Young Hearts E-Book

Nick Sweet

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Right after the outbreak of the First World War, Michael falls in love with Phoebe after dancing with her at the college ball. What he doesn't know is that Phoebe is already in love with another man, James.

After enlisting in the army, James proposes to Phoebe. A twist of fate brings both suitors together, as they end up fighting in Flanders and finally with the Royal Welch Fusiliers on the Somme, side by side.

With the war raging around them, they both fight for survival; to return back home to their loved ones.

This book contains adult content and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

Young Hearts

(A love story set against the backdrop of World War One)

Nick Sweet

Copyright (C) 2016 Nick Sweet

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Part One

Chapter 1

'I say,' James Albury said, 'this brandy's rather decent,' and he held out his glass for a refill, which George Saunders promptly provided.

The two young men were sitting on the edge of the single bed in George's room, and the golden rays of the afternoon sun shone in through the latticed window, casting shadows over the desk in the corner. Their old friend Maurice Kimberton was sitting facing them, with one elbow on the desk, and with his legs crossed at the knee, while the relatively new addition to their group, Michael Roberts, was standing to the side of Maurice's chair, and with his back to them, for the moment, as he gazed through the window down over the quad.

Maurice, who was a big bear of a young man, dressed in a checked shirt and a blue pullover, brushed his blond hair back from his forehead and said they'd all be for it if Cummings, the bursar, were to come by and catch them in here drinking like this. In response, James, who was lean and short, cocked an eyebrow and said Cummings was the very least of their problems; after all, they'd have Jerry breathing down their necks before they knew it.

'You've got a point there,' Maurice nodded.

'In which case,' George said, 'we might as well finish off this bottle between us and Cummings be damned – what do you all say?'

This suggestion met with cries of approbation from the other three young men, and George squealed with laughter as he set about replenishing the empty tumblers that Michael and Maurice were now holding out to him.

George Saunders was tall, of lean build, and handsome, and he wore his blond hair short and with a parting down the middle; his lips were on the thin side, his cheek-bones were high and prominent, and his eyes a piercing blue. He was wearing a pair of grey flannel trousers with a white shirt and an argyle sweater, and looked, every inch of him, like a young man who came, as he did, from the very best stock. And whilst it is true that many of his friends were from the upper echelons of society, as might only be expected, George was nevertheless the sort of young man who liked to judge people according to their ideas and personal attributes, regardless of their position in society; which perhaps explains how it was that he had befriended someone like Michael Roberts, who was from a working-class background.

And it was upon Michael that George now turned his gaze; and, as he did so, his face assumed an expression of seriousness, as though he wanted to let his friends know that he wished to continue the discussion they had all been engaged in up until a moment ago, before they'd begun to concern themselves with the bursar. 'As an intellectual being, Michael,' he said, 'surely you must feel yourself to be above notions of violence?'

Michael Roberts's brow became furrowed, as if he were making a strenuous effort to think, and he sipped his brandy. Michael was the tallest of the four young men, and he was blessed with a broad chest and muscular frame; his black hair was cut short and parted at the side, and he wore a bottle-green-coloured woollen pullover over a checked shirt, with a pair of grey flannel trousers, and brogues that he had polished that morning. 'On the contrary,' he said, 'I should feel bound to go to war if I am called up.'

George appeared to be rather taken aback by his friend's response. 'Surely, though, as a lover of Keats, you must be interested in the beauty of ideas, and so you must want peace on earth and all that sort of thing.'

'Wanting peace is one thing,' Michael said, in tones that carried more than a hint of a West Country twang; 'but the way I see it, peace sometimes comes at a price.'

'And that price is sometimes war?'

'If the enemy doesn't know when to back down then I'd say it is, yes.'

'Good show,' Maurice said, and he turned to James Albury. 'What about you, old chap?'

James Albury was by far the shortest man in the room; but, despite his diminutive frame, he was no mean pugilist. He was wearing a brown cardigan with a plain white shirt and a paisley tie; and, at that moment, his intelligent face creased in a grimace, as he held up his glass and gazed at it, rather as if he were searching for the answer to Maurice's question in the prism of light before him; but his reply, when it came, was quite free of equivocation. 'I shall certainly go to fight,' he said, 'when I feel that the time has come to do so.'

'And when might that be?' George asked him.

'That's what I'm trying to make my mind up about – but it could be sooner than you might think.'

