white cups, with chunks of brown sugar in the saucers. Greg sipped at his, grateful for the diversion, tasting creamy foam through the sweetness of sprinkled chocolate. Was that all? She’d stood outside school, exposing herself to the taunts of Radway loudmouths, just to say that? Why not leave it till next weekend? She really was a very odd girl—intense, brooding. What he mainly remembered about their argument was the way she’d flung herself at him, then just as suddenly pulled away. With any other girl he’d have thought he was well in, but with Faith it seemed to be more a matter of being true to herself, of setting things straight in a way that satisfied her sense of honour, or truth, or whatever it was.
‘But it does matter.’ Her dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. ‘I ought to be more sure of what I believe in—no, I
am
sure. So if you want to discuss it properly, we can.’
Greg dropped the chunks of sugar into his coffee, stirred it, and tapped the side of the cup irritably with his spoon. ‘You’ve brought me here to have another discussion about God?’
‘If you want.’
‘It’s up to you what you believe in. Nothing to do with me.’ He couldn’t, at present, think of a single thing he wanted to say on the subject; in fact he was bored by it. He said, instead, ‘You know that booklet you gave me? I was reading it this morning. Saw the photos of the gardens as they used to be, and your caryatid.’
‘Mm?’
‘And I read about the fire. You know Edmund Pearson?’
She nodded. ‘The son who was killed in the war?’
‘How do you know he was killed in the war? The booklet doesn’t say that. It says
Believed to have been
killed at the time of the fire.
’
‘I know, but surely—’
‘If he’d died in the war, wouldn’t it have said?
Died
in action
, or
Died at—at Passchendaele
, say? Whatever.’
‘What are you suggesting, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Does it mean
in
the fire? But then why not say so?’
Faith shook her head firmly. ‘No. Definitely not. There’d have been . . .’ she made a face ‘. . . bones, a charred body. And he’d be buried somewhere.’
‘Well, he must be buried
some
where, either way.’
‘Yes, but if he died at home he’d be in the churchyard next door.’ Faith made a gesture with her head. ‘Lots of his relations are there. We’ll go and have a look if you like. But I’m sure we won’t find him. I don’t really see why you’re bothering about it. There would have been plenty of chances for him to get killed in 1917. There’s nothing specially odd about that. And we’re not likely to find out now, are we?’
‘
Believed to have been killed
. That’s not the same as
was
killed. That must mean his body was never found. His parents outlived him, didn’t they? Didn’t they know any more than it says in the book?’
‘I expect his name’s on the monument at Thiepval,’ Faith said. ‘Or that other one at the place beginning with Y—what is it?—Ypres, in
‘What do you want to talk about?’
Faith fiddled with her napkin, losing the composure she had shown to the waiter. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me turning up like that.’ She looked at him, awaiting his response.
He gave a shrug, non-committal. In a way he
did
mind: she had put him on the spot, obliging him to make a public spectacle of his friendship—if that was what this was—with a St Ursula’s girl. ‘It was a surprise.’
‘A nice one?’
He gave a faint nod, unsmiling.
‘I just wanted—’ She looked away from him, gazing through the window as though her attention was caught by something. ‘I wanted to say sorry for being so prickly—you know, when we argued. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since. I shouldn’t have got annoyed like that.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you said you were sorry on Sunday.’
The cappuccino arrived, in heavy white cups, with chunks of brown sugar in the saucers. Greg sipped at his, grateful for the diversion, tasting creamy foam through the sweetness of sprinkled chocolate. Was that all? She’d stood outside school, exposing herself to the taunts of Radway loudmouths, just to say that? Why not leave it till next weekend? She really was a very odd girl—intense, brooding. What he mainly remembered about their argument was the way she’d flung herself at him, then just as suddenly pulled away. With any other girl he’d have thought he was well in, but with Faith it seemed to be more a matter of being true to herself, of setting things straight in a way that satisfied her sense of honour, or truth, or whatever it was.
‘But it does matter.’ Her dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. ‘I ought to be more sure of what I believe in—no, I
am
sure. So if you want to discuss it properly, we can.’
Greg dropped the chunks of sugar into his coffee, stirred it, and tapped the side of the cup irritably with his spoon. ‘You’ve brought me here to have another discussion about God?’
‘If you want.’
‘It’s up to you what you believe in. Nothing to do with me.’ He couldn’t, at present, think of a single thing he wanted to say on the subject; in fact he was bored by it. He said, instead, ‘You know that booklet you gave me? I was reading it this morning. Saw the photos of the gardens as they used to be, and your caryatid.’
‘Mm?’
‘And I read about the fire. You know Edmund Pearson?’
She nodded. ‘The son who was killed in the war?’
‘How do you know he was killed in the war? The booklet doesn’t say that. It says
Believed to have been
killed at the time of the fire.
’
‘I know, but surely—’
‘If he’d died in the war, wouldn’t it have said?
Died
in action
, or
Died at—at Passchendaele
, say? Whatever.’
‘What are you suggesting, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Does it mean
in
the fire? But then why not say so?’
Faith shook her head firmly. ‘No. Definitely not. There’d have been . . .’ she made a face ‘. . . bones, a charred body. And he’d be buried somewhere.’
‘Well, he must be buried
some
where, either way.’
‘Yes, but if he died at home he’d be in the churchyard next door.’ Faith made a gesture with her head. ‘Lots of his relations are there. We’ll go and have a look if you like. But I’m sure we won’t find him. I don’t really see why you’re bothering about it. There would have been plenty of chances for him to get killed in 1917. There’s nothing specially odd about that. And we’re not likely to find out now, are we?’
‘
Believed to have been killed
. That’s not the same as
was
killed. That must mean his body was never found. His parents outlived him, didn’t they? Didn’t they know any more than it says in the book?’
‘I expect his name’s on the monument at Thiepval,’ Faith said. ‘Or that other one at the place beginning with Y—what is it?—Ypres, in
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