The Cruel Peak

by Gil Hogg

  The Springvale Anglican Church was small and the guests overflowed to stand in the aisles and at the back; about fifty could not get in and were on the steps outside, watching a television link. Stuart waited outside for the bride. Tom went inside with Tia and squeezed into a reserved place at the front. Darren and his best man were before the altar, twitching their heads and shoulders like a couple of nervous colts.

  Ernest Ashton, jaunty in a grey-tailed coat, orange brocade waistcoat and striped trousers looked proudly around the crowd; there must have been people there who were wondering if he was the man they thought he was. Tom could see the hard brightness of his eyes and teeth. The skull effect of his head was obtrusive, the high forehead, deep eye-sockets and jutting jaw, but age and illness had shrunk his bullock shoulders to a coat hanger. ‘The man has a nerve,’ he had already said to Alison. ‘He seems to be utterly untroubled by the story in the papers, as though he’s in another reality, and everything on the Ashton plate is spotless.’

  The cranky organ music sent a pulse through everybody as it switched from Mozart and boomed ‘Here comes the bride…’ rising to split the roof beams. The bride, slim as a child, despite the potential child wriggling in her loins, had a cream silk designer dress with a long train carried by two bridesmaids, and a gossamer veil held in place by a silver tiara with diamond and pearl droplets - an Ashton heirloom. Her mother, in contrast, wore a confection in yellow which sloped from her shoulders like a tent, topped by a wide straw hat of the same colour loaded with imitation fruit.

  He’d comment to Alison, ‘Petra looked as beautiful as the traditional bride, no baby signs, but Robyn had fallen into the hands of an eccentric, and also no doubt expensive, designer.’

  Reverend Beck, the parson, a short, avuncular man with a permanent smile, began the service enthusiastically. How different from Maurice Hewitt who officiated at his marriage to Robyn. Maurice, pallid, almost powdered white, had gabbled the service in a dry voice, seeming to watch Robyn and him sardonically. Maurice could have been saying, ‘I’ve already told you that this marriage is going nowhere, but you haven’t listened or understood, so I’ll treat it as a formality.’ Tom didn’t think that at the time of course; he merely regarded Maurice’s performance as lacklustre.

  When the parson asked who would give Petra away, he came back to the present and felt a jab of wrath, but he was close enough to see how preoccupied Stuart was; he was collapsed and grey. ‘I didn’t give a damn, him giving Petra away,’ Tom thought he would say to Alison later. ‘After all, it’s part of a meaningless medieval ceremony, and what does it matter?’ Of course he did give a damn, but he had to retain a shred of self-respect. Instead, he would tell Alison about Stuart: ‘He isn’t the urbane adventurer this morning. Not at all. The Mt Vogel poison is in the air.’

  He didn’t go into the vestry with Robyn and Stuart when the couple signed the marriage register; he waited outside with Tia under the trees. Mark Curran approached them. He greeted Tia and then put a hand on Tom’s arm, drawing him away.

  “What’s going on, Tom? This stuff about Ernest on TV and in the Christchurch Sun?”

  He thought Mark would be the first of many who would approach him today. “It’s true that there’s some question whether Ernest climbed Mt Vogel.”

  Mark’s breathing surged. “Jesus, that can never be! What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. It may go away.” That was a less than honest opinion; it would never go away, but he didn’t want to feed Mark’s fears.

  The sun, coming through the yellowing leaves of the tall beech trees, dappled the happy crowd. The conversation was abruptly ended when the bridal couple emerged from the church in a furious peal of bells, a cloud of confetti and warm cries. A guard of honour had been provided by members of Darren’s team. Tom noticed a missing member of the guard seated on the kerb fifty yards away, with his hungover head between his knees; it was another curious parallel with his own wedding, when one of the kilted Black Watch guardsmen from his territorial regiment collapsed in the sun on the steps from the after-effects of stag night. If Darren had had a hard stag night too, it didn’t show in the rubbery youthfulness of his face. Tom must have been the tenth or fifteenth person in the rush to kiss the bride, but she was oblivious.

