Past Caring - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  I had not seen Elizabeth since that terrible day of my rejection by her in June 1910. I saw, as she crossed the road, that the years had not changed her. She was still the same elegant figure, clad now in a black, fur-trimmed coat and hood, a proud young woman showing her son a small part of the world. They took a curving path that ran away from where I was seated and then circled round above me. They did not glance at an obscure figure on a bench. Why should they?

  When they had reached the curve of the path remotest from me, I left the bench and hurried up the sloping ground behind it to a line of trees flanking the route that Elizabeth was bound to take. There I waited, leaning against one of the trees. I lit a cigarette to sooth my nerves, realizing that my heart was not pounding merely because men with suspect legs and lungs should not run up slopes in winter.

  Elizabeth’s fingers were playing some game with the occupant of the perambulator as she came towards me. Then she looked up at me and I at her, at an unchangingly beautiful face so often in my mind during 8½ years apart. For all that I was a greyer, grimmer man than when last we had met, she knew me at once and did not put her recognition into words. The shocked silence was stiller than the air between us.

  “You never used to smoke,” she said at last, in a voice as pale as her face.

  “Many things have changed,” I replied, walking across to the perambulator and glancing in. A wide-eyed baby stared unblinkingly up at me. I was mesmerized for the moment by his innocent gaze, knowing that, in different circumstances, he – or someone very like him – could have been my own. Then I noticed Elizabeth’s grip tighten on the handle.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Harry.”

  I felt oddly cheated by the calmness of our exchanges, as if raging recrimination would have been preferable to icy indifference. I was ill-prepared to find that we were neither friends nor foes but strangers. I sought to repel the notion. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  “Gerald told me what happened yesterday. I feared you would not be content until you had seen me, though I can’t think what you hope to gain by it.”

  “The truth.”

  “You already know it – that you cruelly deceived me and went some way towards ruining my life.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “In time, I recovered from the blow – with Gerald’s help – and made a new life as his wife and Harry’s mother. I wish you no ill, but I ask you, as I asked you once before, to leave me – to leave us – alone. Is it too much to ask?”

  “Until you tell me the truth, yes.”

  “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

  “You can. All you have to do is tell me how I deceived you.”

  Elizabeth’s face reddened and she made to move off, but I placed a restraining hand on the hood of the perambulator. I tried a plea. “Elizabeth, please – in God’s name.”

  She looked at me then with loathing in her eyes. Anger or distress I had expected, but not this clear message that I was held beneath contempt. It disarmed me, made me want to walk away and not prolong the agony. But I knew the agony could not truly be ended until we had the matter out.

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “Say what you have to say and have done.”

  “I love you, Elizabeth. I have done since we first met – you know that. I risked everything for you – I never expected to lose it as well as you. I have never deceived you in any way. I came to Putney the day I resigned from the Home Office without the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong. I was greeted like … like a criminal – a criminal who was not to be told his crime. That’s how I still feel. It’s too much to bear. Will you please just tell me what my offence was?”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Not quite. Have you any idea how it felt to read in the newspaper that you had married Gerald Couchman? Why him – of all people?”

  “Don’t try to belittle Gerald in my eyes. You won’t succeed and it only increases my disgust at the way you’ve behaved.”

  “Elizabeth, I’ve lost you and I’ve lost my career because of some ghastly misunderstanding which I’ve never been given the opportunity to put right.”

  “There’s no misunderstanding.”

  “I beseech you. Think it possible you may be mistaken.”

  It was odd that, at that moment, I should choose Cromwell’s words to frame my last appeal. Yet it was a desperate bid and I sensed that it was the last gasp. The words came to my lips as the one possible way of planting a seed of doubt in the set, opposed mind that now confronted mine. And, for an instant, there was a flicker of her eyes, a cast to her face that spoke of some cloud across her stern resolve. Then I tried to capitalize on whatever slight inroad I had made in a manner I should have known was ill-conceived.

  “Has Gerald told you about his conduct at the Battle of Colenso?”

  Elizabeth looked at me then almost with pity. “Do you think that can compare?” she said softly. “Gerald may not be a perfect man, but he is a good and honest one. Colenso was one of the first things he told me about. It doesn’t matter now – how could you think it would? There’s trust between us – not deceit. Now let me go.”

  My grasp dropped from the perambulator and Elizabeth set off past me down the path. I stood at a loss, appalled by the futility of our exchange. Her words echoed in my mind – “Do you think that can compare?” – and stung me to cry after her.

  “Can’t compare with what?”

  She looked back at me. “Leave us alone, Edwin. I’ve nothing more to say to you. I can forgive you, if that’s what you want, but never forget. Go in peace and leave us in peace.”

  She turned then and walked on and I did not follow. I sensed the finality of her words, that I would never see her again, would never know and therefore never have the peace she wished me. The elegant figure in black receding down the path merged with others on the Heath that day, left forever my shrinking world without a backward glance. And I stood helpless, watching her go, drained of purpose, bereft of hope. Remember this, I thought: fix in your mind this day in January, when you looked your last upon your love, merging now in the distance with the gathering dusk that rose with swift and clammy stealth from the city below.

