A Lily of the Field by Lawton John

Author:Lawton, John [Lawton, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: UK
Publisher: Atlantic Books Ltd
Published: 2010-05-31T14:00:00+00:00

— 95 —

It was a massive house, just south of Hampstead village. Gates and a drive—gates that hadn’t been claimed in some spurious metals campaign during the war, a drive that hadn’t even been tarmaced let alone built over. A house that wasn’t partitioned into flats. Troy would put the house at about 1880. Perhaps of its era, not quite the Edwardian villa—only a villa in the Italian sense, as in Villa Cimbrone—but post-war, even in a borough of big houses, this one seemed absurdly grand. What new money had been pumped into this? What new money had lasted long enough to get old here? How did they run a place on this scale without servants on the Victorian scale. He’d find out. He had rung from Hendon and “was expected.”

He left his tatty Bullnose Morris next to a shining black Daimler. He’d bet even money that it had spent the war up on blocks just like his father’s Rolls. But they, whoever they were, were running it now. His brother Rod was looking forward to the day they could get his father’s 1922 Silver Ghost, the one with the cream paintwork and burgundy upholstery, running again—petrol permitting, and Rod’s image as a Labour MP most certainly not permitting. He’d have liked the car himself, but coppers didn’t roll up in a Rolls, only the Wimseys and the Campions would ever get away with that. Whatever he had next, he’d wait until the Morris fell apart first.

The “girl” answered the bell. Black and white uniform, cap awry, tongue ababble.

“Miss Laura says to go straight up, sir, top floor, only I can’t come meself as there’s only been me and cook since Dunkirk when Mr. Spiggot and Stanley Moon joined up, only Spiggot never come back and Stanley Moon says he’d sooner drive a tram than work for toffs again.”

Well, that was one question answered, but as Troy set off up the wide, winding staircase another arose. When had he been here before, climbing these stairs to an attic room? A tidal surge of memory and he could see himself aged five or six, in 1920 or 1921, warily making his way to a children’s party that only the propellant force of his mother could make him attend. This house had belonged to the Gore-Neames. Now, what had been their daughter’s name, the one that was about a year older than him, whose party it was. Louisa, Lorna . . . Laura?

He was at the top now. A half open door, a child of four or five dashing out to say, “Mummy’s in here!”

Not a child such as he had been—frail, small, pale. This was a robust, clumping, coffee-colored child. Another question answered. Narayan was indeed an Indian name.

“I say, you’re Frederick Troy aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I used to be Laura Neame. Surely you . . .?”

Yes. He did. About his height, blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, but she’d put on weight. That was the first thing that struck him, how unkind time had been to her in piling on the pounds.

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