by R. N. Morris
‘That’s very generous of you.’ Fonthill had felt his jaw tremble as he had spat out the sarcastic riposte.
Lucas had leaned in to whisper something in Fonthill’s ear. He hadn’t caught the words exactly, but he got the drift. It was a warning. Steady on, old chap! perhaps. Or, I say, don’t you know who that is?
Fonthill knew the man’s name all right. He had written enough promissory notes to him in the course of the evening.
T.G. Benson, Esq. was the name he had been directed to make the notes out to.
It had seemed an ordinary enough name. The sort of name a clerk might have. Or a shopkeeper. Or a minor official in the civil service.
It was only in the cab on the way back to the club that Lucas had filled him in.
‘Tiggie Benson. Not the kind of chap you want to be in debt to, if I’m honest.’
Fonthill didn’t like the sound of that Tiggie. It had a sinister ring to it. He distrusted its faux chumminess, and its dissonant air of playground nostalgia. What kind of man holds on to such a name? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Far be it from me to spread rumours.’
‘Come on, man. Out with it.’
‘Well, it is said that he is something of a rotter.’
‘What kind of a rotter?’
‘A rather professional and well-organized rotter. The kind of rotter who would not think twice about causing trouble for a chap who owed him upwards of five hundred pounds. Quite a tidy sum, old thing.’ This was added in an infuriatingly censorious tone, as if Lucas hadn’t been the one goading him on to take ever greater risks to recover his losses.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Oh, you mustn’t pay any attention to rumours. I shouldn’t have said anything. I have myself always found him a perfectly charming cove. But then, I have never been in debt to him.’
‘Is he some kind of … criminal?’
‘Good heavens! You ought to be more careful what you say, dear thing. You can’t go around calling Tiggie Benson a criminal. That’s slander. Tiggie Benson don’t take too kindly to slander. I believe the last fellow who slandered Tiggie Benson came to a very sticky end. Found floating face down in the Thames with his throat cut, he was, if memory serves.’
‘Isn’t that slander?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’
The cab disgorged them outside the club on St James’s Street. They got out groggily, the early morning air shocking them into a buzzing wakefulness.
Fonthill had felt suddenly sick, for all sorts of reasons.
‘Buck up, old chum.’ Lucas again. The man was a human gadfly. ‘It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Emma will straighten you out. Damned smart move that, marrying into money.’
‘It’s not quite that simple. Emma and I …’
‘What’s this? You haven’t been biting the hand that feeds, have you? Oh, that’s why you’re staying at the club! Of course! Tut, tut. Naughty boy.’
‘It’s not funny, Lucas. I can’t pay this Benson fellow and I can’t go to Emma for the money. I say, I don’t suppose you could …’
‘That’s not the way it works, dear heart. Frightfully sorry and all that.’
‘Perhaps if everyone …’
‘A whip-round? No, no. That’s not the done thing at all. A gentleman has to settle his own gambling debts, you know. Or get his wife to. Don’t you worry. It will all look better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.’
‘I’ll pay you all back. You know I will. I just need time to sort things out with Emma.’
‘Perhaps you should join the Methodists and become a missionary in the Congo. I doubt very much Tiggie Benson would follow you out there.’
Lucas had been right about one thing. In the morning, it had all looked very different. In fact, the whole thing had felt like a bad dream and Fonthill had decided the easiest thing to do would be put it out of his mind. In the meantime, he would do what he could to get back in Emma’s good books.
Despite his best efforts, he had not been entirely successful in the latter objective; the former, though, he had achieved almost too easily. Until now.
Until Tiggie Benson himself stood outside his house, his ugly face resolutely set for confrontation.
ELEVEN
He’d given the fucker long enough.
You must be gettin’ soft in yer old age, Tiggie, he had said to himself.
Nah. No chance of that. It was just, he knew the longer you left it to call in a debt, the more power you had over the debtor when you finally went knocking on their door. Because one thing Tiggie Benson would bet his shirt on was that Sir Aidan La-di-da Fonthill had not forgotten. No more than he, Tiggie, had.
