Dan Hodges - One Minute to Ten

Dan Hodges

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ONE MINUTE TO TEN

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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published 2015

Copyright Dan Hodges, 2015

Cover images Alamy and Shutterstock

The moral right of the author has been asserted

ISBN: 978-1-405-92439-9

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For my Mum and Dad and Jack
and Michelle. For everything.

If you can dream and not make dreams your master;

If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same

Rudyard Kipling

There were the tastes and the smells. That delicious acidic bite as the cloud of cigarette smoke drifted lower, gradually invading his nostrils and settling on his tongue. The sounds too. That hypnotic staccato of words drumming out their timeless rhythm. A sudden rise in volume. The rhetorical club. A subtle shift in intonation. The debaters rapier.

And then there was the simple thrill of presence. Of just being there. Of seeing.

Not being seen, of course. He was invisible. His brother, sitting that single proprietorial half-space ahead of him, was invisible too. The men had entered their own, exclusive world.

Exclusive, but not private. From here he could watch. And listen. And smell. And taste.

And learn. Slowly he was learning. Like a foreign language, it was starting to come alive to him. A familiar name here. A recognizable phrase there. One time, oh yes, what a time that was! That magical moment when the names and the phrases and the words all suddenly slotted together. And formed an idea. His first proper political idea!

OK, it wasnt his idea. Much as he wanted to, he knew he couldnt claim it as his own. Not yet. But he could follow it. From A to B to well wherever. It didnt really matter.

And there was something else. Something else? No. Everything. The whole thing.

The way he looked. His father. Leaning forward, on the edge of his chair, his right hand tightly clasped, as if he was trying to physically squeeze his thoughts into existence. His left hand extending, imploring or was it ordering his tiny, enthralled audience to see the world through his eyes.

And that was what Edward wanted. More than anything. To see that world his father saw. To reach out and embrace him. To connect with that slight, frail giant who could reshape entire continents with his mind.

The early morning dew had evaporated by now, and as he stretched out his fingers the pristine green carpet felt smooth and warm to his touch. His chin rested on the back of his hands, and every so often he would raise it slightly, allowing him to watch the progress of the shiny red ball as it scurried away towards the boundary rope.

The straps of his pads felt tight against his calves, but they didnt bother him. To be honest, nothing much bothered him at the moment. A glorious sunny day. A gentle breeze. A nice even wicket. What more could you want?

A crack, a bit like a whip striking against stone, rang across the field. His head lifted in time to see the ball tracing another high, lazy arc towards the trees lining Agars Plough.

Of course you always could want more. It was important to want more. To keep pushing yourself.

Dad kept pushing. Despite a body that seemed to have been created solely for the purpose of holding him back.

Alex kept pushing. He kept pushing them both in his own way. Your older brother kisses a girl. So you have to kiss a girl. Your older brother starts getting good at football. You have to get good at football. Your older brother can survive those long, lonely nights at Heatherdown, with its paper-thin blankets and icicles clustering on the inside of the dormitory windows. Then you can survive it.

In fact, you could do more than survive. You could grow. Flourish.

He gazed along the line of white-clad figures spread out beside him. Some were short. Some were tall. Some were fat. Some were thin. Some were taut. Some were rangy. But they knew; each of them knew. This was their place. Their time.

People said they were privileged these Eton Rifles. But it wasnt about privilege. It was just how things were.

If you worked hard. But not too hard. If you played by the rules. Or at least, the rules that mattered. Then youd get on.

And that was precisely how things were supposed to be. The system, or whatever you wanted to call it, worked. The world worked. Life worked.

A sound like glass breaking, then a muted cheer.

Youre in, David.

Easing himself up from the grass, he reached down for his bat. It felt strong in his hand. Solid. He could tell. He was going to get some runs today.

Occasionally he could see a light piercing the darkness. A farmhouse, or one of those tiny cafs set back from the road, waiting expectantly for another hardy traveller to surrender to the night.

They wouldnt be surrendering. Well, they might, just for a short while. Now and again the Peugeots engine would ease down, and hed sense the car gradually coasting to a standstill. Then hed hear the creak of doors opening, and a cold breeze would come barrelling in. The sound of feet on gravel, a few muttered words of Dutch or English, and then theyd be off again. Moving. Always moving.

He enjoyed these driving holidays. When they finally got where they were going. Amsterdam to see the cousins was great. Across on the ferry, then a short dash up the coast. France could be OK. But Switzerland was a real drag. Dont get him started on Italy.

It would always be the same. Everyone would be fine, excited and laughing and chatty. And then people would begin to get tired. And then someone would try and steal a bit more space, or someone would accidentally elbow someone else, or the dog would decide it was getting bored. And then it would all go off. The four of them squashed on to that back seat, and hours and hours and hours of road ahead of them. Moving. Always moving.

It was a nomadic family trait. His grandmother Kira had moved from Russia to Estonia, then to London. His grandfather Hemm had moved from the Netherlands to Java. His mother had moved from Java back to the Netherlands and then on to Cambridge. His father had moved from London to New York, then to Connecticut, then back to Britain (the West Country), back to London, then off to the Netherlands, then to Belgium, then back to Britain again (Buckinghamshire).