Chapter 8

There was a knock on Mark's door at half past seven the following morning. "See you at ten," said Anthony Collins's voice. "Breakfast when you're ready."

"Thank you, Sir," called Mark who was already wide-awake but wondering when he should put in an appearance.

He padded down the passage to the bathroom and did his morning duties presenting himself in the kitchen just before eight. Frances was there.

"Good morning, Mark," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a log," he replied smilingly.

"Good. Bacon and eggs?"

"Mmm, yes please."

"Mushrooms and tomatoes?"

"Better still."

"Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, please. Can I come here more often?"

Frances chuckled. "Of course you can. In any case you're going to be virtually living with us for the next two years."

"I can hardly wait," Mark said fervently. "It's like a home from home."

Frances smiled.

"I feel really guilty though," Mark went on.

"Why for Heaven's sake?"

"I never asked after Rupert yesterday evening. He's just started at Sandhurst (The Royal Military Academy, equivalent of the US West Point), hasn't he?"

"Yes. He's still doing his basic training and hasn't 'passed off the square' yet so he's not allowed out and, according to the few brief letters we've had, is run off his feet, struggles to keep his fingernails clean, dirty fingernails are not officer-like qualities, and is absolutely loving it."

Mark laughed. "Sandhurst is probably tougher than Eaton Hall," he said, "but I know about dirty fingernails. You do weapon training and finish with your hands covered in oil and mud and then have fifteen minutes to change and clean your fingernails for a drill parade when you are expected to be immaculate. You soon learn though."

Frances laughed. "Mums can't help but be protective though."

At that moment a little figure with tousled blonde hair and a blue dressing-gown wandered into the kitchen. Her eyes were still befuddled with sleep.

"'Morning, Mummy," it murmured and then realising Mark was there pulled itself together with a major effort and said, "Hello, Mark. Good morning."

"Good morning, Victoria" answered Mark and watched as Victoria drifted over to stand beside her mother. He did not think he had seen anything more appealing: a tiny little blonde waif with her hair askew, her violet eyes still clouded with sleep and looking as if in need of protection. She really needed cuddling.

"Hello, darling," said Frances putting an arm round her shoulder. "Do you want the works like Mark?"

"Mmm, yes please but can I have an orange juice first?"

"'Course you can. Oh golly, I didn't offer you one, Mark."

"If it's not too much bother I'd love one."

"Victoria, darling?"

"Yes, Mummy."

Victoria poured two glasses and put one down in front of Mark with a small smile. There was nothing special about the smile. It was little more than a polite one but Mark's heart turned over.

Two cooked breakfasts soon arrived and both Victoria and Mark tucked in.

"What would you like me to do with my bed?" asked Mark.

"It really depends on your plans," replied Frances. "When do you fly back to Germany?"

"Monday afternoon. I'm going to pop home for the weekend."

"Do you want to spend Sunday night here? It might cause you less of a rush on Monday."

"That's very kind of you," replied Mark his mind racing. It would be less of a rush and he would be home again the following weekend. "I'd love to."

"All right. Just make it up, would you?"

"Of course."

Mark left the house at nine and was outside the War Office half an hour early. He was disappointed to find that the main entrance was no longer the double doors and wide flight of steps leading onto Whitehall. He had seen a photograph somewhere of Field Marshall Lord Kitchener of Khartoum in full dress uniform surrounded by staff officers coming down those steps. Instead the present main entrance was off a yard round the corner.

At ten to nine he presented himself at Reception, produced his identity card and told the disinterested woman there that he had an appointment to see Brigadier Collins at ten. He was given a pass and told to take a seat.

A few minutes later a small, wide woman in her fifties approached him.

"Mr Bowers?" she asked abruptly.

As Mark rose to his feet and before he had time to reply she said curtly, "Follow me."

Mark obeyed and they made their way to a lift. She did not say another word until they reached the brigadier's front office when she pointed to a chair and said, "Sit down please. I'll tell the brigadier that you're here." She then looked at her watch for ten or fifteen seconds before, on the dot of ten o'clock, she knocked on the door and entered closing it behind her. She emerged moments later and said, "Brigadier Collins will see you now, Mr Bowers." She closed the door quietly behind her.