Tears of Autumn, The (2 page)

And now he had met a girl and he was the one in thrall to a
woman’s beauty.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

She put a hand on his arm.

‘Nothing to be sorry about dear. I’m so proud of you.’ She turned to the girls. ‘I see you’ve met Rosemary.’ There was a twinkle in her eyes. She had guessed that her son would find his sister’s new friend attractive.

Elizabeth piped up. ‘I’ve just asked Jack if he’ll come home this weekend and join the tennis party at the Peacocks on Saturday – isn’t that so, Jack? What do you say?’

He looked at Rosemary.

‘Will you be there?’

The blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

‘Oh, yes, most definitely.’

His sister laughed at him as his face showed his delight.

‘Don’t be flattered, Biff,’ she said ‘Biff’ with heavy emphasis, ‘Rosemary’s surname is Peacock.’

He must have looked so crestfallen that Rosemary took pity on him and said: ‘My mixed doubles partner can’t make it, and Elizabeth tells me you’re enthusiastic, if not very talented. Would you consider partnering me?’

Would he!

‘Of course – it would be a pleasure.’

‘Good.’

In mock shock Elizabeth said to Rosemary, ‘Oh, you little toad, I asked him first.’

He spent the rest of the reception looking at her, being moonstruck, as his sister said, and every time some of his fellow officers crowded in he grew terribly jealous, afraid he’d lose her.

At last his father said it was time to leave.

‘I’ll see you on Saturday then, Miss Peacock.’

‘Please – call me Rosemary.’

He did so. ‘Rosemary.’ It sounded wonderful.

She smiled. ‘We’re starting at eleven and there’s luncheon and high tea. We’ll be on third, I think. We can have a knock-up on
the back court first.’

‘Right.’

She held out her hand.

‘Goodbye – and congratulations again.’

He took the slim gloved hand.

‘Thank you. I’ll do my best on Saturday.’

She gave him a smile, eyes twinkling.

‘I’m sure you will.’

His mother suddenly enveloped him in a hug and kissed him on both cheeks, and his father followed with a fine handshake and an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

‘Well done, my boy. We knew you would do it.’

Which was more than he had thought at one point. His sister gave him a peck on the cheek as well, and whispered in his ear.

‘Rosemary’s a good friend. You behave yourself, now – no messing her around.’

He didn’t really know what she meant, but he went bright red all the same and snorted: ‘Of course, sis. What do you take me for?’

His sister shook her head.

‘A man, Jack – at last.’

He went with them to the car, a large Austin Fourteen. His father was driving, mother seated beside him, the two girls in the back, their faces framed by their hats inside the darker interior of the car.

They all waved and he did his best to concentrate on everyone, but really, he only had eyes for Rosemary.

As the RAF personnel guided the cars out of the field he stood there, just able to see the corner of her hat through the small back window. Suddenly the brim moved, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of her face. It thrilled him no end – she
had
looked back.

A couple of his fellow students were passing by. One of them, a bit of a toff who had been at Harrow and Oxford before joining the Air Force said: ‘Nice looker, Banks. Too tall for you, though.’ It hit a raw nerve.

He swung around, fists bunching up. ‘Careful, De Vere, you might find yourself on the deck.’

Despite being six foot two the flash of apprehension in De Vere’s eyes was very satisfying.

All the same, Jack was upset. It was true that Rosemary was the same height as his sister, and could look him in the eye, and would be taller with high heels. He cheered up. She didn’t seem to care. De Vere drawled again.

‘Steady old boy – no offence meant.’

Jack grinned, feeling better.

‘None taken –
old
boy.’

Later that night they all got hopelessly drunk on a mixture of champagne, gin and whisky and played British Bulldog inside the mess. Alot of furniture got broken, and Jack ruefully contemplated the thought that his mess bill could be pretty steep, he might even have to ask his father for a loan.

‘Biff’

He suddenly came to as a woman shook his arm. ‘Biff.’

He looked at her blankly for a moment and then realized it was the wife of his friend who had been the town’s mayor when he had been the chairman of the local bench.

