Wild Talent by Eileen Kernaghan Page A

disappointed in The Yeomen of the Guard. It seemed to me a little dark, and perhaps not their best effort.”
    â€œOh, but it was wonderful,” I exclaimed — for I could not bear to think he imagined me disappointed.
    â€œI only wish you could have seen The Mikado,” he said. “That was a splendid production. I hope one day there’ll be a revival.”
    Meanwhile he had set his book down on a table, and I stole a glance at the title. It said, in French, New or rare animals, collected during an expedition in the central parts of South America. He gave me a rueful smile. “In eleven volumes, and beyond my means at present. One rarely finds an unbroken set —I come here from time to time to admire it.” He lifted the book and opened it, almost reverently, I thought, to hand-coloured plates of exotic birds and reptiles. He unfolded a map to show me routes marked out in various coloured inks; and then turned to some tinted drawings of tropical landscapes.
    â€œThey’re very beautiful,” I said. “And what place is that, Mr. Grenville-Smith?” At least I think that is what I said — we were standing very close and truth to tell I scarce remember, though I ken well enough what he replied.
    â€œIt’s Brazil,” he told me. “A country that one day I hope to see for myself. But ‘Mr. Grenville-Smith’ — how elderly that sounds. I feel when I am called that I should be wearing a long beard and carrying a walking stick. My friends call me Tom, and we are friends, are we not, Jean Guthrie?”
    And then he smiled down at me, and held my gaze, and I knew it was not just the look of a friend, but something far more than that. I cannot describe the pure happiness of that moment — a happiness that surely I do not deserve. Though there was much I wished to say, all I could manage to do was to nod, and return his smile.
    But soon after that we said our goodbyes, for it was growing late, and the Countess was fretting a little that Saturday visitors would arrive with no one there to receive them.
    Before we left I bought a lace-trimmed card with cherubs for my mother, and one with a basket of kittens for the bairns, and I have put them into the post along with as many pound notes as I have been able to save.
    As we drove home, I was happier than I have been in a very long time. When we came to Lansdowne Road there were carolers singing along the street, and I wanted to put my head out of the window of the cab and raise my voice along with theirs, in joyful celebration.
    And then this evening a messenger came to the door and delivered a package with my name on it. I opened it to find a small grey paper-bound book of songs from Th e Mikado , and a card that was signed simply “Tom”.
    December 26
    We have had a quiet Christmas, much confined to the house, with Madame Blavatsky still unwell and the weather most days dank and murky. Also the papers were full of another horrible East End murder just five days before Christmas, so that even in Lansdowne Road we feared to venture out after dark to so much as post a letter. We had not bothered with a tree or decorations, but for tea on Christmas Eve we had iced fruitcake, and Mr. Archibald bought a bag of chestnuts to roast over the fire. There was of course no goose or turkey for Christmas dinner, but instead a special curried vegetable dish, with wine and plenty of plum pudding. The post brought a Christmas card from Alexandra, all silk-fringed and gilded and embossed, that was greatly admired. But she is about to leave for Brussels, which seems a long way off, and I know that when she is gone I will feel very much bereft.
    December 31
    Tonight, in these last hours of the old year, I have been thinking of New Year’s Eves at home in the Borders, when I was a child and my father still alive. I remember how the Hogmanay fires burned the old year out, how the midnight bells rang, and how we waited