by Miles Hadley
It saddens me to know that you ‘didn’t’ do at school! I believe that, had you been in the right circumstances, you probably would have ‘done’ at school. Yet, we find ourselves increasingly retrenched with those that have it all. They have all the freedom to buy property, to travel, to have possessions, education, good health and the time to be who they want to be. Yet, in their quest for the material and continued status, they leave men like you behind. This is a culture that sadly now pervades our country. I detest this. I detest this for a reason. This is not the British way. We are now kneeling, not standing, on the shoulders of our historical greats.
The reason for this is that people are losing their hearts, their belief in a wider thing. That wider thing is a civilised society. It is not civilised to leave the poor behind and to demonise them as a dangerous underclass with access denied. In my eyes, Gary, you and I are equal as human beings because, at the end of it all, we die and death is the great equaliser.
I don’t want a utopia, Gary. We know through our lessons that every utopia ends in a dystopia. But what I do want is for men and women, who are young like you, to be given the same opportunities to excel as those who are born into wealth. I don’t want to see you suffer the indignity of dying without having had the opportunity to excel.
Last of all, I would like to write this – we may be seen as common men, but we can always be full of noble thoughts. Remember that, young man. Do not forget your history. For, your history is my history also. Our shared history. We are all ultimately a tribe of one. People of today forget this and, as a consequence, they are fractured and divided, despite us all inheriting the same history.
Carpe diem, young man. For, though you may think of yourself as poor, so long as you learn and know our history, you will be forever rich in mind.
Sincerely,
Terry
* * *
33
His time had come. His own studio. Not the old nursery – a real one. He shall be that man. That master. He shall be he.
It was with great gusto that Henry threw his all into organising the launch party of Archie’s new studio, Focus 1, which was to be combined with the engagement party. Archie had called the studio Focus 1 as a deliberate dig at Silvio.
‘So, we’ll be having the best champagne,’ Henry began.
‘Naturally,’ Archie responded.
‘And I thought that we might have canapés. I have a list here of all of the different options to choose from. The caterers are the best. I use them always for my VIP events.’
‘What are your thoughts on the guest list?’ asked Archie.
‘Well, I had a look and I think fifty sounds about right,’ replied Henry. ‘I’ll get in touch with the press as well. I’m actually good chums with that society columnist, Lucinda Blythe. In fact, between you and me, mate, we shagged a couple of weeks ago. She’s a real motormouth, and that’s not just when she’s talking! I’ll introduce you to each other.’
Archie looked at Henry for a moment. ‘What did you think to my idea of having all of the guests’ names in a lucky draw and then the prize being a portrait?’
‘Excellent, mate. Are you inviting Konstantine and his Essex wench?’
‘Do you think I should?’
There was a brief pause before they both looked at each other and burst into hysterics.
‘Essex wench!’ Archie repeated, laughing again. ‘Well, what do you think, Henry? A bit of Mafiosa to spice things up a bit?’
‘I only asked because they have invited you to rather a lot of things,’ said Henry. ‘The Zugalovs are one of my biggest clients. They might be a good connection on the photography front, too. You know, lots of stinking-rich Ruskies to add to your client list.’
‘You do know that half of them are money launderers?’
‘Arch, things have got different since our parents’ generation. Money talks and it doesn’t matter where in Blighty it’s from, as long as there is a lot of it. We have to adapt or die, Arch. If that means prostituting ourselves to the bling brigade, then so be it. Frankly, we have our estates to maintain when the time comes, and I want Pulfret not just to be maintained, but to expand again.’
‘It’s a bit mercenary, isn’t it?’ said Archie.
‘Look, Arch. Sod what your or my father might think. It’s survival of the fittest now, and if our bank accounts are not super fit… well, our families will be fucked and you know it. Besides, your need is greater than mine.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, Risely is hardly in top form nowadays, is it? Last time I was there, your family had shut a wing off due to dry rot or something.’
‘We’re not that bad off.’
‘But you’re hardly rolling in it these days, are you?’
Archie considered Henry’s last comment. ‘Risely’s okay, though,’ he said. ‘I had a chat with Pa about it.’
‘Okay is not good enough these days,’ replied Henry. ‘Sorry mate, but the order of things is changing, so it’s a case of arse-licking people like the Zugalovs.’
Archie looked at Henry and thought for a moment. ‘Oh, fuck it. I’ll invite Konstantine, then. But I’m not putting his wench on the guest list. She’s a fucking disgrace!’
‘Mate, it’s your launch party,’ Henry chuckled. ‘Would you like any of the models to go?’
‘Not really,’ said Archie. ‘I don’t want anyone I’ve shagged to get to know Polly. It might ruin things.’
‘Fucking hell, mate. The Raynards know that you played the field. They’re not stupid, especially with Razza being such a good pal.’
