November 1920
Hanmorr is waiting in the conservatory of Campden House. Scattered, high-back wicker chairs catch the early afternoon sun, outdrawing their shiny, straw reflection. Half read journals flop lazily over the side of the low, glass-topped table, forgotten articles and pictures try to catch his eye.
They fail.
He is standing, looking out over the rear gardens, holding his awkward and only stance, offset to his right shoulder, leaning heavily on his stick. He can feel its imprint in his palm, a permanent ache in hardened muscles. The view he stares thinly through is of lawns and beds, neatly divided by gravelled paths of convex camber, a large pond provides the essential focus. But it doesn’t capture his, and so he sits, stretches out his bad leg, rubs his knee. Habit.
He is waiting to speak with Dr Logan, therapist and director of Campden House, a rural convalescent home for non-commissioned soldiers.
At the end of summer, when Hanmorr first appeared offering help, he had been treated with caution, encouraged to fulfil limited tasks, his leg allowing. Talking with the men on a level anything other than trivia or topical events certainly hadn’t been one of them. Loganhad been welcoming but guarded, until he was happy with the new visitor’s motive. Hanmorr appreciated the approach, never felt he wasn’t wanted, and it gave him time to discover for himself what he was doing there. There was no evidence, nor clues, to support the sense that there would be discovery at all, he never felt he deserved or was owed such advance, it was merely a position to take because the opportunity was there. That he wilfully came to Campden House, initially for his own benefit, carrying vain hope, was partly inspired by the goodness of the understanding that it was ‘the right thing to do’, a genuine and provoking draw. He came, and still does, mostly daily, always willingly, and the return is now indeed a deepening, and increasing, sense that through this place he is seeking his own.
Earlier, Logan had approached him at the end of lunch: ‘Thank you for coming again, Mr Hanmorr, it is very much appreciated. I wonder, could you spare me a few minutes before you go? I’d like to have a word but I don’t want to hold you up.’
Hanmorr had lied in return – he often does – said it was fine, that he had no urgent engagements.
He checks his watch. It is half past one, the train is just after three, plenty of time. If not, Rachel will understand. In a flash he has excused himself. And so, conveniently dropping the guilt from immediate concern, again he scans the view, again takes nothing in, simply waits.
