Mr. Chartwell

by Rebecca Hunt

  She laughed and it made him wish they could stay here all day. But she was here now and it was not an opportunity to be missed. Corkbowl pointed to a thermos flask standing on a table. “Do you fancy joining me for a drink?” He tempted her with some flask facts. “The thermos comes with its own plastic mug and I washed it this morning.” A final temptation followed, Corkbowl showing off the socks still over his trousers: “Esther, don’t pretend you can resist these legs.”

  They sat at a table. Corkbowl twisted off the mug and filled it with tea for her. It was now that Corkbowl realised there was only one mug between them.

  “Do you mind if I …” He lifted the thermos to his lips, prepared to drink directly from the neck.

  Through a sip she urged him, one hand swiping in a gesture of consent.

  “Actually, wait,” said Corkbowl. “We can’t let an occasion like this go by without a few library-inspired words.” He cleared his throat, as if addressing thousands. “To nearly quote Groucho Marx, outside of a thermos a book is a man’s best friend …” Corkbowl took a huge grinning swig, too much of a grin for drinking. He cleaned his chin with a quick cuff. “… And inside a thermos it’s too dark to read.” The flask lifted in an affectionate salute.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Esther held her cup out to toast the flask.

  Gentle wind drifted in through the open window and carried the scent of baked tarmac and the muddy kiss of the river. Latticed diamonds of glass lit yellow. A herring gull cried. A beautiful morning, a day for fish and chips on the beach.

  Corkbowl said, “So I’ve been invited to Beth’s this Sunday. I think you’re going too?”

  “Um-hm.” Esther spoke into her mug.

  A different atmosphere made her pause, gamma rays rolling through the pale neutrality of the library. The yellow windows had changed.

  “Great,” Corkbowl answered. “It should be fun.”

  Heavy steps came up the centre of the room behind the partition. She waited. Then there he was. Black Pat crooked a cowboy elbow, propped against a bookcase.

  Esther glanced at Corkbowl. Black Pat was easily visible, a few metres away and colossal. Corkbowl chatted, enjoying his flask. He turned his head reflexively to see what Esther was looking at, and turned back. Maybe he was talking about his car, Esther didn’t hear. She readied herself for Corkbowl’s reaction, ready for him to leap. He did the opposite, he put a hand behind his neck and scratched there; he put an ankle on a knee and then took it off.

  Esther said cautiously to Corkbowl, her finger pointed at the bookcase, “Can’t you see—”

  “He can’t,” Black Pat interrupted. “Here, I’ll show you.…”

  Corkbowl was peering after Esther’s finger. Black Pat bopped about at the bookcases, making a spooky noise. Esther watched as absolutely nothing happened on Corkbowl’s face.

  “See?” Black Pat said to Esther. “I’m all yours.”

  “Sorry, what were you pointing at?” Corkbowl asked.

  “Say anything,” instructed Black Pat. Esther was distracted as he said, “Say you saw a dragon fly.”

  Esther obediently said, “I saw a dragon.” Corkbowl’s head inclined to the left, politely puzzled. “A dragonfly,” said Esther.

  “Crikey,” Corkbowl said with gracious interest.

  Esther made a decision. She said to Corkbowl suddenly, “This might be a mistake, but do you mind if I tell you something, as an experiment.…”

  “Careful, Esther,” Black Pat said. “Lives are built on the foundations of three little words.”

  A vicious trick. Esther remembered Michael saying these three little words.

  “An experiment?” Corkbowl adjusted his spectacles, ready to be of assistance. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Three little words,” said Black Pat. “Trial and error. You have to take possession of those that are yours.” He repeated, “And I’m all yours, Esther.”

  “Esther?” Corkbowl said to her. “Are you okay?”

  “Who is this Pinocchio?” Black Pat’s voice was jealous. “Why are you talking to such a weird Pinocchio?”

  Corkbowl had an innocent expression when serious and concentrating, his face like the sweet face on the underside of a stingray. It gave her courage. “Actually,” she admitted, “I wouldn’t say I’m completely okay.”

