mother,’ Kate said, resuming her more severe manner, ‘when they locked Tim up. She tried to conceal it, but it was. And I’ve no doubt she’s imagining the same thing now.’
‘Yes,’ Averell said quietly. ‘As a matter of fact, she is.’
‘And Tim’s a very tiresome young man. Tiresome Tim is how he was born, I think.’ Gillian produced these unfavourable judgements vehemently but not to an effect of any great conviction. ‘Oh, dear! I forgot the sherry.’
The sherry was produced, and Ruth made a brief appearance to share it. She then returned to the kitchen; Kate went to the dining-room to lay the table; Gillian disappeared in order to ensure the nocturnal comfort of Smoky Joe. So there was no further talk about what was so plainly in everybody’s head. There was, in fact, none until, shortly before bedtime, Tim Barcroft made his unexpected homecoming to Boxes.
7
The young man had let himself in with a latchkey – and surely very quietly, since nobody had heard a sound until he was in the room. Perhaps he had intended a childish effect of surprise. And surprise of a sort he did achieve: this by striding straight to the window, drawing back a curtain, and peering intently into the dark. It was the window, as it happened, through which the mysterious intruder had done his peeping a few hours before.
Averell decided that he didn’t at all like this theatrical behaviour. It was disturbing Ruth, and his nieces were clearly uncertain whether or not they were being entertained to an obscure joke. Yet in a moment it was over, and Tim, seemingly much at his ease, was standing in front of the fireplace and glancing at his relations smilingly.
‘Here’s the prodigal son come home,’ he said. ‘And the fatted calf actually all ready prepared! Uncle Gilbert’s the fatted calf. Let’s fall to and devour him.’
‘Tim, dear,’ Ruth said.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ Tim bent down swiftly and kissed his mother, and when he straightened up again his manner had changed. ‘Did I worry you on the telephone?’ he asked. ‘It was stupid of me, and I’m sorry. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I was upset by something so trivial that it would be idiotic to talk about it. Short of the fatted calf, is there anything in the larder? I’m splendidly hungry.’
Much as if they really were in the habit of scurrying to fetch their brother his slippers, Kate and Gillian vanished into the kitchen. And their mother, too, rose.
‘I must take a look at your bedroom, dear,’ she said. And she walked rather slowly from the room. It was an action that gave Averell an immediate pause. The girls had been thinking only of feeding their brother on demand. But Ruth’s thus immediately withdrawing had been prompted by something else, and its effect on her brother was that of having had a ball swiftly lobbed into his court. Ruth had decided that, despite Tim’s so briskly asserting there was nothing to worry about, something was on foot that men had best get down to together. And now it looked as if she was right.
‘I’m damned glad you’re here,’ Tim said abruptly. ‘I’d no idea. But I’ll have this quick meal by the fire, talking any nonsense I can. Please play it that way, Uncle Gilbert. And then we’ll get them off to bed.’
‘Very well.’ For the moment, Averell could think of nothing more to say. He was wondering whether Tim had gone off his head, and a glance at the young man was far from reassuring. It was as if, alone with his uncle, he had fleetingly let fall a mask. ‘Wild eyed’ would be the right description of him – that, and possibly ‘haggard’ as well. But perhaps it was simply that he was, for some reason, physically exhausted. He looked as if he had been travelling fast and far, and very uncomfortably as well.
The three women returned, and Tim sat down to his meal. He drank a glass of the remaining wine, but didn’t finish the bottle. He made no offer to explain
‘Yes,’ Averell said quietly. ‘As a matter of fact, she is.’
‘And Tim’s a very tiresome young man. Tiresome Tim is how he was born, I think.’ Gillian produced these unfavourable judgements vehemently but not to an effect of any great conviction. ‘Oh, dear! I forgot the sherry.’
The sherry was produced, and Ruth made a brief appearance to share it. She then returned to the kitchen; Kate went to the dining-room to lay the table; Gillian disappeared in order to ensure the nocturnal comfort of Smoky Joe. So there was no further talk about what was so plainly in everybody’s head. There was, in fact, none until, shortly before bedtime, Tim Barcroft made his unexpected homecoming to Boxes.
7
The young man had let himself in with a latchkey – and surely very quietly, since nobody had heard a sound until he was in the room. Perhaps he had intended a childish effect of surprise. And surprise of a sort he did achieve: this by striding straight to the window, drawing back a curtain, and peering intently into the dark. It was the window, as it happened, through which the mysterious intruder had done his peeping a few hours before.
Averell decided that he didn’t at all like this theatrical behaviour. It was disturbing Ruth, and his nieces were clearly uncertain whether or not they were being entertained to an obscure joke. Yet in a moment it was over, and Tim, seemingly much at his ease, was standing in front of the fireplace and glancing at his relations smilingly.
‘Here’s the prodigal son come home,’ he said. ‘And the fatted calf actually all ready prepared! Uncle Gilbert’s the fatted calf. Let’s fall to and devour him.’
‘Tim, dear,’ Ruth said.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ Tim bent down swiftly and kissed his mother, and when he straightened up again his manner had changed. ‘Did I worry you on the telephone?’ he asked. ‘It was stupid of me, and I’m sorry. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I was upset by something so trivial that it would be idiotic to talk about it. Short of the fatted calf, is there anything in the larder? I’m splendidly hungry.’
Much as if they really were in the habit of scurrying to fetch their brother his slippers, Kate and Gillian vanished into the kitchen. And their mother, too, rose.
‘I must take a look at your bedroom, dear,’ she said. And she walked rather slowly from the room. It was an action that gave Averell an immediate pause. The girls had been thinking only of feeding their brother on demand. But Ruth’s thus immediately withdrawing had been prompted by something else, and its effect on her brother was that of having had a ball swiftly lobbed into his court. Ruth had decided that, despite Tim’s so briskly asserting there was nothing to worry about, something was on foot that men had best get down to together. And now it looked as if she was right.
‘I’m damned glad you’re here,’ Tim said abruptly. ‘I’d no idea. But I’ll have this quick meal by the fire, talking any nonsense I can. Please play it that way, Uncle Gilbert. And then we’ll get them off to bed.’
‘Very well.’ For the moment, Averell could think of nothing more to say. He was wondering whether Tim had gone off his head, and a glance at the young man was far from reassuring. It was as if, alone with his uncle, he had fleetingly let fall a mask. ‘Wild eyed’ would be the right description of him – that, and possibly ‘haggard’ as well. But perhaps it was simply that he was, for some reason, physically exhausted. He looked as if he had been travelling fast and far, and very uncomfortably as well.
The three women returned, and Tim sat down to his meal. He drank a glass of the remaining wine, but didn’t finish the bottle. He made no offer to explain
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