‘Do you think Razza minds that I’m with his sister?’ Archie said. ‘I mean, he’s been really great about it. But has he said anything to you?’
‘Mate, you know Razza as well as I do. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of guy, and if you two are happy then that’s fine with him.’
Archie scratched his head. ‘I wish we hadn’t had that conversation at Spratt’s, Henry.’
‘Mate, I like you, that’s all,’ replied Henry. ‘And I guess I was jealous of you and Poll. We had such a great time being the Romano British Princes. The Hugh Despenser stuff – it was fucking awesome. I guess I’m just sad that those days are now over. I guess we all have to grow up eventually. Salad days and all that. And about what I said in Spratt’s… well, I just wished that it didn’t have to happen.’
Archie looked at Henry and smiled. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’ll always be my best mate, and I haven’t discussed it with Polly yet, but I’d really like you to be my best man at the wedding.’
Henry smiled and they both hugged. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I will, with pleasure.’
On the walls surrounding the mingling guests at the launch party were the photographs that Archie was the most proud of. They included the one taken in Silvio’s studio of the group wrapped up in the rug, the photograph of the tax scandal-embroiled Spanish Countessa, the portrait of Razza in front of the abstract painting taken at the Manoir de Parvenu, and even the one of Henry balancing on the balcony attired in dinner suit in St Tropez.
Yet, the photograph that caught people’s attention the most, and which was the one that Archie most prized, was the one of Polly on the riverbank at Cambridge, with the haze of the evening sun surrounding her beautiful form.
Archie had only given a speech once before and that had been at a formal dinner held at Risely for his twenty-first birthday.
Archie cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘it gives me great pleasure to have you all here this evening for the launch of my new studio, Focus 1.’
A round of applause followed before Archie carried on, his confidence boosted by the applause.
‘I have named the studio Focus 1 because I believe photography is all about the focus. I’m going to quote the late Cecil Beaton, who has now been immort
alised not only through his photography, but also through the diaries that he kept. His photographic legacy has massively impacted my life, even though I represent a generation that was born years after he died. His influence on today’s photography – especially portraiture – is already widespread and I hope to develop my own artistic flair and expertise, my own style, in what will hopefully be a renaissance in photography, not just in the UK but globally. I would like to quote the great man who said these words – “Be daring, be different, be impractical. Be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the ‘play it safers’, the creatures of the common place, the slaves of the ordinary”.’
There was another round of applause and murmurs of appreciation from the guests.
Archie continued. ‘Last, but by no means least, I would like to present to you my future wife, Polly Raynard, who I look forward to marrying in May. Polly, my darling, I love you very much and there is no doubt that the most beautiful subject matter to grace these walls is you. Ladies and gentlemen – my future wife, Polly.’
There was another round of applause and a few congratulatory cheers. Lucinda Blythe came forward and began to chat to Archie about his work and the upcoming marriage. As they chatted, Archie noticed Polly looking at him, champagne glass in hand and smiling beautifully. After a while, Archie politely excused himself from Lucinda and walked over to Polly.
‘You know which photograph they most admire, don’t you?’ he asked. Polly feigned ignorance, at which point Archie smiled and gestured to the one of her on the riverbank. ‘The one of you, my dear, sweet Poll.’ He took her hand and kissed her engagement ring.
Konstantine appeared from among the surrounding guests. ‘Archie!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a triumph! I was just saying to Henry that I wouldn’t mind having my portrait done. Are you taking bookings yet?’
‘Not just yet, mate,’ replied Archie. ‘But I can make an exception for you.’ Archie tried to smile in as genuine a way as possible, remembering what Henry had said.
34
The last funeral Gary had attended had been his mum’s. Lots of people had gone. This one only had a few people in attendance. He felt out of place because of the clothes he was wearing. He wished that he had a suit of some kind to wear. Instead, he wore a black jumper, dark jeans and his best Nike trainers. The other people were smartly dressed. He stood towards the back of the cemetery chapel and observed them as they took their seats.
The convener began the service. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to remember and celebrate the life of Terry Bollard. Please stand.’
Gary watched as the coffin was taken into the chapel by four Co-op undertakers, while sombre organ music played. He noticed that none of the other people seemed very emotional. He wondered who they all were. After the coffin was placed down, an elderly man called Tim Fairburn came forward to give a speech. He coughed to clear his throat.
‘I was a colleague of Terry’s at St Giles Grammar School in Balham,’ he began. ‘I taught maths and Terry taught history. He was very much loved by his colleagues and pupils for his warmth, generosity and his genuine passion for the subject. I’m going to read a poem by John Donne from the 1600s on death that Terry wanted me to read. It is called “Holy Sonnet 10”.’
Tim paused for a moment while he turned over the pages of his speech. He then began to recite the poem:
* * *
‘Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so
For those whom thou think’st thou does overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls delivery.
