Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Yes,’ her smile widened, ‘indeed we may.’ And she floated away in a froth of pale cream towards the next little bunch of people.

  ‘Think you’re in there.’ David chortled into his glass.

  I inclined my head. ‘Could well be.’ But even as I agreed, I knew I wouldn’t. And the depressing knowledge that although Joanne was a good-looking woman who should have been bringing me to life, the necessary spark hadn’t ignited.

  Elspeth came across with a man in tow and introduced him as Walter Bexon, a very old friend and Marriot’s former headmaster. ‘David Feltham, Harry Radcliffe, Walter,’ she said. ‘I rather think Harry wants to ask you some questions to help me with my biography.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I answered obediently.

  David excused himself, saying he had to find one of the other owners to talk shop, and Walter and I were left to talk on our own.

  ‘By, she’s going to miss her work, y’know. Those stables are her life.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid she will.’

  ‘I’ve known Elspeth for years, since the days she rode as a jockey, and then through her married life with Victor. Well, I’ve been a friend to both – still am.’

  I nodded and took out a discreet hand-held recorder. ‘Do you mind?’ I indicated the machine.

  ‘Not at all, Harry, not at all. Happy to help in any way.’

  ‘Probably better if we disappear to the kitchen for a few minutes.’

  He nodded agreement and we removed ourselves from the fray.

  ‘That’s better, much quieter in here.’ I clicked the recorder into life. ‘If you could just chat about where you first met, any momentous times you had, big events in her life, also any sorrows.’

  ‘Sorrows?’ He frowned.

  ‘Please, if you could. The readers like to know what makes the person tick. Not just the glory days but the little bits of sadness, too. It makes them more rounded and real. The reader needs to identify with the storyteller – it makes all the difference.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Do my best. Stop me if it’s no use. Don’t want to bore you.’

  ‘You won’t,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll fish out what’s relevant later.’

  So he did, drawing on old memories, feelings, meetings and weaving a unique, intimate pattern of Elspeth’s life. Hearing it for the first time, it was fascinating. Even before he’d started to run down, I knew it provided all the script I needed. Although I hadn’t been looking forward to this press gang party, I had actually enjoyed myself and, regarding copy, it had been invaluable.

  Elspeth had, obviously, been keeping an eye out for our return to the lounge, and she materialized beside us, keen to introduce me to more people.

  ‘No Paula here?’ I inquired.

  She was Victor’s much adored first-born daughter. Elspeth’s adoration was exclusively for Marriot. Victor, I’d heard, didn’t get on with his son, hadn’t much time for him. He thought Marriot should have been as keen on racing as he was and saw him as a traitor to the cause of ‘following in father’s footsteps’. As parents, they were the perfect stereotype: the mother bonded to the son and the father besotted with his daughter.

  ‘No, Nigel’s too busy down in London to come tonight so Paula’s stayed down there with him and the three G-forces.’ Elspeth laughed.

  I knew she saw Paula’s marriage to Nigel, an ambitious junior minister, as a social plus factor. And I could appreciate her description of the three grandsons. From the little I knew of them, they were hell-on-skateboards.

  Elspeth deftly drew Walter away, but not before she’d introduced me to someone else.

  ‘Harry, I want you to meet another member of my family. This is Samuel Simpson. Samuel is Marriot’s father-in-law.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you.’ His smile was wide and genuine. I shook hands with relief. At least Marriot hadn’t poisoned his mind against me.

  ‘It’s mutual.’

  ‘Know my daughter’s husband, do you?’ Looking across the room, he added, ‘Seems he’s just arrived.’

  I swivelled round and had my eyes met by Marriot’s hostile, hot gaze. There was an exceptionally pretty young woman hanging on to his arm who, when she spotted Samuel, peeled herself away from Marriot and tripped over to us.

  ‘Daddy, so sorry we’re late.’ She rose on tiptoes and kissed his smooth, immaculately shaved cheek. He beamed down at her, his chest swelling with pride. As well he might. She was a first-class, well-turned-out filly, a real eye-catcher. Her off-the-shoulder wine-coloured dress was figure hugging, leaving nothing to guesswork, and showed off her creamy shoulders and glossy raven hair. Even in my state of malaise over Annabel, looking at her was raising my spirits. But, God help her, she’d married Marriot. What a bloody waste of gorgeous womanhood.

