“The other bench, under the trees at the front, beyond the lawn. You’ll find him there.”

“Is anyone with him?”

“Oh no, ma’am, he’s quite happy sitting alone. Since it’s been warm he’ll sit out there for hours. He always did like that spot, even when—” she looked from tray to countertop, but everything – the tea, the cups, the cake and biscuits, and sugar and milk jug – had been transferred. “I’d better get this in, hadn’t I.”

“Can I help you?” It looked too heavy, too loaded.

“Goodness me, no. What a thing. Her ladyship’s daughter helping me with a tray, good Lord.”

Joan held the kitchen door as Everett bore through it. There were voices coming from the sitting room. They must have gathered. There was no way she was going back in there. She opened the sitting room door for Everett, but only to push it, and stand back. She heard her mother say, “Ah, splendid. And isn’t he splendid, Mrs. E?”

She went out of the front door, crossed the gravel and walked quickly across the lawn. When she reached the trees at the far end, she looked back at the house. Enid was sitting in the window seat, side on to the glass, in a long white dress, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Hello?”

Joan looked into the mild gloom of the trees. There on a bench, was Fagus. The trees took up a corner of the garden, a wall on one side, a hedge to the road on another; they grew in a spacious clump, like a miniature wood put in the wrong place. The bench was against the wall.

“It’s me, Dodo”

“Dodo!” He held out a hand.

She took it and sat next to him. “Aren’t you looking well.”

“Am I?”

“Your papa’s been telling me how well you’ve been doing.”

“Has he?”

“Are you to stay here all day, Fagus?”

“Till Etty gets me.”

She put her arm around him.

Enid, 1923

15

Enid, 1923