The Journey Home: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

continued, “I’m sometimes afraid you’re not happy with me. I’ve sometimes been worried . . . well, because I am the way I am . . . I do wish it could be different but it can’t be helped. I just wanted you to know how fond I am of you. I’ve never cared so much about anybody else.”
    I decided to put an end to this speech, as I knew what an ordeal it was for him. Dear Anthony, how miserable he looked, as I could see when the moon appeared again from behind the clouds.
    I tried to comfort him, telling him that I was as fond of him as he was of me. “I’ve never been happier than I am here,” I said. “This is my home.”
    He hugged me. His cheeks were wet.
    “You’ll come back again, won’t you?”
    I couldn’t help smiling at him.
    “Of course, I’ll come back. You of all people should know how often I’ve put off this trip.”
    A gust of wind blew across the fields as we walked back, swaying the grasses and shivering the leaves. We paused to listen to its whistling. It held the sound of spring.
    “I’m going to come with you to Leith tomorrow,” he announced.
    “We’ll see about that in the morning,” I replied.

2

    I was flabbergasted.
    “Eleven pounds!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “Surely you haven’t agreed to it?”
    Anthony was as evasive as ever when the conversation turned to money, saying he considered eleven pounds a perfectly reasonable fee considering that it meant a forty-eight-hour journey for the driver, who would not only need to fill up with petrol but also pay for food and lodging for at least one night.
    “Two, if he doesn’t trust himself to drive back from Leith without a break.”
    However, I’d already done my sums and worked out—at a rough estimate—that petrol, accommodation at a clean bed-and-breakfast, and food and drink could not come to more than four pounds. I made allowance for his eating at decent places, though nowhere too expensive. That left seven pounds and I considered this quite enough, given that the depreciation on a four-year-old car would be insignificant over a forty-eight-hour period. Admittedly, it’s a handsome vehicle: a Jaguar Deluxe, I remember Sean Truelove telling me. Of 1957 vintage, rather than 1958.
    So I told Anthony that I found this amount outrageous and asked him to strike a new deal with the driver. I reminded him at the same time that this man often got to drive guests of ours who wanted a chauffeur-driven car; we always contacted him first, called him out and showed the guests into the car. In other words, he got all this free business from us without having to lift a finger.
    “And what do we take for it?” I asked. “Nothing. Not a penny. We haven’t even asked for a percentage.”
    Anthony sighed and put a piece of chocolate into his mouth, but I hadn’t spoken my piece.
    “And when we finally need him, he overcharges us! He doesn’t scruple to fleece us!”
    “Let’s change the subject,” said Anthony. “It’s not good for you to talk about money.”
    I didn’t like his tone and told him so. I also mentioned— but perhaps shouldn’t have done—that it always ended up being me who had to sort out our finances; he should remember what a mess he’d been in when I came back in ’41.
    “Yet you could never be persuaded to sell a single painting and it took years of coaxing before you finally agreed to part with the estates in Devon. I feel ill when I think how much money you squandered before I got involved.”
    He stood up and went to the door. I could see that he was making heroic efforts to control his temper. In the doorway he turned back.
    “He gave you a discount. A forty percent discount. Are you satisfied now?”
    “What?”
    “At first he wouldn’t accept any fee at all but when I insisted on paying him, he refused to take any more than this. Go down to reception and look at his list of rates if you don’t believe me. It’s on the desk.”
    When he went out, he had to restrain himself from