'Oh . . . I'm afraid you might find us a little fogeyish.'

'As you're not my host,' I said, 'I don't see that you need concern yourself on my account.'

She caught my eye. Her face was serious, with something in her eyes that I couldn't identify; under different circumstances I might have thought it was anxiety, but the idea seemed absurd. She held my look, and then nodded, as though with reluctant approval. The corners of her mouth quirked up. 'Fair enough.' We walked in silence for a few moments. Then, in a softer tone than she had used so far, she added, 'What did you say your people did?'

'My father was a clerk in a factory.'

She turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. 'Golly,' she said, and then seemed to recollect herself. 'I mean, Jack didn't say . . . Was?'

'He's dead.'

'The War, I suppose,' she said, glancing away.

'Arras, 1917.'

She nodded again, as if it was unfortunate but only to be expected. Her eyes slid down to my suitcase, and lingered on the initials that were still just visible on the scuffed leather. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks.

She had finished her cigarette; she flipped it carelessly into the roadway and dug her hands into her pockets. Then, as if on a sudden impulse, she stopped in her tracks and took a firm hold on my arm. I halted, thinking for a moment that she had stumbled, but she was standing quite still, looking up at my face.

'Oliver if I may call you Oliver '

I said automatically, 'Of course.'

'Oliver,' she repeated, as if I hadn't spoken. 'Listen to me. Jack . . .' Her voice died and she cleared her throat. 'Jack would be a very poor pattern for imitation. If you were to come to regard him as . . . a sort of father, that would be unhealthy. For both of you. It might be better to . . . be circumspect. That's all.'

I stared at her, at a loss as to how to respond.

She seemed to register my confusion, for she laughed a little, but her eyes stayed steady. 'I'm sure you think it's impertinent of me to say so when I've hardly known you ten minutes '

In spite of myself, I said, 'Yes.'

'I know. It's perfectly insufferable, and none of my business, and naturally you'll ignore me,' she said. 'But I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned, and I can't help regarding it as my duty to . . .'

'To warn me off?'

She turned aside, as if my gaze was making her uncomfortable, and brushed her hair off her forehead. 'Yes. If you like. Yes.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'But I don't think I quite understand what you're getting at. You're his guest, too, aren't you?'

'Yes. I don't mean it's simply that . . . Well, you're very young, and perhaps you might be out of your depth.'

'Because my father was a factory clerk?'

She shook her head with a quick, impatient movement. 'No, of course not. That's neither here nor there. Jack is . . . What can I say? He's used to getting his own way.'

I took a deep breath, feeling my shirt cling unpleasantly to my ribs. I wished, for a second time, that she hadn't come to meet me; the happiness I had felt at the station was tainted now. I said, 'I suppose you'd like me to turn round and go back to my mother.'

'Yes, perhaps.' She sighed, on the edge of a laugh. 'But I'm not such a fool as to suppose that you will.'

I waited; then, as she said nothing more, I started to walk again. A light wisp of cloud had drifted across the sun, and the brightness of the day had faded a little.

'Forgive me,' she said. 'I'm an interfering old besom.'

'Not at all. It's kind of you to . . .' I struggled for a courteous phrase, so transparently that she looked up and laughed; and her expression was simultaneously so apologetic and so humorous that I couldn't help laughing too. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm sure you meant it kindly. But Jack is my friend.'

She blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. 'Let's not mention it again.'

'Never.'

We walked in silence for a few moments, until she pointed out the church tower, rising above the treetops, and slipped her arm casually through mine. I adjusted my step to hers, and answered politely enough to her chit-chat; but I felt a deep, childish resentment that she had spoiled my gladness, and it wasn't until we reached Tyme's End, and Jack came striding across the grass to meet me, that I could forget that unwelcome warning.

The house was dark inside, although every door and window seemed to be wedged open, and the air was fresh and sweet-smelling. I should have liked to explore it room by room, but Jack led me through without pausing, except to take my suitcase and drop it casually at the bottom of the stairs. Then we emerged from the back door on to a broad lawn, where croquet balls and mallets lay abandoned on the ground and a man was apparently asleep in the shade of a great bronze-leaved tree. I stood and took in the wide sweep of the lawn, the stone steps and sundial, filled with a strange ache that was half envy and half joy.