'That's the spirit,' Maurice grinned. 'But what do you think Phoebe will have to say when she learns that the man she is hoping to marry is planning on marching off to war?'

James brushed some lint from his brown flannel trousers, before his grey eyes fixed Maurice with a determined expression. 'I'm sure,' he said, 'that Phoebe will be proud to know that her fiancé is going to do his bit for his country.'

'Good for her, I'd say,' Maurice sipped his brandy.

Michael Roberts had come to know James Albury a little as a result of his friendship with Maurice and George, but he had yet to meet his fiancée, and he wondered if the fact that James didn't appear to be in any hurry to show her off might perhaps mean that she wasn't much of a looker.

'Why, how do you feel about going to fight, Maurice?'

'I'm simply dying to have a go at Jerry, once they've set me free from this place. I only hope that the fighting's not all over by then.'

'You mean that you plan to wait until you've graduated before you enlist?' James said.

'Father would probably kill me if I didn't.'

'In that case, I should certainly hope we've polished the Germans off well before you become available to fight.'

'You might always be called up,' George said.

'Yes, well in that case Father wouldn't be in a position to object to my going, of course.'

Hearing the way he was talking, Michael had the feeling that Maurice had failed to grasp the first thing about the nature of war. 'You talk as though it's all likely to be a bit of a lark, Maurice, an adventure, this war that we've got ourselves into,' Michael frowned. 'In fact, I'm quite certain that it's a terribly dirty business, believe you me…The truth of the matter is that all any of us knows about war is what we've read in books. And no one ever defeated the enemy in battle by showing he was able to quote from Shakespeare or Virgil.'

'You're right, of course.' George brought his glass to his lips and downed its contents in a single gulp.

Just then, the silence was broken by a loud knock at the door. 'Open up!' rang out the voice of Cummings, the bursar, in angry, authoritative tones.

'Oh crikey, it's the Kaiser himself!' Maurice whispered, and George began gesturing for everyone to drink up, as he looked for a place to hide his glass, along with the bottle of Napoleon brandy that they had been drinking from.

'Open up, I say!' The bursar hammered again at the door.

'All right, I'm coming.'

Michael, James and Maurice all followed their host's lead and quickly stashed their glasses under the bed; and by the time George had opened the door, they were all sitting with books open on their laps. 'Can I be of any assistance to you?' George asked the bursar with suave irony.

Cummings's face was red with rage as his eyes travelled about the room and took in the scene. 'What have we got here, then?'

'We're holding a poetry reading.'

Cummings looked unimpressed. 'I'll be keeping an eye on you gentlemen from now on,' he growled, and with that he turned and stormed off.

George just managed to keep a straight face until he'd shut the door, and then he and his three friends all erupted into paroxysms of laughter.

'That's the way to send the Kaiser packing,' Maurice beamed.

If only it were that simple to send the other Kaiser packing, Michael Roberts thought. For he sensed that the war was going to turn out to be a far more serious and deadly affair than his friends were willing, or perhaps even able, to contemplate.

Michael went up to his room after the party broke up and worked hard for a while on an essay. Then he took a nap, and when he awoke, some three hours later, he got up and went over to the window, where he stood stretching his arms as he gazed out at the scene before him.

The sun was about to set, and the city looked stunningly beautiful in the failing light. To one side, Michael could see Carfax Tower, whose bells were being rung at that very moment by the mechanical figures known as 'Quarter Boys'; whilst to the other side, he could see St Mary the Virgin, which marked the site where the Oxford Martyrs were tried for heresy in 1555.

And coming from a working-class background, as he did, Michael was intensely aware of just how enormously privileged he was simply to be here, in this city whose hallowed spires represented, to his eye, a veritable symphony of architectural design that blended with the heritage of the place to create something truly magical.

With these thoughts in mind, Michael spruced himself up a little, then put on the light cotton jacket that he had been wearing all summer, and left his room. He descended the wooden stairs two at a time, and, when he got to the bottom, he hurried out through the doorway, crossed the quad, and passed out through the archway down Catte Street, past St Mary the Virgin, from whose front portico the terrifying gargoyles peered out menacingly, turned the corner into High Street and carried on as far as the Chequers.

