Page 39 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

When all my heavy heart is broken up

I seem to see my prison walls breaking

And then a light, and in that light a girl

Her fingers busied about her hair, her cool white arms

Faint rosy at the elbows, raised in the sunlight …

He heard himself make a sound that was between a gulp and a sob. The words might have been written specifically for him. He began to read, almost greedily, turning back and forward, snatching at random as though he could find her again.

Even now

I love long black eyes that caress like silk,

Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,

Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close

It seems another beautiful look of hers.

I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,

And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,

And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.

Words caught his mind like shards of glittering glass, beautiful and painful.

… the essence of her beauty spilled

Down on my days so that it fades not,

Fails not, subtle and fresh, in perfuming

That day, and the days, and this the latest day.

And:

I call to mind her weariness in the morning,

Close lying in my arms and tiredly smiling

At my disjointed prayer for her small sake.

And at last:

Even now

I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life

Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.

Just for a small and a forgotten time

I have had full in my eyes from off my girl

The whitest pouring of eternal light …

He couldn’t read any more. He couldn’t see the words.

Faintly, in the distance, he heard Polly speaking.

He thought of what Charlie had written: Sometimes poetry helps .

Was it help, this awful pain in his throat and chest?

He put his hands up to his face, and felt wetness.

Helmy was trying to climb onto his lap, distressed.

He pushed him down, dragged in a convulsive breath, and then he really was crying.

He put his head down on his arms on the table.

It hurt to cry, it was ugly and difficult, but he felt something in him loosen.

He heard Polly get up, felt her hand on his shoulder, and he turned roughly to put his arms round her waist and cry into the comfort of her stomach.

* * *

The Messenger was not a monolith like the Bugle or the Clarion , but though smaller, it had a good reputation as a go-ahead paper with its finger on the pulse. It aimed to be on top of every breaking story, but devoted fewer pages to the daily doings of the Houses of Parliament and the ton .

‘If you start with us,’ said the news editor, Bill Dickins, who interviewed Basil, ‘you can look forward to progressing through the company. We like to give a good grounding and encourage talent and ambition. You’ll be expected to muck in wherever you’re needed at first, while you learn the trade.

We’re not like the Clarion , where you get shunted into a department and stay there until you’re sixty-five.

News in the modern world is fast-moving, and we need flexible thinkers who can react quickly and get the job done. ’

It was, Basil could tell, a set speech, but he liked it. It suggested to him that it was the kind of place where no-one would necessarily know where anyone else was – perfect for him to disappear when the fancy took him.

‘You edited the school newspaper, I understand?’ Dickins went on. ‘Good experience. And you had a short time at the Bugle . Why did you leave?’

Basil had anticipated that question. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘it was like what you said about the Clarion. I found it rather – um—’

‘Stiff? Hidebound?’ Dickins offered helpfully.

‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

‘Well, I think we can take you, Compton,’ Dickins said. ‘A month’s trial, with no notice on either side, then if we’re happy, we’ll offer you a permanent job. We’ll start you off as a runner in the news room, so you can get the flavour of what we do.’

Basil smiled. A runner’s life suited him perfectly. They send you to fetch something, or look something up, and you can take as long as you like. And no-one passing you anywhere in the building ever questions what you’re doing if you’re carrying a file or a piece of paper.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Basil, and shook the hand that was offered.

‘I’m happy for you, Basil,’ Aunt Molly said. ‘We’ll miss you, but I dare say the faster pace will suit you better. When do you start?’

‘On Monday.’

‘That gives you a few days to find yourself lodgings. You shouldn’t have any difficulty. There are plenty of rooms to let in Bloomsbury and Holborn.’

Having told her I wanted to stand on my own two feet, Basil thought, I can hardly complain if she takes me at my word.

But such lodgings as he could afford on Messenger pay would be modest indeed.

He had a spasm of missing Gloria, and the golden days when he’d lived in Ryder Street and dined at the Ritz.

He wondered why he had been such a fool as to lose her. He could have kicked himself.

All the same, he couldn’t deny that he felt a queasy sort of excitement at the thought of being really on his own at last.

‘I hope you’re going to settle down this time, and stick to it,’ Helen said. ‘You can’t keep changing jobs. People will think you’re unreliable.’

