‘Martin!’ The woman starts to get up. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘You, too, Connie.’ He gestures to Nancy. ‘And this is Nancy Whelan.’
‘Delighted to meet you at last!’ They shake hands. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Some of it good, I hope,’ Nancy jokes.
‘Nearly all of it.’ Hugh’s mother grins affectionately, then indicates a tanned, young girl sitting next to her, reading Vogue and brooding fashionably behind dark glasses. ‘My daughter, Helen.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Nancy leans forward and shakes the girl’s hand.
‘Marvellous!’ says the girl to no one in particular, extending a pale, limp hand.
Saunders points at a jug and glasses laid out on a folding table covered in a floral tablecloth. ‘Lemonade, Nancy?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
Sitting in the sun, they drink lemonade and talk about the latest news of the battalion, who has got what commission, whose family is trying to protect their son from joining, then Hugh picks up his racquet and a net of balls. ‘Anyone for tennis?’
As a child, Martin dreamed of playing at Wimbledon. He was good for his age, with a wicked sliced backhand and a serve-volley game ideally suited to grass. He played on his school team and, in the holidays, in Junior tournaments, winning the Under 14s at Great Missenden two years in a row. And he now plays on the Teddy Hall team. The thock of ball on strings. The sunshine on his bare arms and legs. The white outfits. The feel of the grass underfoot. If he ever goes to heaven, he hopes there will be a tennis court there.
‘Martin, you team up with Helen, all right?’ Hugh opens the net and drops the balls onto the grass.
‘At your service,’ Martin says with a theatrical bow.
Hugh and Nancy easily win the first set, 6–2. Helen is a left-hander, and not very mobile. But in the second set, Martin begins to find his range and volleys.
‘You’re poaching at the net too much, Martin!’ Nancy pretends to glower at him, as they change ends. ‘It’s very unsporting of you.’
‘Just because we are winning . . . ’ Martin kisses her on the cheek.
At the changeover, they return to the shade of the umbrella for more lemonade. Everyone is in a jovial mood, but beneath the good humour there is an undercurrent of anxiety. Tomorrow, none of this will exist. Tennis parties and dances, punting on the River Isis or rambling through the fields of Buckinghamshire will all be a thing of the past. In twenty-four hours, Martin’s life as a student and a civilian will come to an end and his new career, as a soldier, will begin. He will sleep in a camp bed and wear only khaki. Tennis racquets will give way to guns. He will be separated from Nancy and his family for weeks, if not months. Will he rise to the challenge? Will he be man enough to fight for his country – and for her?
‘Hugh tells me you are getting your uniforms today,’ Connie says.
‘Yes.’ Martin sips from his glass, says, excitedly: ‘Right after this. At the drill hall.’
‘Well, that’s a start.’ Mrs Saunders frowns. ‘Have they also got some ammunition for you? Apparently, we are months, if not years, behind the Germans.’ She tut-tuts. ‘And now they have all those munitions factories in Czechoslovakia to draw on, too.’
Martin looks across at Nancy, then says, gravely: ‘We’ll be ready when the time comes.’ He tips back his lemonade, then turns to Hugh. ‘See you at the drill hall?’
They drive back to Blythe Cottage in silence, each wondering what the next weeks and months will bring. In a few hours, Martin will be in uniform. Another chapter in their lives is beginning.
‘I wonder what we’ll be doing next summer?’ says Nancy, wistfully, as they pull up outside Blythe Cottage.
‘Same as this, I hope.’ Martin leans over and kisses her, then watches as she slides out of the car, her tennis skirt high up her thigh. ‘See you tomorrow? At the station?’
He waves then drives away, watching her grow more distant in the side mirror. Half an hour later, he pulls up at the drill hall in Aylesbury, the battalion’s base. A line of Bren Carriers is parked outside. Probably be driving one of those soon, Martin thinks.
James Ritchie, another of the battalion’s captains, greets Martin as he pulls up. He’s a banker, married to the daughter of the Wethered brewing family in Marlow, and a descendant of the writer, William Thackeray. He’s also ten years older than Martin, and senior to him.
‘Captain Viney and the rest of the officers are already inside.’ Ritchie points to a tent in the middle of the parade ground. ‘You can collect your uniform there.’
The tent is full of men stripped down to their underpants and smells of sweat and beer. Bawdy jokes about the respective size of the officers’ ‘packages’ fly back and forth. Boxes of battledress uniforms, just arrived from London, stand open: a woollen blouse and a pair of trousers that look rather like something you would wear in the Alps.
‘Hugh!’ Martin calls over to Saunders.
‘You made it.’ Saunders stares down in dismay at the trousers he is trying on and pulls a face: they are up around his ankles.
‘Is this the longest you’ve got?’ he says to an orderly.
‘I’ll see if I can find a thirty-four.’ The orderly goes out.
Martin pulls on his own trousers. ‘Not quite so elegant as tennis whites, are they?’
‘Lovely girl, Nancy,’ Hugh says. ‘Needs a bit of work on her serve.’ He grins. ‘But seriously, Martin, I can’t believe how much more cheerful you have become since you met her. I think I am going to start calling you the Happiest Man in the World.’
‘I am!’ Martin smiles at his friend. ‘I can’t bear the idea that we are going to be separated.’
‘I can imagine.’ Saunders sighs. ‘Sometimes I think being a bachelor has its advantages.’
The orderly returns. ‘Try this one, sir.’
Saunders steps into the new pair of trousers. They are fitted high in the waist, like a ski suit, with a large exterior map pocket at the front and button flies. This time they fit.
‘What’s this?’ Saunders says to the orderly, sliding a finger into a slit-shaped pocket at the side of his trousers.
‘That’s for your knife, sir.’
‘My what?’
‘Your jackknife.’ The orderly opens the blade. ‘Best Sheffield steel, sir.’
Hugh takes the knife and slides it into the pocket.
‘And this?’ Martin points to a small, horizontal pocket at the front of the trouser.
‘For your field dressing, sir.’ The orderly passes him a small canvas bag, marked ‘First Field Dressing’. ‘There are two dressings inside, sir. Both in waterproof pouches.’ The orderly looks him in the eye. He hands him another packet. ‘And this one is your shell dressing.’
‘What’s that?’ Martin asks.
‘For your . . . er . . . head, sir,’ says the orderly, shifting his feet awkwardly.
‘Won’t