Only Time Will Tell (2011)

by Jeffrey Archer

  Harry spent the morning answering every one of the letters he’d left unopened; so many kind people offering sympathy - it wasn’t their fault they reminded him of his unhappiness. Suddenly Harry decided he had to be as far away from Oxford as possible. He picked up the phone and told the operator he wanted to make a long-distance call to London. Half an hour later, she called back to tell him the number was continually engaged. Next, he tried Sir Walter at Barrington Hall, but the number just rang and rang. Frustrated by his failure to contact either of them, Harry decided to follow one of Old Jack’s maxims: Get off your backside and do something positive.

  He grabbed the suitcase he had packed for his honeymoon in Scotland, walked across to the lodge and told the porter he was going up to London and wouldn’t be returning until the first day of term. ‘Should Giles Barrington ask where I am,’ he added, ‘please tell him I’ve gone to work for Old Jack.’

  ‘Old Jack,’ repeated the porter, writing the name down on a slip of paper.

  On the train journey to Paddington, Harry read in The Times about the latest communiques that were bouncing back and forth between the Foreign Office in London and the Reich Ministry in Berlin. He was beginning to think that Mr Chamberlain was the only person who still believed in the possibility of peace in our time. The Times was predicting that Britain would be at war within days and that the Prime Minister couldn’t hope to survive in office if the Germans defied his ultimatum and marched into Poland.

  The Thunderer went on to suggest that in that eventuality, a coalition government would have to be formed, led by the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax (a safe pair of hands), and not Winston Churchill (unpredictable and irascible). Despite the paper’s obvious distaste for Churchill, Harry didn’t believe that Britain needed a ‘safe pair of hands’ at this particular moment in history, but someone who was not frightened to bully a bully.

  When Harry stepped off the train at Paddington, he was met by a wave of different coloured uniforms coming at him from every direction. He’d already decided which service he would join the moment war was declared. A morbid thought crossed his mind as he boarded a bus for Piccadilly Circus: if he was killed while serving his country, it would solve all the Barrington family’s problems - except one.

  When the bus reached Piccadilly, Harry jumped off and began to weave his way through the clowns that made up the West End circus, through theatre land and on past exclusive restaurants and overpriced nightclubs, which appeared determined to ignore any suggestion of war. The queue of displaced immigrants trooping in and out of the building in Soho Square appeared even longer and more bedraggled than on Harry’s first visit. Once again, as he climbed the stairs to the third floor, several of the refugees stood aside, assuming he must be a member of staff. He hoped he would be within the hour.

  When he reached the third floor, he headed straight for Miss Watson’s office. He found her filling in forms, issuing rail warrants, arranging accommodation and handing out small amounts of cash to desperate people. Her face lit up when she saw Harry. ‘Do tell me Captain Tarrant’s with you,’ were her first words.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Harry. ‘I assumed he’d returned to London, which is why I’m here. I was wondering if you might be able to use an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ she said, ‘but the most useful thing you could do for me right now is to find Captain Tarrant. This place is bursting at the seams without him.’

  ‘The last I heard he was staying with Sir Walter Barrington at his home in Gloucester,’ said Harry, ‘but that was at least a fortnight ago.’

  ‘We haven’t set eyes on him since the day he went to Oxford for your wedding,’ said Miss Watson as she tried to comfort two more immigrants who couldn’t speak a word of English.

  ‘Has anyone phoned his flat to see if he’s there?’ asked Harry.

  ‘He doesn’t have a phone,’ said Miss Watson, ‘and I’ve hardly been to my own home for the past two weeks,’ she added, nodding in the direction of a queue that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Why don’t I start there, and report back to you?’

  ‘Would you?’ said Miss Watson as two little girls began sobbing. ‘Don’t cry, everything’s going to be all right,’ she reassured the children as she knelt and placed an arm round them.

  ‘Where does he live?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Number twenty-three, Prince Edward Mansions, Lambeth Walk. Take the number eleven bus to Lambeth, then you’ll have to ask for directions. And thank you, Harry.’

  Harry turned and headed towards the stairs. Something wasn’t right, he thought. Old Jack would never have deserted his post without giving Miss Watson a reason.

  ‘I forgot to ask,’ Miss Watson shouted after him, ‘how was your honeymoon?’

  Harry felt he was far enough away not to have heard her.

  Back at Piccadilly Circus he boarded a double-decker bus overcrowded with soldiers. It drove down Whitehall, which was full of officers, and on through Parliament Square, where a vast crowd of onlookers was waiting for any snippets of information that might come out of the House of Commons. The bus continued its journey across Lambeth Bridge, and Harry got off when it reached Albert Embankment.

  A paperboy who was shouting ‘Britain Awaits Hitler’s Response‘ told Harry to take the second on the left, then the third on the right, and added for good measure, ‘I thought everyone knew where Lambeth Walk was.’

  Harry began to run like a man being pursued and he didn’t stop until he came to a block of flats that was so dilapidated he could only wonder which Prince Edward it had been named after. He pushed open a door that wouldn’t survive much longer on those hinges and walked quickly up a flight of stairs, stepping nimbly between piles of rubbish that hadn’t been cleared for days.