‘The Messenger is a much better fit for me than the Bugle ,’ Basil said. ‘It’s a young newspaper, with fresh ideas.’

Helen didn’t look quite convinced, but she said, ‘Tell me about these lodgings of yours. Are they respectable?’

‘It’s in Mecklenburgh Square. A shabby old house, but clean. My room’s on the third floor. It has a bed, a chair, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. And there’s a gas ring in the hearth where I can heat soup.’

‘Aren’t your meals included?’ Helen said.

‘Yes, but Mrs Morgan’s very strict about punctuality. If you don’t sit down on the dot, you get nothing, and as a reporter, you can’t always be sure when you’ll be home. The other lodgers all seem respectable. One’s a law student.’

‘Oh, yes, it’s not far from the Law Courts, is it?

’ Jack said. He turned to Helen. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about his domestic arrangements, darling.

I can’t imagine Basil ever going hungry.

And it will do him good to have to fend for himself.

We can’t afford to have a nation of soft young people, with another war coming. ’

‘Oh, Dad! There’s not going to be a war,’ Basil said.

‘Why do you think we’re putting all this effort into developing new aeroplanes?’ Jack said. ‘But it won’t be like last time. This will be a specialist war.’

‘You mean people like me won’t have to fight?’ Basil said.

‘Of course you’ll fight, but you’ll be properly trained.

And if you want to serve in a good unit, you’ll need to get in early.

Michael’s all set in the navy, but you, Basil, why don’t you join the RAF?

You ought to get yourself in at the ground floor, so that by the time the war starts you’ll have some seniority. ’

‘I can’t believe it’ll ever come to war,’ Basil said. This thing was getting to be a bit of an obsession with the old man. ‘Nobody wants one. Anyway, I could be a war journalist, couldn’t I? Someone has to bring the news back from the Front.’

Helen intervened: ‘We haven’t seen you since Richard’s wedding. How was it?’

‘Short,’ said Basil.

The hot weather had ripened the wheat, and the first fields were ready for cutting.

The day was perfect, sunny and settled, the sky cornflower blue with a few high, large clouds like piles of whipped cream.

The lime trees were in blossom, and the hedges were full of wild roses and honeysuckle, so they rode through a tunnel of scent.

A robin in the top of one of the hedges sang a sharp-edged challenge as the horses passed by, to Zephyr’s leisurely thub-dub and the rapid counterpoint of fat little Mr Pickles as she hurried to keep up.

(Alec had been very young when he named her, the complexities of equine gender beyond him.) Her coat, in bold markings of cocoa and cream, was glossy over her summer roundness, and her bright eyes peered out from under her thick, coarse forelock, looking for mischief.

Polly noted that Alec was growing again.

His legs used to stick out at comical right-angles, but now they hung down a decent amount, despite the pony’s barrel sides.

It wouldn’t be long before he’d need something bigger.

It would cause a pang to get rid of Mr Pickles, though.

She ought to be a family pony, introducing a stream of children to the art of equitation.

But Alec was six now. Polly wondered if he would ever have a brother or sister.

They found James up at Har Piece, an odd-shaped field at the far side of White House Farm. ‘“Har” means parish boundary,’ she explained to Alec.

He wasn’t listening. He had seen James at the far side of the field, jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled, helping the stookers. ‘There’s Uncle!’ he cried, and dashed off.

Polly handed Zephyr to one of the men and went to join John Burton, who was talking to Seb Bellerby, the White House tenant. ‘How is Joan?’ she asked at once. She asked nearly every day, now Mrs Burton was nearing delivery.

‘She can’t get comfortable in this hot weather, not even to sleep,’ Burton said. ‘I never realised what hell we men put you women through.’

‘Ah, well, it will all be worth it when she holds her son in her arms,’ Polly said. She looked at Alec, who had caught up with James and was bouncing on the spot as he chattered, while James looked down at him indulgently. ‘I hope he doesn’t get in anyone’s way.’

‘Those scythes are very sharp,’ Burton agreed.

‘I mean I don’t want him hampering the workers,’ Polly said. ‘The scythe-men are too skilled to cut anyone by accident.’

‘It’s fascinating to watch the wheat being cut that way,’ Burton said, ‘but I was just saying to Seb here, it would be more efficient to use a machine. Lord Lambert has a reaper-binder that cuts the wheat and binds it into sheaves.’