by Alan Judd
He shook his head. ‘No point.’
‘You wouldn’t like to know more about it? Or about the sitter, your ancestor?’
‘Dead. All dead, aren’t they? No point.’
He turned away and stood facing the hearth, staring into the empty grate. I rehung the painting and joined him. The fire irons, including the sword, were neatly arranged. ‘I could clean that up for you, too. I could do that myself.’
‘What – the fireplace?’
‘No, the sword. That one, the one you use as a poker.’
He stared as if he had never noticed it before. ‘What d’you want to do that for? No point.’
‘It might clean up well. It might turn out to be valuable.’ I didn’t want to convince him of that but it was worth the risk if I could persuade him to let me take it away.
‘Nothing special. Can’t be. Not like those.’ He nodded at the swords on the wall. ‘Used in action, those. Probably. Good condition, too. Not like that old thing.’
I suffered another spasm of temptation, the insane moral impulse to confess, to tell him whose sword I thought it was, to urge him to cherish it or sell it for a great deal of money. But I controlled myself. ‘Did your father ever say anything about it?’
‘Kept it here, where it is. Always been a poker, long as I can remember.’
I didn’t want to show too keen an interest, so I said, ‘Another thing, your long-case clock on the landing, the local clock, the one by H. Bourn of Rye. Charlotte showed me it.’
‘In the family since new, I believe. They knew the maker.’
‘She said you’d stopped it because the chime kept you awake. But it’s easy to disconnect the chime, the work of a few minutes. I could pop up and do it sometime.’ That would be another excuse to visit.
For once his eyes showed some interest. ‘Could you, could you now? Very kind.’ He stared again into the empty grate. ‘Very kind,’ he whispered.
Again, it was unclear whether the conversation had ended. I longed to pick up the sword and, to stop myself, added, ‘I’ll arrange to call in and do it sometime.’
There was no reaction. I would have yielded to temptation and picked up the sword after a few more seconds if he hadn’t then said, ‘Charlotte – she, you know – doesn’t get out much. I – I’m not much good for – if you come across anything locally that she’d like, you know, talks, plays, concerts and things . . .’
‘I’ll certainly let you know.’
‘. . . Happy for you to take her if you’d – you know – if I’m busy with something.’
He trailed off, still staring into the fireplace. As well as not being sure he’d finished, I wasn’t sure what he meant. Did he mean exactly and only what he said or was he offering me Charlotte? If so, with or without her cognisance? It was hard to imagine him ever being busy. I had started saying something to the effect that I was pleased and honoured when she came in from the kitchen.
‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying your nightcaps. One always needs to unwind after these things.’
Gerald ignored her, fixated, it seemed, on the fireplace. I felt confident enough now to step into his shoes – or, rather, his deep-red leather slippers. ‘And how about you? Can I get you something?’
She smiled as at a child who is doing well but needs encouragement. ‘So sweet of you but not this time, thank you.’ She tinkled again.
We made conversation, awkwardly because of the pretence of including Gerald, who ignored us both. I asked about the other guests and made exaggeratedly complimentary remarks about them, mentioning Eileen in particular as lively and stimulating. Charlotte smiled at that. Eventually, when I said it was time I went and Charlotte had made the ritual protests, Gerald responded by turning away from the fireplace and accompanying us into the hall. As Charlotte opened the front door and I was about to shake his hand, he said, ‘He . . . he always said – my father – said it was given to the family by Shakespeare. You know, William Shakespeare, chap who wrote those plays. The sword, I mean.’
‘Really? How fascinating. Did he have any evidence or was it just family lore?’
‘No knowing the truth of it, of course. He also said a violin we have is a Stradivari which it is not. My uncle had a chap look at it. It’s a copy. It’s in the cellar.’
‘But the sword? You never—?’
‘Always used it as a poker. He wouldn’t have done that if he really thought there was something in it.’
‘I could get an expert to—’
Gerald turned away, half-raising his hand. ‘Goodnight. Come again.’
Chapter Four
A couple of weeks later I discovered that on the Tuesday following there was a local historical society talk on the Roman settlement in our part of Sussex. I was not a member but promptly joined via the website, intending to ring Charlotte and invite her – assuming, that is, that she knew of her husband’s suggestion. But over dinner on the Sunday before, when Stephanie and I always had roast chicken, which I had taught Stephanie to do and which gave her a reliable weekly pleasure, she suddenly said, ‘She rang. On the telephone. The lady.’
I guessed whom she meant. ‘When was that?’
She paused with full fork half raised and a dribble of gravy running down her chin. ‘Before.’
To Stephanie, the past is indivisible. ‘Was it a long time ago or was it today, before you started cooking?’
‘Today, when you were out. She rang.’
‘What did she say?’
Stephanie laughed. She has a rich, infectious laugh, throaty and unselfconscious. More gravy dribbled. ‘She said a lot!’
I smiled encouragingly. ‘I expect she did. Can you remember what it was?’
Her laugh mutated into coughing and hiccoughing. Eventually, when she had herself more or less back under control, she said, ‘She said please will you ring her.’ She was convulsed by another paroxysm of merriment, tears running unheeded down her cheeks. ‘She said you are a good waiter!’
