Page 19 of The Gathering Storm

He realised that this was literally true. He went into the bedroom and began slowly packing his things – most of which Gloria had bought for him. He was cursing himself for being such a fool. And that cat Veronica Glenforth-Williams! If only she hadn’t told, Gloria would never have known, and everything would have been all right. She’d be happy, he’d be happy – and presumably Veronica would have been happy. But – oh, God, why had he done it? It had seemed so exciting in the heat of the moment, but now … He’d give anything to wind back the clock and make it not to be. For the first time in his life he had come up against a consequence of his actions that actually mattered. This was not like being expelled from school. He cared for Gloria, he really did, and his life with her was – had been – just fine! And now …

He was half hoping Gloria would come in and forgive him; that having given him his telling-off, she would soften. He would be contrite, then strong and manly. He would pet her and show her how much he loved her, and she would melt into his arms … He would do those things she so liked him for …

But she didn’t come, and by the time he’d got everything into the suitcase, his mood was of sick apprehension. Was there really no way back?

He stepped out into the sitting-room with the case, chastened and subdued, hoping against hope that she would smile at him. But she was stony-faced. She held out her hand, and said, ‘Your keys, please.’

He pulled them from his pocket and handed them over. This can’t be the end. It can’t! ‘Gloria, please,’ he began desperately

‘Don’t.’ She turned her face away. ‘No more words. There’s nothing to say. Leave now, please.’ And when he didn’t immediately move, ‘Go!’

He went.

He walked until he found a bench, and sat down to think. His parents lived in Surrey, and he most definitely didn’t want to go to them. His mother had been so proud that he had got a job on the Bugle, believing that in journalism he had found his niche. In a disgraceful journey through school the only praiseworthy thing he had done was to edit the school newspaper. She didn’t know, of course, that Gloria had got him the job. She – they – didn’t know about Gloria at all.

His father has been a distinguished flier during the war, with a DSO and a DFC, the sort of hero that boys worshipped and men looked up to. He could have been a fictional character in a boys’ comic paper: Jack Compton, Air Ace, strong-jawed and handsome in that ridiculously attractive flying helmet and fleece-lined leather jacket, fearlessly pursuing the Red Baron through the skies. He had also been a pioneer test pilot and was an aircraft designer. He was impossible to live up to, and Basil had long ago concluded there was no point in even trying. If he was going to invite detrimental comparison, better he should go the whole hog and be a Bad Boy, so that it looked deliberate. Better to be good at being bad than to be a failure at everything.

No, he was not going home to see his father’s look of weary disappointment that, once again, Basil had failed to shape up.

Barbara, his sister? He adored Barbara – or, more importantly, she adored him and could never see any fault in him. But Babsy lived in Petersfield, and he had no wish to be so far from London. And her very dull husband, Freddie, was, Basil suspected, a lot shrewder than he appeared and readily saw through Basil. There was a look he gave him sometimes …

Besides, after several false alarms, Babsy was very definitely pregnant, and the atmosphere at Crossways would be too domestic to conduce to his comfort. He was used to coming first with Barbara, but he suspected the baby might oust him from his throne.

Uncle Oliver was tempting. He was immensely rich, so he could easily afford to rescue Basil. He was also very modern-minded, practising as a plastic surgeon despite being an earl and not needing to earn a living. But he was not a real uncle, being in fact a sort of cousin of Basil’s father, so Basil had no real call on him. And in actual truth, he was just a wee bit afraid of him.

Then there was Aunt Molly, his mother’s sister. He certainly had closer ties with her than anyone else. She was a writer of detective yarns and married to a publisher; and though she would probably berate him for losing his job and make him squirm, she would not let him down. She was obviously the best bet, though he didn’t relish having strips torn off him; and she might feel obliged to tell his mother.

He sat for a long time debating internally, until he discovered he was ravenously hungry. Hauling his suitcase, which was growing heavier by the minute, he walked to Albemarle Street, fingers crossed.

Jack Compton came home from work and found his wife Helen standing in the hall reading the evening newspaper, which had presumably just come through the letter-box.

She looked up. ‘Did you know about this?’

He looked over her shoulder at the headline: ‘GERMANY SENDS TROOPS INTO RHINELAND’. ‘Yes, everybody’s talking about it at work. Hugh Dowding came to the factory today, and he said the Foreign Office had heard a rumour about it: something that came over the wire from an American correspondent in Berlin.’

They read the article together, standing there in the hall, Jack still in his coat and hat. Twenty-five thousand German troops had marched into the demilitarised Rhineland zone, to an ecstatic welcome by the German population. They had met with no resistance.

‘But what does it mean?’ Helen asked.

‘It means the Germans have violated the Treaty of Versailles. And the Locarno Treaty.’

‘But did no-one try to stop them? The French? The League of Nations?’

‘Well, the French are in the middle of an election, so they don’t actually have a functioning government. Germany chose the right moment. And on a Saturday, when diplomats and politicians are all away from their desks.’

The maid was hovering, waiting to take Jack’s outerwear, and obviously listening with all her might in order to report back to the cook in the kitchen. Jack shed his coat and hat to her, and sought to deflect her attention towards domestic matters. ‘What are you giving me for dinner this evening?’

‘Mrs Dyer’s done her kidneys in wine sauce, sir.’ Ellen said.

Jack managed not to flinch at the thought of eating his cook’s kidneys, and said, ‘Jolly good. Mrs Compton and I will have a glass of sherry now, and dinner in half an hour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Jack took Helen’s elbow and moved her towards the drawing-room.

She had been pondering. ‘I don’t understand, it says Germany claims it was being threatened by France and Russia,’ she said. ‘Surely they can’t mean the Franco-Soviet Pact?’

‘I imagine so,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t see what else it could be.’ He walked over to the drinks tray and poured sherry.