by Nancy Revell
Mr Havelock muttered blasphemies under his breath as he took the souvenir of a future that would never be over to the fireplace. Pulling out his silver lighter from his trouser pocket, he clicked it open and held the flame under the thick card, on which the letters B.U.F. had been heavily embossed in black. It slowly caught alight. Leaning one hand on the mantelpiece he watched it burn, letting it go at the last minute.
He had to accept that there really was no chance of Hitler making any kind of a comeback. Why the British were so against him he did not know. His policies made good sense. His own people certainly thought so, otherwise why would they have voted him in?
Mr Havelock turned and sat down at his desk. His mind wandered, as it often did of late, to his wife, Henrietta. A wife who, on paper, had died of a terrible tropical disease in India but who, in reality, was very much alive and well. If only she really had died, he would not be in his current predicament.
He was being controlled.
No one had ever controlled him in his entire life.
And it was all because of Henrietta.
Mr Havelock sat forward, his elbows leaning on the leather-embossed top of his desk, his hands clasped as though in prayer. He thought again about Mosley. And Hitler. And the hoped-for future that now had no chance of becoming a reality.
He thought of Hitler’s policies. He thought about Henrietta. Insane. Or at least she was deemed to be on paper. He thought of the controversial T4 Euthanasia Program adopted by the Führer at the start of the war, which sanctioned the killing of the incurably ill, the elderly, the physically disabled – and the mentally ill.
The mentally ill.
Those housed in lunatic asylums.
Like the one in Ryhope.
Mr Havelock turned and looked out the lead-paned window of the office, still covered in anti-blast tape even though there hadn’t been a single air raid in well over a year. He sat quite still and thought. And slowly an idea started to take shape in his head, and as it did so, it grew at a rapid rate of knots.
He knew what he had to do. It was as clear as the day outside. And with that knowledge came a sudden wave of impatience. He sat up in his chair and picked up the receiver of his gloss black Bakelite phone. He dialled a familiar number.
‘Good morning, Inverness 4356.’ His eldest daughter’s soft voice sounded down the line.
‘Margaret!’ Mr Havelock shouted down the phone.
‘Well, hello there, Father.’ The tone no longer soft. ‘You do realise that most people start their telephone conversations with, “Hello, how are you?” rather than simply bawling their name down the line.’
Mr Havelock ignored the reprimand. ‘When’s Miriam coming back?’
‘She’s not,’ Margaret said simply.
There was silence down the phone.
‘Again, I have to inform you, Father, that it is customary in civilised society to ask how someone is if they have been unwell. Especially if that person is your daughter.’
‘For God’s sake, Margaret—’ Mr Havelock forced the words out. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘She’s doing just fine, Father,’ Margaret tried hard to remain civil.
‘Well, if she’s doing just fine, then why is she not back home where she belongs … She’s got a divorce to sort out if nothing else!’
He heard Margaret take a deep breath.
‘Miriam’s on the mend, but she’s not well enough to return home just yet.’
Margaret would have liked to ask why it was her father wanted his daughter home, but knew it was unlikely she’d get either a straight or an honest answer. Her father, she had learnt over the years, was a pathological liar.
‘Bloody hell, how long does it take to squeeze someone dry?’ Mr Havelock yelled down the phone in exasperation.
For God’s sake, he needed her home. And sooner rather than later. He waited. Silence. A click as his daughter hung up. Then dead air. He banged the receiver down, fighting the urge to pick it up again and smash it down on the cradle. Repeatedly.
Even as a child Margaret had always defied him. Always answering back. Never doing what he wanted. It had been a relief when he’d got shot of her and she’d buggered off over the border to marry that husband of hers. He wished Angus had answered the phone. He’d have got more joy, and certainly more information, from his son-in-law.
‘Eddy!’ Mr Havelock bellowed. It felt good to shout. Flicking open his box of cigars, he took one out, clipped the end, and lit it impatiently, puffing on it so hard he was soon surrounded by a fog of smoke.
‘Yes, Mr Havelock?’ Eddy’s voice could be heard before he appeared through the half-opened doorway.
‘I need a drink – and quick!’
Eddy gave a curt nod, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived, and returning a few minutes later with a silver tray on which there was a bottle of his master’s favourite brandy and a large brandy glass.
Seeing the bottle, Mr Havelock started to calm down. Shooing Eddy away, he took the Remy and poured himself a good measure. He’d just have to be patient, remind himself of one of his long-held beliefs.
Slowly, slowly catch the monkey.
He’d have to hold his horses until Miriam got back.
Then he could put into play his plan of action.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
Find us online and join the conversation
Follow us on Twitter twitter.com/penguinukbooks
Like us on Facebook facebook.com/penguinbooks
Share the love on Instagram instagram.com/penguinukbooks
Watch our authors on YouTube youtube.com/penguinbooks
Pin Penguin books to your Pinterest pinterest.com/penguinukbooks
Listen to audiobook clips at soundcloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and discover
your next read at penguin.co.uk
Cornerstone
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Cornerstone is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books in 2021
This edition reissued by Arrow Books in 2021
Copyright © Nancy Revell 2021
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover photograph by Colin Thomas. Background: Getty.
ISBN: 978-1-473-57283-6
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