Jack walked over to the man lying on the grass, and said, 'Anthony,' and gave him a sharp kick in the ribs. 'Wake up. Let me introduce Oliver Gardner, one of Philip's proteges at Cambridge.' The man grunted and looked up, shading his eyes.

I held out my hand in his direction and said, 'How do you do?'

'How do you do?' he said, without moving.

'Gardner, this is Anthony Morton-Smith,' Jack said. 'He's exceptionally talented and exceptionally bad-mannered. I put up with the one for the enjoyment afforded me by the other.'

At that Morton-Smith grinned and sat up, affecting not to see my outstretched hand. 'So . . .' He tilted his head so that his hair fell across his forehead. He was swarthy and hadn't shaved; I could see a greasy gleam of sweat where his shirt collar was unbuttoned. 'Why are you here?'

'Because I was invited, I suppose,' I said, smiling.

'Of course,' he said, without returning my smile. He turned, pointedly, to Jack. 'I should have asked why you invited him.'

Jack glanced at me and said nothing but, 'Will you have a drink, Gardner?'

'Thank you,' I said, and stood awkwardly looking down at Morton-Smith while Jack strode back towards the house, whistling.

There was silence. Morton-Smith got slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the trunk of the tree and groaning a little. He looked me up and down, letting his eyes linger, finally, on my face. I tried to hold his stare, but I felt my face flush and glanced away in spite of myself.

He said, 'You're at Cambridge?'

'Yes.'

'Reading?'

'History.'

'Where were you at school?'

'I don't think you'd have heard of it,' I said.

He smiled, and his teeth glinted wetly. 'Try me.'

'Peltenshall Grammar School. It's quite small I don't think it's '

'Ah.' The smile broadened. 'A grammar school. That would explain the accent.'

'I ' I swallowed. 'I didn't know I had an accent.'

'Very well,' he said, 'the lack of accent, then. Don't worry about it. After all, why bother with an expensive education when one can produce nearly the same effect with elocution lessons? What does your father do?'

'He was a clerk.'

'Was he in the War?'

'Yes. He was killed.'

'What rank?'

'Private.'

He had rattled off the questions at me like a barrister interrogating a witness; but at that he paused and scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'I see,' he said.

'Do you?' I said. 'What?'

There was another beat of silence. Then he laughed. 'That Jack hasn't invited you for your social connections.'

'Is that why he invited you?'

'Or your charm.' He brushed a blade of grass idly off his shirtsleeve, then returned his gaze to mine. 'That leaves your intellect or your looks. Which is it, do you suppose?'

I turned aside and breathed in the scent of summer, letting my eyes rest on the bronze beech leaves against the high blue of the sky. I felt as if years had passed since I got off the train at Falconhurst station.

Morton-Smith seemed to take my silence as an attack. 'I'm intrigued, that's all. Please don't be offended. I'm as fond of the WCs as the next man.'

'The ?'

'Working classes, dear boy. Privates and all.'

'I don't think ' I stopped; then, against my better judgement, started to speak again. 'Look, I don't see what my father has to do with you, or or anything. He's been dead for nearly twenty years I never even knew him myself. And I'm not your guest. You needn't cross-examine me as if I've come here to touch you for a fiver.'

He raised his eyebrows, smiling gently, and opened his mouth as if to answer; but suddenly he seemed to think better of it.

Jack's voice came from behind me. 'Gardner. Your drink. Anthony, go and do something useful, there's a good chap.'

It surprised me that Morton-Smith should smile and obey him without a word, but he did. Jack watched him leave then turned to me, holding out a glass of whisky and soda. I took it and drank thirstily without thanking him, and he started to laugh. 'I believe you're already regretting having come.'

I looked at him and laughed too. 'I was. But I'm feeling better now.'

'He has that effect on most people. He talks an awful lot of rot.'

'He didn't understand why you'd invited me.'

'He doesn't need to.' A thought seemed to strike him, and he raised one eyebrow. 'Do you understand why I invited you?'

'I ' I took another mouthful of the whisky and soda; I was drinking it too quickly, but I couldn't help it. 'I hoped it was because you liked my company.'