The entrance to the pub was blocked by a group of young people, and, as Michael set about weaving his way through them, a girl appeared to trip into his path, and he took hold of her arm to steady her; then, once she had regained her balance, he asked her if she was all right. 'Yes,' the girl said, 'I'm so sorry.'

'Not at all.'

She threw her head back, and her long black hair fell either side of her face, so that Michael got a good look at her for the first time, and he was truly taken aback by her beauty. Her skin was white and smooth as porcelain, save for the down on her cheeks, which resembled the skin of a ripe peach. Her lips were full and red as cherries, her cheek-bones high and proud; and through her long black lashes peered eyes that were the perfect blue of hyacinths. 'Thank you for preventing me from breaking my neck, anyway.' The girl suppressed a little giggle and then appeared to blush slightly.

'Don't mention it.'

She offered Michael her hand and said, 'I'm Phoebe Markham. I'm at Somerville reading English.'

'How do you do,' he smiled. 'I'm Michael Roberts and I'm at Balliol.' They shook hands, and as they did so, Michael, who had never considered himself to be the romantic sort, until now, gazed into the girl's beautiful blue eyes and felt as though he would give anything to discover the mysteries that resided in their inky depths.

'I must go,' she said. 'I'm with this lot and we're just about to leave here to go and eat. We're celebrating my friend's birthday.' And with that she turned and rejoined the group she was with.

Michael stood there, as if rooted to the spot, and watched her go up the street along with her companions and turn the corner. Then he went on into the pub, and squeezed through a group of rambunctious medical students to get to the counter, where he bought himself a pint of bitter. The place was filled with the babble of excited, youthful chatter and occasional laughter, and the walls were adorned with pictures of Balliol and some of the other colleges, as well as with drawings which recorded the events that took place on February 10th, back in 1354, better known as St Scholastrica's Day, when rioting broke out after students drinking at Swyndlestock Tavern accused the landlord of serving them 'indifferent wine'.

Michael tasted his beer and was grateful for the fact that it was better than 'indifferent', so that he could have no cause to make a complaint to the landlord as to its quality. He rested his arms on the counter, and thoughts of the beautiful girl he happened, quite literally, to bump into outside rushed into his mind. Phoebe, she'd told him her name was: Phoebe Markham.

The name was vaguely familiar to Michael, although quite as to where he'd heard it mentioned before, and in what context, he couldn't recall. What he did know, though, was that he simply had to find her and talk to her again.

Chapter 2

Michael had just finished his breakfast in the dining-hall the following morning, when George Saunders came in and sat down next to him. 'Where the devil did you get to last night, old boy?'

'I went for a walk.'

'Anything interesting happen?'

'Not particularly,' Michael lied.

'Kimberton and I have got a plan for your initiation into the Circle.' George, Maurice and James Albury currently represented the entire membership of 'the Circle', and each of them had performed rites of initiation, which took the form of acts of derring-do of various kinds.

'A plan?'

'Your task is to raid old Cummings's drinks cabinet and bring back the two bottles of Vega Sicilia that were given to him by that Spanish Cardinal chappie who came here to stay last summer,' George flashed Michael a wicked grin. 'How does the idea of that appeal to you?'

'But everyone knows Cummings's quarters are impregnable.'

'He's in the habit of leaving his window open at this time of year, you may be interested to learn,' George said. 'What's more, he'll be attending the annual ball on Saturday night, as he does every year.'

'I'll need a ladder.'

'Maurice has an idea as to where you can get one.'

Michael gulped down a mouthful of his tea as he tried to picture himself carrying out the raid. In many ways he was flattered to think that George should be so keen to have him in the Circle, since to be initiated into it was to join a truly select and elite group, whose members could, with some justification, perhaps, consider themselves to be la crème de la crème at Balliol.

'Not a word to a soul about this, mind you,' George said. 'No one knows about it, apart from you and me and Kimbers.'

'Of course not.'

George glanced down at his wristwatch. 'We'd better go or we'll be late for old Rusty's tutorial.'

They set off at a pace out of the building and across the quad, in the direction of Dr. Davis's room. It was pleasantly warm still, and the sun was shining, but there was nevertheless a hint of autumn in the air. Michael loved days like these. 'The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' he quoted as he went along.

They passed through the archway and climbed three flights of stairs, and Dr. Davis's study was at the end of the corridor. They walked in just as Dr. Davis was in the process of relighting his pipe. 'Good morning to you, gentlemen,' he said, 'do come in and make yourselves at home,' and George and Michael bade him good day in return.

