outside?’ he asked, scenting a way of escape.
Sherston opened the French windows onto the terrace. ‘By all means, my dear fellow. Be my guest. And may I say how very grateful I am for your cooperation.’ He beamed at Anthony happily. ‘My word, this’ll cause a sensation.’
Anthony, complete with his pile of unwanted reading matter, went into the garden. He made for the circular seat that encompassed the cedar tree. Here, in the middle of the lawn, under the rustling branches and sun-dappled shade, he was in full view of the house. He was hoping, he realized, to see Josette. His heart leapt as a girl came onto the terrace, but it was Tara O’Bryan. He hid his disappointment as she waved a friendly hand and came across the lawn to join him.
‘It’s nice to see someone,’ she said cheerfully, sitting down beside him. ‘The house is like a morgue. I don’t know where everyone’s got to.’ She looked at the pile of magazines and grinned. ‘You’ve seen Uncle Patrick, I take it.’
She picked up Woodwork And Practical Carpentry. It was illustrated with a picture of a brightly-smiling man in a khaki apron sawing a piece of wood big enough to be the keel of Nelson’s Victory. ‘I don’t know what he looks so happy about,’ she commented. ‘He looks like he’s got his work cut out, to me.’
She laughed. ‘Uncle Patrick better not hear me ragging about his magazines. He’s terribly proud of them. To be honest, I am too.’ She looked at him with a mixture of pride and awkward modesty. She suddenly seemed touchingly young. ‘I write, you know. I’ve always written. That’s what I’d like to do, but properly, I mean. I really want to get involved with the war but my mother nearly had a fit when I suggested it.’
‘Doesn’t she approve of young ladies working?’ asked Anthony guilelessly. ‘There’s plenty of ladies who do work, especially nowadays.’
Tara’s face fell. ‘It’s not so much working, as working for the English that she objects to. She feels Ireland’s wrongs very strongly, and, naturally, blames the English for them all. She . . .’
Tara hesitated. ‘I know she’s my mother, and you probably don’t think I should criticize her, but she’s a very black-and-white person, if you know what I mean. She takes everything personally. She thought the world of my father and he thought of Ireland and Ireland’s past in very romantic, poetic terms, but it’s not like that, is it? Real life’s a lot more complicated than she ever allows. She was bitterly disappointed when Uncle Patrick nailed his colours to the mast and came out in favour of the war. I’ll get involved somehow or other, but the war won’t last forever, will it? And in the meantime, I can write.’
‘Have you got an article in one of these?’ asked Anthony, laying his hand on the stack of magazines. Tara nodded.
Her earnestness was so beguiling Anthony couldn’t help teasing. ‘It must help having an uncle who owns a string of papers.’
‘It doesn’t!’ she said indignantly. ‘Well, I suppose it might, a bit, but Uncle Patrick won’t publish anything that isn’t up to scratch.’
‘Come on,’ he said, enjoying her sparky defence. ‘I bet your uncle ropes you all in to help out.’
‘It’s not like that, Colonel Brooke. Journalism is a proper business, you know. Josette used to be a writer but she hasn’t written anything since she got married. She said it was far too much like hard work and she’s right.’
‘Does your mother write?’
Tara laughed scornfully. ‘No. Not proper writing, anyway.’ Her eyes became abstracted. ‘It really isn’t as simple as you think, to make something interesting. My mother enjoys cards, you know, and tried to write about it, but it was very wooden. She sets bridge problems, but she can’t make the game itself sound enjoyable. I can do it, but I like people, you see.’
Anthony noticed the implied criticism of Veronica O’Bryan. Tara, it seemed, had few illusions about her mother’s social expertise. Ordinarily, he’d attribute Tara’s attitude to youthful cynicism, but, on this occasion, he thought it was a clear-eyed assessment of things as they really were. It was probably nothing more than sentimentality, but he felt distaste at discussing Mrs O’Bryan’s character with her daughter.
‘Let’s see this famous article then,’ he said, steering the conversation into easier waters.
Tara clasped her hands round her knees. ‘I’m going to make you guess. At the very least, you can guess which magazine it’s