  “Esther”—Black Pat made a drawstring motion with his claws—“zip it.”

  Corkbowl said softly, “Is there something I could perhaps help you with.…”

  Perhaps he could. “Two years ago,” Esther was speaking fast, “I was married.…”

  “You’re married?” Corkbowl hid his disappointment.

  “Not anymore, no.”

  “Tut-tut.” Black Pat bumped down onto four feet. He pawed his way forwards.

  “I was married to a man called Michael.”

  On his giant haunches he was next to her. A cold and nasty sensation, Black Pat’s nose touched her temple. “You can’t sell Michael’s dignity to this goose.”

  Corkbowl’s arm created a minor emergency, knocking the flask. He bent to delve for a handkerchief in his pocket.

  Esther hushed Black Pat. “I wouldn’t be betraying Michael.”

  Black Pat’s mouth was in a fat grin. “Those are your words, not mine. Betraying is your word, Esther.”

  Corkbowl doubled his handkerchief over and kept mopping. This action worked round his wristwatch and he saw the time.

  Black Pat wore his grin, lavishly fat. “Checkmate.”

  The garage. Corkbowl had to go, already five minutes late for his car, apologising as his socked shins carried him in long strides. At the doorway he was compelled back.

  “Before I leave … I wanted you to know that if there is anything I can do …” The sentence finished there. He banged the wall with the mallet of his fist, trumped. Then an idea.

  Corkbowl’s emotional side was a weak speaker, but his general-knowledge side could occasionally translate.

  “I’ve been reading about volcanic eruptions and it occurred to me that there are some, ah … There might be metaphorical correlations with other …” He realised he must appear magnificently obscure, and he was babbling. What was wrong with his stupid mouth? He took his sensibilities by the throat. “To survive a volcano eruption you analyse the lava flow. If it streams to the left or right, you’re out of danger. It’s if the lava appears still that you’re in real jeopardy.”

  Esther was listening. Also listening was Black Pat. He had on an expression of such pioneering sarcasm it forced a double chin.

  Corkbowl continued: “Because that means that it’s coming straight at you, and you should run for your life.”

  “Right,” said Esther.

  “Balls,” said Black Pat.

  Corkbowl moved his head in a bartering gesture. “Of course that’s assuming you’ve survived the initial magma missiles flung high into the air.”

  “Let’s definitely assume that.” Maybe she understood? She thought so.

  Corkbowl gave her a smile. “I appreciate it’s not your typical offer, but I wanted to mention it in case you ever need a volcanologist, I suppose.”

  CHAPTER 30

  12.20 p.m.

  With Corkbowl gone, Black Pat lolled about in the Reference Room, basking in Esther’s complaints. Alone with her he relaxed. She tried to ignore him as he padded her with one of his paws.

  A new tactic to punish him was writing notes on a pad and acting highly engrossed. Black Pat clowned for attention. His claws caught the carpet weave, dragging him in inches. Esther didn’t look at him, except when she accidentally did. He tossed on his back and cycled his legs. Now flipped to his stomach, he put his doleful snout on the floor, sad to be ignored. “You really wanted to talk to that goose Corkbowl?”

  “I might have done, yes.” Esther swizzled the pen in her mouth. “Possibly.” A coy attempt to justify it followed. “I don’t know, he seems so …” She said the last word too quietly.

  “Dige
stible?” Black Pat volunteered.

  “Likeable.”

  She was thinking of Corkbowl and he watched her, sensing that a little seed of warmth had taken root and needed to be usurped. The ugliness of his mood surprised her.

  “Your trust in Corkbowl cheapens you. And it cheapens Michael. Confiding in him is a mistake you will learn to regret.”

  “Wait, I haven’t—”

  Black Pat said, “But you considered it, Esther.”

  Esther juggled for an explanation. She gave up. “It doesn’t matter, I’m glad I didn’t tell him.” She frowned, certain. “Yes, I’m glad.”