Charles Farrington and Digby Driver were already there, sitting in easy-chairs with their books on their laps, whilst Cedric Wyatt and Orlando Bingham had splayed themselves out at either end of the sofa like unruly book-ends. Michael and George sat down in the two chairs that were yet to be taken.

. The room smelt of dust from all the books that were crammed onto the shelves, as well as of polish and tobacco, and the imposing visage of Dr. Davis's grandfather peered down his aquiline nose upon proceedings from the large oil-painting that was hanging on the wall over the fireplace. Out through the window the sun shone over the quad, casting shadows, and the blue sky framed the hallowed spires that struck Michael's youthful imagination, just then, as being like so many batons raised for the purpose of conducting the music of the spheres.

Dr. Davis – or 'Rusty', as he was affectionately known, on account of his ginger hair – applied himself once more to the task of trying to puff some life into his clay-pipe, as he relaxed back into his easy-chair, which was next to the large open fireplace; then he crossed his long legs, and grimaced as if in response to the onset of some sharp and sudden physical pain, before he took his pipe from his mouth and began to recite one of Blake's poems from memory.

Michael recognized the poem and knew therefore that it had as its theme the prevalence, in Blake's day, of venereal disease among prostitutes. What made the poem especially poignant was the fact that many of these prostitutes were children, and they only sold themselves as a final humiliating and despairing measure of defence against the depredations of poverty.

When he had finished reciting the poem, Dr. Davis looked over at George and said, 'Perhaps you might care to give us your thoughts on what Blake is trying to get at here, Mr. Saunders?'

George replied that it was quite obvious that the worm in the verse served as a 'metaphor for the male organ'.

'So you would argue that the intrusive male organ is the villain of the piece, then, would you?' Dr. Davis drawled.

'Mm, yes,' Charles Farrington said. 'One can't help feeling that would make for an interesting reading of the text.'

Just then, the door to the room opened and Maurice Kimberton burst in, looking all flustered and out of breath; and Michael struggled to keep a straight face, as Kimberton, who had about him something of the aspect of the bull in the proverbial china shop, mumbled his apologies, before Dr. Davis invited him to take a seat with an imperious wave of the hand.

The symposium on the war had already begun by the time Michael entered the lecture hall, along with Maurice and George, later that evening, and James Albury was at that moment making a speech.

Having talked of Otto Von Bismarck and the wars he waged with Denmark, Austria and France, which led in turn to the unification of Germany, and the Three Emperors' League of 1878, he was now speaking of how Turkey had become 'the sick man of Europe'. And Michael began to listen intently as James, who was looking rather dapper in the grey suit he was wearing, went on to speak about how, in the period leading up to the outbreak of war, the Balkans had been 'a powder keg at the heart of Europe that was waiting to explode'.

Michael was eager to hear what James was about to say next; but just then, his gaze happened to fall upon the girl he had saved from tripping over outside of the Chequers the night before, and so taken up was he with looking at her that he lost all interest in listening to the speech that James Albury was making. And so, he missed all of what James had to say about the origins of the war, for his only thought was of how he might find an opportunity to talk to this enchantress whose beauty had quite taken his breath away.

James carried on speaking for some ten minutes or so, and then Charles Farrington, a tall, burly, ginger-haired young man with a face full of freckles, stood up and said something or other, the import of which was also quite lost on Michael. But whatever it was that Farrington had said, his speech certainly had the effect of stirring up a large section of the audience, for no sooner had he finished speaking than a tall young man with black hair and an athletic frame, who was unknown to Michael, got to his feet and announced, in a furious tone of voice, that the previous speaker was not only a 'coward', but that his 'talk of pacificism was tantamount to treason' – at which point the audience turned itself into a screaming mob.

The following evening Maurice and George came over to Michael's room, and, talking excitedly and in hushed tones, they quickly ran through the plan of how Michael was to carry out the raid on Cummings's drinks cabinet. Then the conversation moved on to the theme of the annual ball, and George said that he fancied Celia Wickham would be there; and, aiming a wink at Michael, he let it be known that the aforesaid young lady was 'simply wild about Kimbers' and had been 'making a play for him for quite some time'.