It was a seed of fear planted in the fucker’s brain. It would have grown to quite a tree by now. Spreading its roots and stretching its branches, cutting off the sunlight of hope, taking all the goodness out of the soil.
Or summink.
Tiggie was not much of a one for gardening. But he did know about fear. He knew how to scare the shit out of a cunt like Fonthill.
It was easy.
You just had to wait.
Mind you, this weather was giving him the right royal hump. Relentless, it was.
But it was something to stand like a statue in it. And the harder it was to do it, the more afraid Fonthill would be. And the more afraid Fonthill was, the better for Tiggie.
Still, his ears were getting cold. Something other than rain was dripping from the end of his nose. If he ended up catching pneumonia on account of this cunt, then he would make the fucker pay twice over.
So maybe it was time.
And if the fucker wouldn’t come to the Tiggie, the Tiggie would go to the fucker.
Or summink.
Tiggie wasn’t much of a one for sayings.
He had just made his mind up to make his move when the door to Fonthill’s house opened and the fucker himself poked his head out.
It was funny. It had been several months now since the game, but Tiggie knew it was the man he was looking for immediately, even across the street, even with the hard, icy rain between them.
Fonthill’s face was pinched and anxious. Afraid, Tiggie acknowledged with a glow of satisfaction. Shit-scared, he might even say. All the better.
Fonthill beckoned to him hurriedly.
Naturally, Tiggie took his time crossing the road.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Ain’t you going to invite me in? It’s not very nice out here.’ Though it was somewhat drier standing under the stone canopy jutting out above Sir Aidan’s front door than it had been out in the street. And Tiggie was under no illusions that Fonthill would let him across the threshold. Still, he enjoyed pushing the toff’s buttons. He pointedly peered over Fonthill’s shoulder, taking in the well-appointed interior with a larcenous gaze.
‘Whatever you’ve got to say to me, you can say here.’
‘You know what I’ve got to say. You owe me seven hundred quid.’
‘Seven hundred! It was more like five hundred.’
‘It was five hundred and sixty-two pounds, thirteen shillings. I let you off the six pence, if you remember.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re forgetting about interest, aincha.’
‘Nobody said anything about interest.’
‘Nobody said anyfin’ abah you keeping’ me waitin’ all this time.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, but as I explained at the time …’
‘You got my money? You pay me now, we’ll call it six hundred.’
‘I don’t have it. Of course I don’t have it.’
‘Wha’ about your missus? She in? Shall I have a word with ’er indoors about it?’
‘No! Now look here. You leave my wife out of this.’
‘No, no, no. It don’ work like that. It don’ work wiv you tellin’ me do this, don’ do that. You owe me, my friend. That means until you pay me, I own you.’
�
�I’ll get you your money. You have my word as a gentleman.’
Oh, Gawd! That was funny. Tiggie thought he’d never stop laughing at that. But suddenly he did. Suddenly it wasn’t funny at all. ‘Your word as a fuckin’ gen’lman ain’ worth fuck all to me, chummy. Your word as a fuckin’ gen’lman? Wha’ the fuck am I gonna do with tha’? You’ve got to be fuckin’ jokin’ aincha?’
Fonthill glanced nervously back over his shoulder, where it was all warm and cosy. Tiggie followed his line of sight, and heard children’s laughter, feet drumming rapidly across floorboards upstairs.
‘Got kiddies, ’ave yer? Li’l ’uns?’
Fonthill’s eyes widened in alarm. It was a look Tiggie recognized and thrived on.
The happy sounds continued, and in fact grew louder. A door slammed somewhere. There was an excited cackle. Thunderous pounding. A moment later, Tiggie’s question was answered when a boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, propelled by the force of his hilarity. The boy looked up and met Tiggie’s eye. A look of wonder came over the boy’s face.