He held my gaze. His mouth was in a half-smile, and his eyes were steady and amused. For a moment I remembered with unexpected vividness the first time I had met him, when I'd caught his eye at someone's idiotic comment and we'd swapped a look of shared humour; I remembered the hours that had passed like minutes as we talked, and the way that I had finally stumbled drunkenly back to my rooms, dizzy with euphoria and pride. I had forgotten how good-looking he was, and his air of holding the world in the palm of his hand.

He said, 'You're an idiot, Gardner.'

'Thank you,' I said, and drank again, until there was nothing left in the glass but ice. My lips made a slurping sound against the rim. When I looked up he was grinning, and even in the merciless summer light he looked hardly older than I was. I held out the tumbler, and added, 'If I can have another drink I won't regret having come at all.'

He took hold of my elbow. 'Come and get it yourself. Edie's inside she burns horribly, it's the red hair and she'll be a model of courtesy, I promise.'

I opened my mouth, wondering whether I should mention what she had said to me on the way from the station; but it was difficult, now, to remember exactly what she had said. In any case, there seemed to be no way of relaying it without giving it more importance than it deserved, and Jack was already propelling me gently but firmly towards the house. I leant into the pressure from his hand, feeling the same swell of delight and contentment that I'd felt on the station platform; and, as if he'd sensed it, he grinned at me.

'Happy?' he said. 'It's good whisky.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes. It is. I am.'

That night I woke sweating and struggling, hearing the silence ringing in my ears as if some loud noise had woken me. For a moment I was watching lines of grey men advance towards me over a moonscape of mud; and then I was staring into the dark, fighting to keep the nightmare at arm's length. I was tangled in the sheet, and it took me what seemed like an age of frantic effort to sit up and free my arms. I was wet all over with sweat and my pyjamas were clinging to my back and legs; but for all that I was cold, and I drew my knees up to my chest, shivering. I took deep breaths and concentrated on the moonlit room in front of me, making an inventory of its contents. I was at Tyme's End. I was safe. The terrible blank-faced figures surfaced again, and I pushed them away determinedly. In my dream there had been a smell like swimming baths and rotten meat, but now I could only smell the green, sweet smell of the garden outside. I dragged my fingers through my hair and wiped my hands on the pillowcase, steeling myself to lie down again and close my eyes.

There was a knock on the door. I said hoarsely, 'Come in.'

It was Jack. In the half-darkness I could just make out that he was still dressed. A golden edge of electric light was spilling through the doorway. He said, 'I thought I heard you call out.'

'No. I mean yes, I probably did. Sorry.'

'Don't be absurd. What's up?'

'Nothing. A nightmare.' I laced my fingers together and stared down at them. There was a silence, and I heard Jack dig in his pocket and light a cigarette. The faint smell of tobacco mixed with the scent blowing in through the open window.

'You're too young to have nightmares,' he said.

'It's my father's,' I said, without thinking, and then realised how peculiar it sounded. 'I mean it's about my father.' I glanced up, afraid that he wasn't listening, but he was watching me, his face intent. 'I dream I'm in the trenches, about to go over the top. And then I see the enemy walking towards me. They're . . . grey. The whole world is grey. I have a revolver, and I fire at them, but it doesn't stop them. All at once I realise they're already dead, but they carry on walking towards me.'

'And then?'

'Then I wake up.' I laughed, but he hitched up one shoulder and only smiled faintly.

'Do you want a cigarette?'

'No. Thanks.' I leant back against the head of the bed, and felt myself relax slowly. It was comforting to sit and watch him smoke in half-silhouette. 'It's queer. As if I've inherited my father's memories. I never knew him. He was killed before I was born, but I still dream about him. About the War. I know it's idiotic. I don't have any right to.'

'I don't think anyone's possessive about their nightmares.'

'At any rate, I dare say it was indigestion tonight,' I said, trying to laugh. 'The food in college is so rotten it must have come as a bit of a shock to my system, getting something edible. And the drink too, I suppose.'

'No doubt.' But there was a non-committal note in his voice. He'd finished his cigarette; he looked around for an ashtray, then came into the room, stubbed the end on the sole of his shoe and flicked the butt out of the window. He stood for a few moments looking out into the moonlight, so close I could have reached out and touched him. 'I'm sorry about Anthony,' he said abruptly. 'I don't blame you for thinking he's insufferable. And Edie and Philip can be tiresome. But they won't be here for long only a couple of days, at the most and then we can have a decent time.'