‘Biff, we should start going upstairs for the lunch.’ She helped him to his feet and they made their way slowly to the lift that took them up to the dining room. Not everybody was invited to the lunch, so they had been asked, as always, to make their way discreetly and to be in place by 12.45. When they entered the room there were lots of round tables with bright white cloths and place settings, with flowers decorating the centre of each table.

Slowly the room filled up, many people coming over to say hello to him.

The judges and their wives gathered around one table, the judges dressed now in their ordinary suits. Eventually the high sheriff and his wife took their positions, and it was announced
that the bishop would say grace.

After that they all sat down and immediately the noise in the room rose.

As white wine was poured into his glass it caught the sun.…

He drew the Singer sports car on to the gravelled drive of the large house, past the fountain, where the sun was glinting on the bubbling water. Several other cars were parked around the house. He pulled on the handbrake, turned off the engine and jumped out without opening the door, collecting his racket and bag from the back seat. He was dressed in his white flannels, with his striped cricket blazer and cravat.

The big front door was shut, but he could hear laughter and the sound of balls being whacked coming from around the side of the house.

He made his way along the stone path. Disappointed, he had had no idea it was going to be such a big do: there were at least thirty-five people sitting or standing outside the pavilion situated beyond two grass courts. Another court lay to the side.

Aimlessly and a little deflated he mingled with the crowd, watching two mixed doubles matches going on, until a voice called out:

‘Biff – over here.’

He turned, and there she was, wearing a brilliant white tennis skirt, quite short, at least compared to those of the ladies who played with his mother, and a top with straps made of metal figures of eight, leaving her shoulders bare.

Her blonde hair was held back off her face by a bandeau. If anything she looked better than before: something he wouldn’t have thought possible.

He made his way towards her, irritated that she was surrounded by three young bucks.

‘Hello there, sorry I’m late.’

She smiled, and his heart soared.

‘Better late than never. Have you met my brother?’

He dragged his attention from her to one of the men, feeling better and a little ashamed of himself. He held out his hand. ‘No, I’m Jack Banks.’

She chipped in, grinning, ‘But they call him Biff.’

Her brother shook his hand, and chuckled.

‘How do you do – Biff. I’m John Peacock. These are a couple of friends of mine.’

He shook hands with them as they introduced themselves.

His jealousy came back again as he saw Rosemary looking admiringly at one of them, called Robert, who was telling the crowd about his time in Australia. Eventually he butted in rather awkwardly.

‘I’ve brought my racket.’

He waved it around like some schoolboy, realizing he was being rather gauche.

They all looked at him for a moment, then the men exchanged sly grins as Rosemary said with a throaty chuckle: ‘Keen aren’t we? All right come on Biff, let’s see how good you are.’

Miserably he trailed after her as she made her way to the third court. What a fool he was making of himself.

Two people had just finished having a knock-up. They stopped and talked to her as he waited like an idiot.

Then she turned to him and said: ‘I’ll take the other end.’ With that she skipped off. Surreptitiously, he couldn’t take his eyes off her flapping skirt and slim legs.

They knocked the ball sedately back and forth for a while.

She moved freely, reaching his shots with ease, her backhand particularly accurate.

When the ball hit the net and dropped back on his side for the fourth time she said: ‘Shall we have a game?’

He picked up the ball.

‘If you like, though I’m not sure I’m going to give you much of a run for your money.’

‘You serve first,’ she ordered. He dutifully took up his position on the baseline, bouncing the ball several times before
throwing it up and whacking it – straight into the net. Rosemary, who had been standing ready to receive, straightened up and relaxed, bouncing up and down on her toes before resuming her stance.

This time he didn’t hit the ball with anything like the strength of the first, and it sailed over the net – to be seized on by Rosemary who slammed it straight back up the court. He ruefully made for the opposite corner.

She beat him in the end 6-3 6-4, running up to the net with her hand held out.

‘Thank you – and thank you for really trying.’

