The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London
SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by The Borough Press 2016
Copyright © Louisa Young 2016
Cover design Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover photographs © Dragan Todorovic/Trevillion Images (landscape); Alexa Garbarino/Trevillion Images (woman)
Louisa Young asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
‘Begin the Beguine’ words and music by Cole Porter © 1935 (renewed)
WB Music Corp. (ascap) all rights administered by Warner/Chappell North America Ltd.
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
Some characters (or names) and incidents portrayed in it,
while based on real historical figures, are the work
of the author’s imagination.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007532902
Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007532896
Version: 2017-02-14
‘Young has conjured up another rich historical novel and I longed to know the fate of this tragic cast of friends. These characters demand devotion – they’ll get it, too’
The Times
‘Young expertly weaves politics, race and loyalty into the family’s narrative’
Observer
‘A stirring story of war and its consequences … tender and convincing. Well-drawn female characters complete an engaging saga’
Mail on Sunday
‘Elegantly written and compulsively readable, Devotion manages to be both thrilling and heartfelt – a real treasure of a book’
JAMI ATTENBERG
‘A sumptuous portrayal of love and war in fascist Rome’
Observer
‘Anybody who hasn’t read her WW1 and postwar trilogy … should get buying. An absolutely magnificent trilogy … three volumes is not enough. I NEED to know more … and sparking such a need is a triumph for a novelist’
BEL MOONEY
‘This moving and vivid historical novel … cleverly interleaves the personal and the political, portraying the conflicts of loyalty produced by troubled times with great subtlety … written with real knowledge and affection’
Tablet
Praise for The Heroes’ Welcome and My Dear I Wanted to Tell You:
‘Young possesses in abundance emotional conviction, pace and imaginative energy, and these qualities will draw readers with her through time and space, as she unfolds the story of the Lockes and Purefoys on their journey through the 20>th century’
HELEN DUNMORE, Guardian
‘Powerful, sometimes shocking, boldly conceived, it fixes on war’s lingering trauma to show how people adapt – or not – and is irradiated by anger and pity’
Sunday Times
To Derek Johns: Agent Emeritus, consigliere, and friend
An English school, July 1928
Tom Locke, twelve, tall for his age, goose-pimpled and shivering, practically naked in his knitted bathers, was hopping about under the trees at the end of the lake. They were about to be put through swimming, and Tom felt there was a genuine opportunity to disappear up one of the larches and avoid this frankly absurd dunking, the last of term. Yesterday the Beaks had carpeted him because he’d been swimming – well, yes, without permission – and after dark, but so what, he’d wanted to observe the nocturnal bird life and lake-life, he’d explained it perfectly clearly – or would have, if they’d given him a chance – and now they were forcing him in when it was cold and he didn’t feel like it. This morning the lake looked like a lake which might give a chap pneumonia.
Soft needles cushioned his feet; grey-black water gleamed in front of him. The other boys, squawking, slapped their hard faded towels at each other. A bit of dank sun slid through the branches above.
Tom had goggles and a phenomenal lung capacity for such a skinny boy. He would go under gracefully and glide through the greenest murk, slipping between spirals of slime, hardly disturbing whoever lurked down there. It was like flying through water. Surfacing, he would go eye to gelatinous eye with half-submerged toads, breathe a little, and sink again. Underwater was lovely to him. But today he didn’t feel like it. He flung two quick arms up, grabbed, pulled and slithered, and was up, on a scratchy branch, in the shadows of the shaggy heart of the larch, where cobwebs and grey ghosts of old growth hung in the remnants of winter.