They went over to examine the fence. Eric could hear Gerald Ramsbotham say: “Here’s the ball, any road.” Tommy, the more serious-minded of the brothers, went over to Mary and told her it was all right. “Only a loose board, Mrs. Scriven.” Mary smiled and answered something. Then she turned and went into the house, followed by Ramsbotham. Maurice balanced the hockey-stick on his chin. Edward Blake came up behind him and tripped him with his stick. “Oh, would you,” cried Maurice, “would you?” He tapped Edward Blake on the shins. They circled round each other, laughing and feinting blows. “Peace!” cried Maurice. “You swine, you started it. Peace! Ow!” Then Gerald and Tommy began a bully. In another moment, they were all playing again.

Eric turned and wheeled his bicycle slowly up the hill. They hadn’t seen him. And now, he had the feeling that he had never meant to go into Aunt Mary’s house that afternoon at all, but just, as he had done, to look in at them, to assure himself that they were there, as he had pictured them, on the lawn. He felt no jealousy now of Edward Blake, nor of Gerald, nor of Tommy. He was glad that they should have been there, helping to complete the scene. As though something were accomplished, he was ready to go back to the Hall. At tea-time he would see his mother, and be kinder and more considerate to her than he had ever been before.

And after all, he reflected, I’m certain to see Aunt Mary, at any rate, next Monday.

Free-wheeling down into Chapel Bridge, he was calm, almost happy, had even a certain faint sense of relief; surrendering himself altogether, now, to the attraction of the negative pole.

Book Three

BOOK THREE

1925

Chapter I

I

“YES,” said Gerald Ramsbotham, “to-morrow I’m going to get her flat out on the straight.”

He lolled back nearly prone, his powerful thighs stuck forward like buttresses, clothed in aggressive check plus fours. His gold wrist-watch looked tiny and over-elegant on his beefy red wrist.

“The timing’s all to pot,” said Farncombe, knocking out his pipe on the fender.

“She’s beastly stiff on the controls,” said Moody.

“Did you ever know an American car that wasn’t?” said Hughes.

Maurice looked down on them from the fender-rail on which he stood, twirling at the end of a wire what had once been the throttle-control of a motor bike.

“Teddy’s Moon isn’t,” he said.

“That’s a damn fine bus,” said Farncombe earnestly. “My Christ, Gerald, you should see the way she picks up.”

“I don’t know why,” said Hughes, “but I don’t like Yankee cars.”

Gerald Ramsbotham yawned and stretched himself:

“Did you see the new Brough on the corner by Trinity yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes,” said Farncombe, “with the Webb forks.”

“A Brough hasn’t got Webb forks,” said Hughes.

“The new ones have.”

“Bet you they haven’t.”

“How much?”

“Nothing,” said Hughes, yawning; “what’s the time?”