Invasion by Julian Stockwin Page A

of repute at chapel.
    Dinner was announced: Kydd took the place of honour at the other end of the table from his father and nodded to Mr. Partington, who respectfully asked about his sea career. He was lodging at the house but it seemed he had an understanding with a certain young lady and his hopes for connubial bliss were well advanced.
    The unreality crept back. Each had found their place in life and, in a quiet way, had prospered. He, on the other hand, had experienced so much that to tell of it could only invite incomprehension of a world they could not be expected to understand. He was possessed of means beyond any of their imaginings and of memories that could never really be shared; there was now an unbridgeable distance between himself and his folk.
    It wasn’t meant to be like this, his homecoming. He glanced about the room, saw the darted admiring glances, heard the shy chatter, the awkwardly addressed conversation. Perhaps it was because he had been away for so long that they were unsure of him—but in his heart he knew this was not so.
    After the cloth was drawn and he was left with his parents he would bring out his surprise. With rising elation he waited until he had their full attention. “Ma, Pa, I’ve somethin’ to tell ye!”
    â€œAye, son?” his mother said quickly, clasping her hands over her knees in excitement. “Is she pretty a-tall?”
    A shadow passed over his face. “No, Ma, it’s not that. It’s—it’s that I’ve done main well in the article o’ prize-takin’ and it’s to tell y’ both I’m now going to see ye into a grand mansion—a prodigious-sized one as ye both deserve.”
    Mrs. Kydd looked at him with some perplexity. “Thomas, dear, we’re comfortable here, y’ knows.”
    Kydd looked at her fondly. “Aye, that’s as may be, but here’s the chance to live like the quality in a great house wi’ rooms an’ grounds an’ things . . .”
    â€œA big house’d be a worry, dear.”
    â€œNo, Ma! There’s servants as’ll take charge of it for ye. An’ then, o’ course—”
    â€œNot now, Thomas, love.”
    â€œMa! Tomorrow I can talk to the—”
    â€œListen, dear. We’re happy here. It’s all we need an’ don’t f’ get, y’r father’s eyes might ha’ failed him but he knows his way about here. A great big place, why, we’d all get lost. Not only that, but what would I put in all them rooms?”
    Taken aback, Kydd could only say, “Ye’ll soon be used to it, Ma. Then ye’ll—”
    â€œNo, son,” his father said firmly. “Pay heed t’ what your mother just said. We stays.”
    â€œYes, Pa.”
    â€œBut thank ’ee most kindly for thinkin’ of us in that way, son.” “Yes, Pa.”
    His mother brightly changed the subject. “I’ve jus’ remembered. Mrs. Bawkins always has us t’ tea on Thursdays. Would ye like t’ come an’ say hello?”
    It was the best room in the Angel but Kydd did not sleep well. He took his breakfast early and, as he watched High Street come alive through the quaint windows of the dining room, tried to shake off a lowering dissatisfaction.
    He started to walk to his parents’ home, then realised it would be too early for them and turned back down the hill. The previous evening had not been what he had looked forward to and his parents’ refusal of his offer had given him pause to think.
    Guildford was just the same—or was it? The tradesmen were out in the old ways, their cries echoing in the streets as shops were opened and the town woke to another day. But it seemed subtly different.
    He reached the bottom of the street and the bridge over the river Wey where the road led to the south and Portsmouth. He wanted time to reflect so he wandered down to the towpath, its curving