by John Pearson
Miraculously, the house appeared to have revived. The fine clock tower on the stable block had been repaired, the whole west wing had been repainted, and young trees had been replanted in the unsightly gaps along the avenue. And the welcome in the house made the whole place seem happier—there was a great fire burning in the hall, the chandeliers were lit, and an enormous Christmas tree was ablaze with candles.
As it was Christmas Eve the choir came from the village to sing carols. Everyone joined in, including Richard and the children. Old Widgery the butler brought out great trays of gingerbread and hot spiced ale, and for a moment Richard had the strange feeling that Southwold House was his, that he had lived here as a child and that he loved it as passionately as Marjorie did.
But when the singing stopped and the villagers departed, Richard could see the reality of Southwold for what it had become. There was Lord Southwold, gouty now and barely able to walk since a fall out hunting in September. Lady Southwold seemed to have deteriorated too. She had a dreadful twitch—“Something wrong with this confounded eye”—and she had started to repeat herself. She was still forceful, but the frightening aspect had now become a shade pathetic. Despite himself and despite the trouble she had caused him in the past, Richard felt sorry for her. Like the fallen lime trees in the park, there were some fresh gaps in the family. Aunt Emily, the famous “Bolter” of the sixties, was no more and Cromwell the Great Dane had gone. Marjorie and the children insisted on visiting his grave— a very large one by the scullery—and all returned solemnly tearful.
There were some new arrivals too. Hugo had brought Lilianne and five-year-old Martin, their son and heir (and heir to Southwold). He was small, white-faced and inclined to cry. Unfortunately, the poor child had inherited Lilianne’s most disagreeable qualities. The Bellamy children both despised him (one of the few things on which they managed to agree) and Richard and Marjorie suspected Hugo did as well. But now, since it was Christmas Eve, there was a great show of family feeling. Martin in sailor suit was blowing a toy trumpet, Elizabeth was looking after him, and Lady Southwold was pretending to be amused.
“Grandchildren make this place,” Lord Southwold said, and Richard wondered what the grandchildren would make of Southwold in the years to come. James might have made an effort to preserve it, for as Richard realised, he loved it fiercely. But whining little whey-faced Martin—what would he do when he became Lord Southwold? It was sad to think that the future of this extraordinary house would ultimately rest with him. Perhaps it was a pity after all that it wouldn’t come to James. Perhaps that would be his son’s tragedy, and Southwold’s too.
Dinner that night turned out to be a sad affair. There was a lot of talk of death, despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve. Lord Southwold went on incessantly about “that hideous new tax on rank and property,” the death duties which for him at least spelled the extinction of the landed interest.
“When I go it’s going to be a struggle for you, Hugo, to maintain the place. God knows quite how you’ll manage. I must tell you I’ve been selling land simply to pay our way.”
“Terrible, just terrible,” Lady Southwold muttered.
But it was Hugo’s wife who answered then. In the years since her marriage she had become extremely grand—more Southwold than the Southwolds. (Marjorie had grown to detest her.)
“Surely there’s no earthly reason for us aristocrats to feel defeatist,” she remarked. “We’ve simply given in too easily. People who should have spoken up for us in Parliament have let us down.”
“Quite right,” said Lady Southwold, “so they have,” and stared at Richard.
“So what do you intend to do?” he asked.
“We,” said Lilianne, putting an almost regal force upon the pronoun, “intend to enter politics.”
“Both of you?” said Richard mildly.
“Hugo intends to stand for Parliament. I shall be behind him.”
“Which constituency?” Marjorie asked.
An embarrassed silence followed, which Hugo broke with an awkward little laugh.
“Richard, my dear old thing, I’ve decided it’s my duty to take on the old seat in the next election.”
“Which seat?” said Richard coldly.
“Why, your old seat, the Southwold seat. Since you lost it, we can’t let that bounder Tatham walk in again.”
“I should just think not,” said Lady Southwold.
“I quite agree,” said Richard.