It transpired that Charlotte had rung to suggest the very talk I had spotted. ‘I wouldn’t dream of pushing myself on you,’ she said when I rang, ‘only Gerald said you had very kindly offered to accompany me to local cultural functions which he hasn’t time to go to – in his words.’ She laughed. ‘And so when I saw this one, I thought, seize the moment. If you’re free, that is. And only if you’re interested in the Romans. Not everyone is, of course.’
It was soon settled. I told her I had been about to make the same suggestion but I’m not sure she believed me. Her version of how the arrangement came about did nothing to dispel the mystery of Gerald’s motive, or hers.
‘I had a lovely long chat with Stephanie,’ she added. ‘She was very amused when I told her what a wonderful guest you were, all that waitering and serving.’
‘She told me. She’s still laughing about it. It was very kind of you to talk to her. People don’t usually make the effort. They’re too embarrassed.’
‘Well, you have to give her time, no good being in a hurry, but she’s wonderfully straightforward. Comes straight out with it.’
I continued my researches into the Combe family. Successive wills made no mention of the sword. Gerald’s father’s assertion was encouraging, of course, but it hardly constituted evidence and so was really no more than tantalising. Perhaps there was evidence somewhere, perhaps Gerald, given time – like Stephanie – might one day say, offhandedly, ‘Yes, there’s a letter about it somewhere. In the loft.’ Or the cellar he had mentioned. Winchelsea houses are known for their cavernous cellars hewn from rock. In the summer months they hold open days on which the curious are led up and down flights of narrow stone steps. The function of the cellars was not, as popularly supposed, to conceal contraband but legitimately to store the wines and spirits and other goods in which the ancient port traded.
Clearly, I had to get into their cellar. Who knew what might be there, fake Stradivari apart. Most cellars are damp, dank places but the few Winchelsea
ones I had been in were dry and cool, ideal for storage. Perhaps I would discover some cloak or costume in faded red cloth. I had just read that when the old queen died at last in 1603 things were not looking good for Shakespeare and his company of players, the Chamberlain’s Men. The Lord Chamberlain was their patron at court but he also died, leaving them without commissions or protection. But in May 1603 the new king, James, unexpectedly authorised Shakespeare and his eight fellow shareholders to call themselves the King’s Men, performing at court, at the Globe and throughout the realm. They were given official court status as Grooms of the Chamber, which was when they were each issued with four and a half yards of red cloth to be fashioned into royal livery for state occasions. He would surely have worn his sword then. The Coombses’ cellar could be an Aladdin’s cave.
I also researched Gerald himself, expecting a lucrative professional or City background from which he had retired early on a comfortable pension. Stockbroking, perhaps, or Lloyd’s; or maybe he had owned and built up a business which he had then sold, though it was hard to imagine the Gerald I knew doing anything energetically. But it was none of these, in fact nothing very much of anything. He had attended a boarding school in Sussex, had not gone to university – not many people did then – had worked in some undisclosed role for a freight transport company, then was marketing manager of a foodstuffs company, was briefly manager of a chain of furniture stores, then head of sales and marketing for an engineering firm which went into liquidation, following which he was involved with two banks and an insurance company. His final recorded position was again in marketing, this time with a rail company that lost its franchise. He had stayed nowhere long, seemed never to have achieved distinction in anything and had retired early, but obviously not uncomfortably. Presumably family money helped. I would have to find out more about his father. Charlotte, whose maiden name I had yet to discover, did not appear to have done anything of public record.
The Roman talk was in Battle, an inland town a comfortable half-hour drive away. That, I thought, would give more time to relax her and condition her to my purpose. Gerald did not appreciate the sword, had no interest in it, felt no responsibility for it and so did not deserve it. What I would do with it and precisely how I would get it, I hadn’t decided, but I was sure that the getting of it would have to involve Charlotte. I felt I was flowing with the tide but had yet to identify a precise landfall. Like a mariner of old, I imagined, I would know it when I saw it and, seeing it, would know the means.
‘Are you always so punctual?’ She answered the door herself, wearing black slacks and a smart, high-shouldered jacket. She closed the door without calling goodbye to Gerald.
It was a pleasant early-evening drive along a ridge between two valleys, then winding through woods until not far from the historic town. We tried to discuss things Roman, professing enthusiasm and ignorance in equal measure. I noticed her end-of-sentence giggle more that evening, though whether because she was doing it more or because I was waiting for it, I couldn’t say. I wondered how long I should have to be in her company before I found it a serious irritant. Possibly I had such mannerisms too, but, being unaware of them, I couldn’t imagine anyone taking significant objection.
The talk, by the county archaeologist, was practised and informative. I couldn’t now repeat a word of it except his answer to a question about the Roman short sword. This was partly because my thoughts circled constantly around that hearth back in Winchelsea and partly because I was considering whether Charlotte was aware of our thighs touching. We were all crowded on narrow, uncomfortable, village hall-type chairs and I became aware that we were touching very soon after the talk started. I couldn’t decide whether it was deliberate on her part or accidental and, if the latter, whether she was aware and, if so, why she hadn’t moved. I could have moved away, of course, but she might have interpreted that as rejection, which was not the message I wanted to send. At the same time, although I found her desirable, I hesitated to embark on an affair since that could cut either way when it came to securing the sword. One the one hand, she might help me to it; on the other, if she suspected that the sword was my real passion it would have the opposite effect. The touch was anyway so slight it was possible she was genuinely unaware. I did not move.
