his nose was freckled. ‘The front door’s open. Shall I give him a shout?’
‘My name is Archery,’ said the clergyman and he held out his hand.
The boy wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘Hallo,’ he said.
By now a little wrinkled man had come down the porch steps. The bright hot air seemed to hang between them. Archery tried not to feel disappointment. What had he expected? Certainly not someone so small, so unfinished looking and so wizened as this scrawny creature in old flannels and tieless knitted shirt. Then Kershaw smiled and the years fell from him. His eyes were a bright sparkling blue and his uneven teeth white and clean.
‘How do you do?’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Archery. I’m very happy to meet you. As a matter of fact I’ve been sitting in the window, looking out for you.’
In this man’s presence it was impossible not to feel hope, cheerfulness almost. Archery detected at once a rare quality in him, a quality he had come upon perhaps only half a dozen times in his life. This was a man who was interested in all things. Energy and enthusiasm radiated from him. On a winter’s day he would warm the air. Today, in this heat, his vitality was overwhelming.
‘Come inside and meet my wife.’ His voice was a hot breeze, a cockney voice that suggested fish and chips, eels and mash, and East end pubs. Following him into the square panelled hall, Archery wondered how old he was. Perhaps no more than forty-five. Drive, the fire of life, lack of sleep, because sleep wasted time, could prematurely have burnt away his youth. ‘We’re in the lounge,’ he said, pushing open a reeded glass door. ‘That’s what I like about a day like this. When I get home from work I like to sit by the french windows for ten minutes and look at the garden. Makes you feel all that slogging in the winter was worthwhile.’
‘To sit in the shade and look upon verdure?’ After the words were out Archery was sorry he had spoken. He didn’t want to put this suburban engineer in a false position.
Kershaw gave him a quick glance. Then he smiled and said easily, ‘Miss Austen knew what she was talking about, didn’t she?’ Archery was overcome. He went into the room and held out his hand to the woman who had got up from an armchair.
‘My wife. This is Mr Archery, Renee.’
‘How do you do?’
Irene Kershaw said nothing, but holding out her hand, smiled a tight bright smile. Her face was Tess’s face as it would be when time had hardened it and finished it. In her youth she had been blonde. Now her hair, evidently set that day and perhaps in his honour, was dyed a dull leaf-brown and arranged in unreal feathery wisps about her forehead and ears.
‘Sit down, Mr Archery,’ said Kershaw. ‘We won’t keep you a minute for your tea. Kettle’s on, isn’t it, Renee?’
Archery sat in an armchair by the window. Kershaw’s garden was full of experimental rose pergolas, eruptions of rockery and stone sporting geraniums. He gave the room a quick glance, noting at once its cleanliness and the enormous mass of things which had to be kept clean. Books abounded, Readers’ Digests, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, works on astronomy, deep sea fishing, European history. There was a tank of tropical fish on a corner table, several model aircraft on the mantelpiece; stacks of sheet music covered the grand piano, and on an easel was a half-finished, rather charming, portrait in oils of a young girl. It was a large room, conventionally furnished with Wilton carpet and chintz covers, but it expressed the personality of the master of the house.
‘We’ve had the pleasure of meeting your Charlie,’ said Kershaw. ‘A nice unassuming boy. I liked him.’ Charlie! Archery sat very still, trying not to feel affronted. Charles’s eligibility, after all, was not in question.
Quite suddenly Renee Kershaw spoke. ‘We all like him,’ she said. Her accent was just the same as Wexford’s. ‘But I’m sure I don’t know how they plan to
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