Fallen Skies Read online

  She ran from the room and downstairs to the dining room. She opened the French windows on to the balcony. Nanny Janes was rising from the garden seat and collecting up her knitting. She was not going to stay in the garden with her peace disturbed by the irritating noise of a crying baby. She was on her way indoors. Lily waited until the woman had come up the steps to the balcony.

  “Oh, Nanny Janes,” she said. She could feel herself breathless and nervous. She took a deep breath and adopted her Duchess voice. “Mr. Winters wants to see his grandson. If Christopher is awake please take him to his grandfather.”

  Nanny Janes paused for a moment as if she wanted to deny that Christopher was awake but his protesting yells were too loud to ignore. “It’s his rest time,” she said unwillingly.

  Lily smiled. “I’m afraid Mr. Winters insists,” she said. “I’ll ring for Coventry to bring the pram in.”

  She turned and went back inside, up the stairs to Rory’s room. When Nanny Janes brought in the baby Lily was sitting in the window seat looking out to sea, indifferent.

  Rory held his arms out for the baby. Christopher, still red-faced and sobbing with distress, was settled beside him on the bed.

  “That’ll be all,” Rory said.

  Nanny Janes turned to Lily with studied rudeness. “I can’t understand what he says,” she said.

  Lily beamed at her. “He told you to go,” she said pleasantly. “You can come and fetch Christopher at lunchtime.”

  They waited until the door was firmly shut before they laughed and Lily fled across the room and scooped Christopher up into her arms.

  Lily played with Christopher in Rory’s room until two minutes before lunchtime, when she handed him over to his grandfather and slid from the room. When Nanny Janes knocked on the door at the stroke of one, and came in, silent with disapproval, the baby was in his grandfather’s arms, Lily was not even there. The woman took the baby from the old man without even looking at him and left. Rory, exercising his muscles as his nurse had ordered, poked out his tongue at her back.

  • • •

  Stephen signed a pile of letters one after the other, and gazed blankly out of the office window. In the building opposite, a handsome Georgian town house newly converted to offices, he could see a girl tapping away at the keys of a typewriter. She worked slowly, one keystroke at a time, and sometimes there was a long gap between letters. Her hair was bobbed, she was obviously very much a modern girl: short hair, working in an office. She probably did not even live at home, she probably was not even married, thinking herself something special because she earned her own living, putting skilled men out of work. Stephen could remember when his father would dictate letters to male clerks who wrote in perfect copperplate script, and typed letters were regarded as a vulgar novelty, suitable only for ambulance-chasers and litigious companies. Everything was changed. Everything was changed for the worse.

  John Pascoe put his head around the door. “Are you going home for lunch today?”

  Stephen nodded. “My car should be waiting downstairs,” he said.

  “How is your father? There’s something I wanted to ask him.”

  “Still very frail,” Stephen said at once. “What was it?”

  “It’s this lady’s will. It’s our filing system at fault, I’m afraid. It all went to pieces during the war. I could swear she made a new will in about 1917. Lady Seymore, she lived over the water in Gosport. An Admiral’s widow. I am sure she came in and made a new will. But I don’t know where to start looking for it. There are some other papers of that year missing as well. I was hoping your father might have a clue.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Stephen said unhelpfully. “I should think most of his memory is gone altogether. He’s talking a little better now, but I doubt he could help.”

  “Mind if I come over and ask him?” John Pascoe opened the door, and Stephen saw that he was carrying his light summer hat. He was obviously determined to come.

  “I’ll phone ahead and ask them to lay an extra place for lunch,” Stephen said, good manners asserting themselves over his wishes.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it . . .”

  “Mother would love to see you.”

  Stephen telephoned home and spoke to Browning before the two men went downstairs. Coventry was waiting with the Argyll at the office door. The two men got in and the car moved off.

  “Is it tomorrow the car goes in for service?” Stephen asked.

  Coventry nodded.

  “All day?”

  Coventry nodded again.

  “Bother,” Stephen said. “Lily has a concert. She and Charlie are going to St. James’s, at Havant. I meant to tell you. We’ll have to cancel the service. Do it another time.”

  Coventry nodded again.

  “You should get her a little car,” John Pascoe said. “A nice little runabout.”

  Coventry nodded emphatically.

  Stephen smiled. “She drives rather well, actually. Coventry taught her. He thinks the world of her. I was thinking of getting her a little Morris.”

  “As soon as your boy’s up and about you’ll need two cars,” John Pascoe warned. “There’ll be cricket matches and school events.”

  Stephen smiled.

  “What a batsman Christopher was!” John exclaimed. “D’you remember? Every Wednesday your father would take the day off from the office to drive up to Christopher’s school and watch him play. Every Thursday he’d come in, red as a berry from too much sun, and boasting to all the clerks how well Christopher had done. When he made his first century we had a bottle of champagne at lunch!”

  Stephen’s smile died from his face. “I remember,” he said. He could remember playing with Christopher in the back garden. The ball had been hard in his little hands. Christopher, a demanding god in white flannels, had sent him fielding into the flower beds and holly bushes. While Stephen searched for the ball he could hear Christopher’s excited shrieking of runs: “Eighty-three . . . eighty-four . . . eighty-five . . . eighty-six.” The ball was nowhere to be found, Christopher would go on running from bails to bundled jacket forever, ignoring Stephen’s cries that the ball was missing, that it was not fair. Christopher loved to win. Stephen always lost. He always fielded and there was never time for his turn to bat.

  In football he was always in goal while Christopher weaved around the garden, the ball tantalizing inches from his clever feet. When they learned horse-riding Stephen fell off as Christopher cantered triumphantly around the ring. No-one helped him up—Christopher was learning to jump, everyone watched him.

  “Christopher won’t be playing matches for years yet, if he ever does. Maybe he won’t be a sportsman,” Stephen said.

  They drew up at the house and the two men went indoors. Stephen glanced back at Coventry as if he would rather have had bread and cheese in the kitchen with him. Coventry looked back at him as if he understood, and then turned to put the car away.

  John Pascoe was already in the house, greeting Muriel and Lily and going up the stairs to see Rory. Stephen went into his study without speaking.

  John knocked on the door and went in quietly.

  Rory was sitting up in bed. When he saw John his eyes lit up and then slowly, awkwardly, the rest of his face creaked into a smile.

  John crossed the room and took his hand. Gently, the grip was returned. “Well, you’re looking better!” he exclaimed. “Old chap! You really are looking yourself again.”

  Rory smiled his crooked smile. “Well,” he said. “I’m well.”

  John drew up a chair. “And talking again!” he said. “I had no idea! What a relief, eh? You must have been going crazy.”

  Rory nodded. “Long time,” he said.

  “We’re all well at home,” John said. “Still missing James, of course. Some wounds never heal, do they? You’d know.”

  Rory nodded. “The best,” he said. “The very best. Went first.”

  John cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Our boys,”