Page 38 of These Old Lies
She was closely followed by his father, with his own, softer, version of the same attack. “Baldwin always liked you. He remembers you from when you were Secretary of the Oxford Union. He asked after you the other day at theclub.” Showing that no pressure tactic would be avoided, Ned’s father turned to Charlie and explained, “Edmund was always involved in politics at university. Of course, not the honourable, conservative kind, but all sorts of radical nonsense. Didn’t stop him from getting elected to the Union, though.”
Ned nodded and changed the topic. His parents were experienced at this gentle warfare, asking without asking for him to get on with his life.
They were about to start the roast beef when Ned’s mother raised her glass. “I really think we should make a toast to you, Mr Villiers. I haven’t seen Edmund this keen on annoying his father in years. You should come to all of our dinner parties.”
Ned thought he saw a light blush on Charlie’s cheek, which probably matched Ned’s own, as they all clinked their glasses.
“So, Mr Villiers, while we are on the topic, are you one of my son’s Bright Young Persons?” Ned’s father’s tone was courteous, but Ned knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent of curiosity regarding who exactly Ned had brought to the table.
One subject his parents seemed to scrupulously avoid was who Ned socialised with, which of course spoke volumes. Still, whatever they thought, Ned was sure they didn't suspect his friendship with Charlie as transgressing anything more than class lines.
“I’ll accept the compliment about my age,” Charlie responded evenly, “but I’m afraid my existence is much more mundane. I make hats. Family business in Marylebone.”
“We served together in the 1st London Territorial.” Ned didn’t know why it was so important that his parents knew Charlie wasn’t some accidental acquaintance.
His father’s face remained placid as ever, but there was a focused interest in Charlie now, as if he were trying to assemble a puzzle in front of him. “You were in the Kensington Regiment, Mr Villiers?”
“London Scottish, if you can believe it. It has been suggested to me by some around this table that only a particular kind of contrarian Englishman would specifically join a regiment of lost highlanders.” Charlie shot a small smile directly at Ned and then continued, “Our officers weren’t as good asyour son, though, even if he did make his men march farther and dig faster than anyone else.”
“We were so surprised when Edmund went into the Expeditionary Force, to be honest.” Ned’s mother's voice had gone soft. “When he ranked so highly on the Civil Service exams, it felt like every ministry wanted him. But Edmund insisted on being up at the front. Barely waited for his final exam results to be published before he signed up.”
“Francis skived off school for me, waited for the examiners to post their results.” The words were out before Ned could stop them. For the first time, a proper silence fell on the table.
“Foolish boy,” his father said as he shook his head, and Ned wasn’t sure which of his sons he was talking about.
???
After dinner, Charlie and Ned retired to the library for port. When he had left London that morning, Ned could not have imagined finishing the day in Heyworth, and now all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Charlie and find the calm that only existed in falling asleep across his broad chest.
Charlie’s gaze was lost in the comically tiny glass of port where he sat in the chair by the fire, legs crossed. Ned’s flirtatious glances, normally a guaranteed way to elicit a blush or response, went unnoticed.
“What’s got you all thoughtful then? You seem to be trying to find the meaning of life in the bottom of that glass.”
Charlie paused before answering. “Did you ever think about taking those ministries up on their offers?”
“It was a long time ago.” Ned threw back his port, letting it burn on the way down. The last thing he wanted to discuss was what he might have dreamed of a lifetime ago. “What’s this interest? Worried I might bring down the whole country with my radical politics?”
“You’re not just another posh tosser.” Charlie was still lost in the swirls of port in his glass. “You’re so bloody talented. Properly smart, too, and not only because you went to fancy schools. You figure out how to make things happen. You convince other people to want them to happen. I’ve never met anyone else who could do that.”
Ned forced a joking tone into his response. “One dinner and my parents have you hypnotised to my virtues.”
Charlie snorted. “I work in a hat shop because that’s all I’m good for. If I work really hard, I can make a few old women feel pretty, and give my family a good life. But you, Ned, you are one of the few people who should be running the country. You’ve the tools to do it. You know the bloody Prime Minister! So what I don’t understand is why you spend your days sitting in bars and writing cheques to mediocre artists?”
There it was. Even Charlie couldn’t understand that everything Ned was before must remain separated from everything he was now. With anyone else, Ned would have been coldly, furiously angry. He would have savaged them with caustic comments and indifference, proving the full depth to which his life had no meaning, no consequence, no depth.
Ned wanted those words to come to his lips and tried to force them. Instead, the only thing he could say was, “I think I should introduce you to my brother.”
???
The chapel door creaked open, and Ned had to fumble in the dark to find the switch to the electric lights his parents had installed the year before. The stone walls and wooden benches were illuminated in the blink of an eye. Ned was drawn towards the altar, unable to stop moving towards the small plaque inlaid in the wall to the pulpit’s left. The only noise was Charlie’s shoes tapping after his own.
“With its design, one would think the chapel older than the rest of the house, but it's all a folly. Apparently, I had a great-great-grandmother who adored Norman churches. Terribly unfashionable. Generations of family have been desperate to tear the thing down and put up something more appropriately gothic.” Ned hardly recognised his own voice. “Now, that will never happen. Although the Norman themedidmake it easier to pick the decorative style for the plaque.”
On the plaque, a knight on a horse charged at some unknown foe, helmet off and hair blowing in the wind. A childish fantasy of chivalry and gallantry.
He knelt before it and the cold from the stones underneath seeped into his joints, but there was something comforting in the pain. He didn’t want tokneel in front of this plaque, but more than that, he didn’t want the plaque to even exist. Being in front of it shouldn’t be comfortable.
“I was proud of Francis when he enlisted and received his commission. Doing his duty for King and Country as soon as he turned eighteen, out on the western front with the rest of us. No hiding out in the headquarters acting too good for the actual war. Still, I had already been in Flanders for almost two years, so it shouldn’t have surprised me when I got word that he was missing. He had only been there for six weeks. The official telegram of ‘presumed dead’ was sent through to my parents three days later.”