  ‘Harry,’ Samuel said, ‘I’d like to present my daughter, Chloe. Tonight’s party is to celebrate her birthday. I won’t embarrass her by telling you her age …’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, don’t be so stuffy.’ She punched his arm playfully, smiling at me. ‘I’m thirty – a milestone, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘The very prime of a woman’s life,’ her father said dotingly. ‘And high time to think about giving me a grandson.’ She tinkled a laugh and looked across the room to where Marriot was holding court with a tumbler of whisky and chatting to his mother.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better have a word with my male.’

  ‘He shouldn’t need one, my darling.’ His voice had hardened slightly. ‘He’s a very lucky man, having you for his wife.’ He directed a cold glance towards her husband.

  Interesting. Could it be Samuel shared my opinion of Marriot? It seemed likely. If so, I might have an ally in the enemy camp.

  Chloe wiggled fingers at us. ‘Better mingle.’

  Samuel watched her slender figure walk away and said, ‘It’s all about family, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er …?’

  He looked me full in the face. ‘Life, lad, life. Like Elspeth’s book.’

  I inclined my head.

  ‘Oh, I know who’s writing it, don’t you worry.’ He chuckled. ‘Marriot’s made his feelings very clear, but I can’t see his objection, to be honest. Anyway, I make it a rule not to let other people make my mind up.’

  ‘I’d say that was a pretty good rule.’

  ‘I reckon since Elspeth chose you to do the work, you’ll make a good job. She’s a very shrewd lady, a businesswoman.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do my best.’

  ‘’Course you will, lad. She’s made a success of her life. Always got her hands on the reins, eh?’ He laughed out loud at his own joke and I smiled because it was expected.

  ‘Not that she doesn’t trust her staff, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure she trusts you. But she’s always at the cutting edge, attends all the race meetings, and that takes a lot of energy and commitment. Never lets anything get in the way.’

  His words reminded me of the one time she hadn’t attended a major race meeting. But it wouldn’t be any good asking Samuel, although I was sure he’d tell me if he knew, as it had all happened before his time. Maybe, though, Walter Bexon could provide the answer. He’d been a close friend as well as being in charge of Marriot’s education.

  Across the room, Walter was approaching the buffet table for a refill. It would be easy to intercept him.

  ‘Would you mind, Samuel? I need to have a word with the gentleman over there.’

  ‘Go right ahead, Harry. Business is all about networking, I understand that.’

  I caught up with Walter as he was choosing between a piece of Melton Mowbray pork pie and a triangle of quiche. ‘Can I butt in, Walter? I’ve remembered a question you may be able to answer.’

  ‘Fire away.’ He chose the pie and dropped it on to his plate.

  ‘You were Marriot’s headmaster. Do you recall, when he was about twelve, he was away from school, ill? In the May, I think. A l
ong shot, I know, but I thought I’d just ask. What was it that made Elspeth miss her runner that day?’

  ‘Oh, I can tell you that, Harry. It was Yorkshire Cup day. As you know, nothing keeps Elspeth away from the racecourse but she did miss that particular big race. She chose to stay home with Marriot. He’d contracted one of the childhood illnesses – measles or something like that – but then on top of that he got glandular fever. Particularly nasty, you know. He was running a high fever at the time. Touch and go whether he needed hospitalization. In the end Elspeth engaged a private nurse. He didn’t have to go into hospital. Good job, too. He’s got a phobia about hospitals, you see.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Hmm, well, that’s why she missed seeing her horse win. And it was one of the biggest races of her career.’

  ‘Thanks, Walter, you’ve been a great help.’

  He frowned. ‘Look, I don’t think you should put it in the biography – about Marriot’s phobia, I mean. I think he’d be a bit touchy about that. See it as a weakness and wouldn’t want the world to know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Walter. I’ll be very discreet.’

