He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. "What for?" demanded Wood. "I'll tackle it to-night!" "But it's after ten!" "What's that got to do with it? … The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! … the absolute agony of the twisting palms!…. Not a breath was drawn. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him.
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