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  Both children were asleep. Hal carried Lottie, and the officer who had met them carried Meg, her baby cheek on his unknown arm. ‘Welcome home, sir,’ he had said, coming up the steps to help them.

  Hal didn’t know what he’d expected; he had a fugitive’s anxiety of discovery, but the officer, very young and respectful, was only concerned with their comfort.

  A car rolled towards them out of the darkness, its headlights fanned across the underside of the plane.

  ‘Sir, madam? Come with me, please.’

  Car doors were opened, loud in the stillness. The family and the officer crowded into the small car for the short drive, a brief imprisonment, the compression of feet, close breaths in the cramped cold space.

  At the edge of the airfield – Hal could see the perimeter gate now – there was another building and the car stopped by it. Through the wet glass Hal saw a door open. A man was silhouetted against the lighted interior. He had a hat, a dark civilian suit, slightly stooping narrow shoulders – Clara cried out, ‘Daddy!’

  She was out of the car, away from Hal – George came to meet her, steadying her – and she was in her father’s arms. ‘Darling girl. Here, here, I have the car. Just over here –’

  Hal got out slowly, protecting Lottie’s head from the doorframe with his hand.

  Clara walked as close to her father as she could, his arms supported her. Hal followed them, carrying Lottie, the officer with Meg next to him. At his car, George Ward turned to him. He spoke with perfect civility. ‘Hal, welcome back. You must be exhausted.’

  ‘Hello, sir. Not too bad.’

  George didn’t meet his eye. ‘Oh, good…good.’

  He knows. How could he know? Have they spoken to him?

  ‘Clara’s played out,’ said Hal.

  ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. Then, ‘Not too long now.’

  It seemed to take an hour, the loading of them all and the strapping on of cases to the car. It was a Riley, built for beauty not luggage, and Hal took charge, with the flight lieutenant helping him, pulling the straps hard into tension, while George Ward stood by with his hands in his pockets, whistling through his teeth, an impractical man, and Clara sat bundled in a blanket in the back with the sleeping girls.

  ‘There’ll be nobody on the road, at least. Your mother waited up, of course. We shouldn’t be too long.’

  Hal sat next to her father in the front. Clara spread the blanket over Meg and Lottie as the officer said goodbye through the driver’s window. Light slanted in from the open office door, striking the backs of the seats, illuminating the men in front. The back of Hal’s neck, tanned, and the hair razored close into it, gleamed where it was bleached by the sun; her father’s neck was white. Clara could just see the familiar jut of his nose in semi-profile, and pale, clean-shaven cheek. His hair, dark and brilliantined, was exactly the same as in her childhood. She closed her eyes.

  The car glided past the guards, and then the sentry posts, finding the exits unhindered. It felt unreal.

  Theirs was the only car on the road. They had left the camp behind and were in the deep emptiness of Salisbury Plain. The narrow road was lit just ahead by the wide yellow beams of the headlights, and inside the car Hal could see the wooden dashboard and George Ward’s pale hands on the wheel.

  Outside, just nearby, was the cool enormous mass of Stonehenge. He knew the stones, had touched them, and didn’t have to see it. He thought of them rising from the bare land, and remembered his hands, hot from running, flat against the rock, when one summer day he had played amongst them as a child. He must have been very young, because for a long time he had thought the stones had been raised by King Arthur. He had pictured them, dragged across the plough and grassy fields by teams of shires, straining and snorting in their harness against the great weight as they travelled, overseen by knights. The stones had hummed beneath his hands with the magic of the long centuries.

  His own house – his parents’ – was less than twenty miles to the west. The plain, in familiar vastness, was around him.

  Hal felt the English night and his own soul greeting it with the quiet recognition of return, but he had stolen home uninvited. Connected and unconnected, he had cut himself off from welcome.

  The Wards’ was the only village house lit up at half past two in the morning. Moira Ward had heard the car coming through the village, threw open the door to meet them and all her greetings were made in half-whispers, muted exclamations of fearful delight – Clara home, but wounded. Hal, an even bigger presence than she remembered, and the girls – so brown!

  Hal and George reached into the back to pick up a girl each.

  ‘Mummy!’

  ‘Darling!’

  They all hugged and whispered over one another and Hal, after surrendering Lottie to Moira’s arms, began to unstrap the cases.

  The family – and Hal – went into the house and closed the door.

  Inside, with more whispers, journeys up and down stairs to fetch things and feminine half-tearful kindness, they were all settled into various bedrooms, practical things saving them from the harder ones, and concern for Clara over everything. She went straight to bed – helped upstairs by her parents, with Hal behind – and gave the care of the girls to her mother.

  The house went to sleep, each person, one by one.

  Hal closed the door at last behind them. Clara was lying down, drifting. It was a kind room, with flowers on the walls and lace along the tops of the polished wooden furniture. He stood with his back to the door.

  He was fully dressed still. The cases on the floor were dark hard battered things, only Clara’s spilling open in pretty confusion, rummaged through to find her nightdress.

  Hal took off his shoes so as not to disturb her, although the floor was carpeted. He went over to the window. It overlooked the garden. He could just hear her parents’ voices through the walls, or along the wooden boards and skirtings. He opened the window, the frame stuck slightly, then smoothly rolled up with the sash-cord holding.