  “So am I.” A yap of exertion carried Black Pat to his feet, now cheery again. He swung to Esther’s side. Beside his mastodon bulk her head was at an ideal height. A chin rest. He tested it out. The furry chin drove her into a hunch as it bore down. Both hands fought him away. Esther smoothed the halo of her staticky hair. She told Black Pat that he had changed everything for the worse.

  “I haven’t changed anything. I may have provided some”—he made a seasoning motion with a paw, sprinkling it—“variety.”

  “I’d rather you hadn’t.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Variety is the spice of life.” No, he could do better. “Wait, variety is the ice of life.” Out came a satisfied smirk. “It’s cool.”

  Esther scrubbed an eyelid. “You’re so frustrating.” She picked up her pen. “I’ve barely got the energy to do this.” The pen was thrown at him.

  A snack. Black Pat’s mouth caught the pen and shattered the plastic. The ink flowed over his tongue and was a delicious sauce. He spoke again and his tongue was blue. “Variety,” he said, this thing he was about to say delighting him, “is the dice of life. You win some, you lose some.” He sent a look over his shoulder. “You win some and you lose some. But, Esther, it’s a game you have to play.”

  “You play it, then.”

  “I am,” he instantly replied.

  She preferred to disregard it, preferring instead to continue with the notes. She immediately missed her eaten pen. Esther cast a silent indecent curse at the lost pen, at Black Pat.

  A purposeful noise came from behind her and made her turn, curious. Black Pat’s concentration was intense, his posture now alert. With the stance of a working Alsatian, he received instruction.

  “Black Pat?”

  He pounded to the doorway, to the corridor. Esther called him and it caused a fleeting head shift and then indifference. This corridor would take him upstairs to the Royal Gallery.

  “Where are you going?”

  From upstairs came the summons. Black Pat was motionless, the silhouette of his body stiff-braced. Esther was forgotten and he broke into a hunting run.

  CHAPTER 31

  1.00 p.m.

  The high ceilings had swimming-pool acoustics and resonated with conversation. Huge muddy paintings of battles covered the red-and-gold walls. This was the Royal Gallery, a grand chamber in the hive of Westminster Palace. It was filled with journalists from national and regional newspapers. Westminster Palace on a Saturday! The novelty of it created an ambiance of bonhomie. The journalists joshed around, gossiping. Then conversation stopped, heads bending to the entrance.

  A swish of bodies drew back to create a path. The dark tugboat of Churchill cruised through to a table at the head of the room. He was joined by his friend and MP for Shrewsbury, Sir John Langford-Holt. At the table Langford-Holt coughed self-consciously into his palm, alerting the journalists. Churchill took a seat and scanned his notes, elbows resting on the papers.

  The journalists craned nearer, staring at Churchill’s bowed head. They stared at his pink crown. He looked up from his notes and monitored them sternly.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Langford-Holt. “Welcome to Westminster. We are glad you could accommodate our slightly irregular schedule and attend this Saturday afternoon. As most of you know, today’s gathering is to announce that our esteemed ex–prime minister and MP for Woodford, Sir Winston Churchill, will be retiring from Parliament on Monday, the twenty-seventh of July. Naturally press will be covering that date, but we wanted to provide this smaller event as an opportunity to ask Sir Winston a few questions about his career before the more general affair of the twenty-seventh.”

  There was a racing of pens on paper. Hands bolted into the air, ripe with questions. One of the journalists was invited to relay his enquiry.

  He introduced himself. “Mr. David Fallow from The Times, sir. Sir Winston, could you tell us how you feel about coming to the end of your illustrious career?”

  Churchill said, “I feel honoured to have been a part of the history of this great country and will remember my time in government with deep pride. I hope that I have served the people of Britain well.”

  Another journalist was selected. “What will you do with your time on leaving?”

  Churchill joked, “Delight my wife with my unabated company, whether she likes it or not.” There was laughter and Churchill smiled. “Clementine’s pretty quick on her feet, let me tell you, gentlemen. But I always track her down. And, as well as catching up with her, I also hope to catch up with my painting and reading.”

  “What will you be reading, sir?”

  “Hopefully the labels on vintage wine and menus in good restaurants.”

  More laughter filled the room. A hand was chosen from the crop of raised arms.

