by Vicary, Tim
Do I want that for my son?
Of course not. No father could. If the boy grows up like me in this he will be condemned to secretive, snatched, hidden affairs, often with different men, usually brief and guilty, enlivened only by the thrill of lust and the horrible, appalling danger of discovery and instant utter ruin. Little tenderness, love, security — where is the room for that, in all the fear, suspicion, danger?
And an impotent marriage, too. I am lucky to have a son at all. Deborah was right, I suppose. I have been cold to her since I came back from Egypt and it must be hurtful to her and impossible to understand. Even if it is repugnant to me it is my duty to give her the chance to have a family. To give myself another son.
Only . . . I wanted to be faithful to Simon.
For once in his adult life, after so many years of rigid celibacy and occasional secret snatched encounters with strangers, Charles had believed that in Simon Fletcher he had found someone to love. A boy who was not only beautiful and discreet, but who could return tenderness and trust and love, whom he could have by his side constantly, and not be afraid of losing.
There is no fool like an old fool, Charles told himself.
I am nearly forty years old, there is grey hair in my moustache and my forehead is higher than it was because my hair is receding. I am still fit enough but my body is leathery and hard and scarred in places by sabres. In cold weather I limp because of the knee that was crushed when the polo pony fell on me. There is no beauty in me for the boy to admire, only my power for him to cling on to.
As the Lancia swept into the drive at Glenfee Charles thought, what would I do if Tom found out about me and Simon?
Would I sit down and explain it to him like a father, as I talked about cricket this afternoon?
Or take out my revolver and shoot myself in the head?
Simon Fletcher was furious.
All his life people had been taking advantage of him. Usually they succeeded at first; always they failed in the end. He knew all about blackmail; he had used it half a dozen times against men who had deserted him. The power of blackmail gave him a thrill which warmed him all along his spine. It was an addiction he loved. But he had never dreamed that it would be used against himself.
What was infuriating about it was the sense of helplessness. The sense that he was about to lose control of his own life; to become a doll, a puppet in another man's game. To do something that meant nothing to him, and a great deal to that German, Werner von Weichsaker.
As Simon cycled back to Glenfee along the quiet country lanes, the expression on the German's face, and the curious ugliness of his crippled hand, obsessed him. He remembered the malicious confidence of the man; the way Werner had enjoyed teasing him by raising his voice, summoning him back when he wanted to leave. That was only the beginning. If I do what he wants now, it will only get worse. There will be more demands, more hoops to jump through.
I won't do it.
He's threatening Charles as well as me. No one else has a right to do that. He's my lover. I should protect him.
I will.
Loyalty was a new emotion for Simon. It made him feel virtuous, almost saintlike. He cycled in through the gates of Glenfee in a glow of good feeling. He was less sure how practical it was.
He saw the chauffeur polishing the Lancia in the carriage shed where it was housed, and deduced that Charles must have recently arrived home.
What shall I do? Tell Charles? No — no point; it would just make him miserable. I'll deal with the Kraut myself, somehow or other. For now I'll just go in to Charles and be pleasant to him.
The letter had arrived late in the day. Charles sat in the library, reading it. It was brief and disappointing.
Belgrave Square
29 April 1914
My dear Charles,
I was pleased and touched to receive your letter this morning. With all the difficulty and danger of landing so many guns it must have been hard for you to find time to write, but I am relieved to learn that you are safe and that it went well. Let us hope that the increased strength of your soldiers will not lead to war, but to a decent, negotiated peace.
I had an uneventful journey over and Jonathan is well. Neither he nor I have been able to see Sarah yet and may not for a month, but I live in hope. I will write more later. In haste,
Your wife,
Deborah
It was unusually short for her letters, and said nothing, really. Charles read it twice, frowned, and flung it dejectedly into the fire. She had taken three days even to write this much. Perhaps he had no right to expect more from her, but he had tried, in his own last letter, to apologise for his coldness. He remembered the words and the thought they had cost him. You will forgive me if I seemed a trifle abrupt at our last meeting. You and I are going through choppy waters at the moment but so long as we keep our chins up we shall not go under! Surely that was clear and decent enough — what more could any man have said? Women were supposed to be the experts in matters of the heart and keeping a marriage going, but she hadn't even bothered to reply to that part of his letter. Can't blame a chap for trying.
