‘There’s more, I think,’ Arthur said, wanting to move on from the awkwardness. ‘There’s something else. I think they’re carrying bombs and they’re spying on the Soviets—’

‘Don’t we want them to be doing that, old boy?’

‘But if the Yanks have hidden all this, what else could they be hiding?’

‘Christ, we’re all doomed then, aren’t we?’ said Peter, sarcastically, running his hand through his hair.

‘But Peter, don’t you see? We are. It’s real. The threat is real. We’ll be a target for the Soviets. Think about it – how safe is Holkham? Can you imagine what might happen if there’s an accident…’ But he trailed off. It was pointless continuing. Peter didn’t want to hear him or believe him. He must think he was paranoid.

‘God, if he doesn’t get here soon, his shoot’ll be doomed.’

‘Whose shoot?’ Verity had appeared and was leaning against the doorway. She was wearing a dark polo neck which made her skin luminescent and her eyes darker. Although on the surface she gave nothing away, her body was arched towards Arthur, her breasts sticking out under the tight wool of her sweater just above his eyeline. But perhaps he was imagining it. He wanted everything to be how it had been before the dance at Harborough Hall, but in his worst moments, it felt as if everything had been destroyed.

The sudden summer storm had dissipated the heat and, with it, their closeness. He pictured her rain-soaked in the dripping blue dress. Such a strange night. He remembered feeling dizzy and sick after the crash. It was incredible to think they were all here as if nothing had happened.

And everyone was so concerned about Jack after the crash. Poor Jack, everyone said, and he, Arthur, was forgotten, because he had not broken his nose or twisted his ankle. The ass hadn’t even broken his ankle. You’d have thought Jack had smashed all his bones the way people went on. And no one cared that he’d had to endure the wild, drunken driving of a lunatic on dark, wet country lanes. The idiot could have killed them both. Jack said, ‘Forgive me,’ but he never said sorry. No, he hadn’t broken anything. It was galling how people like that always got away with everything.

*

‘Jack,’ Arthur told her and she raised her eyebrows a little, nothing more, but he felt a familiar nausea.

‘Oh well, I can’t stop, got to cram.’

‘Do you really think they’ll let you in?’ said Peter, standing now, boots on. The Oxford entrance was imminent. Verity had passed all her exams with decent grades and seemed to have spent most of the summer cramming for the entrance exam.

‘Oh bugger off,’ she said to her brother, and to Arthur, ‘See you at the lunch after.’