Richard woke on Christmas morning to the sound of battle from the room next door. Elizabeth was screaming; James was demanding back his roller skates and pulling his sister’s hair; the room was in chaos.
After the tensions of the night before (the prodigies of self-control required to avoid telling Lilianne exactly what he thought), Richard’s first instinct was to beat his son. But this was something that he never did. He liked to think that he had sufficient understanding of the boy to control him without violence, and on the few occasions when Marjorie said, “That boy needs discipline,” Richard would urge patience and sweet reason—virtues which it was easy for a gentle, somewhat distant soul like Richard to adopt when his day was spent working in his study or discussing literature and politics with editors.
To be woken in this way on Christmas morning was different. Nevertheless, as a man of principle, Richard controlled himself, pulled the two savages apart and warned them both, with unaccustomed venom, that any more of this behaviour and there would be trouble.
“I just can’t think what’s come over James,” he said to Marjorie as he climbed back into bed (it was very cold outside). “As soon as he gets to Southwold he becomes quite uncontrollable. It’s extraordinary.”
“Are you sure it was not Elizabeth? She’s a frightful little minx, and knows you’ll always take her part.”
“Now, Marjorie, really. James had her by the hair. One simply can’t allow a boy to treat a girl like that, even if she is his sister.”
But despite Richard’s warning and his show of anger, James did not behave. Richard was right. At Southwold something did get into him, particularly with his Uncle Hugo there. Hugo was still his hero and in some strange, unconscious way Hugo would always egg him on to some sort of devilment. When Richard mentioned this to Marjorie, she would just laugh and say, “You really can’t blame Hugo. He’s a boy himself at heart.” Richard had other theories.
They were confirmed at breakfast time when Hugo—fresh-faced, bright-eyed as ever—said to James, “Here, Jumbo. Happy Christmas!” and took from his pocket a small velvet bag. Something inside it moved. James undid the string and two minute black eyes glared back at him.
“Hold him; take care he doesn’t bite,” said Hugo.
“What is it?” James asked a little nervously.
“Why, a ferret. Every boy should have one. We’ll go rabbiting with him.”
“On Christmas Day?” said Richard.
“Oh, we’ll find something,” Hugo replied airily.
James meanwhile had taken the small red furry creature from the bag and held it on his lap. “It’s the most beautiful animal I’ve ever seen,” the boy exclaimed. “I think I’ll call him Jesus.”
And so Jesus the ferret entered the family. He was an endless source of trouble. He nipped Elizabeth, climbed the curtains, got into Lady Southwold’s bath. But James always rescued him, loved him, and slept with him. Richard disliked the whole idea, particularly when Hugo took them rabbiting,
“It’s cruel,” he said to Marjorie, “and a bad example for the boy.”
“Oh, nonsense, Richard,” she replied. “There’s no use being squeamish in this life, no use at all.”
The truth was that he objected to far more than this. In some obscure way he still felt jealous—of Hugo and of Southwold. Both were attempting to steal James away and it was this that Richard hated.
After the tedium of school and Eaton Place, Southwold was a paradise to James. He loved it, and he knew every corridor and hidden corner of tha
t enormous ancient building. He knew the land as well, and the people on it. Charnock the gamekeeper would take him through the woods to show him the young pheasants being bred for next year’s shooting. Foat, the estate carpenter, would show him forbidden places in the attics and the six-hundred-year-old roof with is Norman timbers, and the spot where James’s Catholic Southwold ancestors had hidden their priests in the persecutions. And there was always Uncle Hugo to make life exciting when he was bored.
For the last day of the Christmas holidays Uncle Hugo had promised James a special treat. Together with Charnock they would go ratting by the old barn on the edge of the estate. They had a pair of terriers and as a special privilege James was allowed a gun, a six-bore Hugo himself had used to shoot pigeons as a boy.
