agreement.
But it was an invitation card with gold lettering within a border of church bells and confetti which brought back all the hurt McCall had felt when he’d received his.
*
It is Bea who answers the door when Evan arrives at Garth Hall on the off chance.
‘Mrs Wrenn, I’m so sorry for not ringing beforehand,’ he says. ‘But I’ve been giving a talk at Shrewsbury School and on the spur of the moment, I thought I’d drive on down here to see Mac - if he’s at home, that is.’
‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘Yes, I’m Evan Dunne… from Cambridge.’
‘I see,’ says Bea. ‘Cambridge.’
‘It’s all right; I know what’s happened. How is Mac at the moment?’
‘A worry to us all, to be truthful. He’s not the same boy who went up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.’
‘He’s probably in the woods. He spends a lot of his time down there now.’
McCall had gone to Francis’s retreat, a corrugated iron dacha painted red oxide and half hidden amid the ash and cherry trees by a stream called the Pigs’ Brook.
‘Take the path through the woods,’ Bea says. ‘If you hear a record playing, just follow the music because that’s where he should be.’
But all is quiet save for the bleating of sheep in a distant field. The door of the empty dacha is open. A newspaper on the arm of a scuffed leather armchair reports the hunt for an escaped train robber called Ronnie Biggs.
Evan finds McCall sitting on a bench staring into the stream.
‘Mac? Hello… are you all right?’
McCall turns and stares at him.
‘What are you doing here? Are you on your own?’
‘Lexie isn’t with me, if that’s what you mean.’
Evan sits beside him. He’s not sure what to say. This isn’t the McCall he remembers. His spirit has gone, he looks hollowed out as if on the point of a breakdown.
‘Look, you can’t hide away like this forever. You’ve got talent, you can write. You’re young. There are things happening in this world that make you angry, that offend your sense of right and wrong. Don’t waste the gifts you’ve been given. There are other routes to go in life.’
‘Where’s all this leading, Evan?’
‘Wherever you want it to…. but I’ve a suggestion.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Someone I know has read those pieces you wrote for Varsity. He thinks they show considerable promise and he’d like to meet you.’
*
Bea is delighted when Evan agrees to stay the night. She’s taken to him and is clearly charmed. Without Lexie around, McCall sees a different Evan - no longer the cuckold but a raffishly entertaining guest from high table, clever, well read and attentive to an alluring and flirtatious hostess. Bea conducts him through the warren of fading apartments in Garth Hall with its antiques and portraits and legends of love and misfortune. Then it’s supper of rabbit and pigeon pie, served in the drawing room scented by wood smoke and candles and where ghosts from the days of the first Elizabeth might still appear to flit amid the shadows.
‘So, Mr Dunne… what are we to do with young Mac?’
‘Well, that’s for him to decide but I think he’s ideally suited for journalism.’
It is as if McCall isn’t there, allowed only to observe from the sidelines.
‘Journalism? Wouldn’t that be a rather tawdry business to follow?’
‘Possibly but he’s just the sort of subversive chap that editors like. Always wanting to show our masters for the fools and knaves they are.’
‘Do you see that as the purpose of newspapers?’
‘What else, Mrs Wrenn? Is it better to be led by a drunk like George Brown or a crook like Harold Wilson? How would we common folk know about either until a reporter such as Mac might become, ferrets out their secrets?’
Soon, the long case clock chimes ten from the hall. Bea leaves them sitting in the wingbacks either side of the inglenook.
‘Mrs Wrenn’s a marvellous tease, isn’t
Missy Tippens, Jean C. Gordon, Patricia Johns