  The reception at the Downs would not begin for two hours, giving the guests plenty of time to drive there. He travelled back to the Downs in the car with Robyn, Tia and Stuart.

  Robyn relaxed confidently on the cushions. “That was really perfect, and very touching, wasn’t it?”

  He and Tia agreed, but Stuart looked silently out of the window.

  “What’s the matter with you, Stuart? You’re so glum. It’s a great day!” Robyn said.

  Stuart swung round to them. “You realise what’s happening, don’t you?” he said fiercely.

  Robyn looked alarmed at his tone and pointed guardedly toward the back of the driver’s seat. The driver was Ted Cross, a gardener-handyman at the Downs.

  Stuart’s face collapsed into deep rifts. “OK,” he sighed.

  They were silent for the rest of the journey, except for Robyn’s occasional and trivial comments on the guests at the church. When they arrived at the Downs, she insisted that the four of them go into the study.

  “Now, what is it, Stu?” she asked, closing the door.

  “While we’re bumming up Petra’s wedding, and performing like lords of the manor, feeding all these prats with every conceivable delicacy and drowning them in the best Bollinger, this vile story is seeping into every earhole here and in the country. The implication is that Ernest is a fucking liar and fraud, and maybe even a killer. And his son who climbed up on his back? He’s a - ”

  “We’ll come through this. It’ll be a nine-day wonder. Don’t you agree, Tom?” Robyn said briskly.

  “Sure.”

  Stuart turned on him. “You’re not saying much, are you Tom? Because I’m right. It’s not going to snuff me out, because people are too decent for that. I’ll just wither on the vine. Less offers to do projects. Less offers to do TV programmes and write articles. I’ll be the son of the infamous Ernest Ashton. And how infamous will he be shown to be? Fraud and lies are one thing - we see plenty of it - but the theft of a dead man’s achievement on Mt Vogel is about as low as anybody can go. It’s a kind of desecration of the corpse. Ernest will be long remembered for being uniquely vile.”

  Robyn seemed unimpressed. “It’s not that bad, Stuart.”

  “It’s the end for me!”

  “No, Stuart,” Tom said, in a flat tone of disbelief.

  “What do you mean about Dad possibly being a killer?” Robyn asked. “I mean, surely Tom, you don’t think your father was murdered?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s not even an issue; it’s an innuendo in the newspapers.”

  He had thought about murder, and while it was a possibility, it would always be impossible to know. A man capable of basing his reputation on a fraudulent claim had an unusual mind, and could perhaps be capable of murder. But he had tested himself by asking what he would do if he learned conclusively that Ernest killed his father. The answer was ready and simple: nothing. And what would he feel? Nothing different, because his feelings against Ernest had always been at high tide. He had long ago worked out that his own future was improved by the death. Perhaps he would puzzle the causes more deeply, dwell on the connection between his mother and these two men, and whether that played a part, but he would never fathom it.

  “There, you see…” Robyn said, trying to sweep away problems before the reception. “And why can’t we sue for libel? All these innuendoes.”

  Stuart stared at Tom. Tom was immobile.

  “All right!” Stuart began when he saw Tom wasn’t going to answer. “We’re not suing because we can’t.”

  “Why?” Robyn wailed.

  There was a pause. Robyn looked from her distraught brother to Tom, and back, and, Tia, with tears in her eyes.

  “Because it�
�s fucking well true! Our shitting father never climbed that mountain!”

  “But how do you really know?” Tia asked softly.

  “Ask him,” he said, pointing at Tom.

  “Tom, tell us, for God’s sake,” Robyn said.

  Tom moved his shoulders and furrowed his brow but didn’t speak.

  “Oh, Tom, don’t let us have any of that noncommittal lawyer stuff from you. Not now. Not on this,” Robyn, with two bright red spots on her cheeks, shrieked.

  “Leave it where it is, Robyn,” Tom said. “No lawsuits.” He thought Stuart might have taken some heart from his omission to mention the notebook.