He took it, finding it slim and cool, but she had quite hard skin on her palm and fingers. It was something she was aware of, perhaps embarrassed by, as she said quickly: ‘Comes from riding – I take care of my own horses.’ She pulled off the bandeau that she had put on to hold her hair off her face and eyes.

‘Come on, let’s get some Pimms.’

He walked beside her.

‘What did you mean – thank you for really trying?’

‘Oh, it’s just some young men think it’s ungallant to beat a woman.’

He pulled a wry face.

‘I wouldn’t think they could do that very often with you.’

She smiled at him as they found the towels and put their rackets into their wooden presses to keep them from bending out of shape.

‘You have no idea how they think it’s going to make them more attractive to me. I like you because you did your damned best, and with a bit of coaching you would easily overpower me.’

Her use of ‘overpower’ left him reeling at the thought.

‘Here we are.’ They paused by a waitress bearing a silver salver, and took tall glasses of Pimms with an extra mint-leaf decorating the edge.

Rosemary took hers out and threw it casually away.

‘Cheers.’

He responded.

‘Now, let’s go and sit over there, and you can tell me more about your flying. It sounds very exciting.’

As they made their way to a white wrought-iron seat set deeper into the rhododendrons he couldn’t believe his luck.

They were observed by her brother and a couple of friends, one of whom said: ‘Rosemary seems to have taken a shine to him.’

John nodded, and shook his head in mock horror.

‘He won’t stand a chance if she likes him.’

And like him she did.

As Biff, at first stumbling and trying to be as modest as possible as he explained about flying, and then got more and more excited, she quietly observed him: his face, his movements, the gesture of his strong-looking hands. Her mind was elsewhere as she pretended to understand about how wonderful it was to be soaring in and out of clouds as the fields and trees and hills of England passed by far below.

In reality, she was thinking of his hands on her, of that mouth, strong, slightly cruel-looking, pressed against her own.

‘So, I’m going to be flying Hawker Harts now. I should get a squadron posting soon – when the training finally comes to an end.’

She came back from her flight of fancy with a rush. ‘Oh, really?’

Biff had a vague awareness that perhaps she had not been wholly listening. If he was disappointed he soon cheered up as she said: ‘Biff, perhaps I could come and visit you some time – at your airfield?’

He felt almost giddy with excitement. She was wanting to see him again.

‘Yes – yes, I’d like that very much. We do have open days, there is one coming in a couple of weeks’ time.’

‘Oh good. Will you be flying?’

He swallowed, knowing he more than likely wouldn’t be, at least not solo or anything. If they did a mass formation flypast, that would be the best he could hope for. He tried to sound nonchalant. ‘It’s possible – we don’t know the programme yet.’

The programme yet.…

‘Biff, have you seen the menu.’

His female dining companion on his right held the card out for him. ‘It’s got one of your favourites – lamb chops.’ He laughed with her. It was well known that Biff liked good plain English cooking – and mutton was his favourite: the stew.

The first course was served, salmon, and conversation around the table grew. He was careful, wary of bones: his eyesight was getting poorer every year.

‘Biff, what do you do with yourself these days?’

She was trying to be nice, he knew, but today was a rare treat, and he didn’t want to be reminded how routine his world had become.

‘Oh, nothing much. Get on my buggy most mornings, do some shopping, have a coffee,’ his eyes twinkled, ‘sometimes even a gin and tonic in the Horse and Groom.’

But in reality there were some days when he dreaded getting out of bed.
She
was gone, his pal, his lover for over sixty years, only the occasional visits by his son and daughter had any meaning in his life now.

His daughter had brought him today; she was over on a table of young ones – he gave a grunt: they were all in their forties and fifties with families of their own, but they knew each other from schooldays.

‘Oh, you naughty boy you.’

Biff did his best to suppress a wince. God almighty, what was it about getting old that everyone had to patronize you? Then he relented. She was trying to be convivial, and quite honestly was probably finding it hard going sitting beside an old man. They
had nothing in common – how could they have? She was no older than his daughter. He was a bit of a dinosaur now, having grown up, experienced a terrible war and been a mature man, all in an age that had radically different values from today.