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battered translation of Caesar’s
Gallic War
, its spine cracked and with more than a few loose pes. There was something about the great campaigns of the Ancients which still fascinated him, and he read anything he could afford on such subjects. As a child, he had often managed to convince his younger sisters to play at being Alexander and Darius, or Scipio and Hannibal – the girls had especially liked being elephants.
    His mother had not been keen. Married at sixteen, she had been left widowed and with four children before she was Hamish’s age now. His father was an engineer, a good one in an age when machines were changing the world and how everythingwas made. Then one day there had been an accident at the factory, and the promising young engineer was killed. Hamish could still remember the faces of the men who had come to tell his mother, and that she showed no emotion. Never in his life had he seen her weep.
    The factory’s owner gave the widow a pension. It was extremely modest, for he assumed, if he cared at all, that the young woman would marry again and find another man to provide for herself and her offspring. That was not unreasonable, for the golden-haired Frances was undoubtedly pretty, if more than a little stern. There were suitors, as soon as it was decent, and several were handsome and even modestly well off. Mrs Williams was always courteous, but adamant. A few of them persisted for some time, until finally they gave up. Interest faded, and eventually so too did gossip from those jealous of the attention she received. Gradually a grudging acceptance grew that the young widow had no wish to change her status – still less for any liaison of a less formal kind. Any suggestion of the latter prompted a fierce, icy look, and indeed most people came to consider her as an extremely cold woman.
    They had lived in Cardiff for a while, where his mother rented a small house and let two spare rooms to respectable guests. There was little new in the furnishings, but the food was ample, if basic, and the entire house was kept spotlessly clean. Laundry was done, clothes mended and other little tasks performed with ruthless efficiency. A few years later the family moved to Bristol, where she began to run a larger establishment of the same sort. In both places many of the guests were mates and sometimes even the masters of merchant vessels. Mrs Williams encouraged no familiarity, but she enjoyed listening to the men talk of distant shores and storm-swept seas. For quite a few the house became their only real home – a somewhat austere home, but a home none the less. There was no question of deep affection between the landlady and her staff or guests, but all knew where they were with Mrs Williams.
    Hamish had to admit his own feelings were similar. His mother’sapproval was never lightly given and he cherished those rare occasions when he had been granted it. Sometimes he was proud of her, especially when she put on her bonnet, best dress and gloves and took the children to church, singing Mr Wesley’s hymns in her beautiful voice. Those were the only times he felt she showed passion. To him she was beautiful, but distant – a queen to be feared and obeyed, but loved only in the way a country was loved.
    She had hoped to raise him for a doctor. His grandfather had been a physician – a very good one according to his mother. Dr Campbell had also been a poor one, because she said he would treat anyone whether or not they could pay. Yet the schooling needed for that was expensive – far too expensive for a widow to afford – and so Mrs Williams had set her ambitions lower. Her son and three daughters had all been taught to read and write. In time the girls also learned to sew and to cut material, and along with their mother they brought money into the house by doing work for people apart from the guests. Hamish had been kept in school until he was sixteen, and then, scorning mere appreniceships, his mother’s