He did not read the newspapers, he knew nothing about the war. He did not want to know.
Colonel Garrett came to see him. They had nothing to say to one another. Hilliard sat in dread of the moment when he would mention Barton’s name but when it came, it was strangely easy, Garrett spoke of him and he listened and it was all remote, they might have been talking about some other person, nothing of the truth was touched upon. But he was glad when Garrett went.
My dear John,
Thank you for your letter, which pleased us so much and we are all delighted that you are truly feeling better and managing life without so much difficulty. Though it must still be very bad – we suspect that you are being heroic!
We are so much longing to see you. What will the arrangements be? We hope you will be able to stay here for a few days or even longer. Come now, you will, won’t you? We know you cannot have anything more pressing. You are not to think of the future at all just now, you are still convalescing and everyone is going to make sure that you are looked after and not troubled at all by anything. If you are on the train, then someone – I hope it will be Harold – will meet you at the station, which is about two miles from the house. But can you manage the train? Perhaps someone is to drive you up by motor car, in which case please let us know and we will send you a careful map, as we are rather hard to find.
Kindest regards to your family and love to you from us all. Oh, you cannot think how much we look forward to seeing you, how much this will mean to us! Or perhaps you can? Yes, I think so.
No, we have had no further news and have all accepted now that we shall not do so. It is very hard.
Take great care of yourself, John dear, and we are all longing for next week to come.
He had thought that he might not even be able to look out of the windows of the train at the countryside, for he remembered what the places would look like, he began to recognize them – a village, the name of the previous station, a particular belt of trees and then the lie of certain fields. Pheasants ran in great bevies from out of the hedgerows and across ploughed fields as the train steamed by, their tails trailing long and copper-coloured in the evening light.
But when he did look, he felt at once happy and soothed, he was coming here, he was seeing it and all of a sudden, he leaned forward, his eyes unable to keep up with it, he wanted to take in every inch of land, every branch of every tree.
The sky here was wide and pale in the late afternoon sun which flooded down, glancing between the acres of beech trees. It was beautiful. It was exactly as David had described it.
The train pulled in to the station, he had to start getting himself up, there was the tedious business of crutches and doors and luggage. A man and a woman helped him, and then a porter came down the tiny platform.
‘Excuse me – Mr Hilliard?’
Who was this? One of them? A young man, in a cap.
‘Dr Barton sent me down to meet you – he’s been called out with his own car. He was expected back but it was easiest for me to come down rather than risk your waiting about. I’m George Bennett – my father farms the land adjoining the Doctor’s house.’
He had picked up Hilliard’s case, they were walking slowly down the platform and out into the sunshine.
Hilliard said, ‘David told me about you.’
‘Oh yes. Yes. We’ve known one another since boys, of course.’ He came up to the open car. ‘I put the hood down. It’s been warm here today – a bit too warm, bad sign for so early, but you can’t help making the most of it. If it’s too cold for you …’
‘No. I shall like it. It’s fine.’
The air smelled sweet and dry. It was very quiet here. Hilliard felt as if he were going through the pages of a book, following a map to a country he had always known.
Bennett put his things on to the back seat. He said, ‘They’ll all be waiting for you. Everyone’s there, you know. Dick’s home on leave. Had they told you?’
The car started, drove very slowly out of the station yard down a slope, turned into a lane.
‘Hob Lane,’ Hilliard said. George Bennett looked surprised.
‘That’s it.’
‘Leading to Woodman’s Lane.’
‘You’ve been here before then?’
‘No.’ But then he thought that that was not true, he had been here, he had spent hours here with Barton, as they had talked in the apple loft and the tents and dugouts and billets, he could walk down the lane and paths for miles around. He knew it.
‘No. I haven’t been here before.’
The car turned up the lane and then they were driving into the sun.
‘This is all my father’s land, on either side of here. You can’t see our farmhouse, it lies in the dip beyond the beeches there.’
The engine was grinding slowly up the hill. Then, they came out between the trees and saw the whole valley, sloping up gently to east and west. The sky was vast, darkening behind them.
‘There’s the house.’
Hilliard looked up, and ahead.
About the Author
Susan Hill was born in Scarborough, Yorkshire, was educated there and at King’s College, University of London, of which she is an Honorary Fellow. She now lives in a 16th century farmhouse in a North Norfolk village, delighted to have returned to be near the sea.
She is married to the Shakespeare scholar Stanley Wells, and as well as her now grown-up daughters, she has one grand-daughter. Susan was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Honours, 2012.
Susan Hill, Strange Meeting
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