Maxwell's Summer

by M. J. Trow

  Maxwell, judge of men par excellence, had spotted something about the driver. ‘Excuse me asking,’ he said, ‘but I’m assuming you haven’t always been a driver. You seem ...’

  The driver laughed. ‘Not like you to be stuck for a word, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘And no, before you ask, I’m not a Highena, but the missus is. As soon as I told her last night where I was going first thing, she couldn’t stop talking about you. So, you might say, I am an honorary Highena.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Fran. Fran Thornley, as was. Left ... ooh, let me think, it would be ...’

  ‘Ten years ago.’ Maxwell remembered Fran, but for all the right reasons. Bright. Willing to learn. And ... ‘How old are your children? You didn’t say.’

  ‘Coming up for ten, seven and three.’

  Ah. He had always wondered what had happened to Fran. ‘And you? Where did you go to school?’

  ‘I’m not from round here. I was a medical student on secondment but ... well, you remember Fran. She was too lovely to leave.’

  ‘So ... here you are. Driving.’

  ‘And very happy, Mr Maxwell. Don’t forget very happy.’

  Maxwell looked at the man, twisted round in his seat one arm along the back, peaked cap pushed back on his head.

  ‘I’ve been helping out with the guests as well. I’ve mugged up on the history of the house, the area. They love it, the Americans do. Well, you’ll find out yourself, shortly.’ He nodded towards the paddock, where Nolan had appeared, leading what looked to his father like an insanely huge horse. ‘Still want to check on him?’

  Maxwell smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Drive on ...?’

  ‘James, as it happens.’

  ‘Perfect. Let’s do this!’ And the car pulled away smoothly, taking Maxwell to his version of Bunker Hill – only this time, he knew who was going to win.

  Maxwell got out of the car at the front of the house. The queues hadn’t started yet but even so, the harpy in the booth at the door was ready for anything. Maxwell had had his instructions from Ariana Hale-ffinch in no uncertain terms. When he arrived, he was to go through the main door, using the small turnstile at the side, and make his way to the guest services desk down the corridor marked ‘Private’. Apparently, the Americans liked to think they were going into areas banned to the public; it added to the mystique.

  He pushed the turnstile, which made a muted buzz and made his way to the door marked ‘Private’. But before he could even reach out for the handle, a shrill voice rebounded all around the hall.

  ‘Walk through!’ the woman shrieked through a tannoy system discreetly hidden in the panelling. ‘Walk through! Security! Emergency! Walk through!’ And then, in darker tones, ‘It’s that bloke again. The one I told you about. Walk through! Walk through!’

  There were no flashing lights or wailing sirens and somehow, that was disappointing. Maxwell had watched cop shows. He knew what happened next. He would be slammed face first against the wall, his hands held painfully behind his back before being dragged off to the slammer. Rikers Island almost certainly now they’d closed real prisons like Alcatraz and Sing-Sing. He waited with bated breath.

  After five or so minutes, he had to unbate his breath. He was starting to feel a little light-headed. He turned to see what was happening behind him and the answer seemed to be, nothing much. Then, the door in front of him opened and an elderly head poked round. Ignoring Maxwell as if he were not there, the old man called, ‘Maureen?’

  The woman in the kiosk ignored him. She seemed intent on counting change, though Maxwell couldn’t see what she needed coins for, not at those prices.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ the codger said, elbowing past him and approaching the kiosk. ‘Maureen?’ he wheezed. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She inclined her head towards Maxwell. ‘That bloke. Walk through. He’s already given me trouble this week, smart mouthing me when I had a queue.’

  Maxwell turned and openly watched the two. He realised, on second look, that the old codger was actually Jack, Halesdown’s answer to Robocop, and what he had taken for a rather dour suit was in fact a uniform, which fitted the man almost nowhere. The seam where the sleeve met the shoulder was almost halfway down his bicep, if that was the word Maxwell sought, and his hands were invisible, unless he shot his cuffs, which he did with the regularity of a tic. What Maxwell had originally taken to be epaulettes were actually formed from an accretion of dandruff. The trousers had been turned up by someone with only the most glancing knowledge of sewing, with the big tacking stitches very much in evidence. All in all, as security men went, Maxwell had seen better.

