by Peter Rimmer
From the kitchen, Adelaide heard the banging of the front door knocker. The battery of the doorbell had long ago ceased to work and as nobody called at the manor anymore she had left the dead battery in its socket. Outside it was snowing hard and dusk had fallen. Again the old, brass knocker, stiff with age, was methodically crashing against the old oak door, sending a hollow memory of sound through the hall, down the long stone passage to the kitchen. She knew Red was somewhere in the house but unlikely to answer the door, trapped as he was in the mind of his past. With Josephine, she waited for the noise to go away. Neither of them had heard a car and the old manor house was far from the beaten track.
Back in the cosy room, Byron heard the distant echo from the big front door. He had watched the snow collect on the terrace, now layered in white. The dusk and the snow had taken away the great oak and the trees beyond, bringing his world down to the half room and the small fire. Shivering, as if someone had walked over his grave, he drew the heavy curtains over the cold windows and walked back to the folding room divider. Striding down the passage to the hall, he was in time to hear the fourth series of crashes. The front door had a Yale lock and old-fashioned bolts that were never drawn. Opening the Yale lock, he put it on the catch and gripped the big brass centre handle with both hands and pulled back the old door. Under cover of the silent porch stood a snow-covered figure in overcoat and hat. The hall light showed nothing of a car behind the man, who had the brim of his hat pulled down against the snow. Byron felt the stab of fear and pulled back to slam the door.
“Did I give you a fright, Byron?”
“What are you doing here? Aren’t you meant to be in America?”
Will Langton walked past his brother and pushed shut the front door and released the catch on the lock he had helped to install as a young man.
“It’s bloody cold… Thought you never left London these days. How’s Mum and Dad?”
“Mother’s all right. Father’s off his rocker… Josephine’s here.”
“Maybe the pull of family does work after all. There’s going to be two feet of snow out there in the morning. You remember that winter of ’47? Reminds me of the same thing. Have we still got the toboggans? What happened to the doorbell? That bloody knocker could wake the dead.”
“Probably the battery. Mother’s in the kitchen with Jo making tea. No staff. Place is like a pigsty.”
“Caught a taxi from the station,” said Will, looking around. Then he walked to the closet of the hall and took off his heavy overcoat, shook off the snow and hung it with his hat on the stand in front of the big mirror. “Living in Europe makes you as white as the snow. I never like looking at myself in the mirror. Why are you here, Byron? What do you want this time?”
“You have a nasty mind. You should have married Shelley instead of letting her run off with Laurie. You never were any good at holding on to things. So are you going to America?”
“I’ve just come back, actually.”
“Quite the jet-setter with all my money. Some people have all the luck.”
“You really are a big shit. How the hell do you live with yourself? What Shelley saw in you is one of the mysteries of my life.”
“Power, little brother… Look who’s here,” he called as they reached the stone-floored kitchen. “My jet-setting younger brother. Just flew in from America.”
“Find another teacup for me, Josephine. Will, what are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
“The doorbell doesn’t work.”
“I know, the battery’s flat. Give your old mother a kiss and we’ll take the tea into the cosy room. Byron, did you put some more coal on the fire?”
“No, Mother.”
“Then go and do it. Didn’t you know it’s snowing outside? My goodness, now what are we going to do for supper?”
“You said the roast beef,” said Josephine.
“Did I? Yes, I did. Good. That’s settled… All my children at Langton Manor. It’s like a little miracle. Would you like some buttered toast, Will? You look very pale. We don’t have any biscuits anymore.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Somewhere. I’m afraid he thinks he’s back in the air force but he does have his good days. Your father’s had a very difficult life. Will, you can bring the tea tray? Now, come along. We’ll make believe this is Christmas with the whole family together again. Josephine, go and phone Randolph and tell him to bring Anna over for dinner.”
“Byron brought down a case of red wine in the boot of his car,” said Josephine.
“At least he does some things right,” said Will, picking up the tea tray.