Tiggie raised his hand and waved.
Fonthill turned again. ‘Go back upstairs, John.’
But John could not tear his eyes away from Tiggie.
‘Now!’ snapped Fonthill.
At last the boy turned and threw himself back upstairs as if his life depended on it.
‘In the East End, where I come from, I ’earda ’ard-up mothers selling their li’l ’uns for cash. You know ’ow it is, too many mouths to feed an’ all that. You’d be surprised what some toffs like you would pay for a scrawny underfed nipper from Whitechapel. Or maybe you wun’.’ Tiggie gave Fonthill a hard stare. ‘I dare say I could get you a decent price for one of yours.’
Fonthill made to shut the door in his face, but Tiggie was too quick for him, jamming his boot in the way. Tiggie leant forward to whisper through the gap. ‘One way or another, you’ll pay.’
‘I-I’ll get the money. I promise.’
‘You will, will ya? Now why do I find that hard to believe? See, if you could get the money, I think you woulda got it me already. Doanchoo?’
The silence that came in response was more eloquent than any words.
‘Now listen. Listen. I din’ come ’ere just to give you grief. I don’ wan’ one of your children, tho’ if you was prepared to part wiv one of ’em – girl or boy, don’ matter – well, we migh’ come to some arrangement.’ Tiggie felt the pressure on his foot increase as Fonthill leant harder in on the door. ‘’Old up, ’old up! I know you prob’ly don’ wanna. So I ain’ even gonna ask. Not for now. We’ll call that security, like wiv a bank. You know wha’ I’m talkin’ abah’? If I need to, I can always call it in. But for now, we won’ even talk abah’ it. Forget I mentioned it. Instead, I got a differen’ proposal. Your word as a gen’lman ain’t much use to me, I tell you that much. But if you take this door off my right foot, I’ll tell you wha’ is.’
There was a moment where Tiggie could almost hear the cogs in the fucker’s brain turning. Then slowly the door eased open and he was free to move his foot again.
SECOND MOVEMENT
TWELVE
Saturday, 19 December, 1914
As he chained up his bike, Paul Seddon looked through the railings at the front of University College School and saw a man in dark glasses looking straight at him. The man didn’t look away politely, as most people would when they realized they had been caught staring at someone.
Then Paul noticed that the man was holding a white stick in one hand.
Paul crossed the quad and went up to the stranger. The man had a full red beard, a respectable rival to Paul’s own black one.
‘May I help you?’
The blind man looked straight past him, as if at some point above his right shoulder. He said nothing but raised one hand, in which he held a battered satchel. He seemed to believe that this was all the explanation of his presence that he needed to give.
‘Have you come to tune the piano?’ For some reason Paul believed this was what the man meant him to understand. He took it that the satchel contained whatever tools he needed. ‘But we’re about to have a rehearsal. I don’t think now’s the best time, I’m afraid. Who booked you? I think there must have been some mix-up.’
‘Sir Aidan Fonthill.’ There was something unusual about the way the man spoke. He did not seem to be answering Paul’s question so much as making a pronouncement.
‘Oh, Sir Aidan. I see. That’s strange. He doesn’t usually handle this sort of thing. It’s normally Cavendish, our treasurer. I think, really, you’re going to have to come back some other time. Perhaps after the rehearsal.’
‘I’ll come back.’ The man lurched straight towards him, tapping the ground in front of him with his stick. Paul was forced to jump to one side to avoid being hit. ‘Do tell Sir Aidan I was here.’
‘Who shall I say?’
But the man did not answer, except to hum a strange and broken melody.
Paul watched him tap his way across the quad. It was quite extraordinary the speed at which these blind chaps could move sometimes.
A moment or two after the fellow had disappeared through the school gate, Charles and Ursula Cavendish came in.
Cavendish’s face was set in a distracted frown. His wife had the startled expression of someone who had just been given some unexpected news and could not decide whether it was welcome or not.