  His face cleared. ‘I’m sure you will, and good luck with the rest of the writing.’

  ‘Very kind of you.’

  We were suddenly interrupted by Elspeth. ‘Harry, there you are. Thought you were talking to Samuel. A telephone call’s just come through for you. If you’d like to follow me you can take it in the office.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She led me down the hall and opened the office door. Looked with disgust at a partially smoked cigarette lying in a glass ashtray and wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry about the smell. It’s Marriot’s cigarette. He’s the only person who smokes. I do apologise.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  She nodded and walked out, closing the door. I fished in my pocket, came up with a clean tissue and dropped it over the stubbed-out cigarette. Wrapping it, I put the offending object in my pocket. It could prove to be very useful.

  I picked up the telephone receiver. ‘Hello. Harry Radcliffe here.’

  There was an incoherent, distressed voice at the other end. It was Aunt Rachel. Uncle George had suffered a heart attack the previous day. The hospital had kept him sedated for the first twenty-four hours but he was awake now.

  And he was asking to see me – urgently.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was the smell, always the smell that got me. A mixture of food cooking and antiseptic. And after that, you had to be in good physical shape to traverse the seemingly endless miles of corridors. Covering a massive footfall, interior maps of the hospital were handed out to visitors to ensure they found their way out again. And without a map you didn’t stand a chance of finding the right ward.

  I received mine gratefully from the reception desk and set off in the general direction. But I hadn’t gone more than twenty yards before a woman came rushing after me.

  ‘Wait, Harry … please … please … ’ I stopped and she practically threw herself at me. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you for coming. I’ve been such a bitch …’ She clutched my arm as tears ran down her cheeks.

  ‘Aunt Rachel, steady on.’ I sought to deflect her from beating herself up. ‘Can you tell me how Uncle George is?’

  She gulped and dashed away tears. ‘He’s conscious now, not in pain, thank God. He’s on massive medication, mind.’

  ‘Only to be expected.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘And he’s talking to me … which is wonderful. I don’t deserve it.’ She caught back a sob. ‘Go on, Harry, go and talk to George, he’s been asking for you. He wants to tell you something, I know he does. It must be important. He won’t tell me, but can’t seem to rest till he’s seen you.’

  ‘Don’t stress, Aunt Rachel. I’m here now.’

  We made our way to the intensive care cardiac unit and found Uncle George. Whey-faced, wired up to monitors, he looked half the man he’d been. It was a shocking deterioration. I tried to hide my dismay but Aunt Rachel ignored me.

  She went down on her knees at the side of his bed, leaned over and kissed his cheek. If I hadn’t seen her do it, I wouldn’t have believed it. George must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He hadn’t been kissed for the last eighteen years. But looking at his frail form, the idea of him dying was certainly no joke. The prospect was unpleasantly real.

  ‘George, I’ve brought Harry. You asked for him …’

  His eyelids flickered and opened. I moved closer. ‘Hello, Uncle George. Sorry to see you in here.’

  ‘Be home soon.’ His voice was weak but quite audible. ‘All I want’s back there.’

  Aunt Rachel gave a little sob.

  ‘Don’t take on, me duck …’

  ‘Tell Harry what you wanted to say, George. I’ll wait outside, give you some privacy.’ She gave him another kiss and left us alone.

  ‘I’m glad things are better between you and Aunt Rachel. But we’ve only a few minutes, Uncle George. The nurse said I mustn’t wear you out.’

  His eyelids closed briefly and I knew there had been a lot of bravado for Aunt Rachel’s benefit. The man was totally exhausted.

  ‘OK, if you’ve something you need to say, say it now and you can sleep easy.’

  ‘It’s my fault, Harry, entirely my fault your mother became pregnant. I got blotto – in the nineteenth hole at the golf club. I was playing golf with my buddy and we’d gone round eighteen holes. We ended in the clubhouse. First time ever I’d beaten him. Got drinking, had too many. Left my car there and he drove me home.