‘Good evening. Mind if I join you?’
Charles looked up. Simon had come into the room. It was his day off, so he wore civilian clothes — white shirt, blazer, grey flannels. As always, he looked slim, lithe, graceful. Not in any way effete — Charles would not have been attracted to that — but a fit young man who had been gifted with unusual physical perfection.
He walked to the mantelpiece and stood there, lighting a cigarette. Charles sat back in his chair, surveying him. The last scrap of Deborah's letter turned to ash in the fire by Simon's leg.
When the cigarette was alight and Charles had still not spoken, Simon said: ‘Well? Did you have a good day?’
‘Extremely pleasant, thank you. I drove over to see my son.’
‘Ah.’ A little twinge of jealousy crawled like a gnat on Simon's skin. He smiled and brushed it away. ‘And is he well? It's the cricket season, isn't it?’
‘Yes, indeed. He's in the team. I saw them play.’ Charles would have liked to go on, to describe the scene, but not . . . not to Simon. It would have besmirched the memory, somehow, and anyway he had the sense that Simon's interest in the game would be feigned. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I just went into town. Mooched about.’
‘See any unusual activity by the army or police?’
‘No.’ Simon smiled. ‘We've got them on the run, haven't we?’
‘I hope so. We'll see next week, I expect. When Carson cornes over.’
Don't remind me of that, Simon thought. But the subject had a certain fascination, after all. ‘Why then?’
‘Well, if they were going to make any kind of stand, that'd be the time, wouldn't it? Try to prevent the man from parading front of his own armed troops, don't you see? If I were Asquith I'd have Carson arrested before he left London. But I doubt the man's got the guts.’
‘Probably not.’ Simon exhaled slowly, thoughtfully. ‘What’s Carson's itinerary, exactly?’
‘He arrives at Lame first, then on to the Old Town Hall, Belfast, and after that Craigavon. He'll spend one night there, and after that he's due to spend Sunday with a friend of his - Ferris - just outside Dundonald. He gives another speech in Bangor on Monday night and leaves next morning from Belfast.’
‘Oh. So he'll come near us then?’
‘Too true he will. I've been given the job of picking him up Sunday morning at Craigavon and guaranteeing his security for the rest of the day. I've been on to Ferris already and warned Sergeant Cullen to detail half a dozen of his best lads. We’ll need two cars, besides our own — I was going to put you on to that in the morning.’
‘I see,’ Simon said softly. ‘A big responsibility.’
‘Indeed. A great honour for our boys, as well. He must have liked what he saw of them when he was over a fortnight ago.’
‘Yes.’ Simon thought: I'll tell him now. But if I do, Wer
ner will write that article, and we'll both be ruined. Wait, until I've worked out how to deal with Werner.
He smiled at Charles and said: ‘You look tired.’
‘No.’ Charles said after a pause. ‘A little sad, only.’
‘Sad? Why is that?’ Simon strolled over from the mantelpiece and perched on the arm of a chair a few feet from Charles. He dared not come closer. It was a rule they almost always observed, never to touch where there was the slightest risk of discovery by servants or others. Simon had a room at his disposal in the East Wing of Glenfee, where he was sleeping tonight, but only two or three times had they dared to come together there. Mostly they met in Simon's old lodgings, which he had kept on in Belfast; once in a hotel in Donaghadee. It was a furtive, secret, terrifying business.
Charles said: ‘Because I have made a decision which pains me.’
Simon laughed. ‘You sound very solemn for so late at night. Was it so hard, then, with your son at the school?’
