Hostage to Fortune

by Carolyn McCrae

  I have tried to remember some detail about those early years of my life in order that I might pass knowledge of your heritage on to you and your brother but all I can pass on to you are names of places. Lorca. Cartagena. Illora. Perhaps what my father stole is still buried in a garden in an exotic house near one of those towns in the south of Spain.

  If I am indeed Spanish, it would explain why you and I are dark haired and dark eyed and why we always tan so easily in the sun! Your brother, I’m afraid, takes after his mother, in looks as well as in temperament.

  I digress. You always said I could not keep to the subject in our arguments. One of my many failings.

  One day you will go to those places in Spain. You will seek out your real family and you will reclaim your heritage.

  The letter was signed, rather formally Guy thought, Stratford Eden.

  Guy shook his head, the envelope in one hand and the letter in the other. He checked again the initials on the album covers and decided they were BE, Barford Eden, not BC, Brian Cliffe.

  There were, he thought, two scenarios. Either his father had stolen those twenty records from this Barford Eden, or he had simply borrowed them and failed to return them. Either way, he reasoned, he had to learn more about Barford. It was the only clue he had to finding out more about his father’s life.

  He put the letter back in the envelope and pushed it into his pocket. As silently as he could he let the ladder back down and returned to his room.

  If the internet could tell him his father had never been to the school he had said he had attended, he felt certain it could tell him about Stratford Eden and his sons.

  Within minutes of typing ‘Stratford Barford Eden’ into his search engine he had found more than enough information about the family. Stratford was a very rich and successful businessman who had died, Guy calculated, five or six years after writing the letter to his son. Barford was his elder son; the younger also had what Guy considered to be an odd name: Warwick.

  He concentrated on Barford, who he soon learned had been born in 1968, the same year as his father. He learned he was the elder son of Stratford Eden and Della Eden who, Guy read, had divorced acrimoniously in 1975, well before the letter would have been written. There were many pages on the internet about the scandals that ended that marriage which Guy did not bother to read. He did, however, read the many reports of Barford’s death in August 1990 – drowned in a surfing accident in Cornwall. When Stratford died two years later, Guy read, his enormous wealth passed to the surviving son, Warwick.

  Guy thought, from his reading of the letter he had in his pocket, that Stratford had not liked his younger son, and would have been broken by the death of the favoured older brother.

  As he read the various biographies of the Eden boys he saw that in their childhood they both had enjoyed the best of everything. They had been sent to the best schools, spending their holidays skiing in Switzerland or posing on luxury yachts in the Caribbean. He was interested to find that, where Warwick continued to be fodder for the gossip columns there was no mention of Barford after 1984. One report said he had dropped out of society to become a New Age traveller.

  Remembering what the letter had said of how the two brothers looked very different Guy searched for images. Many were grainy and indistinct but it was clear that they were very different.

  One particular image of Barford caused Guy to stare intently at the screen.

  The young man he was looking at was a thinner, slightly younger, version of his father.

  He searched through the pictures he held on his computer; he had scanned all of his parents’ wedding photographs.

  He looked at the two images side by side on his screen.

  Brian and Barford were the same person.

  He sat back in his chair, staring at the screen.

  His father was Barford Eden.

  For some reason his father had left his old life behind and changed his name, and made up a story about his early life.

  His father was Barford Eden. The favoured son who should have inherited his father’s vast wealth.

  Rather than feel pleased that he had discovered his father’s true identity, Guy was angry.

  They should have been rich.

  He should have had all those things his father had had when he was a boy. He should have had the skiing trips and the summers in the Caribbean.

  He should have had all those luxuries and privileges.

  And his father had cheated him out of everything that should have been his.

  Chapter 4: Guy Leaves Home

  His parents were watching the end of the news when Guy walked into the room.

  “Dad?”

  “You’re back early.”

  “I didn’t go out.”

  “But you said…”

  “I’ve been in the loft.”

  “The loft?”

  “Does the name Barford Eden mean anything to you?”

  Guy watched the changing expressions on his father’s face – from anger, through suspicion to fear and resignation.

  “Who?” Brian asked, hoping to have some time to think of an excuse not to answer his son’s question.

  “Barford Eden. You have a box of his old albums up in the loft.”

  “Albums?”

  “Albums. Records. Vinyl. LPs. You must know what albums are.”

  Brian remembered.

  He had been told not to take anything from his old life into his new. He was supposed to have left all his clothes, all his books, everything that mattered to him, behind. But he had kept the records. It was in that box he had hidden the letter from his father that he had never had the courage to open. For years he had played the records when he was alone in the house, remembering very different times, but then the record player was ditched and replaced by a CD player. He could not bring himself to take those records, the only part of his life that he felt was real, to the charity shop and had, instead, hidden them in the corner of the attic. He had never forgotten they were there, hostages to fortune perhaps, but he could never have got rid of them.

