“How?”

“Because I went through the dustbins.”

When Rory reached Cornwallis Grove, Julian Dawlish answered the door.

“Ah, Wentwood,” he said. “Splendid. We need a strong pair of arms. I say, you look a bit the worse for wear, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I had a bit of an argument with a couple of drunks last night.”

“My dear chap, are you-”

Rory cut in, “It looks worse than it is. I’m fine.”

Dawlish shot him a swift, intelligent glance. “Come and sit down. I’ll call Miss Kensley.” He shouted upstairs, “It’s Mr. Wentwood.”

Rory followed Dawlish into the drawing room. “What’s happening?”

“Miss Kensley wanted to clear out her father’s room, and I promised to give her a hand.”

For the first time Rory could remember since his return from India, the drawing room felt warm. The curtains were drawn and a substantial fire was burning in the grate.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Dawlish attacked the fire with a poker and the flames licked up the chimney. The door opened and Fenella came in. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. Her hair was covered with a scarf, and she was wearing slacks.

“Hello, Rory.” She stopped. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

He repeated what he had told Dawlish.

“I was just saying to Julian we could do with your help,” she went on, once she had established that he wasn’t seriously hurt.

Julian? He was Mr. Dawlish yesterday evening.

“We’re clearing out Daddy’s room-his workshop upstairs. There’s an awful lot of rubbish, and some of it’s quite heavy.”

“Unfinished oil paintings?” Rory said. “Broken armchairs? Disembowelled clocks?”

“And a half-built wardrobe,” Fenella replied. “A case of so-called geological specimens. Lots of stuffed birds. Three crystal receivers-wireless was the big thing just before his last illness. He used to listen to the Savoy Orpheans on his headphones, tapping his feet and whistling along. It drove Mother mad. Before that it was going to be reupholstering antique armchairs and selling them to any American millionaires who happened to be passing.” She smiled at Dawlish. “Daddy changed his hobby about once every three months. They were all going to make him rich. He spent a fortune on them. Some of it must be worth a few bob still.”

She sat down on the sofa and the men followed suit in the chairs on either side of her. She held out her hands to the blaze.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Dawlish said. “I put a bit more coal on. It felt a bit chilly.”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

Rory looked at the fire, which had probably consumed an evening’s supply of fuel in the last half-hour. “Why are you clearing the room now? Will you use it for another lodger? Or can you sell some of the stuff?”

“We should find buyers for some of it, and the rag-and-bone man will take what’s left. But no more lodgers, I hope. Julian’s had an idea.”

“Some friends and I are setting up a small organization,” Dawlish explained. “Fenella has very kindly agreed to act as our secretary.”

“What sort of organization?”

Dawlish gave no sign that he had heard the rudeness in Rory’s voice. “The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism. That’s our provisional title. ASAF for short.”

“Sounds a worthy cause,” Rory said bitterly.

“We think there’s room for it,” Dawlish said. “A need, even. We want to provide a place where left-wingers of various persuasions can meet and discuss things. Joint action is the key, you see. United we stand and divided we fall. I know someone who’s just inherited a house in Mecklenburgh Square, and we can have it for a pepper-corn rent as the headquarters. The members will help with the running expenses. And one of those, of course, will be the salary of the secretary.”

“You must be very pleased,” Rory said to Fenella.

“I am.”

“I thought of Fenella right away,” Dawlish went on. “She has shorthand and typing. And running a little organization like ours will be peanuts compared with running this place and dealing with lodgers.”

Rory said nothing.

“It’s early days yet of course.” Apparently oblivious of any awkwardness, Dawlish beamed like Father bloody Christmas. “We’ll have to see how things work out.”

Rory turned to Fenella. “But what will you do when the lease runs out here? You’ll have to find somewhere to live.”

Dawlish cleared his throat. “It might be useful to have the secretary living on the premises. There’s an old housekeeper’s flat. All it needs is a lick of paint and a few sticks of furniture. So there’s no reason why Fenella shouldn’t let this place and move in whenever she wants.”

How ripping, Rory thought, how absolutely bloody topping with knobs on.

12

THE WOMAN’S stupidity makes you scream. But you put your hands over your mouth so no one but you will hear.

Monday, 3 March 1930 If all goes well, Joseph says there’s no reason why we shouldn’t move within a few weeks. He has sent off for some seed catalogues. He is planning to set up a market garden. Spring in the country! I can hardly believe it. And Jacko will love it too. I saw him today on our way to Mr. Shires’ office. I’m sure Mr. Howlett is a kind man and looks after him very well but I can’t help feeling that there was a very sad look in Jacko’s eyes when I left him. Mr. Shires is the lawyer, and his office is in Rosington Place, almost opposite the chapel which will always be so very special to us. He seems a very pleasant man, rather plump and shy. Joseph tells me he is very good at his job and not expensive. We transacted a great deal of business in about half an hour. It’s such a relief to have Joseph looking after my interests. He and Mr. Shires went through my papers and explained which shares I needed to sell and which to keep. I seem to have been poorly advised before-some of the shares are losing value, and the best thing to do is sell them while we can. I was a little worried, I must admit-I thought that if I sell some of my shares I shall have less income to live on. But Joseph pointed out I should have his income too, and anyway everything is much cheaper in the country. Between us we shall live very comfortably even before the market garden begins making a profit. Mr. Shires had also prepared a letter for me to send to Mr. Orburn, withdrawing my legal business from him and asking him to send my file to Mr. Shires. I felt a little unhappy about this but Joseph said it was purely a matter of professional etiquette, and Mr. Orburn would not be offended. In any case he and his father have earned a handsome amount from us over the years. Joseph and I had a long chat about how we should purchase the farm. The problem is that, even though it will be my farm (or rather ours), if we put it legally in my name then everyone will know that Joseph and I are not yet married-in the eyes of the law, that is. Joseph said there would be all sorts of difficulties if I call myself Mrs. Serridge in a legal document before I am entitled to do so. (He squeezed my hands and said that as far as he was concerned the time couldn’t come too soon.) So I suggested that the best thing might be to put the farm in his name at least for the moment. The dear man objected, saying that it might not be fair to me, but in the end I managed to persuade him. That way our little deception need never come to light. Afterward we had lunch with Joseph’s friend, Captain Ingleby-Lewis, who seems rather fond of his wine. Nevertheless anyone with half an eye can see that he’s a gentleman. The Captain told me confidentially that all the fellows in his Regiment thought very highly of Major Serridge. He said that he (Joseph) is the salt of the earth. He didn’t need to tell me!

Five minutes after persuading her to buy the farm, he’s got her selling her shares to pay for it, cutting herself off from the one person she can trust and practically begging him to put the farm in his name.