  ‘Trouble was I’d already arranged to pick up your mother from the breast-screening clinic. Couldn’t go. Couldn’t leave her waiting – no mobile phones then. So after he’d dropped me off, my buddy picked up Elizabeth. The clinic weren’t satisfied with her screening result. She was frightened, upset, needed comforting. He took her home, consoled her …’ His face contorted.

  I thought he was in pain – he was, but the pain wasn’t physical. His buddy had betrayed him with my mother. The door opened and a nurse stuck her head round. ‘Time’s up. He needs to rest.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I said, rising.

  ‘No!’ Uncle George’s voice sounded weak but agitated. ‘Please …’

  Shaking her head, the nurse wagged a finger. ‘One minute.’

  I turned back to Uncle George. ‘His name, you want me to know his name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He told me.

  I was still reeling when I parked up at Harlequin Cottage. Aunt Rachel had refused a lift home. She intended to stay at the hospital, had been there for George since his admittance yesterday. I just hoped to God he’d pull through. It had taken a heart attack to bring Aunt Rachel to her senses. It would be a cruel, ironic tragedy if they were parted now.

  I went up to the bathroom, stripped off my shirt and repeatedly splashed my face and neck with cold water. I needed to calm down and clear my head. I felt like I’d been given a physical pasting.

  But, undoubtedly, it had helped Uncle George. As soon as he’d told me the man’s name, the tension in his grey face had drained away, the lines smoothed and his body had relaxed. He lay limply in the hospital bed, at peace at last.

  ‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ he murmured, on the edge of healing sleep, ‘I’ve everything waiting at home. I’ll get there.’

  I knew he wanted this second chance with Aunt Rachel and I marvelled at the resilience of human love. I came away feeling somehow humbled and privileged by the experience. At the same time, I was aware that what Uncle George had told me would need to be dealt with.

  I buried my head in a thick towel and dried off. Thought it was a great pity I couldn’t just bury my head full stop. I wished I could totally forget what I’d been told. But knowledge once learned couldn’t be unlearned.

  It was late but I needed to boot up my computer and do a spot of digging on family trees and relations. Leo came padding into the office, ju
mped up on to the desk and cosied up to me. I found his presence soothing. I had a dilemma now whether to keep the man’s name to myself and wait for Silvie’s birthday to come round or whether to make a journey and confront the man. Tell him I knew.

  First, though, I needed to check out my new theory in the light of Uncle George’s revelation, and with a smidgen of luck the computer would come up with the goods. It didn’t take too long. I had to allow that centuries ago ancestors didn’t use the same words and names to describe ailments and disabilities. But it didn’t need much imagination to translate long-ago non-specific expressions into present-day clarity.

  My findings triggered a memory of the doctor’s words when Silvie was born. ‘Medical knowledge has taken great strides forward but, for all that, we can’t give you answers why one child is born severely disabled and another isn’t. Genetics is still largely a mystery. It’s an imprecise science.’

  I sat and stared at the screen in front of me. What I read on it translated not into cold clinical facts, but instead into tragedy, fading hopes, gut-wrenching grief and pain of the worst kind. The world may have changed, evolved beyond recognition since those long-ago days, but people hadn’t. Their emotions and priorities were still the same.

  Samuel was right: it was all about family.

  I sat and thought for a long time before eventually closing down the computer and dragging myself off to bed. I lay there sleepless for hours, stupidly arguing with myself. Did I wait for Silvie’s birthday and hope to see the man, or did I go and find him? If he was the one pulling the strings, it wouldn’t be a smart move. Despite cribbing about my left leg and my thrice-weekly physio visits, I still valued my overall health and working order. Being carted off to the hospital again – or worse – was not an enticing prospect. And as the debate raged on inside my head, at some point I must have abdicated and fallen asleep.

  But now, this morning, I was still undecided. It was not a comfortable state to be in. What made it worse was the man wasn’t a stranger. I knew him. What I didn’t know was his address. But I knew a man who could tell me.

  I shoved aside my half-eaten bowl of breakfast cereal and flipped open my mobile. Mike answered and filled me in with the required information. Thanking heaven for the efficiency of Mike’s bush telegraph, I wrote down the address. Like the good mate he is he didn’t ask why I wanted the address and I didn’t tell him.