  When he reached the second floor, he stopped outside No. 23 and knocked firmly on the door, but there was no reply. He knocked again, louder, but still no one responded. He ran back down the stairs in search of someone who worked in the building, and when he reached the basement he found an old man slumped in an even older chair, smoking a roll-up and flicking through the pages of the Daily Mirror.

  ‘Have you seen Captain Tarrant recently?’ Harry asked sharply.

  ‘Not for the past couple of weeks, sir,’ said the man, leaping to his feet and almost standing to attention when he heard Harry’s accent.

  ‘Do you have a master key that will open his flat?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I do, sir, but I’m not allowed to use it except in emergencies.’

  ‘I can assure you this is an emergency,’ said Harry, who turned and bounded back up the stairs, not waiting for his reply.

  The man followed, if not quite as quickly. Once he’d caught up, he opened the door. Harry moved quickly from room to room, but there was no sign of Old Jack. The last door he came to was closed. He knocked quietly, fearing the worst. When there was no reply, he cautiously went in, to find a neatly made bed and no sign of anyone. He must still be with Sir Walter, was Harry’s first thought.

  He thanked the porter, walked back down the stairs and out on to the street as he tried to gather his thoughts. He hailed a passing taxi, not wanting to waste any more time on buses in a city that did not know him.

  ‘Paddington Station. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be in a hurry today,’ said the cabbie as he moved off.

  Twenty minutes later Harry was standing on platform 6, but it was another fifty minutes before the train would depart for Temple Meads. He used the time to grab a sandwich and a cup of tea - ‘Only got cheese, sir’ - and to phone Miss Watson to let her know that Old Jack hadn’t been back to his flat. If it was possible, she sounded even more harassed than when he had left her. ‘I’m on my way to Bristol,’ he told her. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I catch up with him.’

  As the train made its way out of the capital, through the smog-filled back streets of the city and into the clean air of the coun
tryside, Harry decided he had no choice but to go straight to Sir Walter’s office at the dockyard, even if it meant running into Hugo Barrington. Finding Old Jack surely outweighed any other consideration.

  Once the train shunted into Temple Meads, Harry knew the two buses he needed to catch without having to ask the paperboy who was standing on the corner bellowing ‘Britain Awaits Hitler’s Response‘ at the top of his voice. Same headline, but this time a Bristolian accent. Thirty minutes later, Harry was at the dockyard gates.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a guard who didn’t recognize him.

  ‘I have an appointment with Sir Walter,’ said Harry, hoping this would not be questioned.

  ‘Of course, sir. Do you know the way to his office?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Harry. He started walking slowly towards a building he’d never entered before. He began to think about what he would do if he came face to face with Hugo Barrington before he reached Sir Walter’s office.

  He was pleased to see the chairman’s Rolls-Royce parked in its usual place, and even more relieved that there was no sign of Hugo Barrington’s Bugatti. He was just about to enter Barrington House when he glanced at the railway carriage in the distance. Was it just possible? He changed direction and walked towards the Pullman wagon lit, as Old Jack was wont to describe it after a second glass of whisky.

  When Harry reached the carriage he knocked gently on the glass pane as if it were a grand home. A butler did not appear, so he opened the door and climbed in. He walked along the corridor to first class, and there he was, sitting in his usual seat.

  It was the first time Harry had ever seen Old Jack wearing his Victoria Cross.

  Harry took the seat opposite his friend and recalled the first time he’d sat there. He must have been about five and his feet hadn’t reached the ground. Then he thought of the time he’d run away from St Bede’s, and the shrewd old gentleman had persuaded him to be back in time for breakfast. He recalled when Old Jack had come to hear him sing a solo in the church, the time his voice had broken. Old Jack had dismissed this as a minor setback. Then there was the day he learnt he’d failed to win a scholarship to Bristol Grammar School, a major setback. Despite his failure, Old Jack had presented him with the Ingersoll watch he was still wearing today. It must have cost him every penny he possessed. In Harry’s last year at school, Old Jack had travelled down from London to see him playing Romeo, and Harry had introduced him to Emma for the first time. And he would never forget his final speech day, when Jack had sat on stage as a governor of his old school and watched Harry being awarded the English prize.

  And now, Harry would never be able to thank him for so many acts of friendship over the years that couldn’t be repaid. He stared at a man he’d loved and had assumed would never die. As they sat there together in first class, the sun went down on his young life.

  50

  HARRY WATCHED AS the stretcher was placed in the ambulance. A heart attack, the doctor had said, before the ambulance drove away.

  Harry didn’t need to go and tell Sir Walter that Old Jack was dead, because when he woke the following morning, the chairman of Barrington’s was sitting by his side.

  ‘He told me he no longer had any reason to live,’ were Sir Walter’s first words. ‘We have both lost a close and dear friend.’

  Harry’s response took Sir Walter by surprise. ‘What will you do with this carriage, now that Old Jack is no longer around?’

  ‘No one will be allowed anywhere near it, as long as I’m chairman,’ said Sir Walter. ‘It harbours too many personal memories for me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Harry. ‘I spent more time here when I was a boy than I did in my own home.’