  Jack shambled over. Even his shoes were one size fits no-one. He coughed, a subterranean sound that seemed to go on for ever. Maxwell was reminded of the moment just before Mr Creosote explodes after his wafer thin mint. But there was no explosion, except a phlegmy gargle. ‘You can’t go in there,’ he husked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Maureen says you ent paid.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Maxwell said. ‘But, as I work here, I suppose that’s not really necessary, is it?’

  Jack looked him up and down. ‘You don’t work here,’ he said. ‘What could you do here? She’s got all the staff she wants.’ He pushed his unlovely stubble closer to Maxwell, who backed away. ‘’Ere, she ent got you to come and help me in secur’ty, ’as she?’ His voice rose to a wail. ‘I told her. I told her. We don’t need nobody; me and Bob. We don’t need no help. I can ...’ and the wail subsided on a rusty-sounding cough.

  Maxwell looked around helplessly. Maureen was looking the other way, in possibly the worst attempt at nonchalance Maxwell had ever seen, but he was, to be fair, used to only the best – he had Ten Bee Are on a Wednesday afternoon and they could nonchalant for England. Then he detected, as welcome as the hoofs of the Seventh Cavalry, hurrying footsteps beyond the forbidden door and it was wrenched open, to reveal the most coifed and polished woman Maxwell had ever seen. Today was already a day of superlatives and it had barely begun.

  ‘Mr Maxwell?’ The woman’s lipstick was so jammy she had to prise her lips apart with an effort before she could speak. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Well ...’ Maxwell didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘’E’s a walk frew,’ Jack wailed. ‘Maureen pressed the button. I got here as quick as I could ...’

  ‘Yes, yes, Jack, thank you. Mr Maxwell isn’t a walk through, he is our conversationalist for the summer.’

  The guard looked mutinous and didn’t leave. Conversationalist! Sounded very like paedophile to him. Them long words was all the same, when you got right down to it. The last time he’d seen Maxwell, he’d been in the company of two old biddies, each madder than the last. ‘He never had a badge on,’ he muttered. ‘’Ow was we to know?’

  ‘Well, that’s true, Jack. But if you remember, I had a word with you about all that. It is Mr Maxwell’s first day. He was coming through to get his badge. Do you see?’ She spoke to him as if he were more than slightly deficient, which, Maxwell thought, was probably a good plan. ‘So, we’re all good. Yes?’ She smiled and looked somewhat like Joaquin Phoenix in full Joker fig.

  Jack nodded and shambled off, his feet doing two steps for every one his shoes did. Maxwell and his rescuer watched him go.

  Only then did she extend a hand. ‘I do apologise,’ she said. ‘Maureen and Jack are what one might call the old guard.’ She raised an eyebrow, forestalling him. ‘In Jack’s case, the very old guard. They have been here since before Harry took over and Tom and Roddy were very loath to part with them. We’re working on it, shall we say?’

  Maxwell nodded. He remembered – but only just – when he had been the keen new kid on the block; now, he was the old geezer whom every new teacher felt they had inherited from the Dark Ages. But he was pretty sure his clothes fitted him better than Jack’s did. And Napoleon’s Immortals had at least had epaulettes made from something other than shed scalp. He made a general note t
o self not to call security, even in extremis.

  She was still holding his hand, then, letting go with a final squeeze, said, ‘My name is Sally. I am the co-ordinator for the guests. I’ll need your schedule and any evenings you will be eating with us. Harry tells me that you won’t be staying here, but we have allocated you a room nevertheless. You may like to use it for your lunch breaks and so on – the guests can be a little full on, so having a bolt-hole is key. Speaking of which,’ and she ferreted in a pocket and brought out a key which would not shame Castle Dracula, ‘this is your key. Your room is on the attic floor of the West Wing, but don’t let that put you off. We’ve upgraded them since they housed four tweenies to a bed.’ She smiled at what was clearly a stock joke. ‘So, where was I? Oh, yes, schedule.’ She ferreted again and brought out a smart phone almost the size of a paperback. Maxwell, not exactly an expert in mobile phones, couldn’t help wondering what happened to the trend for phones as small as an ear. She held it out, expectantly.