Cavendish greeted Paul with a wordless nod.
‘I say, Cavendish, did you see the piano tuner?’
‘What piano tuner?’
‘Blind chap, with a stick. You must have seen him as you came in.’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘I don’t remember. Besides, I didn’t organize any piano tuner. Not for today at least.’
‘No. Sir Aidan arranged it, but I told him now was not a good time. He’s going to come back later.’
‘What the devil is Fonthill doing arranging piano tuners?’
Paul shrugged. Cavendish’s anger seemed out of proportion to Fonthill’s supposed offence. It was all the more remarkable because Cavendish was usually such an easy-going fellow.
‘I shall have to have a word with him about that. I need to talk to him about another matter anyhow.’ Cavendish gave his wife a dark look. She drew her head up defiantly.
Good heavens! Not Ursula as well! thought Paul. He held the door open for them to go in.
THIRTEEN
Ursula stood at the threshold of the Great Hall as Charles hurried in ahead of her, impatient, bustling with an energy she had not suspected he possessed, like a cork popping from a bottle of fizz. If only he had shown some of that before today, before he had already lost her, there might have been hope for them.
They were the first to arrive, it seemed, apart from Donald Metcalfe, who was already seated at the harpsichord, obviously eager to get his hands on the novel instrument. His fingers raced over the keys with that firm but effortless precision that almost always took her breath away. To say that Donald was a cold fish was an understatement. As far as Ursula could tell, it was not that he kept his emotions bottled in, simply that he did not have any. So how he was capable of producing such soul-wrenching music was a mystery to her. Were there hidden depths to him? Somehow she doubted it. Was he even aware of the effect his playing could have on others? She doubted that too.
The oak-panelled grandeur of the hall was saved from an oppressive gloom by a magnificent vaulted ceiling, inset with three large windows on either side and one at the back of the hall. An expansive light streamed in from the window behind her. Three impressive chandeliers were hung from the arches that divided the ceiling. Facing her were the pipes of the organ, arranged like the teeth of a great monster, and the organ loft. The stage below was set with banked seating for the choir. In front of the stage a space was left for the orchestra with a small podium where Sir Aidan would stand to conduct. Metcalfe’s piano and harpsichord were off to one side.
The hall itself was filled w
ith wooden seats arranged on either side of an aisle. She watched her husband stride away from her with brisk, purposeful steps. It struck her, curiously, as an ironic reversal of her wedding day, when she had walked down another aisle with a slow, measured tread towards Charles.
She heard the door swing open and was aware of someone shifting restlessly behind her, but she felt no inclination to get out of the way.
‘Excuse me, Ursula.’ The sound of Paul Seddon’s voice stirred angry emotions, not so much on his own account – Ursula supposed she had nothing against the man – but because of his association with that woman. Ursula pretended not to have heard him, standing her ground so that he was forced to step round her. He gave her a look between pity and irritation as he bumped past her, buffeting her like a weathervane in the wind.
She felt the rage rise up.
Pity! How dare he pity her!
Ahead of her, Seddon bent over to take the bicycle clip from around his right ankle, presenting her with a sight that was either a considered insult or an invitation to a clownish act of subversion. If she had been able to move, it would have been to run forward and kick him in the backside. It was perhaps better for all of them that she felt herself frozen to the spot.
For as long as she could remember, Ursula had felt on the cusp of something. It was a dreadful feeling. It left her nerves frayed. Butterflies had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her skin tingled as if it had been whipped with feathers. When she was not grinding her teeth, she was clenching her fingers or flexing certain internal muscles in preparation for some great feat of courage.
She wanted to scream or weep or howl with bitter, sarcastic laughter.
And yet it was not wholly a dreadful feeling.
This sense that nothing had been settled, that her life was up for grabs, contained within it a vast reserve of hope.
For now that Charles had taken the initiative to move things on, something had been set in motion. Things had been said which couldn’t be unsaid and could only be followed through. Through to the end.