  ‘Or in the classroom for that matter,’ said Sir Walter with a wry smile. ‘I used to watch you from my office window. I thought what an impressive child you must be if Old Jack was willing to spend so much time with you.’

  Harry smiled when he remembered how Old Jack had come up with a reason why he should go back to school and learn to read and write.

  ‘What will you do now, Harry? Return to Oxford and continue with your studies?’

  ‘No, sir. I fear that we’ll be at war by …’

  ‘By the end of the month would be my guess,’ said Sir Walter.

  ‘Then I’ll leave Oxford immediately and join the navy. I’ve already told my college supervisor, Mr Bainbridge, that that’s what I plan to do. He assured me I can return and continue with my studies as soon as the war is over.’

  ‘Typical of Oxford,’ said Sir Walter, ‘they always take the long view. So will you go to Dartmouth and train as a naval officer?’

  ‘No, sir, I’ve been around ships all my life. In any case, Old Jack started out as a private soldier and managed to work his way up through the ranks, so why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Why not indeed?’ said Sir Walter. ‘In fact, that was one of the reasons he was always considered to be a class above the rest of us who served with him.’

  ‘I had no idea you’d served together.’

  ‘Oh yes, I served with Captain Tarrant in South Africa,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I was one of the twenty-four men whose lives he saved on the day he was awarded the Victoria Cross.’

  ‘That explains so much that I’ve never really understood,’ said Harry. He then surprised Sir Walter a second time. ‘Do I know any of the others, sir?’

  ‘The Frob,’ said Sir Walter. ‘But in those days he was Lieutenant Frobisher. Corporal Holcombe, Mr Holcombe’s father. And young Private Deakins.’

  ‘Deakins’s father?’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes. Sprogg, as we used to call him. A fine young soldier. He never said much, but he turned out to be very brave. Lost an arm on that dreadful day.’

  The two men fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts of Old Jack, before Sir Walter asked, ‘So if you’re not going to Dartmouth, my boy, may I ask how you plan to win the war single-handed?’

  ‘I’ll serve on any ship that will take me, sir, as long as they’re willing to go in search of His Britannic Majesty’s enemies.’

  ‘Then it’s possible I may be able to help.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, sir, but I want to join a war ship, not a passenger liner or a cargo vessel.’

  Sir Walter smiled again. ‘And so you will, dear boy. Don’t forget, I’m kept informed about every ship that comes in and out of these docks and I know most of their captains. Come to think of it, I knew most of their fathers when they were captains. Why don’t we go up to my office and see what ships are due in and out of the port in the next few days, and, more important, find out if any of them might be willing to take you on?’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, sir, but would it be all right if I visited my mother first? I might not have the chance to see her again for some time.’

  ‘Only right and proper, my boy,’ said Sir Walter. ‘And once you’ve been to see your mother, why don’t you drop into my office later this afternoon? That should give me enough time to check on the latest shipping lists.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll return as soon as I’ve told my mother what I plan to do.’

  ‘When you come back, just tell the man on the gate you’ve got an appointment with the chairman, then you shouldn’t have any trouble getting past security.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry, masking a smile.

  ‘And do pass on my kindest regards to your dear mother. A remarkable woman.’

  Harry was reminded why Sir Walter was Old Jack’s closest friend.

  Harry walked into the Grand Hotel, a magnificent Victorian building in the centre of the city, and asked the doorman the way to the dining room. He walked across the lobby and was surprised to find a small queue at the maitre d’s desk, waiting to be allocated tables. He joined the back of the queue, recalling how his mother had always disapproved of him dropping in to see her at Tilly’s or the Royal Hotel during working hours.

  While Harry waited, he looked around the dining room, which wa
s full of chattering people, none of whom looked as if they were anticipating a food shortage, or thinking of enlisting in the armed forces should the country go to war. Food was being whisked in and out of the swing doors on heavily laden silver trays, while a man in a chef’s outfit was wheeling a trolley from table to table, slicing off slivers of beef, while another followed in his wake carrying a gravy boat.

  Harry could see no sign of his mother. He was even beginning to wonder if Giles had only told him what he wanted to hear, when suddenly she burst through the swing doors, three plates balanced on her arms. She placed them in front of her customers so deftly they hardly noticed she was there, then returned to the kitchen. She was back a moment later, carrying three vegetable dishes. By the time Harry had reached the front of the queue he’d been reminded of who had given him his boundless energy, uncritical enthusiasm and a spirit that didn’t contemplate defeat. How would he ever be able to repay this remarkable woman for all the sacrifices she had made—

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,’ said the maitre d’, interrupting his thoughts, ‘but I don’t have a table available at the moment. If you’d care to come back in about twenty minutes?’

  Harry didn’t tell him he didn’t actually want a table, and not just because his mother was one of the waitresses, but because he wouldn’t have been able to afford anything on the menu other than perhaps the gravy.

  ‘I’ll come back later,’ he said, trying to sound disappointed. About ten years later, he thought, by which time he suspected his mother would probably be the maitre d’. He left the hotel with a smile on his face and took a bus back to the docks.