A Period of Adjustment by Dirk Bogarde Page A

are being deceitful! Stand up at once!” He was really cross. So I did. And he made medrop the cloth in the water. And made me stand there …’ Suddenly he wiped his mouth with a fist.
    My heart had started racing. Keeping a very level voice I heard myself say, ‘And then what? What then, Giles?’
    â€˜He … touched me.’
    â€˜Shoulders, head, where?’
    â€˜There. He touched me there. You know …’ He was still looking straight ahead.
    A goat suddenly pushed through the hedge, skittered about, I swerved, it pushed back again in a scatter of leaves. I slowed down.
    â€˜And? Anything else?’ I was still calm, quiet.
    â€˜He said, “What a lucky little boy.” I don’t know why.’
    â€˜And did he go?’
    â€˜Yes. He went away then. I cried a bit. A little bit. I don’t know why. So I only had a bath after that when he wasn’t staying. Not if he was there, and Mum got furious sometimes. But I never said.’
    â€˜I’m glad that you said it to me. Thanks. I don’t know why he did that. Perhaps he was just being … I really don’t know … funny, jokey? What about that?’
    â€˜He was cross! His face was red. He squeezed me there hard. I hate him. You are my best friend, you don’t mind I said that?’
    â€˜I’m very glad you did. I’m honoured to be your best friend. Thank you.’
    â€˜So you won’t tell, will you? I mean you are. My very best friend. Of course you are the
oldest
best friend I’ve ever had, but you don’t mind, do you?’
    â€˜Not in the very least. Thanks.’
    But my blood was raging. Ahead another sign board. Saint-Basile 2 km.
    We turned right with a screech of tyres. I was taking the corner too fast, but I knew that if I ever set eyes on Eric Rhys-Evans I’d end up in the Old Bailey. Guilty.

Chapter 3
    The next morning I got up well before Giles, as I usually did in the Pavilion, and washed and shaved while he lay as if for dead. There was not enough room for the pair of us to move about with soap and razor or socks and shirts. So I got myself ready first and, knotting my tie, called him to wake up.
    â€˜I
am
awake. I’ve been awake for hours.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you get up?’
    â€˜Nothing to do. What would I do?’ He clambered slowly out of bed and shook his head. ‘It’s a really mouldy room this, and the lav’s miles away.’
    â€˜I’m going down to breakfast. Don’t take all day, I want to get over to Jericho early and I’ve got to dump you at the Theobalds before. Clean your teeth. Remember?’
    In the trellis-and-rose-papered dining-room only Monsieur Forbin, the walker who had moved me out of my room, and I were present. He was pouring coffee, reading
Var Matin
propped against a pot of white daisies. We nodded across at each other. He set down his coffee pot, poured milk. He was about seventy, in stout walking-boots and flapping khaki shorts. Eugène came swiftly through the swing door from the kitchen with a small foil-wrappedpacket and a half-bottle of Evian which he set on Monsieur Forbin’s table, then brought me my coffee and a dish of hot croissants covered with a little cloth.
    â€˜The boy will come?’ He hardly awaited my word of agreement, hurried away with a rustle of white apron through the click-clacking door.
    A small dog careered suddenly into the room followed by two thin women with short grey hair and knitted cardigans. They were laughing quietly about something, took their places at a corner table with a scraping of chairs. One of them called the dog away from Monsieur Forbin’s side, where it sat expectantly. He ignored it entirely.
    â€˜Dollie! Dollie! Viens!’
    Eugène came in again with a tray of fruit juice in a jug for them. The conversation was animated, the dog sniffed about at Eugène’s feet, with a little hiss he lightly kicked it.