From Robert Redd’s journals, dated 1925: ‘Pleasant afternoon in Hyde Park. Played croquet with W.C. under a rare azure sky. Found it difficult to maintain a sense of propriety with no shoes on, but alas, the sensation of soft blades of grass against my soles sufficed to tempt me against my better discretion.
Nothing of note to report, except one incident: Late in the game, as I readied my shot, W.C. studied the pitch with an inscrutable expression on his face. At the time, I thought it must have been dismay; he’d left an opening at the gate, one that seemed obvious to me, and now, while he silently chastised himself for a clear tactical blunder, I struck.
“Honestly, Winston,” I complained. “You are letting me win.”
W.C. greeted my remark with curt, furtive nod—and what, it occurs to me now, were the beginnings of a smile on his lips.
It wasn’t clear