Free Take No Farewell - Retail by Robert Goddard

Don’t desert me now, Geoffrey. Not after this.’
    ‘Never.’ I kissed her. ‘I will never desert you.’
    ‘I couldn’t bear it if you did.’
    ‘I won’t.’
    ‘You promise?’
    ‘As God is my witness.’ I kissed her again and smiled. I am yours for ever.’

Chapter Three
    WHEN THE DOCTORS told Imry he could hope for no improvement in his condition so long as he inflicted the smogs of London on his lungs, he bought a cottage out at Wendover, on the scarp of the Chilterns, where he led a quiet fresh-air existence, doing a modest amount of work for the partnership whilst endeavouring to recover his health. We spoke every few days by telephone and saw each other at least once a month, so he was by no means out of touch. And besides, even if he had made no contribution to the work at all, I would still have sought his advice on other matters.
    For Imry Renshaw is the best and firmest of friends, that rarest of gems in the seams of humanity: a genuinely good man. Never down-hearted, never reproachful, never less than those who know him hope to find him. He realizes that the effects of the mustard gas he inhaled in 1916 will never leave him, that his condition, in all probability, will slowly worsen, but he will not admit as much, to himself or to others. He faces all the missiles of life with cheerful defiance.
    There were two reasons why I felt the need of Imry’s company that Saturday last October, when my wife and Maudie Davenport went to select their fifteen guinea gowns at Harrods. I needed to speak to somebody about Consuela’s plight. I needed to convince myself – or be persuaded – that there was nothing I could do to help her. Imry was the only person I could turn to, the nearest I knew to a disinterested observer. And he had one other recommendation. He alone knew how I had betrayed Consuela in the past.
    I reached Wendover a little after midday and followed the familiar route from the station up a winding lane to Imry’s half-timbered cottage, Sunnylea. His housekeeper was on the premises and offered to include me in the meal she was preparing. As for my friend, he was to be found in an outhouse, planting bulbs in pots and puffing on the pipe he had been advised to give up. He had discovered the joys of gardening since leaving London and would regularly discourse, given half a chance, on the miraculous qualities of home-grown vegetables. But the role of carefree countryman did not fool me for an instant. He still looked thinner and hollower-chested than he should, he still seemed perpetually short of breath and any digging or lifting, when it came to it, would be done by another.
    ‘Hello, Geoff. Good to see you.’ In the warmth of his voice and his smile was the assurance that his words were sincere.
    ‘Hello, Imry. How are you?’
    ‘Not at all bad. Has Mrs Lewis offered you lunch?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Splendid.’ He dibbled in the last bulb and turned to face me. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Geoff? This isn’t a scheduled visit.’
    I grinned. ‘Spur of the moment.’
    ‘Really? Not the spur of something else?’
    I shrugged. ‘Such as?’
    He stepped across to the other side of the shed and pulled a newspaper from a pile of old copies wedged under a broken sieve. Then he folded it open at a particular page and handed it to me. It was Wednesday’s
Daily Telegraph
and carried a prominent report of the second day of Consuela’s hearing.
    ‘Ah,’ I said weakly.
    ‘Want to talk about it?’
    ‘Yes. I rather think I do.’
    It was after lunch, by a sizzling log fire, over jugs of some local ale he favoured, that Imry and I discussed the case. At first, the relief of simply being able to speak of it was enough for me, but once that barrier was surmounted another lay in wait. Was she guilty or not?
    ‘It was only a hearing,’ Imry pointed out. ‘No defence evidence was heard.’
    ‘But if there’d been a convincing answer to the allegations, surely her solicitor would have given