her a cartoon featuring himself, drawn by Bairnsfather: a private juggling grenades to the mixed entertainment and horror of his troopmates. ‘It was only tins of bully beef,’ Victor wrote at the bottom of the cartoon. ‘I would not care to waste a good grenade.’
Felix Quirk was the last remaining comic at the Tivoli. His withered arm was skilfully hidden, and his upper-class accent might even have been his own. He went Clover’s way after the last show, heading for Notting Hill, and walked a different route with her each evening, introducing her to London’s geography. When he changed to the Vaudeville Theatre down on the Strand, he got Clover a few weeks’ engagement there so they could continue their walks. He made a pet of her, calling her the Little Canadian. But Quirk was a more dedicated drunkard even than Julius, and Clover reserved herself a little too.
One night they came upon a line of ambulance carriages along the street. Clover asked what they were waiting for, and Felix pointed up the street to St. Pancras station, far distant. ‘Wounded soldiers returning from France,’ he said. ‘Brought in at night, so the public does not panic at their numbers.’
It took twenty minutes to walk down the line. The wounded were brought out on stretchers, and a few walking, accompanied by nursing sisters and orderlies. Their faces were the colour of the stones; the darkness kept Clover from seeing their eyes. She saw them in dreams, though, after that night.
What’s One to Do?
As he had promised, one November afternoon Dr. Graham came to see how Mama progressed, driving his open car. Beside him sat Lewis Ridgeway, so muffled up against the dust and chill that Aurora could not make out his expression.
The doctor asked after Mama; Chum collared Ridgeway and took him into his study for a chat. Aurora was glad not to have to enter into polite conversation. She and the doctor went to the sitting room, where Mama was engaged in building block towers with Avery.
Mabel came out of the kitchen, gave Dr. Graham a quick embrace, and offered tea; the doctor sat at once to help with the blocks, telling Aurora that she might go about her business. So Aurora slipped her coat on and went out, telling Aunt Elsie that a walk to the post office would do her good. Not—she told herself—avoiding Mr. Ridgeway.
The air outside had a clean, cold bite. Smoke rose in spirals from burning leaves as the townspeople cleared their gardens for the winter. Everything smelled of winter, making Aurora long for snow. It was just past four o’clock, time to walk out and back before dark.
But she had not gone past the end of the drive before she was hailed, and turned to see Ridgeway striding after her, his long overcoat slashing through the air.
‘May I walk with you?’ he asked, wanting permission, it seemed, after their strange conversation at the schoolhouse. She looked at him. His narrow face did not show emotion easily, she thought; or perhaps he had no easy emotions.
‘If you wish,’ she said, laughing a little at her own cowardice.
He made no attempt to take her arm but suited his step to hers, and they progressed along the empty road.
‘No snow as yet,’ she said, after a silence of a few minutes.
‘No.’ He turned his head at her gambit. ‘You are not usually a conventional conversationalist, Mrs. Mayhew, and I like that.’
‘If you wish, I will keep Silence, like in the library.’
‘I hope not. But—here, have you tried the path through the copse? It is smooth and clear.’
They veered to the left and entered a little wood that stretched out from the edge of town, poplars and scrub willows. Most of the leaves had fallen, soft-cracking underfoot; an early moon showed through bare branches. She waited for him to speak, glancing at his profile as they walked. He had a defined head: strong forehead and nose, sharp jaw and chin. She found it impossible to tell where his intellect left off and his human-ness began.
‘Your husband left you?’ he asked. Abrupt, in that quiet grey place.
‘Yes.’
‘My fiancée left me,’ he said.
There was a pause. ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ she finally said.
‘What’s one to do?’
Not an idle phrase, she thought, but a real question. He sounded still desolate.
‘I’m sure your case is quite different,’ she said, seeking to comfort him. ‘Mine had gone bust, you know, and considered my mother and sisters excess baggage. I did not know