Maurice blushed a little when he heard this; and, seeing his response, George continued to rib him all the more, until Maurice countered by suggesting that Lady Ottoline would surely be at the ball as well. What was more, Maurice said, it was rumoured, in certain quarters, that George had once 'been seen out with said young lady about the town'. George hastened to pour scorn on this 'idle rumour', at which point the conversation degenerated into a tickling match. Then when the tickling match had finished – neither man having managed to carry out his threat to tickle the other to within an inch of his life – the three of them went out and down the stairs.

They crossed the quad and entered the large ballroom, the walls of which were lined with young people sitting at tables drinking champagne or cocktails, and the air was full of the sound of the music that the band was playing and of animated chatter and laughter. A large chandelier hung from the middle of the high ceiling, and the dance-floor was filled with young couples. The young men were all dressed alike in evening suits, while the girls in their ball gowns were like flowers swaying in the breeze as they moved in time to the music.

Michael looked around the ballroom and, to his astonishment, there, right before his eyes, was the girl he'd happened to bump into outside of the Chequers the night before last. He had noticed her at the symposium on the war the night before, of course, where he'd been so taken up with her that he'd missed everything that was said… And who, of all people, should she be dancing a waltz with but that awful Charles Farrington fellow.

She was wearing an elegant, strapless ball gown made of white silk, and her bare arms and shoulders looked smooth and cool as marble. Her black hair was swept back over her head and tied in a pigtail, and this had the effect of emphasizing her wonderful bone structure, which could scarcely have been improved upon by a sculptor. She wore a pink orchid in her hair, at the back, where it was tied, and her cheeks glowed with rosy warmth, while her lovely blue eyes seemed to shine, Michael thought, with the calm radiance of sunlight falling on a remote highland lake.

And as though the musicians had taken note of Michael's rapturous mood and were in sympathy with him, the band stopped playing at that moment; and, seizing his opportunity, he went over and tapped Farrington on the shoulder. 'I say, how about giving another chap a chance,' he said. And then, when Farrington stood aside, Michael asked the girl if he might have the pleasure of the next dance.

The girl nodded her assent, but her beautiful blue eyes seemed to look at Michael without really seeing him. Then the band started to play the next piece, and he took her by the hand and waist and they began to move in time with the music. As they did so, the girl glanced about the room as if she were in search of someone, and Michael asked if anything was troubling her. She said that everything was quite all right, before she turned her head and looked at him. 'I say, haven't we met before?'

'Yes – outside of the Chequers the other night. If you recall, I was kind enough to prevent you from breaking your neck.'

'Oh yes, of course,' she smiled. 'I knew I'd seen you somewhere. How stupid of me.'

'Michael Roberts at your disposal.'

'Phoebe Markham.'

'I believe you told me you're at Somerville?'

'Yes, that's right. I'm reading English…What about you?'

'I'm reading English, too,' he said. 'I'm at Balliol.'

Michael found himself becoming nervous, so that his mind went blank and he could think of nothing more to say; and they continued to dance in silence until the music came to an end. Then that Kenneth Claymore chap came and asked for the next dance, damn him, and so Michael smiled and said goodbye to the girl with a little bow of the head.

How wonderfully enchanting she is, he thought. And just then, George came up to him. 'Cummings is here and he's left his window open as usual,' George whispered in his ear. 'So it's now or never.'

Having danced with, and enchanted, several young men that evening, Michael Roberts among them, Phoebe Markham was now dancing with James Albury, who had been courting her with intentions that were obviously serious for the best part of a year, and her face glowed with happiness. Phoebe thought that James looked very elegant in his evening suit, and she knew that, despite his diminutive frame, his was a character that concealed hidden depths men of far greater physical proportions could never hope to possess.

He appeared to have something on his mind right now, though, and was not quite his usual carefree self. When the music stopped she asked him if anything was wrong and he shook his head. 'Yes, it is,' she said. 'Is it something that I've done?'

'Perhaps I should walk you home.'

'What's the rush?' Indeed, the ball was not scheduled to finish for another hour or so.

'There's something I need to talk to you about, Phee.'

'In that case I can see that we'd better go.'

They went over to the cloakroom, and James helped her on with her coat, before he took her by the hand and they went out of the building and through the quad, and then walked on through the streets in the shadows of the town's towering spires, their footsteps beating a tattoo on the flagstones. They passed young couples and revellers as they went along, and they had not gone very far before it began to rain, so they took shelter in a shop doorway.

