The Rich Are Different

by Susan Howatch

  “Unless the file survived.” I started to tremble. “The file with the deed, Steve, the Mallingham conveyance—”

  He bounced out of bed again, enfolded me in his arms and held me close. “Now, honey, calm down. I know you’ve always had nightmares about that goddamned deed, but just listen to me. If that file survived I would have found it, but if I did slip up somehow and Cornelius found it instead, he couldn’t have stumbled across that deed. We never did know for sure that it was in the file, and this proves it couldn’t have been there. Just think for a minute. Can you seriously imagine Cornelius finding a weapon like that and then keeping it in a closet like a pervert with a collection of feminine underwear? He’d have been hitting us over the head with it long before now.”

  There was a long silence before I said slowly, “Yes, I suppose that’s unanswerable. You must be right.”

  “Of course I’m right. If you’d ditched me and gone to New York, Cornelius would have figured out a dozen different ways to screw you—in every sense of the word—but there’s no way he could ever have snatched your home.”

  I began to feel better. When the nurse reappeared to send me on my way I was able to say goodbye calmly. I offered to visit Steve again as soon as it was permitted, but he himself suggested I stay away.

  “Sam’s more than capable of having you shadowed,” he said, although I had taken care not to worry him with the story of the Ford. “Let’s leave nothing to chance, Dinah.”

  I promised to write him every day instead. Then I went home, and with me went the thought of Cornelius, his shadow floating on the surface of my mind like oil on water. I felt like someone who had developed a mortal illness. For short spells I would forget about him, but then I would feel that subtle pressure on my memory, and my knowledge would swing back sickeningly into my mind. I began to wish we had met. Reality could hardly have been more oppressive than the compulsive flights of my imagination.

  I thought often too of Sam Keller and read my detective’s reports with interest. Sam was having a busy time. Every day of the working week he went to Milk Street, on weekends he had invitations to the country to visit clients, and in the evenings he spent much time wining and dining a certain American actress who I was told he had met in New York. He never got drunk or made a fool of himself. His private life was discreet, his business life immaculate, and various reports of his charm and good manners reached me as Van Zale’s in London was wound up with a swift, efficient, ruthless precision.

  “A model Van Zale protégé,” I commented dryly in one of my daily letters to Steve.

  I saw the little Ford several times, but since I never went near Hampstead the driver wasted his petrol. Johnson the chauffeur became very interested in the situation and I had to tell him sharply on more than one occasion that he was not to raise the subject with me again.

  At the end of March Steve was permitted to leave the nursing home, but I still avoided Hampstead and we traveled separately to Mallingham. With the beginning of the spring holidays Edred and Alan arrived home from school. Steve looked better, but he was very subdued, and although he tried to conceal his depression I sensed that his mood was bleak. The doctor had told him to convalesce at Mallingham for a month before he attempted to return to work, but I knew he was aching to get back to the office, just as I knew he was aching for a drink. I was still wondering with anxiety how he was going to cope with the grave business problems which awaited him in London when Sam Keller dealt him a blow below the belt.

  A photograph appeared in the popular papers.

  It was a fake. An old photograph of Steve and me had been transposed upon a photograph of the Hampstead nursing home, and the caption made it clear Steve had been receiving treatment there. The word “alcoholism” was never mentioned, but since we had told the world that Steve was in America and since his drinking habits had already been the subject of gossip, anyone but a moron could have guessed the truth. I knew at once as soon as I saw the photograph that there would be disastrous repercussions.

  I confronted Johnson the chauffeur, who broke down and confessed: the driver of the Ford had paid him a hundred pounds to divulge the address to which he had taken me on my sole visit to Steve. I dismissed Johnson on the spot, but that hardly helped. The damage he had done was irreversible and Steve was already in a towering rage.

  “I’ll sue!” he roared and refused to listen when I pointed out not only that truth was a defense to libel but that the more noise he made the worse the situation would become. The English, hating scenes, would immediately deduce he had taken to drink again.

  He still refused to listen. “I’ve got to do something—I’ll be ruined unless I get a full retraction and a public apology!”

  He was quite out of touch with reality. I did try to reason with him, but he told me to leave him alone. The agony continued. Finally I went out into the garden to calm down, but once I stepped outside I heard the car start, and racing to the stables I found him at the wheel of the Daimler with a half-empty bottle of whisky on the seat beside him.

  “Steve, please!” I was in tears. “Please be sensible—please don’t go anywhere!”

  But he was implacable. He was going to the Savoy to force Sam Keller to issue a statement acknowledging that the photograph was a fake.

  I tried to wrench the keys from the ignition, but he heaved me aside, shot the car out of the stables and roared off down the drive.

  I could not follow him, because we had no other car at Mallingham. After running frantically across the lawn I sank to the ground in despair, and I was still crying when Alan knelt quietly by my side.

  “What am I to do?” I wept. I was ashamed of crying in front of him, but I couldn’t help myself. “What in God’s name am I going to do?”

  “There’s nothing you can do—you’ve done everything,” he said abruptly, and giving me his handkerchief, he put his arm around my shoulders.

