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three low-ceilinged
bedrooms squeezed on to the second floor. Thus it was elongated, with views onto
the large garden from almost every room. It certainly was a very comfy place,
though Holt would have preferred larger windows.
    Looking out, he
commented on the size of the lawn.
    ‘Must be a lot of work
to keep it looking so good. It’s so large.’
    ‘Don’t tell me that! We
had to buy a motor mower – one of those you sit on. My dear husband put a
pennant on it so it would feel like he was driving an armoured vehicle into
battle. You see how the lawn rises steeply at the bottom. One day he drove across
right at the bottom there – the side slope was such that it toppled over. To
think how silly it would be to survive a war and stupidly get killed like that.
Luckily, the mower did not land right on top of him. Don’t tell him I told
you.’
    Holt promised and went
to his allotted room to spruce himself up, while she went down to the kitchen
to join Samantha, already at work preparing the meal. After washing his face,
Holt felt much better, even relaxed.
    In the event, mother
and daughter produced a great lunch, and, with the help of a couple of bottles
of good wine on top of the pre-lunch whiskies, things were going swimmingly. Samantha,
with the passage of time, seemed so much more mellow and approachable – not
that she had ever put him down or purposely ignored his presence, like many
girls of her age did. Their difference in age – a year – had seemed so much
when he was a shy thirteen.
    After the coffees in the
drawing room, the brigadier took Holt’s arm and led him out to the garden for a
private chat.
    ‘Thank you, sir, for
letting me put your name forward as a reference,’ said Holt, reverting to the
way he spoke to the neighbour his parents called the ‘ brig’ but insisted he be
polite to and call ‘ sir’.
    ‘Think nothing of it,’
replied the brigadier.
    ‘I had to provide five
others as well, but I am sure yours carried the most weight. It may not come to
anything. To tell the truth, I don’t know anything much about the job yet.’
    ‘It must be,’ said the brigadier
with a wry smile, ‘something quite special to require so many references.’
    The raising of the brigadier’s
eyebrows convinced Holt that he knew more than he was letting on. He was part
of the establishment and, with medals for gallantry, could be relied on, which was
more than could be said for some of the other characters Holt had asked to
provide references. However, the brigadier did not allow him to pursue the
matter.
    ‘Let’s get back and rejoin
the ladies; not that I see my daughter as a lady. I am hoping she will
eventually end up with a more suitable partner and become one. Pity you were much
too young for her. You at least are a good egg, unlike that good-for-nothing
she is drooling after.’
    His wife was on the
terrace, catching up with her daughter’s latest news – impossible in the
brigadier’s presence, as he could not bear to hear the boyfriend’s name or
anything concerning life with him mentioned. How could his daughter, who had
been daddy’s girl, become beholden to someone like that scumbag?
    With the return of the
two men, the conversation immediately switched to the old days, when they were
neighbours, before the fatal car crash. When the mother asked Holt about his plans
for the future, Holt wondered whether the brigadier had let something slip, but
before he could come up with some noncommittal answer, the brigadier stepped
in.
    ‘Jeremy has just told
me he is applying for a new job in research but is not sure yet what is
involved.’
    This half-truth neatly
forestalled further questions, and the conversation moved on to other topics.
Holt was surprised how open they were, treating him as family, which was
fortunate, for if he did join Giraffe, the brigadier might be the only
confidant he could keep without raising suspicions.
    After afternoon tea,
Holt bade them farewell and gladly