gritting his teeth against the sickening contraction of his ruined back
muscles. For a time he thought he would indeed puke on his friend's boots. Presently the room
stopped heaving. Something cool touched his sweating face. A wet cloth.
"My God, how shall I stand it?"
The cloth touched his brow again.
"How?" he repeated, angry.
"I don't know how," Richard said quietly, "but you will."
"Easy for you to say."
Richard did not respond.
Presently Tom's breathing steadied.
"'Thou knowest, 'tis common, All that lives must die, Passing through Nature to
Eternity.'" Richard's voice was wry and sad.
Tom said bitterly, "Aye, it is common. But not easy."
He felt the cloth touch his face again. Richard did not speak, for which Tom was grateful.
He knew he was behaving badly. When he could command his patience, he said, "Where's
Sims?"
"I sent him to see about food. You'll have to eat something solid for a change."
Tom swallowed. "You can stop soothing my fevered brow."
Richard rose and carried the cloth and a basin which had apparently been sitting on the
uneven floor into the scullery. Tom followed him with his eyes. Richard was a long time about his
chore. The back door opened. Was he leaving? Do I care? Tom stared at the ceiling. A
spider dangled coyly from the middle beam, almost motionless in the still air. "Did you give up?"
Tom whispered. The spider continued to dangle.
He heard the back door close. Richard entered, his hair damp. "Raining," he said
unnecessarily. "Spring squall. It'll blow over by morning." He walked over to the spindly secretary,
shoving his hair from his eyes with an impatient hand. "Damn."
"What is it?"
"I've blotted my blasted copybook." He leaned one hand on the desk and moved the sheet
of foolscap carefully out of range.
"Why do you write that tripe?"
"Money."
"Is there money in it?"
Richard straightened, wriggling his shoulders as if they ached. "Enough. I screwed twenty
more pounds out of Hitchins this time." He turned, a fugitive smile in his eyes. "I thought I could
intimidate him better in person than by post. I was right."
Tom felt his mouth quirk in unwilling response.
"Easier?"
"Yes."
"Good. What do you say to the brandy now?"
"I say no. Finish your own, however."
Obediently, Richard sat once again by the daybed and toyed with the brandy glass.
"Fool."
Richard raised his glass in ironic salute and tossed off the contents.
"I want you to leave tomorrow," Tom said and knew he lied. The realisation surprised
him.
"When you're on your feet."
"No. Tomorrow. Your children..."
"I don't intend to go to Hampshire."
"Then why the devil did you come home with me? I thought that was the excuse you gave
Daddy Hill." General Hill was notoriously softhearted.
Richard set the empty glass carefully on the small table.
"Why?"
"To see Hitchens and deliver the manuscript."
"If you think I need a nursemaid--"
"If I hadn't come Bevis would have. Your affinity for the sea is well known."
"Sims--"
"Rather hard on Sims, don't you think? It took two of us. Three," he amended
thoughtfully. "McGrath lent a hand, too."
"Where's McGrath?" McGrath was Richard's servant, a black Irishman with a villainous
squint and the disposition of a camel.
"Dallying with his wife."
"In Hampshire?"
Richard inclined his head.
Tom drew a breath. "Then I think you should join him."
"I never meant to go down to Mellings. Why should I?"
"Why! My God."
Richard rose, walked to the leaded window and stood staring out at the distant mass of
the sea. He did not speak.
"I don't understand you."
"You're not required to."
"God damn your eyes," Tom said softly. "I may not be required to, but I will." Very
slowly and with exquisite care he rolled to his left side and swung his long, breeches-clad legs over
the edge of the couch. It was sudden sharp motion that hurt.
He levered himself to a sitting position by careful inches, his arm shaking with the strain
of bearing his weight. He straightened. When he
muscles. For a time he thought he would indeed puke on his friend's boots. Presently the room
stopped heaving. Something cool touched his sweating face. A wet cloth.
"My God, how shall I stand it?"
The cloth touched his brow again.
"How?" he repeated, angry.
"I don't know how," Richard said quietly, "but you will."
"Easy for you to say."
Richard did not respond.
Presently Tom's breathing steadied.
"'Thou knowest, 'tis common, All that lives must die, Passing through Nature to
Eternity.'" Richard's voice was wry and sad.
Tom said bitterly, "Aye, it is common. But not easy."
He felt the cloth touch his face again. Richard did not speak, for which Tom was grateful.
He knew he was behaving badly. When he could command his patience, he said, "Where's
Sims?"
"I sent him to see about food. You'll have to eat something solid for a change."
Tom swallowed. "You can stop soothing my fevered brow."
Richard rose and carried the cloth and a basin which had apparently been sitting on the
uneven floor into the scullery. Tom followed him with his eyes. Richard was a long time about his
chore. The back door opened. Was he leaving? Do I care? Tom stared at the ceiling. A
spider dangled coyly from the middle beam, almost motionless in the still air. "Did you give up?"
Tom whispered. The spider continued to dangle.
He heard the back door close. Richard entered, his hair damp. "Raining," he said
unnecessarily. "Spring squall. It'll blow over by morning." He walked over to the spindly secretary,
shoving his hair from his eyes with an impatient hand. "Damn."
"What is it?"
"I've blotted my blasted copybook." He leaned one hand on the desk and moved the sheet
of foolscap carefully out of range.
"Why do you write that tripe?"
"Money."
"Is there money in it?"
Richard straightened, wriggling his shoulders as if they ached. "Enough. I screwed twenty
more pounds out of Hitchins this time." He turned, a fugitive smile in his eyes. "I thought I could
intimidate him better in person than by post. I was right."
Tom felt his mouth quirk in unwilling response.
"Easier?"
"Yes."
"Good. What do you say to the brandy now?"
"I say no. Finish your own, however."
Obediently, Richard sat once again by the daybed and toyed with the brandy glass.
"Fool."
Richard raised his glass in ironic salute and tossed off the contents.
"I want you to leave tomorrow," Tom said and knew he lied. The realisation surprised
him.
"When you're on your feet."
"No. Tomorrow. Your children..."
"I don't intend to go to Hampshire."
"Then why the devil did you come home with me? I thought that was the excuse you gave
Daddy Hill." General Hill was notoriously softhearted.
Richard set the empty glass carefully on the small table.
"Why?"
"To see Hitchens and deliver the manuscript."
"If you think I need a nursemaid--"
"If I hadn't come Bevis would have. Your affinity for the sea is well known."
"Sims--"
"Rather hard on Sims, don't you think? It took two of us. Three," he amended
thoughtfully. "McGrath lent a hand, too."
"Where's McGrath?" McGrath was Richard's servant, a black Irishman with a villainous
squint and the disposition of a camel.
"Dallying with his wife."
"In Hampshire?"
Richard inclined his head.
Tom drew a breath. "Then I think you should join him."
"I never meant to go down to Mellings. Why should I?"
"Why! My God."
Richard rose, walked to the leaded window and stood staring out at the distant mass of
the sea. He did not speak.
"I don't understand you."
"You're not required to."
"God damn your eyes," Tom said softly. "I may not be required to, but I will." Very
slowly and with exquisite care he rolled to his left side and swung his long, breeches-clad legs over
the edge of the couch. It was sudden sharp motion that hurt.
He levered himself to a sitting position by careful inches, his arm shaking with the strain
of bearing his weight. He straightened. When he
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