James held Phoebe in his arms, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. They kissed and then she said, 'Now, what was it that you needed to say to me that's so important?'

'The fact is, Phee,' James sighed, 'there are two things that I need to say to you, and I scarcely know how to begin.'

Phoebe gazed into his eyes, which were visible to her in the light of the streetlamp, and she felt that she could see intelligence and integrity and manly courage in them.

'You know the way I feel about the war, darling,' he said. 'Well, the fact is… I've decided to go and fight.'

Phoebe was too stunned to respond at first, so James asked her if she wasn't going to say something.

'When are you going to enlist?'

'I already have – yesterday,' he said. 'I didn't know how to tell you…I leave on Monday to start my basic training.'

Phoebe's heart was suddenly in her mouth, and tears came to her eyes. 'But why couldn't you wait until you were called up, like most of the other chaps that we know?'

James shrugged and averted his gaze, and Phoebe realized that this was difficult for him as well. It just seemed wrong somehow, he said, to be here malingering when there was a war to be fought. He couldn't respect himself any longer if he didn't go ahead and do his duty. And when she heard him say this, Phoebe threw herself on his neck once more and began to sob.

'Don't cry, my love,' he said. 'I know you wouldn't care for me if I weren't the way I am.'

Phoebe recognized the truth of these words as she gazed into James's eyes, and he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his fingers. 'This weekend could be the last time we see each other for quite some while, Phee,' he said. 'So I wanted to ask you if we might go down to Hove tomorrow, in order that I can ask your father for your hand – if you're agreeable to the idea of our getting married, just as soon as this war is over, that is?'

'Why yes, of course, James darling!' Phoebe cried, and they shared another passionate kiss.

Chapter 3

James called round for Phoebe and took her to the Grand Hotel for breakfast the following morning. He had his short brown hair combed back, and he looked elegant in his plain grey suit, which he wore with a white shirt and a striped tie, while Phoebe was dressed in a long grey skirt and a black jacket, under which she wore a cream-coloured blouse, and she was shod in a pair of black court shoes. Her pretty blue eyes were brimming with emotion as she told James that he shouldn't have gone to the expense of bringing her to a 'posh' place like this.

'It's not as though we'll be able to have breakfast together for a while, Phee,' James said. And then he asked her if she thought her parents would be agreeable to the idea of their getting married. But of course they would, Phoebe hastened to reassure him; why on earth shouldn't they be?

He eyed her nervously as he sipped his grapefruit juice. 'Are you quite sure about that, Phee?'

'I've never been more certain of anything in my life.'

'But what is it that makes you so confident?'

'It isn't as though my parents don't already know you, darling.'

'No, I realize that,' he said. 'But I've never quite been sure of what sort of opinion it is they have of me.'

'They have the highest possible opinion of you, silly.' And Phoebe was indeed being sincere in saying this, so that she had little doubt that her parents would be delighted when she told them she and James were planning to marry.

'But what about your parents, James?'

'What about them?'

'Have you told them that we're going to get married?'

'Of course,' he smiled.

'And…'

James said that his mother and father were both delighted with the idea; but, as she gazed into his eyes, Phoebe found herself wondering if he were only telling her this so as not to upset her.

The following morning, Michael went down and knocked on George Saunders's door, and George eventually opened up, wearing an old plaid dressing-gown over striped cotton pyjamas; his tousled hair was a wreck, and he squinted at Michael as if through a mist, out of eyes whose lids seemed as though they were struggling to lift a burden that was too heavy for them.

'Can't it wait, whatever it is, old boy?' he groaned. 'It's dashed early in the morning, and I'm afraid I got to bed rather late last night and haven't had much sleep…Feel as though I've just been through a storm at sea.'

In reply Michael grunted that 'it' couldn't wait, no, and he pushed past George and into the room without waiting to be invited in, before he began to describe the nature of his predicament in a rapid and confused manner. 'But I don't quite follow,' George said. 'How can the old misery guts possibly know it was you that stole his precious bottles of Vega Sicilia? What proof can the man possibly have?'

'He came in and caught me in the act of stealing it…'

'But how could he have?' George said. 'He was down in the ballroom when I told you to go and do it – I saw him there with my very own eyes. I wouldn't have told you the coast was clear otherwise.'

'Well he must have decided to leave the ball just after I did, I suppose.'

