Founder Member

by John Gardner

  Now, The General had obviously considered it was time to leave the various London properties to individual members of the family. The King Street house was to go to John’s son, James, when he came of age, or was married; South Audley Street was left to Andrew; Charles was to have Cheyne Walk, while John Railton became the principal beneficiary, receiving Redhill Manor, the farm and estate, together with all existing moneys and revenues, which meant a considerable income from the people of Haversage and the surrounding district.

  Nobody had to be over-astute to see the dilemma presented by what, to most people, would be an incredible boon.

  Redhill Manor was a full-time occupation, its owner being required to remain in residence for at least six months of the year. John was a professional politician – at this very moment engaged in fighting the general election, called by Prime Minister Asquith just before Christmas. Could he, in all conscience, now continue in politics and run the Manor? It would all depend on Sara.

  *

  During the late afternoon on the day following the death of The General, Giles Railton spent an hour, in The General’s study, explaining the will to the dead man’s sons, John and Charles.

  Charles was gleeful, for the bequest gave him a freedom he had long sought. But John Railton MP climbed the great staircase, which curved to the round gallery overlooking the main hall, with his mind in torment.

  The fact of his inheritance came as no surprise. Yet he was confused, being a busy and dedicated man, engrossed in two things only – his vocation and Sara. Now his mind centred on how best to soften what would undoubtedly be twin blows to his young wife.

  They were sleeping in the room situated almost directly above The General’s study, with windows looking down onto the rose garden. He gave their secret knock, opening the door immediately. The heavy crimson curtains were drawn, a fire burned in the grate, sending a pack of shadows dancing across the bed, on which Sara lay, only partially clad. The firelight flickered red over her face, and she looked as though she had been crying. Sara had adored The General, so appeared more upset by his death than either of his sons. She asked John to lock the door, holding out her arms, making it plain that she wanted him – either to give or take some solace.

  He crossed to the bed, not locking the door, sitting beside her, taking one hand in both of his. Then, as gently as he was able, he told her that he might well have to give up politics, while they would definitely have to hand over the Cheyne Walk house to Charles, and come to live at the Manor.

  Her long blonde hair was let down, spreading fanned across the pillow, and, as he spoke, so her large eyes opened wider, her face taking on a shocked look, as though someone had unexpectedly set out to hurt her.

  Slowly her manner turned to disbelieving anger. ‘You can’t give up politics! How can you give up in the middle of a general election?’

  He said he would probably go on for the time being, ‘Just to make sure the seat’s secure…’

  ‘And our house!!!’

  ‘It’s never been our house, Sara. It’s family property and I have new responsibilities. I doubt if I can combine running this place – the farm, the estate, and all else – with my life in politics.’

  ‘You mean we’ll be buried down here?’

  She liked Redhill Manor for visits, but often said it would be difficult to live there.

  ‘But, Johnny, we’ll be so far from…’

  ‘From London, yes.’

  Be firm, Giles had said. So John calmly told her the facts. His grandfather had given up a career in government service to run the Manor; and The General had retired early, from the army, to take over when his time came. ‘It’s part of one’s duty,’ John said.

  ‘Then why not Charles?’

  ‘Because he’s my younger brother. The General left the estate to me. It’s like a family business, Sara.’

  ‘Oh, don’t. You make it sound like trade.’ She bit a lip. ‘Very well. We have to live here. But don’t be a fool and throw away your political career. After all, didn’t Asquith suggest a Cabinet post after the election?’ As she said it, Sara’s hand went to her face, palm to cheek, an act of guilt, though she knew exactly what she was doing.

  ‘When?’ This was the first John knew of a Cabinet post.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sara did not look him in the eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Please don’t tell Mr Asquith that I let it slip. Please.’ Her concern sounded genuine enough, as well it might. There was certainly truth in the story, but Sara had reasons for keeping her husband from speaking to the Prime Minister.