  He was sixteen. Although I often thought of him as grown up he was still only a schoolboy, and horrified by the thought of being a burden to him, I did my best to pull myself together. “I’ve got to be sensible,” I said evenly at last. “I must be realistic. This is the end of my hopes that Steve will recover sufficiently to salvage his reputation, but we’ll still cope somehow. A quiet retirement at Mallingham, a peaceful country life—”

  “God, I’m so angry with him,” said Alan.

  “Oh, Alan—darling—”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m absolutely livid and when he comes back I’ll jolly well tell him so. All this is very bad for you—and very bad for the children,” added Alan severely.

  “But, Alan, he’s ill—he can’t help himself—”

  “The whole trouble began,” said Alan, not listening, “when he got ideas above his station and thought he could be king of the City. He should never have left Van Zale’s.”

  “Darling, you mustn’t make such sweeping criticisms when you know nothing about banking!”

  “Nor do I wish to know anything!” cried Alan, very heated by this time. “Personally I think the pursuit of money for money’s sake is morally indefensible and ideologically obscene!”

  “Yes, darling,” I said helplessly. “Yes.”

  “What matters is beauty and art and peace and—Oh, damn!” exclaimed Alan in despair. “This is the hell of a time in the history of the world to yearn for beauty and art and peace.” And springing to his feet he shoved his fists furiously into his pockets and blundered away across the lawn.

  When I followed him into the library I found him listening to the little wireless I had given him for his birthday.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. The usual talk about Hitler.” He switched off the wireless. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.”

  “I came to say thank you for coming to comfort me.” I kissed him before adding levelly, “I’m sorry this is so upsetting for you.”

  “It’s just that I can’t bear seeing you
unhappy.”

  “I understand.” I kissed him again and returned to the hall where we had recently had a telephone installed. I thought I would warn Sam in an attempt to abort the inevitable scene, but when I telephoned the Savoy I was told that Mr. Keller had left that morning to board his ship at Southampton.

  I spent a long time wondering what would happen when Steve found that the bird had flown, but I worried needlessly. Steve never reached the Savoy. He drank his way as far south as Newmarket, and then on an empty stretch of road he lost control of the car and careered headlong into a tree.

  Six

  I

  HE WAS STILL ALIVE when I reached the hospital. He had four broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and other massive internal injuries. His head was bandaged and part of his face was hidden by thick dressings, but he was conscious. He tried to smile when he saw me, but it was too difficult.

  I kissed him and held his hand. Finally I was able to say, “Get well soon so that I can take you to Mallingham and look after you properly.”

  “That’s what I want,” he said, and whispered, “Sorry, Dinah.”

  I went on holding his hand. Sometime later he said, “I’ve had a wonderful life here in England. You … the children … nothing else matters. But so stupid to throw it all away.”

  “It’s still there, Steve, at Mallingham.”

  “Mallingham,” he said, and the word seemed to lead him in another direction, so that the conversation veered into a darker, more obscure channel. “Ah, but Mallingham’s like the bank, Dinah. Not real, not flesh and blood …” He coughed and started choking. Minute spots of blood spattered the sheet. The nurse motioned me to move, but I could not, for he was still clutching my hand, and my fingers refused to release his. I hardly thought he would speak again, but when the choking stopped he whispered, “I was better, wasn’t I?”

  “Better—”

  “I loved you better than he did.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and I loved you better than I ever loved him. You won, Steve! You’re winning!”

  A film seemed to cover his eyes as his vision diminished. His hand relaxed in mine. He was at peace at last, quiet and serene, all ghosts exorcised, all cares smoothed away.

  The nurse slipped forward to feel his pulse. A doctor entered the room. More nurses arrived.

  Eventually someone said to me with professional kindness, “Mrs. Sullivan … I’m so very sorry …”

  Someone else led me away. I sat somewhere for a long time until the hospital almoner asked if there was anyone who might take me home.

  I asked for Geoffrey Hurst.

  II

  He came at once, paid and dismissed the taxi which had brought me from Mallingham, discussed the hospital formalities with the almoner, took me to the nearest pub and bought me a double brandy. Since his wife had been killed in a car crash, he knew the country through which I was struggling, each monstrous feature of the distorted landscape, and he led me steadily on until the landscape was once more familiar and I rejoined the road I thought I would never see again.

  I brought Steve back to Mallingham, but I did not bury him with the Slades but by himself in my favorite corner of the churchyard. I did not set up a plain English stone in memory of him either, but a large black marble monument which was the extravagant memorial he would have wanted. Then I planted flowers to bloom in coming years and a cherry tree which would flower every spring in memory of him, and I was satisfied.

  The children cried a great deal, but their grief was good for me because I had to pull myself together to comfort them. I could not afford the self-indulgence of a Victorian decline complete with chaise-longue, lavender-scented handkerchiefs and untouched trays of food, and eventually I felt my strength returning. I paid some important bills, put the London house up for sale and began to reply to the numerous letters of sympathy which I had received.