It was unfortunate that Marjorie and Richard should have been walking in the park when the shooting started—still more unfortunate that they should have gone to investigate just as the terriers had caught a rat and were tearing it to pieces. It was not a pretty sight. Charnock was shouting at the dogs, Hugo was beating more rats from the barn, and an excited young James Bellamy was waiting with his gun to shoot the next one that emerged.
Marjorie was naturally distressed at the sight of blood. Richard was furious. He had been told nothing of the escapade, and if he had been told would have instantly forbidden it.
“Charnock!” he shouted. “Stop this right away! James, leave that gun alone and come with me!”
There was a sudden silence. The rat had finished squealing, and both the terriers stopped their yelping at the sight of this angry, white-faced stranger in their midst.
“Sorry, Mr. Bellamy, no harm meant,” said Charnock quietly. “And, Master James, you’d best leave the gun with me.”
But James was not giving in that easily. Still clutching his precious gun he faced his father.
“Why, Father, why? The rats need killing. Uncle Hugo said it was the best thing we could do.”
The gamekeeper stared at his feet, and Hugo, a faint smile on his lips, was standing by the barn.
“James,” said Richard softly, “I have told you to come. I won’t tell you again.”
The child paused, then suddenly stamped his foot and shouted, “Father, I won’t, I won’t! You’re just a pig, a dirty pig! I won’t, won’t, won’t!’
Had it not been for Hugo, James might still have got away with a stiff reprimand from Richard and the remainder of the day in bed. But at that moment Richard saw Hugo laugh, and Richard’s self-control was ended. The expression on his father’s face was something James would never forget.
Gone was the gentle advocate of reason, gone the sophisticated literary man. Instead he was suddenly enraged by Hugo’s supercilious face and goaded beyond endurance by his son’s rebellion, which suddenly appeared the ultimate humiliation Southwold could heap on him. He had endured so much—but there were limits. After twelve years of marriage he had reached them.
The speed with which he grabbed the child startled everyone, Hugo included. But this was nothing to the sudden fury with which he began to beat him. Richard had never beaten anyone before, never really lost his temper, so he had no idea how strong he was. Nor had James, until that moment. Nothing could stop him, neither Marjorie’s cries nor the child’s muffled screaming, and it was not until he felt Hugo’s hand on his shoulder and heard him saying, “Stop it, Richard, or you’ll kill the boy!” that he desisted.
He felt curiously clear-headed then.
James was whimpering at his feet, then, seeing Marjorie, ran towards her crying, “Mummy, Mummy!”
Hugo was no longer smiling.
“Get the boy to bed,” said Richard curtly. “And, Hugo, I’d be grateful if you’d keep away from my son. You’ve your own child now.”
The Bellamys were back at Eaton Place that night, subdued but grateful to be home. And after dinner Richard wrote a letter. It was to Pyecombe, thanking him for his support and accepting the Conservative nomination for the next election.
1899
10. Peace in the Family
Eton, the fourth of June, was an occasion richard attended but never relished, not even this year, when his son was captaining the eleven and one of the heroes of the school. For 364 days of the year the fact that he, plain Richard Bellamy, was the son of a Norfolk rector lacking both family and fortune never troubled him. He was quite proud of it. He would, if pressed, have boasted of the fact to anyone.
But on this one day, when his own son’s school saw fit to commemorate their royal founder, Richard always felt obscurely inferior.
It was a strange sensation, for he felt this nowhere else—not when he visited the House of Lords, or Marlborough House, nor even when he chatted with Lord Salisbury. But here, on these Windsor meadows with these overdressed rich parents all around him, he felt excluded and distinctly gauche: once more, as in the first years of his marriage, he felt that he was being judged as “that bounder Bellamy who married Southwold’s daughter.” The fact that he could never possibly explain all this to Marjorie made it worse, and also made him irritable.
How beautiful it all was—how absurdly beautiful: the distant view of Windsor, the gentle river and the chapel with its pinnacles there on the skyline, just as when Canaletto painted it! And yet how stupid all these so-called aristocrats around him seemed, how futile and how arrogant.