  “You found the records?” He could not bring himself to mention the letter.

  “Yes. And I think they belonged to someone called Barford Eden, so either you stole them from him or he gave them to you, in which case you must have been friends, or…” Guy tailed off, hoping his father would finish his sentence for him; when he didn’t he said slowly and deliberately, “Or you are Barford Eden.”

  “Brian? What’s all this about?” Elspeth asked, confused.

  “Dad’s real name isn’t Brian Cliffe. He was born Barford Eden and his family is really, really rich.”

  “What?”

  “I think you’d better sit down,” Brian said gently to his wife. “And you too, Guy. Switch the telly off first.”

  “Are you going to come clean then?” Guy asked cruelly.

  “I knew that sooner or later I’d have to say something.” He closed his eyes as his wife and son settled themselves. He felt the heavy silence before he began.

  “Guy is quite right. Although I have been Brian Cliffe for as long as I want to remember, I was born Barford Eden.”

  “I knew it!” Guy exclaimed, standing up and punching the air, only to get such a glare from his mother that he sat down again.

  “I will try to explain.”

  “I think you owe us that,” Elspeth replied.

  Brian put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and said nothing. He knew that the next few minutes would be the most difficult of his life. Even more difficult than the time he had learned that the girl he loved had slept with, and was pregnant by, his brother.

  “Guy is right,” he began slowly. “When I was young I took advantage of everything my father’s money could give me. Unashamedly. I believed the world turned for me. I looked down on anyone w
ho had less money than I had, which was practically everybody else in the world, and I believed I was entitled to everything I had because I was who I was. I did not understand that I was a snob or arrogant or privileged in any way. I believed that anyone who didn’t have what I had deserved to go without because they were inferior.”

  Brian paused and looked across at his wife and son. Elspeth was staring at him but Guy was concentrating on something on the carpet between his feet.

  “When I was just a little older than you are now, Guy, I met a boy.” He looked at his wife and son and knew they understood what he was telling them. “He was like nobody I had ever met. He wasn’t impressed by me and didn’t want to have anything to do with me but I was besotted as only someone that age can be besotted. I don’t think it was anything sexual, at least it never got that far so I will never know, but I adored him and followed him around like a puppy. He wouldn’t talk to me or in any way have anything to do with me. I had no idea what to do to make him take notice of me. Sorry, Elspeth, but it was a long time ago and I was a very different person then.”

  “Well that bit’s true,” muttered Guy under his breath.

  “Anyway, I found out that he was going to Stonehenge with some friends of his, including a girl called Annette, and spend that summer, 1985 it was, travelling around, going to music festivals, that sort of thing. Anyway, I followed them. What I saw that day I’ll never forget. The police seemed to be everywhere and hitting out at everyone with their truncheons and anything they could lay their hands on as a weapon. It didn’t matter to them that they hit children and women. It was terrible. I saw Annette being battered. No one I knew was anywhere near, that other boy had disappeared; I learned later he’d been arrested. Anyway, I grabbed her and ran with her out of the battle, because that’s what it was. They called it the Battle of the Beanfield. At first Annette was really angry with me but when she saw what I’d got her out of she was grateful and she made the others let me join them. After we’d talked for a while I realised just how other people saw me and I was determined to change. I stayed with Annette and the others through that summer, but it didn’t work out and I got involved with this other girl, Wave. She was only young but she’d been on the road all her life and she showed me so many things—”

  “I bet,” Guy said rather too loudly.

  “Wave? That’s an odd name,” Elspeth said quietly. “A hippy was she?”

  Brian nodded, understanding that Elspeth didn’t really want to know about Wave and was simply giving him time to think. He went to grip her hand but she snatched it away. It was a few minutes before she relented and she took hold of his hand and squeezed it. He surprised himself at how pleased he was. “I left everything of my old life behind me that summer. For two or three years I travelled around with Wave, moving from convoy to convoy; I was determined not to go home. I had come to realise that the life I was leading was completely wrong. Then, somehow, my face was captured on a television company film. They were making some news story out of nothing but my brother saw it and tracked my group down.”

  “That’d be Warwick?” Guy said, showing that he had already done some research on the Eden family.

  Again Brian nodded. He swallowed hard before continuing as he knew he was coming to the most difficult part of his story.

  “I was away from the group when Warwick turned up. No one wanted him to stay, I certainly didn’t, but he had a certain charm; he was sixteen years old, boyish, but certainly not innocent. He was a good-looking charmer, blonde and blue eyed where I was dark, almost swarthy, and Wave allowed herself to be charmed.”

  “You mean he fucked her?” Guy asked cockily, unwilling to compromise.

  “I think I prefer the phrase ‘slept with’ but then I suppose it all means the same,” Brian said wearily.