  I remained in my hotel room on Sunday, deciding that other guests should be spared my company when in such a black mood. I paced the floor, stared out of the window, smoked more than was good for me and exchanged a couple of words with the maid who brought meals to my door.

  This solitary confinement was an attempt to sweat out my feverish obsession with Elizabeth. To that extent, it succeeded. Our encounter on Hampstead Heath had told me that I could never hope to win her back. After that, my desire to know the reason was in danger of becoming morbid. Therefore, by Monday, I had resolved to make a clean break. It was Twelfth Night, the eighth anniversary of my brother’s death, and hence no time to leave my mother to gloomy nostalgia at Barrowteign. I decided to return to Devon straightaway to be with her.

  And so I would have done, but for a message awaiting me in the hotel lobby. It was a sealed envelope delivered by courier. I tore it open in a hurry, wishing to be off as soon as possible. I was astonished to discover that it was a personal note from the Prime Minister asking me to call on him that day. What could Lloyd George want? Even my new resolve to leave well alone could not resist such a lure.

  I was at Downing Street within the hour, finding it odd to enter number 10 under new tenancy. And new it undoubtedly was. Gone was the calm of Asquith’s day. Instead, clerks and secretaries hurried hither and thither along passages stacked with files and packing cases. My escort, Miss Stevenson, explained that most of the staff were off to Paris within the week to attend upon Lloyd George during the Peace Conference. I expressed surprise that, in that case, he had time to see me.

  “He was anxious to fit you in before going,” she said brightly.

  “I’m flattered,” I replied drily.

  “The
re should always be time for old colleagues, shouldn’t there?”

  I agreed, keeping to myself my thought that though there should be, Lloyd George was not the man to find it without good reason.

  He received me in his study, a secretary bustling out as I went in. Miss Stevenson introduced me, then also left. Alone, Lloyd George eyed me a little warily and I him. Time and success had changed him, no question – the mane of hair now grey, the face more lined – but he doubtless observed that time and failure had done me few favours either. He rose from his chair to shake my hand.

  “Sit down, Edwin, sit down,” he said, drawing up a chair for me. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Many years.”

  “And many things have changed in those years. You probably know about most of my changes. But what have you been up to?”

  “The war occupied most of my time.”

  “It would, it would. What sort of a war did you have?”

  “Better than most – I’m still alive.”

  “I’m glad of that. Too many aren’t, God knows. If only … well, it’s over now. We have to look to the future, don’t we?”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Not if you’ve a purpose. We’re off to Paris at the end of the week – lock, stock and barrel – and I mean to see that this peace ensures nobody has to go through another war like the one we’ve just fought.”

  “Fine sentiments. I wish you luck.”

  Lloyd George’s look shifted to the blotter in front of him; his tone altered. “Winston told me about your meeting last Thursday. He told me you didn’t seem happy.”

  “An understatement.”

  “Or healthy.”

  “An exaggeration. I’m better placed than a lot of ex-soldiers who don’t have my means. I’ve a limp and a dicey lung, but I’ll survive.”

  “English winters and London fogs won’t help your lung.”

  “Probably not, but I don’t intend to visit London often.”

  “Perhaps a warmer climate would help.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If so, I’ve an offer that might interest you. Our consulate on Madeira is vacant at present. I have you in mind for the post.”

  “I don’t think …”

  He held up his hand in smiling protest. “Don’t be so quick to say no. It’s a lovely island, I’m told, famed for its beneficial effects in pulmonary cases. And it’s not a complete sinecure. The situation in Portugal is chaotic and could spread to its overseas territories at any time. There’s a substantial British community in Madeira and we obviously want to look after them. Able, reliable men are hard to come by for assignments like this one. If it aids your health and gives you somewhere to exercise your talents, so much the better.”

  I hesitated to respond. I took his word for the state of Portuguese politics and the Madeiran climate, being ignorant of both. The oddity was that he was not. Since I did not for one moment suppose that the British population of a remote Atlantic island were as close to his heart as he claimed, I could only conclude that this post was tailored to fit me. Lloyd George, in other words, wanted me to go. Whether this was simply because Churchill had painted a pathetic picture of me and Lloyd George was eager to help an old friend I doubted. The alternative, that my enquiries were an embarrassment to both of them and that they therefore wanted rid of me, fitted everything I had so far learned – or rather, had failed to learn. But what was I to do about such suspicions? The only object of pursuing them was to reclaim Elizabeth and that I now knew to be beyond me. As for politics, I was beyond recall. Men do not come back from the obscurity into which I had plunged.

  So, whatever the reasons, Lloyd George had offered me a comfortable niche to rest and recuperate in, forget my past and indulge myself in colonial comforts. Two days before, I would have flung the offer back in his face, voiced my suspicion that his motives were the worst, demanded an explanation. And the offer would have been withdrawn, my suspicion rejected, explanation denied me. I could no longer afford such a gesture. I felt old and tired, in need of a rest yet wanting a change. Madeira seemed to provide both. So I was tempted to accept. My head told me that it was the only thing to do now my heart was no longer in the struggle.