‘No. Not at all, it was very pleasant.’ Charles looked away from Simon, into the fire; then made up his mind and faced the boy calmly. ‘Simon, you are much younger than me; you don't know what it is to have a son. Perhaps I haven't known all these years, as well as I should have, but something brought it home to me today. It's a responsibility. I can't do just as I wish because every action of mine has an effect on Tom as well as on myself. I suppose all this sounds obvious to you, but I have not felt it so strongly before.’
‘Not obvious,’ Simon said coolly. ‘But very solemn. What are you trying to say?’
Charles took a deep breath. ‘I am trying to say, Simon, what I have perhaps hinted once or twice before. That . . . it is not sensible for me to carry on a relationship with you as I have done. And I mean it this time, Simon! Please hear me out!’
His voice rose sharply as Simon stood up and strode to the mantelpiece. He flung his cigarette into the fire and stood with his back to Charles, but Charles went on nonetheless.
‘It is not good for me because I cannot be a decent father if I have such a relationship — and I risk losing everything my son has any right to expect, for just a few minutes' stolen pleasure. And it is not good for you Simon, either, if the truth be told.’
‘Not good for me? Oh, wonderful — how do you work that out?’
‘Because . . . you build hopes on me that can never be fulfilled. We cannot have any sort of life together, Simon, you must realise that. And also, I am pleased to say, you are turning into quite a decent soldier. I have seen that in the past few weeks. You are efficient, you have the gift of good organisation, you are always smart, well turned out and are learning to shoot like a veteran. You are enthusiastic, too — no one can say any of your duties have been neglected or skimped. You have a great future . . .’
‘And this is a reason to cast me out?’ Simon turned suddenly and stared at Charles incredulously. So pompously he sits in that chair, like a judge or my old headmaster. What right does he think he has?
‘Yes, of course. Listen for a moment, and think. This is painful for me too, Simon, truly. You are young enough to make a success of your life, and you can do it as a soldier in the UVF. Later, when all this is over and the government has backed down as I believe it will, you could go on into the regular army or whatever other field you chose. With my recommendation you would get a good start, go far.’
‘You would do that to get rid of me?’
‘No. Simon, listen — and for God's sake don't raise your voice. What I am saying is that discovery would be ruin for you just as much as for me. And sooner or later, my boy, believe you me — we will be found out. Then all your young life will ruined, and mine too, and Tom's. It is not worth it — the world is not made for people like us. Until I met you I had not . . . been with another young man for years. I thought I never would again. Celibacy is the best way, Simon, for both of us. If the Catholic priests can do it, my boy, surely we can.’
Charles sat quite still in his chair, not getting up, not daring to come close to Simon and embrace him as part of him longed to.
‘And all this came to you as the result of a visit to your son?’
It was not said kindly; Simon had a bitter, sarcastic edge to his tongue. It was a sign, Charles thought, of immaturity; not the part of the boy's character he was trying to appeal to.
‘That was what brought it on, yes. But it is the fruition of something I have been thinking for some time, now. You know we have discussed this before.’
‘Yes. Do you remember what I told you?’
‘That you could go to another man? Yes, I remember. Of course I would hope you would not do that. Simon. But it is your life, you are free to choose.’
‘And you wouldn't care?’ I came here to show him my loyalty, Simon thought, and then he does this to me. His fists clenched at his sides, as though he wanted to leap on Charles and hit him. But that was not Simon's way, he had not the skill of it. There were better ways by far to gain revenge.
‘Of course I would care, Simon. Think for a moment what I've said, what I've offered you. I've been a soldier a long time now, seen a lot of young men. People in high places would respect my judgement if I put it on paper — they'd give you a chance. That's how I care. Not for what we do together, which is an obsession, a danger to both of us. But for everything else about you — for your future.’
‘So long as I stay clear of your son?’