The talk excited her. I could see it in her eyes when she turned to me during the applause. I suspected it wasn’t so much the subject – interesting enough but not often a cause of arousal – as the occasion. Being part of an informed audience which asked good questions engendered in her a social and intellectual excitement. She turned to me, clapping and smiling as if I had given the talk myself.
There was wine afterwards. Since neither of us knew anyone there we could talk uninterrupted. ‘Fascinating,’ she said. ‘So many people who know so much. Makes me feel so ignorant.’
The faces around us were middle-aged and upward, mostly retired professionals. My kind of customer. I decided then and there to attend regularly, get to know people, maybe work my way onto the committee. They clustered thickly round the speaker, who had offered to take further questions over wine. Partly with my new ambition in mind, and partly through genuine curiosity, I asked Charlotte if she minded if we lingered long enough for me to ask a question.
‘Ask any number,’ she said. ‘It’s all so interesting.’
My question, when I’d forged a path through the throng, was about the Roman short sword: why was it the length it was and why were later swords longer? It was a genuine question, in that I was mildly curious, but of course my main reason for asking was precautionary: to establish in Charlotte’s eyes that I had an interest in swords in general as cover for my interest in the poker. Disclaiming any serious knowledge of swords, our speaker nonetheless had a pretty good stab at the answer. It was partly that the technology of making iron then meant that they could make short blades that were reliably strong but longer blades were prone to break. Also, Roman soldiers were trained to fight in close formation, sword in one hand, shield in the other. The shield was held so as to protect their front and left side, while with their sword they were supposed to take on the enemy to their right, who would be engaging their comrade on the right. This, and the shortness of their two-edged blades – less than two feet – made killing a physically intimate business. That was a remark I was to recall later.
We talked most of the way home about the ubiquity of the Romans in our part of the world, their ports and garrisons and local evidence of the scale of their iron industry. She was stimulated to find out more, she said, it was almost criminal to live among so much history and ignore it. Then, as I slowed to enter Winchelsea through one of the medieval gateways, she said, ‘When we first met, when Gerald and I came into your shop that day, I asked if you were an obsessive. A bit cheeky, I know but I thought you wouldn’t mind.’ She tinkled. ‘And you denied it.’
‘I did, yes. I seem to remember the accusation was because of what I was saying about the Sèvres porcelain. I said I was a magpie.’
‘It wasn’t an accusation, there’s nothing wrong with being an obsessive. But I think you were wrong to deny it. You are one. You’re obsessive about swords.’
‘What – because I asked that question?’
‘Not only that. I watched you when you were looking at our swords, especially the poker one. It intrigues you, doesn’t it, that one? I could tell.’
I’d no idea she’d noticed. My ploy hadn’t worked. If anything, it had had the opposite effect and drawn attention to my desire. I felt as if I’d been caught doing something illicit or, worse, a squalid breach of decorum. Essentially, of course, I was guilty of both, except that I hadn’t actually done anything, not yet. ‘The essence of a lie is the intent to deceive,’ my father once said, a remark that struck home like an arrow. I didn’t often lie outright but I lied now to Charlotte by admitting only to curiosity. ‘Oh, that old rapier with the swept hilt? Yes, it does interest me a bit. I think it’s quite old, older than the Civil War mortuary sword that�
�s one of those above the fireplace. I was trying to make up my mind whether it’s English, French, Spanish, Italian or whatever. The blade is probably German.’
‘Gerald told you that story about it being Shakespeare’s?’
I pretended that detail had slipped my mind. ‘It – oh, yes, yes, you’re right, he mentioned that. But he didn’t say how or why his father—’
‘The Coombses are full of old family stories, most of them nonsense like the Stradivari one. There’s probably a family legend about every single thing in our cellar. You must come and have a look one day. It’s crammed with old junk.’
We arrived at her garden gate. The back lanes of Winchelsea are almost supernaturally quiet at night and the only sign of life that evening was a disappearing cat. She neither invited me in nor offered the conventional brushing of cheeks but got out promptly, gushing thanks. I hadn’t anticipated a demonstrative parting, still less going in, but the clear refusal of either made me feel as if I had and was being denied. I drove home as frustrated and disappointed as in failed youthful courtships. It was as if she had used my interest in the sword to skewer me with it.
I dithered for few days over whether to take her up on her offer to view the cellar. I even considered being honest and simply saying I wanted to examine the sword again. Given what she’d said, there was nothing now to be gained by concealing my interest, so long as I didn’t alarm her by revealing the extent of it. But I pondered rather than acted. Doesn’t Hamlet go on about how the pale cast of thought inhibits action? I felt I was wandering in a great fog of thought, directionless because my ultimate intention was still unresolved. How far was I prepared to go to get that sword and, having got it, what would I do with it? I certainly didn’t think I would kill for it.
