Free The Last Summer by Judith Kinghorn Page A

all sure what
sense
I was referring to. ‘And that it doesn’t come to a war. Because it will affect everything, won’t it?’
    ‘Well yes, I should say!’
    ‘Do you suppose we’ll still be able to go to Brighton?’ I asked, for I was still thinking in terms of the days ahead, and our planned excursion to the coast. ‘I’ve been
so
looking forward to it.’
    ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘I suppose it all depends. Mama says if there’s to be a war there’ll need to be a great mobilisation of troops . . . and we’ll all have to do our bit.’
    ‘In what way? How can
we
do anything?’
    ‘Well . . . if all the men go to war, I imagine we’ll have to do all sorts of things.’ She stopped. I stopped. She stared over into the trees, tapping her finger on her lips, pondering, and so I waited; waited to hear what we’d all have to do. ‘Drive motor cars,’ she began, ‘do gardening . . . that sort of thing.’
    It didn’t sound like much to me, and as we moved on I said, ‘But Papa doesn’t garden and neither do my brothers.’
    ‘No, but Broughton does, and think of the under-gardeners, all the outdoor servants you have here who may have to go.’
    ‘Really? You think they’ll want servants as well?’
    ‘Yes, of course, they’ll all have to go and fight, dear.’
    It sounded slightly far-fetched to me. I wasn’t convinced Edina had her facts right. I thought of Broughton: surely he’d not be much use. He was quite old and so gentle, only interested in flowers. And he wouldn’t hurt a fly; was always rescuing injured animals. But if my cousin were right, how would we manage at Deyning without gardeners? I looked around me, across the manicured lawns to the neatly arranged borders where Frank and John were already on their knees and busy. It will all go to wrack and ruin, I thought. The whole place will become overgrown and lost in a wilderness. I looked up towards the house, the west side, and amidst a verdant tangle of Virginia creeper, jasmine and wisteria clinging to its stone façade, there was someone up a ladder there too. There were always people everywhere – attending to something.
    That day no one seemed to want to do anything at all. We simply sat about watching the minutes and hours pass by, just as though we’d all received a death sentence. Telegrams were delivered, telegrams were despatched; and Mrs Cuthbert, Mabel, Wilson and Mr Broughton wore funereal faces, as though they’d already received the bad news they had sworn to keep from us.
    When I met Tom early that evening he was distracted, and as we sat upon the steps of the boathouse we had little to say to each other.
    ‘Strange, isn’t it? Summer seems to have ended already,’ he said, lighting another cigarette.
    I turned to him, placed my hand upon his arm. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment and somehow a touch seemed more voluble than any words. But he simply glanced at my hand and then looked away.
    I don’t know how long we sat there for, but long enough. And when we rose to our feet and I began to walk back towards the house, he called after me, said my name. I turned, expecting him to say something, but he simply stared at me, frowning.
    ‘What is it?’ I asked. And I so wanted to add to that, ‘my darling’.
    ‘Don’t go back yet,’ he said.
    ‘But I must go back. I have to.’
    ‘Clarissa . . .’
    ‘Yes?’
    He looked down at the grass. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said.
    When I arrived back at the house I bumped into Mama in the hallway.
    ‘Have you seen Tom?’ she asked.
    I swallowed. ‘No, why?’
    ‘I thought I’d invite him to join us for dinner. It’s Edna’s night off and Mrs Cuthbert’s cooking for us. He shouldn’t be on his own at a time like this,’ she added, and walked off towards the servants’ hall.
    I stood still; I could hear Mama asking Mrs Cuthbert if Tom would like to join us for dinner, but I couldn’t quite hear Mrs Cuthbert’s reply; and then I heard