“And who’s that splendid-lookin’ fellah battin’ now?” he had just heard one of them ask.
“Oh, that’s the captain. Boy called Bellamy.”
“Bellamy? Bellamy?”
“Yes, Southwold’s grandson.”
“Oh, that’s who he is. One of the Southwolds. You should have told me.”
This infuriated him. The fact that Richard Bellamy had served his country in the Commons now for fifteen years and knew half of the most powerful men in Britain by their Christian names barely counted. As far as Eton was concerned, the Bellamys did not exist and James was not his son, simply Lord Southwold’s grandson.
In one thing at least the idiot spectator was quite right. James was a splendid-looking fellow, and a most graceful cricketer—one of those naturals who instinctively know how to play any game with a sort of inspired virtuosity. He had been batting scarcely half an hour, yet already had a score of thirty-six, including three fours and an effortlessly placed boundary. It was the same with every game he touched—rowing, tennis, even billiards and backgammon—always that same effortless and elegant success.
Richard was proud of him and rather envious (as nonathletic fathers usually are of successful games-playing sons) but at the same time something about this virtuosity at games worried him. It was a shade too effortless. He never got the feeling that James had to fight to win. At a result he always seemed just faintly bored, even by success. And then, of course, he was still more bored by anything to do with school work.
“Poor James,” Marjorie would say. “If only he’d inherited your brains instead of mine.” But this wasn’t strictly true. James was no fool. Occasionally, when something captured his imagination—as rock collecting and zoology had briefly done the year before—he could produce the same sort of sudden brilliance he showed with his games. But this was rare. Boredom was becoming James’s way of life. He lived with it, accepted it and even made a sort of cult of it, which earned him considerable kudos from the young sophisticates at school, for whom he was the embodiment of the Etonian tradition of “effortless excellence.”
Still, he was more admired than popular. He had extraordinary good looks but no close friends, and Richard himself complained that he could not “get through to him.” This was a source of sadness and of worry. Richard often put it down to that time at Southwold when he had lost his temper with his son and given him his celebrated thrashing. Their relationship had never been the same again, but Marjorie would have none of this.
“All boys are beaten by their fathers. James has been far more mollycoddled than any boy I know. That’s been his trouble.”
; It was subtler than that. James was his mother’s son, and as a Southwold had inherited most of the vices and the virtues of that long and noble line. By breeding he was naturally fitted to have taken over Southwold, to have ruled the county, managed his estates and lived his life out in the one true paradise he knew—beloved Southwold. But this could never happen: he could still remember the shock that hit him when he was barely seven and heard that his cousin Martin had been born. That was the dreadful moment when he knew he had lost Southwold for good. Ever since that moment nothing had really been worth while. What point had anything against that legendary world he had lost? How could he possibly explain this to his father, or to anyone—except to Uncle Hugo, and what use was that? Success at games amused him for a while. So did the admiration of the other boys. But it was all quite futile, really. Without Southwold, James had lost out on life before he even started.
He faced the bowling once again. The whole Southwold clan was watching him—his adoring mother, radiant in white summer silk and picture hat beside his father; next to her his Uncle Hugo, stylish and ever youthful in an Eton Ramblers’ blazer; Aunt Lilianne trying to imitate the Princess of Wales; fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, enormously self-conscious and extraordinarily pretty; and beside her sat his grandfather. For the first time since James had known him, Lord Southwold was starting to show his age. The white hair was as thick as ever, the back as ramrod straight, but there was now a look of fragility in those fine patrician features. In the past he had always looked as if carved in marble; now the face could have been cast in porcelain.
James was glad the old man had come (for he was secretly immensely proud of him) and grateful too that Grandmother Southwold had been left at home. She was becoming something of an apparition, and he was upset by her drinking, which was becoming more of a problem to the family. Even his mother talked about it now, wondering what could possibly be done.
James hit another four and stood back, watching the fielder scuttle to retrieve the ball and showing no sign of hearing the faint murmur of applause from the spectators.
