Page 271 of The Armor of Light

As they entered the village Kit spotted the house where he had used to live. It looked the same but smaller. Seeing it gave him a warm feeling, and he guessed that was because he had been happy there, until his father died and everything began to go wrong.

As he looked, a small boy came out of the house with a littlewooden bowl of seeds and threw them to a few scrawny hens. The birds rushed to him and pecked at the seeds eagerly. The boy watched them. That could be me, Kit thought, and he tried to bring to mind what it had been like to be a child and have no worries; but he could not. He smiled and shook his head. Some phases of the past were just impossible to retrieve.

They passed the church. My father lies there, Kit thought. He was tempted to stop but decided against. His father’s grave had been marked only with a wooden cross that must surely have rotted away by now, and Kit would not be able to locate the exact spot. On Sunday he would spend a few minutes in the churchyard just remembering.

They came to the manor house and Kit was shocked to see that it was in poor repair. The paint was peeling from the front door, and a broken window had been mended with a board. They rode around to the stable, but no one came to unsaddle their horses, so they did it themselves.

They went in by the front door. There were several big dogs in the hall, but they recognized Roger and wagged their tails. The room smelled foul. No woman would have tolerated this much dirt and dereliction, but Will and his wife were separated, George had died without marrying, and of course Roger was single.

Roger had told Kit that Will had spent all he had plus all he could borrow. They found him in the drawing room, playing cards with a man Kit recognized as Platts, the butler. Will’s hair was down to his shoulders. Platts wore a shirt but no jacket or tie. An empty port bottle stood on the table, and two dirty glasses showed where the contents had gone. This room, too, smelled of dogs.

Kit remembered how Will had been all those years ago: a big, strong young gentleman, arrogant, well dressed, his pockets full of money, his heart full of pride.

Will looked up at his brother and said: ‘Roger. What are you doing here?’

What an unfriendly way to welcome your brother, Kit thought.

‘I knew you would want to congratulate me on my part in winning the battle of Waterloo,’ Roger said sarcastically.

Will had played no part in the war except to make money from it.

Will did not smile. ‘I hope you’re not planning to stay long. I can’t afford to feed you.’ He noticed Kit and said: ‘What the devil is that little shrimp doing here?’

‘Kit and I are business partners, Will. We’ll be using my workshop.’

‘Just tell him to stay out of my sight.’

‘You might be wise to stay out of his,’ Roger said. ‘He’s not the little boy you used to torment. He’s been in a war, and learned how to kill men. If you cross him, he’ll slit your throat quicker than you can say knife.’

This was an exaggeration, but Will looked uncertain. He stared at Kit then turned his head away, almost as if he was frightened.

Kit was no longer afraid of Will. But he was horrified at having to live in this dirty, run-down house owned by a drunk. Oh well, he thought, I slept in worse places in the war. This will be better than a sodden blanket in a muddy field.

Roger said: ‘We’ll take a look upstairs. I hope my bedroom has been kept clean and tidy while I’ve been away protecting you from Bonaparte.’

Platts spoke for the first time. ‘We’re short-staffed,’ he whined. ‘Can’t get servants – too many men gone to soldiers. What can we do?’

‘You could clean the place yourself, you useless idler. Come on, Kit, let’s go and see my room.’

Roger went out and Kit followed. They climbed the staircase, Kit remembering how vast it had seemed to him as a child. Roger opened a door to a bedroom and they went in. The room was bare. There was a bed, but no mattress, let alone pillows or sheets.

Roger opened drawers and found them empty. ‘I left clothes here,’ he said. ‘And a silver hair brush and a shaving mirror and a pair of boots.’

A maid came in, a skinny woman in her thirties with dark hair and a bad complexion. She wore a plain home-made dress and had a bunch of keys attached to a belt around her narrow waist. She smiled warmly at Kit, and after a moment he recognized her. ‘Fan!’ he said, and he hugged her.

He turned to Roger. ‘Fan took care of me when my skull was cracked. We became great friends.’

‘I remember it well,’ said Roger. ‘And every time I’ve seen Fanny since then she’s asked me how you are.’

Kit had not realized that. He said to her: ‘I’m surprised you’re still here.’

Roger said: ‘She’s the housekeeper now.’

‘And still unpaid,’ said Fanny.

Kit said: ‘Why did you never leave?’

‘I’ve got nowhere to go,’ she said. ‘I’m an orphan, you know that. This is the only family I’ve got, God help me.’