  Maxwell smiled, and reached into his trouser pocket. To her amazement, he brought out a piece of paper and handed it across.

  She looked at it as if it had farted. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘My schedule.’ He unfolded it. ‘Look, it’s got lines and colours and everything.’

  ‘Paper?’ she breathed.

  He slid it back and forth between his fingers. ‘Yes, definitely paper.’

  ‘But ... did Harry not tell you? We run a paperless office. Sustainability. We’re looking towards getting a Lottery Grant.’

  ‘Well, good for you. I’ll tell you what.’ Maxwell was all for the planet, but was willing to bet that the woman’s false nails had killed more pandas than ever his piece of paper had. ‘What if we go to your office, I read out my schedule to you and then take this piece of paper home? Would that suit?’

  She looked dubious, but nodded and, turning on her heel, led the way through the Forbidden Portal.

  In her kiosk, Maureen flared her nostrils and scowled. ‘Walk through!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Bloody walk through!’

  Sally Baker’s office was indeed paper-free. And character free. The air was being relentlessly scrubbed by a Dyson gizmo in the corner, the furniture was so new that Maxwell could almost hear the ghost of the shrink-wrap it had recently shed crinkling to itself in a forgotten corner. He was not an eco-warrior in any sense, but he loved his living space as much as the next man, so he couldn’t really see why paper – a sustainable commodity if ever there was one – should be kicked out and replaced by enough plastic to choke a whole ocean’s-worth of turtles. He and Dave Attenborough were as one.

  Sally sat behind her desk and gestured Maxwell to a chair. As he sat in it, he could feel the static glue his chinos to his leg. ‘I see you’re admiring my office,’ the woman said with a smile. ‘Harry let me furnish it myself. I am very particular, as you will discover. Now,’ she placed her hands palms down on her desk, so her nails clicked. ‘We need to get you booked into my system, get your badge printed and then I think you’re good to go. Has Harry told you your main duties?’

  ‘Well,’ Maxwell wasn’t quite sure how to respond, ‘I was guessing I have to ... talk to people?’

  ‘And of course, present a conversation at the cocktail hour. Do you have a title for today? And how do you want to work the PowerPoint? Do you have a remote or would you rather go old school?’ She laughed and slapped the desk as if that was hilarious.

  ‘Oh, definitely old school,’ Maxwell said. ‘If, by old school you mean I don’t have a PowerPoint.’

  Sally would have blinked very fast at that news had her eyelash extensions not prevented her. Also, her Botox kept her forehead smooth; but Maxwell could read the other signs and knew this had surprised her more than somewhat.

  Eventually, she managed to breathe enough for speech. ‘No PowerPoint?’

  ‘No.’ Maxwell was almost tired of this already and a picture of six thousand pounds floating off on the tide flashed before his eyes. ‘No PowerPoint. I will be giving lec ... having conversations about the house but in the context of the history in which it has lived.’ He was aware of becoming pompous, but really, this was enough to try the patience of a saint. ‘So what good would ... oh, I don’t know ... a picture of Lord Melbourne do anybody?’ He knew at once he had chosen a bad example – she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I can explain, do you see? Tell them about it. With words.’ He leaned forward, willing her to get the point, power or not.

  She set her mouth in a hard line and he could clearly see where lip and lipstick parted company. ‘I don’t know ... guests like PowerPoints.’

  ‘Do they? Have you ever asked them?’

  ‘Well ... no. But they do. They love the one I use to welcome them to Haledown House.’

  ‘That’s lovely, then. They won’t get us mixed up if I don’t use one. And let’s make an agreement – if you get complaints ... and I’m not talking about the odd one or two, here ... if you get complaints from a significant number of guests with a brain in their head, I will do PowerPoints from now on. Does that sound fair?’

  Sally was surprised the old git had folded so quickly. Of course there would be complaints. She smiled and turned to her keyboard. ‘Agreed,’ she said, trying not to smirk. ‘Let’s get that badge printed, shall we?’ She held up what looked like a disembodied eye and pointed it at Maxwell. ‘Smile!’

