‘The nursery. I promised nanny a last game of halma.’ She kissed the top of Sebastian’s head. I opened the door for her. ‘Good night, Mr Ryder, and good-bye. I don’t suppose we’ll meet tomorrow. I’m leaving early. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for relieving me at the sick-bed.’

‘My sister’s very pompous tonight,’ said Sebastian, when she was gone.

‘I don’t think she cares for me,’ I said.

‘I don’t think she cares for anyone much. I love her. She’s so like me.’

‘Do you? Is she?’

‘In looks I mean and the way she talks. I wouldn’t love anyone with a character like mine.’

When we had drunk our port, I walked beside Sebastian’s chair through the pillared hall to the library, where we sat that night and nearly every night of the ensuing month. It lay on the side of the house that overlooked the lakes; the windows were open to the stars and the scented air, to the indigo and silver, moonlit landscape of the valley and the sound of water falling in the fountain.

‘We’ll have a heavenly time alone,’ said Sebastian, and when next morning, while I was shaving, I saw from my bathroom window Julia, with luggage at her back, drive from the forecourt and disappear at the hill’s crest, without a backward glance, I felt a sense of liberation and peace such as I was to know years later when, after a night of unrest, the sirens sounded the ‘All Clear’.

CHAPTER FOUR

The languor of Youth – how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost! The zest, the generous affections, the illusions, the despair, all the traditional attributes of Youth – all save this – come and go with us through life. These things are a part of life itself; but languor – the relaxation of yet unwearied sinews, the mind sequestered and self-regarding – that belongs to Youth alone and dies with it. Perhaps in the mansions of Limbo the heroes enjoy some such compensation for their loss of the Beatific Vision; perhaps the Beatific Vision itself has some remote kinship with this lowly experience; I, at any rate, believed myself very near heaven, during those languid days at Brideshead.

—

‘Why is this house called a “Castle”?’

‘It used to be one until they moved it.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Just that. We had a castle a mile away, down by the village. Then we took a fancy to the valley and pulled the castle down, carted the stones up here, and built a new house. I’m glad they did, aren’t you?’

‘If it was mine I’d never live anywhere else.’

‘But you see, Charles, it isn’t mine. Just at the moment it is, but usually it’s full of ravening beasts. If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe, and Aloysius in a good temper….’

It is thus I like to remember Sebastian, as he was that summer, when we wandered alone together through that enchanted palace; Sebastian in his wheel chair spinning down the box-edged walks of the kitchen gardens in search of alpine strawberries and warm figs, propelling himself through the succession of hot-houses, from scent to scent and climate to climate, to cut the muscat grapes and choose orchids for our button-holes; Sebastian hobbling with a pantomime of difficulty to the old nurseries, sitting beside me on the threadbare, flowered carpet with the toy-cupboard empty about us and Nanny Hawkins stitching complacently in the corner, saying, ‘You’re one as bad as the other; a pair of children the two of you. Is that what they teach you at College?’ Sebastian supine on the sunny seat in the colonnade, as he was now, and I in a hard chair beside him, trying to draw the fountain.