  “You know what these hacks are, Robyn,” Stuart said. “As soon as they’ve got a story, they deconstruct it and pitch in a few new theories. They don’t have any evidence. They won’t say Ernest killed Bill Stavely. They’ll say a cloud hangs over Bill’s death. They’ll invite you to speculate. They’re already doing it. The only witness to what happened is utterly discredited. They can have a ball!”

  Tom thought he needed to remind them of something unpleasant. “I think you ought to be prepared for a police enquiry…”

  “But why, Tom?” Robyn wailed.

  “Because once the police hear that Ernest may have told lies about an event involving a death, they’ll be bound to enquire. There’s probably sworn evidence before the coroner’s court giving Ernest’s view of how my father died. If events now throw that into question…”

  “Oh, hell!” Robyn said.

  “I don’t think an enquiry will get anywhere. It’ll just be an unpleasant formality, but there’ll be publicity.”

  Stuart was looking at him darkly. “And can you imagine where this thing will go if the police find out that Ernest had been fucking Tom’s mother before the Mt Vogel climb?” Stuart said.

  A silence fell for a moment.

  Tia, her face stony, had been watching them, round- eyed. “Oh, Stu…” she said quietly, slipping her arm around his waist.

  “You mean a kind of motive of Dad’s to kill… Was he… doing that?” Robyn asked, although she must have heard gossip over the years.

  “I believe so,” Stuart said, looking at Tom.

  Tom managed a rueful grin. “I won’t be saying so. It’s past and it’s gone.”

  “It just gets more and more dirty,” Tia said.

  “And it’s that man up there,” Stuart said, pointing to the ceiling.

  “Please. Let’s put on a good show for Petra,” Tia said.

  At the reception, he was redeemed by Robyn, who allocated him a seat next to her, despite her disapproval of his dress. “You look as though you just walked out of your office,” she said. There was no way he could say a sane word to his daughter, one place along the table. She was greeting the onslaught of remarks from everybody with a vacuous smile. Tom faced the many ranks of excited people across the tables, gabbling and quaffing champagne, while the waiters hovered above with their laden trays. In this position, he was safe from enquiries about Ernest by the curious. Ernest had been tactfully placed at the other end of the table well separated from Tom and Stuart. Tom drank little himself; he enjoyed the Maine lobster (specially flown in, as though the native crayfish was not good enough) and listened attentively to the speeches and toasts. The ceremonies were mastered in a low key by a cousin of Stuart and Robyn. The best man was as eloquent as he was athletic with a perfectly memorised collection of jokes; Darren’s few words were, to Tom, surprisingly apt, as were all the toasts; they might have been taken from a manual on etiquette.

  Behind the wall of chatter, he rehearsed in his head what he would say to Alison. ‘Oh, hell, Ally, it was so desperately predictable, and boring, and false, from the parson’s nonsense about being grateful for the food - as though we were starving - all these overweight, red-faced people who couldn’t wait to gulp the oysters and tear into the beef fillet. But nobody vomited, told a dirty joke, forgot their lines, or shed a tear. In Robyn’s word, perfect. All caught on camera and video too, for the society columns and mags.’

  Robyn interrupted his thoughts as they ate. She put her head close. “Reminds me of our wedding, Tom. You know, the marquee, the lovely day,” she said quietly and with the fluidity of at least five glasses of champagne. She sighed.

  “I had noticed. In some ways, a remake.”

  “Yes… I tried to remember everything about our beautiful time, and make it the same. Even the flowers and decorations, get the colours right…”

  “You certainly succeeded.” It was something he didn’t understand about Robyn. Their marriage was a crashing failure, and she wanted to imitate the pomp that started it.

  “I wish things had worked out differently, Tom.” She placed her fingers affectionately on his wrist, on the bare flesh below the cuff, and turned her big, sore-looking eyes on him.

  “So do I, but we have to accept…”

  The current of rose-tinted retrospection changed direction when she heard his arid words. “You never fought to save the marriage.”

