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had been the sexually hungry boy lusting for the loveliest thing on offer. But no sooner had they started talking than the cautious adult that he had become reasserted himself.
    He did not entirely trust Peggy.
    Perhaps he shouldn’t have trusted her all those years ago. Perhaps she had been a sexual tease then—though a less experienced one. Whom had she…“been with,” as prim ladies used to say, during the rehearsal period and performance run of the play? Surely some talk must have reached his ears, low down though he was in the pecking order of the actors. What had happened after the meeting with her by the church at Upper Melrose and the days after that?
    When he got home, he picked up the phone and rang George Long.
    â€œHello, George. It’s Graham Broadbent here.”
    George never forgot a pupil, never had to be prompted as to who they were or what they’d done.
    â€œYoung Broadbent! It was good to see you at the beanfeast. Honored you could find the time to come. What can I do for you?”
    â€œAh…” So George had known from the tone of Graham’s voice that this wasn’t a social call. That’s what came of directing plays: all the social resonances of ordinary talk were registered. “Will you keep what I’m going to ask you strictly under your hat?” he said cautiously.
    â€œOf course. Always do. Silent as the grave.”
    â€œPeggy Webster. Peggy Somers that was.”
    â€œThought it might be something to do with her. Her name was in the air at dinner.”
    â€œIt was. I want to know where she lived, and what her father did. I’m sure I knew at the time, but I never met them and it’s all gone out of my mind.”
    â€œNo reason for it to stay there, was there? The family lived in Bidford. Her father had a garage there. Not very prosperous. People passed through the village in their cars, but they kept on to somewhere bigger where the petrol would be cheaper. They’ll be long gone, you know. They moved to Romford rather quickly. If they hadn’t, I’d have snapped her up for my Hermione the following year, instead of that puddingy girl who actually played her. You should try Romford, though it’s pretty big—much more difficult than Bidford to find people in.”
    â€œOh, I’ve done Romford, George. Peggy and I had coffee this morning. Time has changed her—you wouldn’t know about time. But it’s her background I’m interested in, purely for the purposes of a book, of course.”
    â€œOh, naturally, for fictional reasons. Well, don’t worry: I’ll be silent as the grave.”
    Graham wondered whether he would be. When it came down to it, a schoolboy never knew his masters. George could be the biggest old gossip in the business for all he knew.

Chapter 4
Roots
    The village of Bidford lay on the border of Essex and Suffolk fifty miles from London and eight miles from Lavenham, straggling either side of a road that was no longer important but still attracted a fair bit of traffic in the spring and summer: tourist trade, mostly families and old-age couples in search of Picturesque Essex. A corner shop doubled as a post office, and among the postcards strategically situated by the counter there were two or three Constable paintings, none of them of Bidford. The cottages along and just off the main street were suitably sized for the elderly, less so for young and growing families, though there were one or two more spacious dwellings, once the homes of the rector, the doctor, and a solicitor who practiced elsewhere. The last was the only one who remained, as if he alone answered to an eternal need, but the rectory was home to a Colchester businessman, and the doctor’s house was weekend home to a psychiatrist in regular demand for daytime television and radio, a fount of instant diagnosis and advice.
    There was one pub, The Haywain, previously the King’s Head, with