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It was early in the evening when Peter went home. The anger from his interview with Bradley had subsided. There was something cathartic about having their differences out in the open, even though he could not afford to give Bradley even the ghost of a chance to fire him. He loved the work. It was the center of his life. It had been for twenty years, since he left university and joined the Service.
He loved the complexity of it, the intellectual rigor of working through all the possibilities. He dreaded and yet was excited by the unforeseen; the tragedies made the victories more precious. Some enemies he hated, some he despised, others he respected, on occasion even admired.
He was afraid of physical pain—he believed any sane person was—and yet it also made him acutely aware of the joy of being alive and what was to be valued: the smell of new-turned earth, the glory of a sunrise over cliffs on a clear day, the flowers of the hawthorn, the drift of cherry blossoms, scarlet poppies on the edge of a field of corn. Poppies always reminded him of grief, as they did every Englishman he knew. They were the symbol of sacrifice: too many young men to count, leaving their blood and their bones in the fields of Flanders, as his elder brother, James, had done. He had that in common with Elena, though he had never mentioned it to her. It was still a raw pain because too many things had been left unsaid. Had he ever let James know how much he admired him? Wanted to be like him? Even though, to their parents’ chagrin, nature had cast them utterly unalike.
He was moving more quickly without realizing it, his sense of purpose, whatever Bradley said, energizing him. Peter would rather not have had to fight against Bradley, but if the wretched man made it necessary, then so be it.
He turned in at his own gate at half past six. The sun was lowering and there was a shadow of dusk in the air, the noise of starlings coming home, a warmth in the light. It was comfortingly familiar, with the late roses in bloom or deadheaded, so nothing looked careless. He liked this time of year, a season of harvest, the survivors’ scarlet and purple and rust, fulfillment of promises kept and anticipation of winter and sinking back into the earth.
He put his key into the front door lock, and it opened easily. He should thank Pamela for caring so meticulously that everything was cleaned, oiled…whatever it needed. Somehow it never seemed the right time to say so.
“Hello!” he called from the hallway. Absentmindedly he looked at the post lying on the silver tray, a memento of university days, some prize or other. There was nothing but the usual bills and receipts, a letter from an old acquaintance.
Pamela came into the hall. She looked exactly as she always did, cool and elegant. He had often thought she would be able to walk the length of a room with a pile of books on her head and not lose any of them. A useless attribute, but it gave her a degree of unthinking grace that never let her down.
He kissed her smooth cheek automatically. She smelled of something pleasant, a flower of some sort. “Have you seen this?” he asked, holding up the envelope.
“Yes, it’s Ronald Dashworth, reminding you of the anniversary dinner, as if you’d forget.”
He had forgotten, on purpose. “Oh, yes,” he said noncommittally. “What night is it again?”
“Sunday,” she said, moving a step away from him. “Did you say you had something else on that night? Because you do not.”
There was no answer that would not provoke an argument. He did not want to go, but he owed it to Pamela. It would be a full-dress affair, glamorous, very formal; he should make an effort.
“What are you going to wear?” He tried to sound interested as he admired her honey-colored hair, classic features, blemishless skin, even at forty-three, a year younger than he. They should have grown comfortable with each other. Why hadn’t they? Because the most important thing in his life was his work. It had his interest, his loyalty, his triumphs and disasters, all his depth of emotion, and he could not share any of it with her.
Not that he had tried. Or would try. He could have told her at least the nature of it; he could have shared parts that were not secret. He could have let her know the pain of his failures. She did not need to know the exact cause, the names and faces of the men he had lost, the memories of those wounded most deeply. What could he have said? I lost a friend today? Can’t tell you the details, but it hurts? Terribly? I hurt, and I feel guilty? Even though I could not have prevented it?
And beyond those failures, it was as if his elder brother, James, had walked out of the door last week, leaving Peter behind. He had understood what he did and why. Major James Howard was an officer at the head of his men, the first over the top. He died at the Somme in 1916, leaving behind a grieving mother, a father who covered his grief in pride, and a younger brother feeling desperately alone, working secretly.
No one was untouched by something of that sort, although it took people in different ways. Some could share very little of the pain inside. There was not much one could put into words. If you took the bandages off at all, it was in private.
Pamela had stopped talking. As had happened far too often, he had not heard what she said. “You will look beautiful.” He tried to catch up.
She smiled blandly. “Peter, I could have said I would wear the sitting-room curtains and you would have said I would look beautiful.”
He met her eyes this time. “You have a flair for it, and blue suits you.”
“They’re green,” she told him, referring to the curtains.
“No, they’re not, they’re blue. Blue like the sea, not the sky.” That was one thing he noticed, color. Shape was the bones of a thing, color was its spirit. He said so…again.
She looked at him with surprise. “Did you just think of that?” she asked. For once it was as if she wanted to know, beyond just filling a silence.
“No, I’ve always thought it. You can’t capture color, can’t hold it as you would a shape.”
Suddenly her smile was natural, warming the classic perfection of her face. “Sometimes, you amaze me.”
He smiled back, but it was tentative. He was afraid he had revealed too much.
CHAPTER
3