  Chapter Six

  I

  f there was one thing Peter Maxwell disliked, it was wearing a badge on a lanyard. The six or seven that had been printed for him at Leighford High were in a drawer somewhere. Not one of his drawers, of course – it might be able to be found some day if it were too near to his office – but definitely a drawer. In a building. This one was harder to dispense with. He didn’t want another brush with security and it was true that he needed to be identifiable. So he compromised, by looping it up onto his pocket, rather after the fashion of a Regency buck and his lorgnette. Which was also topical, so that was all right and the excuse he would give if challenged.

  And challenged he was, just as he had found a shady spot on a comfy bench in the physick garden.

  ‘Hey!’

  Maxwell had closed his eyes to soak up the buzzing of the bees and the scent of rosemary and rue but opened them at what he had to assume was a friendly greeting.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled and returned to his commune with nature.

  ‘Are you this conversationalist guy?’

  He sensed a body plumping down on the bench, one on either side of him.

  He sat up straighter and assumed a broader smile. This was clearly going to take a while. ‘I am.’ He shook hands with both his new companions, a married couple he assumed, given that they were wearing matching Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. ‘Peter Maxwell. At your service.’

  The woman giggled and grinned at him, revealing some unlovely teeth enclosed in a plastic brace. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said. ‘We’ve already heard so much about you.’

  Maxwell was startled. He had never heard his name pronounced with the accent on the ‘well’ before. He moved to prevent a repetition. ‘Call me Max,’ he suggested and she giggled some more. Her husband continued as if he hadn’t spoken and in a few minutes Maxwell understood why – the man clearly never listened to a word his wife spoke, or that was spoken to her. Once the tarnish had sullied the trophy wife of years before, so she had slowly ceased to exist.

  ‘Well, Peter – may I call you Pete? Great. Well, Pete, we’ve heard so much about you. We can’t wait to pick your brain about this lovely old house. We just love your old English houses.’

  Maxwell wondered and not for the first time why Americans said that word as if it were spelled with two esses – housses. He was uncertain over how exactly to respond. A polite ‘you’re welcome’ seemed a little proprietorial. He settled for a smile.

  ‘We’ve been to all the big ones. Downton Abbey, that was our favourite.’

  At home, whenever Do
wnton Abbey or its redoubtable author was mentioned, Maxwell would greet the mention with crossed fingers and a hiss. But again, the smile – he had a sinking feeling that his smile muscles were going to get very over-worked in the next five weeks.

  ‘We love it here, though. The bedrooms are the best we’ve seen – they’re a bit oldy-worldy and Flo here was a bit disappointed not to have a power shower ... weren’t you, hun? ... but the TV is big and gets CNN so that’s all right.’

  Flo ventured that she didn’t mind oldy-worldy and the lack of power shower was something she could live with. ‘Something I am disappointed by, though, Pete,’ she said, having decided, probably through long experience, to follow her husband’s lead, ‘is that no one seems to care about the spelling. You’d think a place this fancy would have somebody checking on the notices and things, wouldn’t you.’

  A weary prescience settled on Maxwell. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘Take this garden, for instance,’ she said. ‘Why did no one notice that some fool had put a k on physick? That jumped out at me right away, didn’t it, Elliot? I said to Elliot, right away, there’s a k on that word, Elliot.’

  Elliot seemed to notice her for a brief moment. ‘Flo is a great one for reading,’ he said. ‘All those oldy-worldy books like ...’ but there his knowledge of his spouse’s reading habits left him.

  Flo dimpled in a way that was probably once pretty but now made Maxwell start – the close proximity of Botox, collagen filler and dimpling was quite disturbing. ‘I have always got my head in a book, that’s certain sure,’ she said. ‘I’m reading a novel by someone called Jane Austen. Have you heard of her?’

  In other circumstances, Maxwell would have been almost certain that the question was irony, but now he wasn’t so sure. He settled again for a nod and a smile.

  ‘Northampton Abbey. Very good, but nothing much going on. I’m almost halfway through and there hasn’t been a murder yet, but I quite like a slow start.’