  The night smelled of wet woods, grass and fallen leaves, with a chill to the air, sharp and welcome. There was the smell of woodsmoke too, which he had always loved. He separated that – bonfires and autumn – from the other burning smell, which wasn’t real. He could hear the slow whisper of the trees and there was water, even in the air, quiet wood and water; sap, wet flowers, soil, lawn, all living in the vague night. Some way off, he heard an owl.

  He looked back at the bed. Clara’s eyes were closed. He went over to her and knelt at her side.

  It was dark and he couldn’t see her clearly, but he felt her presence; the clean paleness of her skin, her hands tucked into the warmth inside the covers. She was surrounded by pillows and quilts, all the different soft things that make up an English bed. He had brought her home safely, at least.

  Moira, George and the girls sat around the kitchen table, the breakfast things disordered on the oilcloth – boiled eggs, toast, teapot, the mismatched plates and cups of a life of family meals and family spillages.

  ‘I’ll let them sleep,’ said Moira. ‘The doctor isn’t coming until ten o’clock.’

  ‘Extraordinary they gave Hal leave with this Suez business,’ said George, reaching for the toast rack. ‘Even with Clara, you’d think they’d have had him stay.’

  The newspaper, thick, folded over, lay amongst the crumbs and butter knives. Under Imperial and Foreign news, the inky headline said: ‘NAVY SENDING CARRIERS TO CYPRUS’. Clara’s brother, James, was on his way from Malaya, on a troop carrier in the Indian Ocean.

  ‘Everyone in on the fight except Hal,’ said George, wiping his mouth with his napkin and reaching for the paper again. There was outrage in his every quiet word and in each small movement he made.

  Clara had suffered this unspeakable attack, James was still away, but Hal was here, unscathed. George’s dislike of Hal’s profession and, by association, Hal, had been subjugated by Clara’s happiness. Now, with her injury, it found purchase.

&nb
sp; The twins were next to one another, in bibs, their chins barely above the table, having egg and soldiers distributed between them by Moira, who was out of practice and delighted by them.

  ‘Here, Meg, let Granny do it,’ she was saying, and ‘Careful, careful, well done! Mummy later. Mummy’s tired now.’

  Then the telephone rang.

  George stood up, brushing off his trousers, and left the room.

  ‘Mummy!’ said Lottie.

  ‘Yes, we’ll go up and see Mummy and Daddy in a minute,’ said Moira.

  Then the sound of George’s feet along the passage again.

  ‘It was Hal’s father. For him. Had to tell him he was still in bed – he didn’t like that much. Almost slammed the phone down.’

  ‘Really?’ said Moira vaguely, wiping Lottie’s fingers.

  Moira, Lottie and Meg knocked gently on Clara’s door and opened it. Moira let the girls go in. They were shy at first, then jumping and scrambling up.

  ‘Careful!’ She stayed on the landing.

  Clara pulled herself to sitting, wincing at the sudden pain, and using her arms to take her weight. ‘Hello, darlings,’ she said. ‘Come in, Mummy…It’s all right, Hal isn’t here.’

  Moira put her head round the door. ‘Oh? Where is he, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he’s gone for a walk.’

  It wasn’t until late morning, after the doctor had left, that they began to think he had gone. It was on all their minds that he wasn’t there. Occasionally one of them would say, ‘He still hasn’t come back,’ or ‘No word from Hal?’ but, apart from that, they all fell into their closeness and the looking after of one another quite comfortably.

  Major (Ret’d) Peter Jameson drove from Warminster to the Wards’ village house in the Buckinghamshire valley. It was a damp October day and he had to keep wiping the inside of his windscreen with the chamois he kept in the car, a Rover, especially for the purpose. He had been sent out on these recces before, but he’d never had to chase down a major. It was mostly subalterns, once a captain. He had something of a talent for understanding. They felt understood; they came back.

  It was a pretty house, he thought as he pushed open the gate, went up the stone path and knocked. A woman in an overall opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning. I’m looking for Major Henry Treherne.’

  ‘Yes, sir, just a minute.’

  Another woman came to the door, attractive in a dark grey wool dress. The wife’s mother, he guessed. She seemed very nervous.

  ‘You’re looking for my son-in-law. He’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you are?’

  Jameson smiled as warmly as he could. ‘My name’s Jameson. Like the whisky. Major (Retired) Peter Jameson.’

  ‘Yes. Do you have business with Hal?’

  ‘Hal? Ah. Yes. Look, I’m sorry to land on you unannounced. Do you think I might come in?’

  Clara was in the drawing room making scrapbooks with the girls. She sat in an armchair, with them at her feet. It hurt her to lean forward and she did it stiffly. She looked up as Moira came in with Jameson.

  ‘Darling, this is Mr Jameson – I’m sorry, Retired Major –’

  ‘You don’t need to bother with all that. How d’you do?’

  ‘My daughter, Clara.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Clara.

  The little girls looked up with round eyes. Light scraps of old magazines lay about them, small brushes from the gluepot in their fists.