  “Robyn, surely this isn’t the place…”

  She turned away. Her eyes were wet.

  The guests drifted away in little knots after a couple of hours to sub-parties in other marquees, and the bride and groom made slow, kissy-huggy progress through them, into the house to change. Then, an hour or so later, many guests reassembled in the hall and the porch; the word had spread that Petra and Darren were leaving. More cuddles and cries of affection, and the two young people, flushed and fresh, settled into Darren’s silver Mercedes for the journey to Christchurch and beyond. This was where Tom’s wedding day with Robyn took a different track. Yes, the reception was similar, but the party…

  All he could remember of the post-reception party at Tamaki Downs, was the dancers circling in a darkened room like scraps of bright coloured paper floating in a bowl. Then he was lying on the bathroom floor, his eyes not quite closed and his hearing working perfectly. A crowd had gathered outside the bathroom door. Robyn leaned on the door frame.

  “If you’ve come to see him, then have a good look,” Robyn said, standing aside and gesturing to the people behind her. She was dressed in a tailored costume, ready to travel. “Sober him up if you can. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll drive.”

  One or two people bent over him. Stuart pushed them away, seriously trying to revive him, but he was covertly conscious.

  Alison Hewitt sat on the edge of the bath, her dreamy face disturbed. She looked down sadly at him, and then spoke to Robyn who still stood calmly by the door. “Look what you’ve done to him…”

  “Listen to her. What will she say next? Don’t have any more champagne, dear.”

  The stupid giggles and comments from the onlookers dried up.

  “You better go home to your husband. I’ll get somebody to drive you.” Robyn’s voice mounted in volume suddenly, like an actor beginning an important speech; it had a commanding effect, a masculine quality.

  Alison, sobbing, was helped to her feet. Her coat was passed to Robyn, who threw it over the edge of the bath carelessly. “Take a couple of aspirin.”

  He sat up, mumbling, feigning more incompetence than he felt because there was no intervention he could usefully make in this hysterical scene. Alison, crying, was being led to the door. Somebody made a comment to Robyn that wasn’t audible to him. She rounded on the speaker harshly.

  “What? That stupid dough-face? And my husband? He’s my husband!”

  She stalked away into the reception room where there was still music in the darkness, leaving him on the floor with those ministering to him.

  “There goes your daughter, Tom,” Robyn said triumphantly, squeezing up beside him as they watched the car ease down the drive and disappear behind the hedges.

  “I hope they make out all right,” he replied, wanting to say, ‘This is all completely wrong, you know, and Petra hasn’t given herself much of a chance.’

  “Why shouldn’t they make out? You always were cynical and ne
gative, Tom. And don’t forget that if Darren goes astray, Petra always has the independence that money brings. She’ll divorce him and get somebody else.”

  “Sounds… easy.” The silly cow didn’t realise, after all the pain she’d suffered, that it wasn’t easy. It was a train wreck, every time.

  ‘Yes,’ he would say to Alison, ‘This is quintessential Robyn. Buy another husband if the old one sods off.’

  ‘Robyn hasn’t found another, though,’ Alison might say.

  ‘She only has to snap her fingers, Ally, to get a man. All that money. But it isn’t easy to fit somebody else into your life, not a life as fancy free as hers.’

  “Anyway,” he said to Robyn, “I congratulate you on directing another first class performance. Absolutely what I would expect from somebody with your talents.”

  She looked at him with a flicker of confusion, unable to tell whether he was serious. Then she put her arm through his and walked him away from the others. “I’m worried about Dad and Stuart. They seem to have been… I don’t know … watching each other… waiting.”

  “Until Petra and Darren are out of the way?”

  “What do you think? Am I imagining it? I’ve been feeling the friction between those two for thirty years or so. I tend to ignore it; we have calm periods, but the clouds have built up so horribly over this Mt Vogel business.”

  “I don’t think either of them would have wanted to disturb Petra’s wedding.”