'Evidently.' George brought his fist down on his desk in a fit of rage, sending papers that had been left strewn there flying. 'Oh bugger!' he cried. 'I can't possibly tell you how sorry I am that this has happened, old boy. Of all the rotten luck.'

Michael cursed himself for being stupid enough to go along with the crazy scheme in the first place. It might be all very well for the likes of people like George to run risks of this sort, since rich families such as his no doubt had their own ways of getting their offspring out of scrapes. Michael's family was far from rich, however; and neither was it one of the oldest and most distinguished families in the country, as George's was known to be throughout Balliol.

'So what's the miserable old sod saying?' George grimaced. 'I suppose he wants a written apology, and that'll be the end of the matter…is that how it is?'

'Hardly – he wants me off the premises by ten o'clock, or else he's going to call the police in.' Michael glanced at the clock over on the wall: it had just turned nine-thirty. 'I suppose I'd better hurry up and go and pack my things,' he said, 'or I'll never do it in time.'

Meanwhile, Phoebe and James were sitting in a compartment in the first-class section of a train that was headed for the south coast. It was a bright sunny day outside and Phoebe found herself looking at the backs of houses that went flashing by and thinking how just as people she had never met lived as man and wife in these properties, so she and James would find themselves a place of their own when the time came to do so. And just as many of the houses that they passed had children living in them, so she and James would start a family one day, with any luck.

Phoebe was enchanted by the idea of having children of her own. And yet, the thought of submitting herself to the degrading experience that it was first necessary for a woman to endure, if she were ever to become a mother, caused her to suffer no little anxiety.

But whenever she was troubled by such ideas, she hastened to allay her fears by telling herself that if other women could go through with it – whatever it was, because Phoebe still wasn't quite sure – then she had no doubt that she would also be able to muddle through, one way or another.

James squeezed Phoebe's hand and said, 'A penny for your thoughts?'

'I was just thinking about how happy we are going to be in the future, darling,' she smiled, 'once this wretched war is over and done with.'

'You really are lovely, Phee, you do know that, don't you?'

'Well I do now, because you've just told me.'

'And I'll tell you it some more if you like.'

'How long are you going to go on telling me these nice things, James?'

'For ever and ever, darling.'

'Do you promise to?'

'I promise.'

'Cross your heart and hope to die?'

'Cross my heart and hope to die,' he laughed.

When the train pulled into the station at Hove, Phoebe and James got out and crossed over the covered bridge, and came down into a street where there was a little parade of shops. From there it was a short walk across Hove Park to where Phoebe's parents lived.

The house was semi-detached, and there was a privet hedge at the front, behind which there was a small lawn that was bordered with hydrangea plants and lobelia. There were clean lace curtains in the windows, which gleamed in the sun, and the casements looked as though they had recently been painted. They went up the path, and Phoebe lifted the knocker and let it fall against the varnished wood.

It was Phoebe's father who came to the door; and as soon as he saw who it was, Mr Markham's kind and ruddy face lit up in a warm smile that plainly showed how pleased he was to see them. Mr Markham was a portly man of fifty-six, with a crown of greying hair that skirted a shiny bald patch on the top of his head. He was of medium height, and was wearing a pair of black trousers with a plain white shirt that was open at the collar. 'This is a nice surprise, I must say,' he said, and he kissed Phoebe on the cheek and regaled James with a hearty handshake, before he ushered them into the house and set about helping them off with their coats.

The parquetry shone in the hallway, and the smell of polish mingled with the pleasant aroma of cooking that was in the air, and so it was no surprise, when they went into the large kitchen, for them to find Mrs Markham busy over the stove preparing the Sunday lunch.

Mrs Markham was a slim lady in her early fifties who wore her years well, notwithstanding the fact that her black hair, which came down to her collar, was flecked with grey. She was wearing a blue print dress, which was fastened at the neck with a broach, and her smile was warm and friendly; and anyone who saw her and Phoebe together would first see the beauty of the daughter and then draw the conclusion that she'd inherited it from the mother, who must have been something of a stunner herself in her day.

'Oh hel-lo!' Mrs Markham smiled. 'I had no idea you were coming to see us today.' And she kissed first Phoebe and then James, before she asked them both to tell her how they were getting on up at Oxford.

'Oh, we're doing just fine, Mum.'

'You'll both be wanting something to drink…What would you like, James?'