  ‘He’s serious?’ John asked, and she nodded, saying that Asquith had talked about it for almost half an hour at a ball they had attended just before Christmas.

  The news put a new complexion on matters. Could he possibly combine the two things – run Redhill and stay on in politics?

  ‘It makes a difference, doesn’t it?’ she asked softly.

  He barely nodded, moving to the window, pulling back the curtains. Yes, it made a difference, but still meant that she would be mistress of the Manor. She would have to compromise.

  Viewing the whole cartography of the events from the high ground of hindsight, this was probably one of the most significant moments in Sara’s life.

  *

  Giles Railton looked around the dinner table, only half listening to the muted prattle of John’s young wife, Sara, seated to his left.

  He had little time for the chattering Sara, for she appeared to think only of herself. That was his deduction, anyway. Odd, John marrying such a woman. Now, if it had been Charles… Well, Charles was always too much of a good thing in that way. Women, and the drink.

  He caught sight of young James, at the far end of the table, with the Railton bone structure and nose, but his face closed, in a muted look. Poor young tyke, Giles reflected. First losing his mother at birth; then trying to adjust to a stepmother only a few years older than himself; now the death of his dearly-loved grandpapa. William had often remarked that young James was the one to come to him most often with his problems.

  Giles’ son, Andrew, was in discreet conversation with Charles across the table, while his wife – the delicate, porcelain-like Charlotte – talked quietly to John. Charles, Giles could see, was already in his cups, the eyes becoming glazed and hooded.

  Andrew’s and Charlotte’s children – Giles’ grandchildren – sat in silence, knowing, though not believing, that their great-uncle, the family patriarch, was dead. Young Caspar, a month or so James’ senior, appeared to be lost in a world of his own; while the twins – Rupert and Ramillies – were having a fit of nervous giggles. Giles wished he could recall how it felt to be fifteen again. His other son, Malcolm, whose one obsession in life was farming, would be with them soon; as would Marie and her husband.

  Suddenly, as these things happen, there, was a silence: a stopping of conversation, as though by mutual consent. Faces slowly turned towards Giles, as if expecting him to say something of importance.

  For once in his life, Giles Railton was lost for words. ‘His… The General’s…’ he began, realizing the twist of emotion within him, ‘His… His last word was “Patience”,’ he paused, pulling himself together. ‘“Patience”, name of his horse. Name of the horse shot from under him at the Battle of Balaclava. Patience.’

  It was all he could think of to say.

  *

  The Railtons had provided moments of great pleasure, as well as sadness, to the people of Haversage. Countless Railtons were married and buried in the parish church; but none with the pomp, solemnity, and spectacle attending the obsequies of General Sir William Railton, where even King Edward VII was officially represented by the Lord Lieutenant; and six Staff Officers – from regiments with which The General had served – walked beside the pall bearers. The band of the 2nd Battalion Oxfordshire Light Infantry played the Dead March from Saul, as a Colour Party, and Guard of Honour, escorted the cortege down the long winding hill, t
hrough the town, to the church.

  Hardly a house stood without some visible mark of respect, from flags lowered to half-mast, to black rosettes pinned onto doors. The shops were closed for the entire day, and the locals braved a bitter wind, standing silent and bare-headed, as the procession went by.

  The family met at Redhill Manor after the committal, and – though its contents were already known to them – listened while old Mr King, senior partner of King, Jackson and King, of Gray’s Inn, read the will.

  Giles Railton did not return to London until the next day; though his son, Andrew, left with Charles and their respective families, by the late train from Haversage Halt on the night of the funeral.

  Giles particularly wanted to stay. He had business to discuss, at some length, with his daughter-in-law, Malcolm’s wife, Bridget, who would be returning to Ireland the next day. He also spoke to his daughter, Marie, and her husband, Marcel Grenot. They too would begin the return journey to France early in the morning. Both conversations were secret and full of intrigue. The General would have smiled.

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