  Yet it was a big step, as much metaphorically as actually, and my political instincts told me not to commit myself at once. Besides, though I had no wish to antagonize Lloyd George, I had no wish to flatter him with some fawning acceptance. So I prevaricated.

  “It’s a big step – yet I can see its attractions. I’d need to think about it.”

  “There’s really not very much time, Edwin. I have to know before we leave for Paris.”

  “That’s only reasonable. I could let you know by the end of the week.”

  “Very well. I’ll hold it open until then.”

  “It’s kind of you to have thought of me.”

  “With all the work I have to do here, you’re lucky I didn’t take the job myself.”

  I laughed, though he had not amused me. I knew, and he knew I knew, that the Premiership was what he had always wanted. Paris was to be his bow on the international stage. Asquith was not jettisoned to win the war but to win Downing Street for Lloyd George. From a man reputed to sell honours to the highest bidder, unconditional offers of congenial employment were inherently suspect.

  Miss Stevenson came in then to remind Lloyd George that he had an appointment with the Chancellor of the Exchequer at eleven o’clock. I took the opportunity to withdraw, leaving them stooped together over their papers. I walked out of 10 Downing Street for the last time, passing at the door Bonar Law, the Chancellor, coming in – a stern, predatory figure, whose haste alone could not explain the cold lack of recognition that greeted my smile. I who once had sat in conference with him stood now excluded from his vision.

  This thought dogged me as I made my way to Paddington and caught the train to Exeter. I sat alone in a compartment, watching the wintry landscape pass, seeking to come to terms with my own insignificance. I was no longer a minister, no longer an M.P., no longer a soldier. There seemed nothing left but a decent repose in sub-tropical obscurity.

  My mind was more or less made up before I reached Barrowteign, though I did not tell my mother so. She was delighted to see me back, especially to brighten such a sombre anniversary, so I delayed telling her about Madeira until the following day. Even then, the medical argument won her over, for she was likely to miss me less than she would worry about me if I remained, coughing my days away, at home.

  And so it was agreed. On Wednesday morning, I telephoned Downing Street to accept. The same day that the Prime Minister and his entourage set off for Paris, I received a formal offer from the Foreign Office and accepted by return. My mother reconciled herself to my departure by looking forward to holidays on Madeira with her son the Consul, whilst Ambrose occupied his days before the start of term at Marlborough in poring over atlases and encyclopaedias, rendering himself better informed about Madeira than its Consul Designate.

  At the end of January, my mother accompanied me to Southampton to see me off on the ship to Lisbon. I was sorry to leave her but glad, in another way, to be going. This was the clean break I had promised myself. As the ship slipped out of the grey Solent that cold afternoon, I bade farewell to my past as well as my home. Elizabeth had been right: to leave well alone and seek a peaceful future was all that remained to me.

  It was, of course, exactly what Lloyd George had said it was not: a sinecure. Aside from dealing with some slight unpleasantness when a group of dissidents exiled from the mainland seized control (or thought they had) in 1931, His Majesty’s Consul on Madeira had few duties and those he did have were far from taxing.

  Madeira, I soon discovered, was a Portuguese possession in formal respects but a British colony in many others. There was a governor and a garrison in Funchal, the capital, with whom I had to ensure good relations and a substantial Portuguese population about whom I could be largely indifferent. More significan
t from my point of view was the sizeable British presence on the island. Some had come for the climate (as, in a sense, had I), others had come with the oceanic cable-laying companies and never left. One family – the Blandys – dominated the production of Madeira’s eponymous liquor. Others were either in the staple crops of the island – bananas, sugar cane and, of course, grapes – or simply in retirement. They lived in varying degrees of luxury in sun-blessed quintas scattered along the balmy south-eastern coast of the island and passed their days drinking tea at Reid’s Hotel or imbibing gin at the Country Club in Funchal – both virtually British institutions – while discoursing upon the ills of Madeira and the greater ills of the old country.

  As Consul, all I had to do was look after their few administrative requirements – which was easy – and tolerate their assorted prejudices at a range of social functions – which was not. The compensations for this were several – an aivy, agreeable official residence set in the hills overlooking Funchal and the harbour, an efficient secretary to discharge most of my duties at the Consulate for me and time aplenty on an island in the sun to rest and relax. I made friends among the enlightened element of the expatriate community, a few more – after I had mastered the language – among the Portuguese population and grew to know the island well by my extensive forays on foot into the hinterland: a lush, luxuriant plot, sewn by nature, reaped by man. As one of its beneficiaries, I grew to love it.

  Which is not to say that I became happy. Time to wander the Paúl da Serra – the plateau in the centre of the island that reminded me of Dartmoor – was also time for reflection. My bafflement and sadness were submerged by life on Madeira, but not drowned. Whenever I touched bottom, they were waiting for me.