  I had had one from Willow Street but had not had the nerve to open the envelope. I had also received a letter from Long Island, but I had not read that either. However, when the other letters had been answered I turned to those two letters from America and steeled myself to read them word for word.

  Emily had written:

  Just a word of sympathy for you in your bereavement. The children are grieving very much for Steve and want to send their love to you and everyone at Mallingham. Tony says he would still like to visit you this summer if it’s convenient, but will quite understand if at the moment you feel you can’t have an extra person to stay.

  With best wishes for the future,

  Sincerely,

  EMILY

  I smoothed the letter carefully with my fingers before putting it aside.

  From One Willow Street I had received not a formal typed communication from Cornelius but a handwritten note from Sam Keller.

  DEAR DINAH:

  In writing to express my deepest sympathy I want you to know that neither Cornelius nor I would ever have wished such a tragic accident on Steve. Your first impulse will naturally be to blame us for his death, but perhaps later you will be able to acknowledge that a car smash is something neither of us could have ordained. I’m sorry about Steve; it was a sad end to a brilliant career. I’m sorrier for you because I discovered for myself when we met how devoted you were to him. And I’m sorriest of all that there’s nothing I can do to help you except tell you how sorry I am.

  Sincerely,

  SAM

  That was easy to answer. I simply wrote:

  DEAR MR. KELLER,

  Some people are like Jason Da Costa: they put a pistol to their heads and pull the trigger. And some people are like Steven Sullivan: they drive off an empty road into a tree. Tell Cornelius I shall neither forget nor forgive.

  DINAH SULLIVAN

  Emily’s letter was more difficult to answer because my feelings for her were so ambivalent, but I wrote:

  DEAR EMILY,

  Thank you for your letter. It was extremely nice of you to write and I hope you’ll forgive me for not replying earlier. I’m sure the news was a great shock to you and the children.

  Tony can certainly come to stay this summer, but the international situation is so precarious that I hesitate to encourage his visit. However, I’m sure you’re sufficiently well-informed to give Tony a realistic idea of what might happen, and once he’s in possession of the facts perhaps he can reconsider his decision and alter or confirm it as the case may be. We would be very pleased to see him if be wants to come.

  Yours sincerely,

  DINAH

  I felt better once the letters were answered. I made arrangements for Elfrida to attend a day school in Norwich in the autumn, and then we returned to London so that she could complete the summer term at her old school. George and Nanny came with us. George was four and more than ready for kindergarten, so I arranged for him to go to a school in Belgravia three mornings a week. Edred and Alan were away again at their boarding schools. Life went on.

  Nobody wanted to buy the house, because nobody was sure what was going to happen in London, but I continued to bully the estate agents. Our house in Milk Street was wound up, its doors closed. I was comfortably off, but since I thought it would do me good to have a job I toyed with the idea of returning to my long-postponed career in education. However, the atmosphere of the times was running against me, and now all I wanted was to withdraw to Mallingham and gather strength from the past as Hitler prepared to set Europe to the torch.

  I thought of Mallingham’s past, of those hundreds of years which stretched back to the days when Godfrey Slade had rebuilt the hall of Alan of Richmond’s manor. My ancestors had heard Napoleon knock on England’s door, and Philip of Spain, and countless unknown French who had waged the Hundred Years’ War. My world was very old and well-accustomed to conquerors who thought themselves invincible. At Mallingham I could think of Hitler without fear. I could listen with amusement to J. B. Priestley poking fun at him on the wireless, I could face whatever new madness billowed out of the newspapers and
I could meet the stench of the swastikas which came reeking across the sea.

  Appeasement was dead at last. On the first of September Hitler moved into Poland, and two days later, little more than twenty-five years after the lamps had gone out all over Europe, we set off once more into the dark.

  III

  I was gardening when war was declared. It was a hobby I had undertaken with enthusiasm now that I had more leisure, and I was planting bulbs for next year. As I weeded the ground carefully I wondered where we would all be in twelve months’ time, but my mind refused to dwell long on the future. It was more comforting to think of the past centuries, and when I did think of the present I merely considered how my flowers should be arranged and how difficult life would be with petrol rationing and whether George would have to go to the village school. I worried too about my stepson Tony. He had come to England in July, he was still with us and he wanted to stay.

  “But Tony,” I said after I had decided I must have a serious talk with him, “wouldn’t it be better now that wars broken out for you to be in your own country? When the Germans invade—” I stopped. It would never do for me to sound like Sam Keller. “If the Germans invade France it’s going to be increasingly difficult in Europe, and I’m sure Emily would feel you should return to America. I’m only surprised you haven’t already had a letter from Cornelius ordering you home.”

  He looked at me mutinously with Steve’s bright-blue eyes. “Cornelius is no friend of mine,” he said.

  It all came out. Despite Emily’s kindness he had been unhappy at home. Cornelius, who had assumed the role of surrogate father both to Emily’s daughters and to Caroline’s sons, did not like him, and Alicia barely ever glanced in his direction.

  “It’s because I look like Dad,” said poor Tony, and he asked me directly for the first time if I held Cornelius responsible for his fathers death.