  “Is there anything you regret?”

  Churchill thought briefly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think so. Isn’t there always? We make the choices we can with the information available to us at the time. I take solace in the knowledge that I always made the decision I felt right, and did it for noble reasons with the consequences in mind. But the passage of events will confound even the best-laid plans. I suppose this is what we all learn in life. I have certainly learnt this lesson well.”

  “Mr. Jacob McKeith of the Evening Standard, sir. What do you feel has been your most valuable lesson learnt over the years?”

  Churchill answered firmly. “There have been many. One is courage. Courage is rightly esteemed the first of human qualities because it is the quality which guarantees all others. I have also learnt love, and would say that my most brilliant achievement was my ability to persuade Clementine Hozier to marry me. She is my polestar and has been a source of exceptional strength for me throughout the years.”

  Another question was sanctioned. “Is there anything you still want to do?”

  “Vast amounts,” said Churchill. “I wouldn’t mind visiting 44 Avenue de Champagne, the world’s most drinkable address. This, the Pol-Rogers’ chateau in Epernay, is the maker of my favourite brand of champagne. It’s no secret that I wouldn’t mind a couple of sun-filled days over there, sampling a few bottles, treading the grapes with my feet.”

  The journalists visualised this.

  Churchill added, “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I’ll make sure those specific Churchill-pressed bottles don’t go into circulation.”

  “What else do you enjoy?” asked a journalist.

  “A great many things. Along with a glass of Pol Roger, a cigar is always welcome, namely Romeo y Julieta. That’s a premium smoke, a cigar of great craftsmanship.”

  All the journalists knew this. They wrote it down anyway. At the back of the room behind them a black totem rose from the floor. No big fan of press conferences, Black Pat had been dozing against the wall. Now he was on his feet. Churchill watched the dog indirectly, letting his peripheral vision monitor the massive head hanging above the unaware audience. A bad sign. Usually he stayed lying in the corridors outside like a shot elephant, totally uninterested.

  A journalist with flat blond hair asked, “So, Sir Winston, with all your interests and hobbies, especially after such a long and periodically testing political career, it sounds as though you are thoroughly looking forward to Monday’s retirement. At your age it must be quite a relief to have the prospect of, ah, uncomplicated diversions.”

  Chu
rchill exhaled. “Uncomplicated?” He dropped back, pushed into the chair. “I should dearly …” Over his face passed a shadow of discomposure. The lusting Black Pat knew what was coming.

  “There are two answers to your question,” Churchill said. “The first is an uncomplicated text, full of easiness and simplicity. But study it and there are footnotes. And as footnotes do, they lead us to an original source, the source of influence. The second answer is in these footnotes, which bear witness to an alternate forecast.” When Churchill spoke again his tone was introspective. “Gentlemen, may I suggest to you that the entitlement to immortality felt so noisily in youth is not always relinquished in our dotage. We are not all of us blessed in this way.” He looked at the blond man. “At my age, as you put it to me … sir, I wish there was such a thing, for I find the internal self remains stoutly resistant to time’s seasons.” His lips shrugged. “Because here’s the truth: While the mind is a transcendental pilgrim, the body is an animal. And this animal will carry you as far as it can. Glad of the burden, it will struggle on its knees to serve, fighting out the inches in dust and desert. But do never forget where it is migrating to, for it will bear you there. It is a migration into the dusk.”

  Churchill cast a glance at the dog. Still on his feet, Black Pat seemed fascinated.

  Churchill addressed the journalists. “So when you ask me if I look forward to retirement, for these reasons I cannot say I leap to it. I am driven to it and I have dug in my heels, let me tell you, because work is a holy distraction from these morbidities. Yet as retirement comes despite my efforts, I prepare for these approaching years with the reserve I would feel if I were dressing my neck with a gaboon viper as opposed to … say …”—he thought of an opposite—“… being seated to dine on minute steak.”

  The journalists were writing this down, feeling squeamishly aware of their animal bodies. A few checked their watches, brooding for the pub. The blond journalist would definitely never ask this question again.