  ‘He’s looking for Hal.’

  ‘You don’t know where he is, I suppose?’ said Jameson.

  ‘Should I? I thought there must be some army…’

  ‘If there was, I’d know about it,’ said Jameson, his cheerfulness fading. ‘It’s rather awkward. It seems he left Cyprus with you last night unofficially.’

  He noted their shock seemed genuine. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No,’ said Clara, slowly, her eyes fixed on his face as she absorbed this.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Moira, and went to the door, calling, ‘George!’

  Jameson sat on the edge of a chair opposite Clara.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Are you saying he isn’t on leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that can’t be right. He had compassionate leave. Because of me.’

  ‘Yes, he did –’

  George came into the room. Jameson stood up and they shook hands, introducing themselves.

  ‘Nobody knows where Hal is,’ said Moira, by way of explanation.

  ‘He was here last night,’ said George.

  ‘But he’s not here now.’

  ‘Well, that’s very odd.’

  ‘Clara?’

  Clara’s eyes were wide. ‘I don’t know. We went to sleep. I went to sleep…I haven’t –’ She stopped, looking down suddenly and fiddling with the paper scraps scattering the carpet.

  ‘I understand this is completely out of character?’ said Jameson.

  ‘Completely,’ said Clara, shortly, not looking up.

  ‘I just want to have a chat with him. We might be able to sort things out quite simply. But we need to find him.’

  Clara began to paste glue onto the thick card pages of the scrapbook.

  George spoke. His voice was quiet and deliberate, not wanting to create drama. ‘This is serious, then?’

  A short pause.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jameson.

  A quick glance passed between Clara and her mother.

  ‘My daughter has been through a horrible time recently. She’s still very weak. Hal will worry about her, I’m sure that he’ll be in touch as soon as – well, very soon.’

  ‘Have you spoken to his parents?’ said George. ‘You might want to try there.’

  ‘Yes. This morning. No luck.’

  Moira stood back slightly, making the door available. ‘Would you leave us a telephone number, in case we hear anything?’

  Shortly afterwards Jameson, taking the hint, left.

  Moira closed the front door after him, waited a moment with her hand resting on it, and then went back into the drawing room.

  Clara, her head bowed, was absorbed in cutting out shapes – or pretending to be. George was standing by the window, looking out.

  ‘Clara,’ said Moira, and sat down near her. ‘Darling?’

  Clara didn’t look up. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said.

  ‘Is he all right, do you think?’ said Moira, very gently.

  There was a pause. Clara said tightly, ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Chapter Two

  Hal had walked in only partial darkness. A low yellow moon hung over the fields, showing him straight streaked clouds near to it and the dark-cut shapes of trees below.

  His civilian shoes weren’t good for walking, but he wasn’t tired and he covered the miles easily.

  Morning came, with a grey sky and drizzle that was surprisingly drenching – he had no coat – but he welcomed the feel of it on his face, having been used to the very hot sun.

  He passed through villages, or walked round them, clear in his direction, cutting through fields where the long grass soaked his trousers and birds flew up suddenly from the high hedges and banks as they heard him.

  Every hour or so he thought he would stop, get to a station for a train or find a lift with somebody, but the walking became a peaceful compulsion and he found he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop to have to climb over fences, or find his way across streams as he came to them. He found it hard to stop at all.

  At first he noticed the landscape around him because it was emerging from night, and to find his way, but as the walking took him over he was caught up in the fever of it and his sight became feverish too. The ground was heavy and infinite below his feet, the fields circled and ringed him under the sky. Wet grass, thick hedges, clouded dark branches of far woods and clear frames of near ones –
whole valleys opened up to him. The country lay around him. Some fields seemed so small, as if he could put them into his hand. Then, close up, the reddish tangle of twigs deep in the hedges as he passed them were as vast as universes, with perfect symmetry that he could almost unravel, if only he had the calculation to do it. The sun, far behind the deep cloud, moved its vague light through the day. He saw the leaves of brambles, all different, yellowing, with brown speckles or tattered edges and tiny holes left by small fat caterpillars, and strung between with spider’s webs that trembled as he watched. He saw small broken blackberries that had been scorned by birds. He saw wet red foxes slipping into secret woods beneath the big darkening sky. He felt the rain on himself and his own curious heat. His breath was regular, reliable, he was not tired, he was not lost, he would not stop, not, except, almost, when – on reaching the brow of a hill, coming out of thin black trees, with ferns wetly tangling his legs – he saw below him the barracks. There: the long buildings, the parade square, and far away, the town, threading through the valley.

  The downhill was quick, a matter of moments, a numb gliding flight above the ground; the field, the fence, the metal road, the gate and stop. Then. Stop. Stop. Stop.

  The sentry guard had seen him come down the long hill and walk around the perimeter until he reached the road.

  He’d had two roll-ups while he watched him; it had taken that long. The man was wearing a shirt, which was wet through, and his face was burned brown by the sun, like a wog, with mud all over his trouser legs and his hands filthy too. But he spoke like a gentleman and had a proper haircut, so the sentry guard called him ‘sir’.

  ‘Come from where, sir?’