Thou’art slave to fate, chance, Kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die.’
* * *
Gary watched as Tim sat down, and the next person to speak stood up.
‘Hi. My name’s Barry Armitage.’ The man spoke with a broad Birmingham accent. ‘I knew Terry when I was at York. We both read History there. One of the things I’ll always remember Terry saying was this: “History, to me, is like an old friend, and it is only with the experience of having known this old friend that you can make a good new friend, the future.” He told me this when we were having a beer together at our favourite pub in York. Little would I know that he would end up being one of my oldest and most loyal friends.
‘Even as we made new friends, we hung on to our old friendship, just as we held on to history. We wrote to each other a lot. Quite often, these letters revolved around our shared passion of history, or our reminiscences of university life. Terry always took a great interest in me and my family. After university, we both got married and, although we lived miles apart, we would meet up periodically and I would relish the challenge of a good historical debate over a good ale or two – or three!’
There were some chuckles from the small congregation.
Barry continued. ‘There was only one hymn that Terry wanted us to sing at his funeral, and that was “When a Knight won his Spurs”. He said it was his favourite hymn as a child. He always longed to become such a knight. Terry was never particularly religious, but he did have ideals. He was rather like a Don Quixote character in this respect. He loved his books and he dearly wanted to see chivalry in his society.’
Barry then sat down.
‘Thank you, Barry,’ said the convener, and the small congregation stood up and sang the hymn.
The last time Gary had sung a hymn was at his mum’s funeral. There was something comforting to him about the voices singing together. He had felt that comfort then and he felt it now. When his mum died, Gary had decided to become an atheist. Still, he thought there was something nice about people coming together to sing. He felt self-conscious about singing himself, though, so he mouthed the words without making a sound.
Gary watched the next person get up and stand before the congregation. He thought the woman looked about Bollard’s age.
‘My name is Maggie Swinton,’ she began. ‘I’m the sister of Terry’s late wife, Christine. Although Terry and I did not see each other very often, we wrote letters to each other on a regular basis. I’m going to read what he wrote in one of the letters that I received last year.’
Maggie held up the letter and began to read from it.
‘There is not a day that passes when I do not think about and talk to your sister, Christine. Yet, I remain ever hopeful that we might meet again. What shall I write about today? I shall write about Christine and I courting. I shall write about how we would cycle the maze of country lanes amongst the rolling fields and orchards of Herefordshire. I do not believe there is a more divine county than that to England’s West! Ah, Herefordshire! A rustic, rural haven full of ancient churches, black and white manor houses, and ruins of castles. The hills! They stretch out into the distance, and in the summer months the patchwork carpet of fields is such a divine splendour.
‘And then I see her. I see her. Your sister, cycling ahead in her polka-dotted dress and stylish sunglasses. Her splendid form laughing, yelling as we compete for who is the fastest down the next winding hill. And what hills! With views to die for; seemingly never ending towards the Welsh valleys in the distance. Welsh valleys that rang with the sounds of ancient poets and singers over the ages and through the mists of time. The mysteries. The mysteries and the histories! From the lives of the orchard pickers, the cider makers, the medieval Ma
rcher Lords, and all forming a hubris, a melee that I shall never truly know, but that I shall always search for with my dear sweetheart, Christine. The happy times in low-ceilinged pubs, the warm ales and chuckles and smiles. The refreshing ciders and cuddles and whiles. Whiling away the time. So happily in love! That was her and I. That is her and I. Christine.’
Maggie then turned to the coffin in which Bollard lay. ‘Goodbye, Terry. Dear brother-in-law, dear friend, and dear husband to my sister.’ She kissed the palm of her hand and placed it briefly on the coffin.
With that, the convener asked the congregation to stand up again while the coffin was moved to be cremated behind the curtains of the chapel.
Outside the chapel, the small group gathered. Gary stood there, feeling self-conscious. He wanted to talk to Maggie. She was talking to Barry and Tim. He caught her eye. She noticed him and excused herself from them to speak to him.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Gary,’ he said awkwardly.
Maggie smiled. ‘So, you’re the young man that he was teaching?’
‘You know about me?’
‘Yes. He mentioned you in a letter he wrote to me a few weeks ago. You’re also mentioned in the Will.’
‘I... I don’t want anything,’ Gary replied.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Maggie. ‘He insisted. You cannot deny a dead man their Will. How did you know Terry?’
‘I... he pretty much saved my life.’
‘Did he?’ she chuckled. ‘Maybe he was a bit like a chivalric knight of old then, after all. That was partly why my sister was so attracted to him – he was such an idealist. I just can’t believe both of them did it in the end. So sad. I blame that bastard of an endowment mortgage salesman. It was such a trap, you see. They didn’t deserve it. They deserved far better.’
