‘Good luck with the parentals!’ Roseen calls after him.
The Bomb gleams in the driveway. You can tell a lot about a man from his car. And this sleek, two-seater sports car with its V8 engine, curved fenders and spare wheel mounted on the back suggests both style and a hint of danger. Martin checks the fickle sky, then rolls back the roof and climbs into the car, Scamp scrambling in after him.
It’s only five minutes to Grove Road, though the way Martin drives it will take half that. Mustn’t be too early, though. Better to be fashionably late. A gust of wind stirs the branches of the beech tree. The leaves tremble. Impatient, he turns the key in the ignition. Pats the dashboard, revs the engine. The car vrooms. On the radio, Bing Crosby croons from ‘I’ve Got A Pocketful Of Dreams’.
Blythe Cottage is set back from the road, tucked away between two much larger houses, and Martin zooms right past the flowerbed bright with Michaelmas daisies and the peach tree her father has trellised on the wall. It’s far more modest than Whichert House. A cosy dwelling on a handkerchief-sized plot. But it’s her house. And that makes him love it.
Knowing he is early, Martin glances anxiously at his watch and checks his hair in the rear-view mirror. He’s light-headed and his stomach is tight as a drum. Climbing out of the Bomb, he skips through the gate and rings the doorbell. Nothing. He counts to ten. Rings it again. Nothing. Steps back and looks up at the windows. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Breathes deep.
The door opens with a waft of Chanel. Martin slides his arms around her waist and tries to kiss her.
‘Tino!’ She tuts, disengaging herself. It’s her nickname for him. Her special name, that no one else uses. ‘You’ll smudge my lipstick.’
Her parents are waiting for them in the living room. Nancy’s mother, Peg, is a tiny, slightly hunched woman, with white skin set off by too much red lipstick, henna-coloured hair, and the small, alert eyes of a sparrow.
‘Nancy’s told me so much about you.’ He hands Peg the roses. ‘Aunt Dorothy sends her regards.’
‘How lovely!’ Peg simpers. ‘Darling, fetch a vase will you?’ Nancy disappears into the kitchen.
‘Leonard Whelan.’ Nancy’s father holds out his hand. He’s a tall, slim man with an angular face and silver hair, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, with a gold half-hunter watch peeking out of his waistcoat. ‘LJ. To family.’
‘LJ it is, then. Pleased to meet you.’ Martin pauses, unsure. They give each other a firm handshake. Test one, passed. LJ ushers him over to an armchair. As he lowers himself into it, something sharp sticks into his buttocks and he leaps up; a pair of silver knitting needles poke out of the cushions.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Peg rushes over, lifts the cushion, and pulls out the knitting needles, a ball of red wool, and a pattern book.
Nancy comes back in with a vase for the flowers, just in time to see the rumpus.
‘It’s fine.’ Martin chuckles. ‘I’m well cushioned.’
A ripple of laughter goes round the room. LJ goes over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Sherry?’
‘Please!’ Martin nods.
Over the fireplace, there is a small painting: a harbour scene, with brightly coloured boats. An upright piano stands in the corner. Next to it is a music stand with a flute resting on it. Sheet music.
‘Mummy and Daddy play duets,’ Nancy explains.
‘Piano. Badly.’ Peg points at LJ. ‘Flute.’
‘Nancy has a beautiful singing voice.’ Her father beams.
‘A musical family.’ Martin smiles at Nancy.
‘My family make pianos.’ Peg lights a long, slim cigarette, coughs. Nancy looks at her, askance. ‘Squires of Ealing? Perhaps you’ve heard of them?’
Martin looks blank. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘We’re not well known, like Bechstein or Steinway. But they have a nice tone.’ LJ pulls a pipe from his pocket, a packet of St Bruno, pinches a measure of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger, presses it into the bowl of the pipe, tamps it down, strikes a match, puffs contentedly. He looks over at Martin. ‘Terrible news coming out of Germany.’
‘Shocking . . . ’ Martin is momentarily tongue-tied. ‘I think Chamberlain has acted disgracefully.’
Peg adroitly changes the subject. ‘How’s your Aunt Dorothy?’
‘Jam-making.’
‘My damson wouldn’t set.’ Peg smooths her skirt, takes another puff of her cigarette, coughs. ‘Not enough pectin, I think.’
Nancy waves the smoke away. ‘Mummy, must you? You know it’s bad for your asthma.’
LJ sucks at his pipe. ‘Nancy tells me you’re at Oxford?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Martin squares his shoulders. ‘Law and Modern Languages.’
‘You must be very busy.’ Peg stubs out her cigarette.
‘Teddy Hall, isn’t it?’ LJ lets out a ring of blue smoke.
Martin nods. He wants to take Nancy in his arms and swing her out of the door.
‘We lived in Oxford before we came here.’ LJ puffs away. ‘Nancy loved every minute of it, didn’t you, pet? Concerts, the Playhouse, punting on the river.’ He reaches forward and taps the bowl of the pipe on the ashtray. ‘So, what are your plans?’
‘After I graduate I’ll look for work in a law firm, I suppose.’
‘I mean today.’ LJ sucks on his pipe again.
‘We’re going for a picnic.’ Nancy looks across at Martin. ‘So we’d better get our skates on – or we’ll miss the sun!’
Outside Blythe Cottage, Martin opens the door of the Bomb and watches as Nancy turns sideways, lowers herself into the car, swings her feet in after her and smooths her dress over her knees in one fluid movement, like water sliding through a mill race, except Scamp is kissing her face. She’s wearing a new hat: a red, Robin Hood-style cap.
‘Is that new?’ He knows girls love you to notice their clothes.
‘Do you like it?’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘It’s French.’
‘Je l’adore.’ He closes the door after her, runs around to the other side, lifts Scamp off the seat and tosses him in the back.
‘Poor old Scamp.’ Nancy reaches back to pet him, as the Riley takes off, like a racehorse. At the corner, Martin presses the clutch, slips the gearstick out of fourth, revs the engine, double declutches, slides it into third, swings through the bend, accelerates, shifts up. Hedges scroll past. The sun breaks through the clouds. A herd of brick-red Hereford cattle amble across a field. Martin slows, then turns right down a narrow lane. The branches of the trees meet overhead, like the ribs of a Gothic cathedral.
Nancy giggles, holding on to her hat to stop it from flying off. He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
‘Did I pass the test?’
‘The knitting needle test?’ Nancy’s laugh is snatched by the wind. ‘Definitely.’
At the village of Penn, Martin cuts the engine and clambers out of the Bomb. Scamp races off, in hot pursuit of rabbits. Martin grabs a tartan rug and they set off down a footpath towards Church Path Wood.
Deep in the wood, there is an ancient oak tree. Roughly the same distance from Blythe Cottage as Whichert House, it is the perfect