The water was not really deep enough, but both men managed to swim a bit. Laura found it odd seeing her cousin here, so comfortable in Edward’s territory. She remembered how Mrs Last had spoken of how Giles used to come here in the school vacations. She imagined them as boys, slipping down from the big house to their spot by the river, tasting the freedom from the grown-ups. It was as if even now, as adults, they felt the return of childish freedoms as they entered the river. Sybil splashed into the water too. She was built on a larger, firmer scale than Laura, her white body in its blue costume statuesque as she sat on a boulder, shaking back her hair. Laura looked at her tall, deep-breasted figure admiringly.
Afterwards they all lay again on the grass, lighting cigarettes to drive away the midges that were now rising from the water. Edward’s gaze rested as often on Giles as it did on Laura.
‘You’re getting quite a paunch there. Food good in – where did you say you were?’
Giles groaned. ‘Malvern – it’s not the food, it’s the lack of exercise. I’m just sitting on a bench all day, tabulating the bloody results. Sometimes I get into one of the aircraft and do the same in the air. You’re right, I’m turning into a pudding. I’ll be as fat as Quentin soon. Though I hear he has slimmed down – all that square-bashing.’
Laura told him he looked fine. ‘Let me take a photograph,’ she said. ‘A record of the perfect day,’ Giles said in a voice that seemed to be mocking her with its light, girlish tone. Laura had brought her camera with her, and she picked it up and set the shutter speed low for the light that was now falling more obliquely over the meadow. Even though she had only used the Leica a few times, she had beginner’s luck that day. The photographs stayed with her through all the roaming years. From time to time, in Washington, in Patsfield, in Geneva, she would come across them: there was Sybil, her upright posture, her blonde hair almost white; there were the boys lounging beside her on the grass, the willow tree a blurred frame in the background. Edward’s looks did not transfer as well as Laura had expected onto celluloid, but there he was, pale hair falling across his forehead, showing off the legacy that school sports had bequeathed him in his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The shutter fell, their glances froze.
That night Toby and Mrs Last were there for supper, and the table seemed to fall naturally into two halves: at one end Laura, Edward and Giles; at the other Toby, his mother and Sybil. Giles and Toby were easy talkers, and their burbling conversation needed little stimulus. It was about food, and then it was about Churchill’s character, and then it was about the weather, and then it was about Toby’s chances of promotion: topics ranged from the large to the small, but always continued with ease. Mrs Last joined in too, handing down her judgements, but the other women and Edward said little.
Laura was quite content to concentrate on what she was eating. She liked the solid, English food: boiled gammon, peas and potatoes in buttter, followed by berry crumble and thick cream. Out here, there was no sign of the privations that affected wartime London, and Mrs Last was pleased to discuss at length with Toby how well the home farm was doing that summer. Once the dinner was finished and they went through to the drawing room, Laura made an effort to join the conversation, but at one point she said something about how bright the stars were tonight – the curtains were open and they could see the studded sky over the hills – and Giles said, again in that breathy tone, that they made him feel so small. She realised she was being mocked again, although she wasn’t sure why, and after that she lapsed into silence.
When the evening finally broke up, she felt tiredness washing over her as she opened the door to the guest bedroom, but she stayed awake, anticipation skidding through her body, until she heard Edward opening the door and all the desire that had been building since the warm train journey, since the golden hours by the river, since the long dinner, could finally find its release.
The next day, the others went down to the tennis court, and Laura, who had never learned to play, sat and watched them, an abandoned magazine beside her. Giles and Toby went on talking between strokes, sometimes arguing about politics, which they seemed to see solely in terms of clashes of ego, and sometimes discussing their friends in that way that was becoming familiar to Laura, in which harsh judgements were masked by humour. At one moment Giles asked Edward if Quentin was still as wrapped up with Nina as ever.
‘Yes – it is rather a bore.’
‘She is rather a bore, you mean.’
‘I suppose she thinks with those looks she can behave rather badly.’