  “Didn’t you care?” Guy asked, noticing how silent his mother was.

  “Of course I cared. When I got back Warwick couldn’t wait to tell me what he’d done. He was so pleased with himself for screwing my woman. I was angry with them both, angry with him for being a precocious little shit but angrier with her for letting him.”

  “I do understand, Brian,” Elspeth said quietly. “They were very different times. We all did things then that we regret and would like to forget.” She let that confession hang in the air realising that Brian hadn’t really heard her and if he had heard he hadn’t really been bothered, tied up as he was in his own memories.

  “I was angry. Very angry. And hurt,” Brian continued, “and the next day I went into a police station and offered my services.”

  “Your services?” Guy asked.

  “They were always after people to work with them, to inform, that sort of thing.”

  “You offered to spy for them?”

  Brian nodded. “It really was as simple as that. They took my name, I gave them a false one, David Ford; everyone knew me as Fordy so it seemed reasonable. They told me to come back a few days later, which I did. I arranged to give them information, in exchange for money.”

  “Money you didn’t need,” Guy added, turning the screw on his father’s memory.

  Brian shook his head. “No. You are right. It was money I didn’t need but I had begun to hate Wave and her parents and all the people in that convoy. I decided they were weak, unable to face up to the realities of living, unable to face the responsibilities of being a part of society so I decided that they deserved anything and everything they got.”

  “So you informed on them?”

  “Just names, dates, details of plans for demonstrations, that sort of thing.”

  “When was this?”

  “1988.”

  “So what were all these demonstrations about?”

  “Everything from the poll tax to student loans, the war in the Balkans, striking coal miners, anything the Americans were doing, anything Thatcher did.”

  “And all the time you were helping the police?”

  Brian nodded. “I wasn’t proud of it. It just happened. It started because I was angry with Wave; at the time I had believed she would be the love of my life, and it just snowballed.”

  “How did it all end?” Elspeth needed more details. “I know this was before we met, Brian, but I would like to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brian said weakly.

  “Sorry?” Elspeth asked.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t said anything before. I should have told you, but…”

  “But you didn’t think I’d understand?”

  Brian shook his head. “I had no right to expect you to understand.”

  “Well I need to know,” Guy butted in loudly. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” his mother said firmly. “But I agree, I think we both need to know the rest of the story.”

  Brian looked at his wife’s hand, still firmly held in his, and he looked at the anger on his son’s face, and he knew that all their worlds were coming to an end.

  Nothing would be the same again.

  But he could lie no longer.

  “At the end of November 1988 a big demonstration was organised in London against the ending of student grants. It was going to be the biggest demo since the days of the Vietnam War. Everyone was involved, all sorts of groups came together. It all turned very nasty indeed. After it was all over I was watching some film the police had to see if I could name names and I saw Johnny. He was the one Wave had gone off with after my brother had… after my brother had done what he did. I could not get back at my brother but I could get back at Johnny, and Wave, so I told a lot of lies and the man was charged and jailed.”

  “Lies?” Guy prompted.

  “I said I’d overheard him threaten to kill a policeman, any policeman, I said he was dangerous and I’d known him from before and… well… I told a lot of lies.”

  “So you gave evidence agains
t him?” Guy asked.

  “You got an innocent man convicted for something horrible you knew he hadn’t done?” Elspeth added.

  Brian nodded.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  Brian nodded again.

  “Did anyone know you’d lied? The police? Any of the people you’d informed on?” Guy asked.

  Again his father nodded. “A few months after the trial I was in Cornwall and my van was ambushed as I crossed Bodmin Moor. I was beaten up. They did a lot of damage. I almost died.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, obviously I didn’t, but I’m told it was a close-run thing. They fractured my skull, they broke bones in my back, my legs and my arms. They meant to kill me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “My father, who was pretty well off—”

  “That’s an understatement,” Guy interrupted.

  Brian looked at his son and realised he had found out a great deal about his family. “Yes, he had money and, reluctantly, he got involved. I was taken to a private hospital and I slowly recovered. As soon as I was well enough I told him I didn’t want to have anything to do with him but he didn’t want to have anything to do with me either. When he heard I had been a police spy he was very, very angry. He said the Eden name could not be involved. Barford Eden was dead.”

  “He disowned you?” Elspeth asked.

  “Never formally, but in every practical sense. My allowance was stopped, I was told I was not welcome in his house anymore, not that I had been there for years. I had to swear never to talk to anyone in the family ever again, not that I wanted to, but he didn’t entirely shut me out. He didn’t only have money, he had influence and he had contacts so when I left hospital I was sent to convalesce with a very kind woman who was more used to caring for soldiers recuperating from Northern Ireland or the Middle East. I don’t think she liked me very much but she was kind.”