Edward Blake will be there, Eric reminded himself, searching for an idea which would make Aunt Mary’s house seem less attractive. Eric hated Edward Blake. He was jealous of the excitement his arrival had caused the Scrivens. Maurice was particularly enthusiastic about him, because, it seemed, he’d done marvels in the War, in the Air Force. He’d got the D.S.O. and the Military Cross. He’d even been once recommended for the V.C. He’d shot down lots of German machines. He was a hero. And although he was really quite middle-aged and was going bald, with white hairs round the temples, he could do some extraordinary gymnastic tricks, like turning a somersault over the back of a chair or doing a standing jump across the table. But, quite apart from jealousy, Eric disliked him. Mistrusted him. He seemed to be sneering at everybody, and at Eric in particular, with his large, light-green, blood-shot eyes. Eric couldn’t imagine how his father could have been such friends with Edward Blake.

And now they were at the house and there was another pair of gates to open. The figures of Mrs. Potts and Mrs. Beddoes were waiting in the porch, which meant that they were already late for lunch.

Since the beginning of the War, Grandad had had his meals in the room once known as the smoking-room. They only ate in the dining-room on Sundays. The room was too vast for three people, much less two, and, in Eric’s mind, it was associated with visitors and enormous meals which went on for hours. Also, it had seemed vaguely patriotic to use the smaller room; as it had seemed patriotic then to do anything, however useless, which made you less comfortable.

But Eric liked the smoking-room. For one thing, a convention had grown up that in that room you weren’t expected to wait for Grandad to finish. It was part of the idea that the whole meal was a sort of picnic. Grandad would always wave to them with his heavy freckled hand not to wait for him while he finished his pudding. He usually had a second helping. Then there would be trouble with his false teeth. They tumbled out on to his plate. Mother always pretended she hadn’t noticed. And Mrs. Potts would step forward with a napkin to wipe a large piece of stewed plum off his waistcoat, while Mrs. Beddoes looked up to the ceiling in serio-comic resignation. Grandad seemed to regard all this as a joke. He laughed quite frankly, and never made the least attempt to hide the mess.

Grandad might have saved himself a great deal of trouble if he hadn’t come down to tea. Or if he hadn’t gone up to his attic between tea and lunch. But this ritual of coming down to tea had perhaps been kept up in memory of Granny, who insisted on it. Eric could remember her saying: “Will you run up and tell your grandfather that we’re waiting for him? We can’t begin till he’s here.”