Free A Future Arrived by Phillip Rock

She called him to sympathize and promised to send a Yorkshire ham.”
    â€œDulcie ill?” Fenton asked.
    â€œHad the tubes tied—thank God and about time, too. That last miscarriage nearly did her in. No heirs from us and that’s certain.”
    â€œWho is Glynis, by the way?” Martin asked.
    William laughed. “The vicar’s niece. A pallid, mousy little thing. Mother finds her attractive only because she’s remained unmarried, and impregnably virgin I daresay, to the age of thirty. Any unattached female of acceptable social background is fair game for Mother’s artful nets.”
    â€œI have the impression Charles isn’t interested in women at the moment.”
    â€œQuite so. He wants only to be left alone in the sanctuary of Burgate House School. Wouldn’t you agree, Fenton?”
    â€œI’m afraid so, yes.”
    William shook his leonine head. “Christ! Talk about a lost generation. If all the people ruined by the war had their names carved on stone shafts there wouldn’t be quarries enough to mine them!”
    They were in the shadow of the war memorial at the top of the High Street …
    FOR KING AND COUNTRY
    1914–1918
    â€¦ chiseled into the pale marble. Martin avoided looking at it. He knew only one of the names carved below the inscription—Ivy Thaxton Rilke of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service—but that one was enough.
    â€œHow was Ireland?” he asked as they crossed the street.
    â€œWet. But successful. I bought a super colt in Kilkenny. A real Derby prospect.”
    â€œFor yourself?”
    â€œYes. The old Biscuit Tin Stables. I’ve stopped training for others, although it was fun while it lasted—especially in the States. Saratoga … Belmont. I’ll miss all that … and the bloody marvelous parties Jock Haynes used to toss at East Hampton. Poor old Jock. I understand he lost everything in the crash.”
    They turned off the busy street and down a short, cobblestoned alley that led to the Rose and Crown, Abingdon’s oldest public house. William ducked through the low doorway of a tobacconist to buy a box of cigarettes while Fenton and Martin continued walking slowly toward the pub.
    â€œHesitate to ask, old boy,” Fenton drawled, “but how did Mistress Wall Street treat you?”
    â€œWith a kiss on the brow. I was advised to sell out a few months before the deluge. The only shares I owned were CBC radio. Bought them at twelve dollars and sold at three hundred and five. They’re down to eighteen today. I made a fortune and someone got burned. Feel a bit guilty about it, to tell the truth.”
    â€œNo need to feel that. A fundamental economic law. For every winner on the stock exchange there are ten who lose their shirts.”
    To step inside the Rose and Crown was to step back in time. It could have been 1913 in the murky, dark oak interior, or 1813 for that matter. No American-style cocktails were served. Beer in oak barrels from the Kentish Weald. Scotch whisky in stone crocks. Good English gin—not blasphemed by French vermouth. The only concession to the times was ice for the gin and tonics—but then only on request and grudgingly, and sparingly, slipped into the glass from a teaspoon. Fenton ordered three pints of bitter. When William entered the crowded bar he was quickly surrounded by a boisterous group of men all sporting cloth caps, checked tweed jackets, and riding boots. He introduced them as friends from the racing circuit and members of the Abingdon Hunt Club. The ensuing conversation regarding steeplechasing as compared to flat racing was too esoteric for Martin and Fenton, who slipped away with their beers and went outside to sit on a bench beside a whitewashed wall.
    â€œHorses!” Fenton muttered in disgust. “Whoever it was who said that England was hell for horses and heaven for women didn’t know what he was