Charles sighed. ‘You don't have to stay clear of him, Simon. I don't think you're a monster — I care for you. I just want you to . . . stay clear of me, if you want to put it like that. As I shall of you.’ His voice hardened slightly. He had been a commanding officer for many years: he realised it was time to bring the interview to a close, to give Simon time to reflect on it before he said anything unfortunate, as he so easily might.
‘You are still a valuable member of the UVF, and I shall expect to see you around me carrying out orders in the coming weeks as efficiently as before. You are my ADC, so it will be convenient for you to keep your room in this house for the time being. But that is all there must be between us from now on. I know it is hard, but I want you to reflect on what I have said. In a week or two, when you have done so, I shall ask you about it again, and we shall see if we can devise a plan for your future where my connections can be of most use to you. Until then, that is all, so goodnight.’
Simon's face was aflame with anger. But below that was the knowledge that he had been in this position many times before, and that revenge was never obtained at once. Only later, with planning and detail and much deeper, fuller satisfaction.
But he had come here full of good intentions, caring for this man. Revenge would be easy but he had meant to try to avoid it. He made one final effort.
‘So that's all, is it? You think you can end it just like that, before we run the risk of any scandal? Charles, there is something very important I have to tell you . . .’
‘I don't want to hear it! Not tonight, not tomorrow, not for at least a week until you have had time to reflect and cool down. It's for your own good.’
‘But Charles . . .’
‘You don't call me that here. That is all, Simon. Goodnight. You are dismissed!’
Simon stared, his mouth half open, about to speak. If he hears about Werner that will change his mind surely, he thought desperately. It will bring us together to fight the very danger he fears.
He doesn't deserve to hear.
Abruptly, Simon turned on his heel and strode for the door.
All love ends like this, he thought. Ever since my father I have known it. Attraction, lust, pleasure, rejection, betrayal. And then, always, the bitter-sweetness of revenge.
He strode away down the corridor, his mind full of images of Charles, and Tom, and the key he had turned in the front door of the house where he had found his father in bed with a woman. His father, whom he had loved more than any man before or since.
The flames of that burning house flickered in his eyes.
The train reached Liverpool at five in the morning, but the passengers were allowed to stay in the sleeping compartments until eight if they chose. Deborah had time to send a telegram to Charles at Glenfee, and then she and Sarah embarked on the ferry in time for breakfast. They found a quiet table in the corner of the first-class dining room, and sat eating boiled eggs and muffins as tugs whistled and hooted on the Mersey and the great grey Liver building slipped by outside the porthole.
‘I don't think he suspects us,’ Deborah said nervously, as she watched the waiter crossing the floor towards them with a fresh pot of tea.
‘Of course he doesn't. Relax,’ Sarah smiled at the man as he gave them the tea, and ordered two more muffins. ‘Anyway, the man's Italian. What would he know? Look here.’
She passed across a copy of the Daily Mail, which she had bought from the purser's office as they came on board. Deborah read:
FEMALE HOUDINI VANISHES
SET THEM ALL FREE, SAY PANKHURSTS
No clues have so far emerged as to the whereabouts of Mrs Sarah Becket, the militant suffragette who escaped from Holloway prison two days ago. Theories as to how she escaped vary. 'It is possible she was provided with a skeleton key and a disguise,' a police source said. 'But she may also have climbed a ladder over the wall, or even escaped in a laundry basket. We are keeping an open mind.'
Meanwhile the WSPU have been proclaiming the escape as a triumph. Miss Christabel Pankhurst, speaking in Paris, said: 'This brilliant escape shows that it is impossible to cage either the body or the spirit of a free, independent woman. I call upon the government yet again, in the name of decency and justice, to release all female political prisoners today, and give women the vote.'
The Liberal MP, Mr Jonathan Becket, said that he knew nothing of his wife's whereabouts, but claimed he would be seeking assurances from his friend the Home Secretary that his wife had been humanely treated while she was in prison.
‘Humanely treated!’ Deborah said. ‘He knows you were force fed!’