'A beer would be nice, thank you, Mrs Markham.'

'Get James a beer, Walter.'

Mr Markham went off and came back presently with a glass of sherry for Phoebe, another for his wife, and bottles of beer for James and himself. 'Will this be all right?' he asked, and James smiled and said it would do nicely, thank you. Mr Markham then reached down two glasses from the shelf in the kitchen and a bottle opener, while Mrs Markham said, 'You must both be hungry.' James wouldn't have her go to any trouble on his account. Oh, but it would be a pleasure to have them both stay – the meal would be ready in about half an hour.

Phoebe suggested that James might want to go somewhere with her father so that they could smoke and talk, and the two men took the hint and went into the adjoining room. Then, finding herself alone with her mother, Phoebe said, 'I've got some news to share with you, Mum.'

'Oh, and what's this, my dear?'

'James has enlisted.'

Mrs Markham stopped what she was doing at the stove and turned to face her daughter.

'We're going back up to Oxford this evening,' Phoebe said, 'and then I'll go and see him off in the morning.'

'Oh, Phee, you poor thing.'

'And that's not all, Mum – he's asked me to marry him.'

Mrs Markham opened her mouth as if she were in shock, while her large dark eyes widened. 'And what have you said to him?' But of course she already knew the answer to this question, since it was clearly written all over Phoebe's face.

She waited to hear her daughter tell her, anyway, though; and then, when she did, Mrs Markham said, 'Congratulations, my dear!' and the two women embraced. Then Mrs Markham drew back a moment and gazed into Phoebe's eyes. 'You do really love him, don't you, Phee?'

'Oh yes, of course – I love him more than anything.' Phoebe suddenly remembered where she was and who she was talking to, and she said, 'More than anything or anybody except for you and Dad and Stephen, that is.'

'Don't worry, I know what you meant, my dear,' Mrs Markham said. 'But when are you planning on having the wedding?'

'Just as soon as the war's over.'

Mrs Markham began to cry and so did Phoebe, and they hugged each other without saying anything. Then Phoebe said if it were not for this blasted war she reckoned she would be the happiest girl alive. 'Oh you poor thing,' Mrs Markham said. 'We're all going to have to be very brave, Phee, because I know just what you'll be going through. A letter came from Stephen yesterday.'

'How is he?'

'He says the sergeant major's a bit of a tyrant, you know, like they all are, no doubt, but apart from that he sounds as though he's not doing too badly.'

'Good. Tell him to write to me as well when you reply.'

'Yes, I will.' Mrs Markham shook her head in a sudden access of frustration and said, 'This damned war.'

Meanwhile, in the next room, Mr Markham took out his Woodbines and placed one between his lips, then he offered the packet to James, who helped himself to one before leaning forward to take a light. Then Mr Markham sat down in the easy-chair next to the fireplace and invited James to take a seat himself.

James inhaled on his Woodbine, exhaled, and then went and sat on the chintz sofa. He gazed out of the window at the long, rectangular-shaped back garden with its rose bushes and lawn, which were well tended, and as he did so he wondered whether or not he ought to plunge right in and tell Mr Markham that he wanted to marry Phoebe.

He could see no earthly reason why the Markhams should object to his marrying their daughter, and yet the thought of broaching the subject made him feel like he had butterflies in his belly. Perhaps he should wait a little, until the right moment arrived. Somehow he felt that it wouldn't be right just to blurt out what he had to say. No, the thing to do, it seemed to him, was to build up to it somehow – but how, though? That was the question.

And no sooner had this thought passed through his mind than he began to wonder what Phoebe and Mrs Markham were talking about, out in the kitchen. Perhaps Phee's telling her mother why it is that we've come down here, he thought. Yes, that seemed quite possible.

James drawled on his cigarette and smiled through a cloud of smoke at the man who, he hoped, was destined to become his father-in-law. And as he did so, Mr Markham began to talk about the war. It would all be over by Christmas, with any luck, he said. Our boys would soon sort those Jerries out, let there be no mistake. After all, there was no soldier in the world like the English soldier. James smiled and nodded in agreement.

'Trouble with these damnable Germans is,' Mr Markham said, 'they've got too bloody big for their boots. Seem to think that the whole of Europe belongs to them.' He took his glass from the small table next to his chair and drank from it. This beer was good stuff, he said. It was to be sure, James agreed.