“Now I don’t want you children quarrelling,” said Adelaide. “It’s Christmas, remember… We had some lovely Christmases all those years ago. Whatever happened to the time? I can’t even imagine myself as a young girl anymore. Everything was so much better before the war. You’d better go and phone Randolph before Anna starts cooking supper. After tea, you boys will go into the dining room and light both the fires. Josephine can help dust the big table and put the hoover over the carpet. We don’t have time to clean the family silver but that can’t be helped. I cook the beef an extra hour when it’s frozen. I have some frozen Brussels sprouts and peas from the garden and the potatoes were put down in deep soil at the side of the woodshed. Byron, you’ll need lots of that wood. You’d better go and find your father again. If he’s still back in the war, tell him there’s no flying tonight because of the snow and the CO has declared a dining-in night for all officers. Seven for seven-thirty… We’ll need sherry glasses but as we don’t have any sherry, we can use a bottle of Byron’s wine.”
“I’ll ask Randolph for the sherry,” said Josephine.
“Better tell him to bring the port for the toast to the King,” said Byron.
“Are you being sarcastic?” asked his mother.
“Not this time, Mother. Not this time. We’ll put the lack of five courses down to wartime shortages. Excuse me, I’ll go and find him.”
The room stayed silent, except for the crackling fire. The folding partition snapped shut, and they heard the morning room door open and shut.
“Byron was crying,” said Will. “I’ve never seen him cry before. Not even as kids.”
“Byron was very close to your father,” said their mother. “He likes to portray a lack of all human feeling but it’s an act like so many of us. I often wonder if life is just one big act from start to finish.”
At six-thirty, Will opened the big front door to his elder brother’s knock. Outside it was still snowing hard and everything picked up by the shaft of light through the front door was white. The gravel had disappeared.
“Everybody together, now that is a surprise,” said Randolph, drawing his wife into the old house. “I found two bottles of sherry and one bottle of port.” The door closed behind him and Anna shivered in the cold.
“How are you, Will?” she asked as the men shook hands.
“Fine thank you. You know where to hang your coats,” replied Will. “The cosy room is warm and two fires are blazing in the dining room. Byron’s told Dad it’s a dining-in night.”
“Is he bad?” asked Randolph.
“Thinks he’s back in the war. Wanted to know if it’s number one dress with miniatures.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Mother says at least he will come down and eat properly. She hates the thought of him sitting in his room without a fire. Byron’s going to send in some servants to look after them. Funny how it turns. For years your parents look after you and then overnight it’s the other way. Granda was dependant on Mother and Father at the end of his life.”
“That is what families are meant to be all about,” said Anna. “Who wants to be looked after by an impersonal state when you can no longer look after yourself? It’s part of the whole reason for having children. In this new day and age, children abuse their parents and then tell the state to look after them. I want to know what happens when the state collapse
s under the burden of looking after everyone else’s mother and father. Society will self-destruct. Nothing ever lasts when you rely on other people. Socialism has destroyed the reason for family by creating this so-called welfare state. They may think it looks after the body but it can never look after the soul. It’s as cold as charity.”
“Better not tell that to Josephine,” said Will. “Mother has made us promise we won’t fight tonight.”
“Aren’t you meant to be in America?” said Randolph.
“I was, but I came back again.” Will opened the door for them into the morning room where the temperature had begun to rise. When he opened the sliding door, a big log fire greeted them. On the right of the fire stood a six-legged table covered by a silver tray. Cut crystal glasses stood on the unpolished tray and Randolph put down the sherry bottles next to the glasses.
“Where should I put the bottle of port? Behind the curtain? We need a decanter.”
“Byron brought a whole case of French red wine,” said his mother, accepting the kiss on her cheek.
“That is something. Where are Jo and Byron?”
“In the kitchen.”
“And Dad?”
“Seven for seven-thirty,” said his mother. “It’s only just gone half-past six. We can’t even pour a glass of sherry until seven o’clock. Anna, my dear, come and sit by the fire. You look pasty.”
“I am. I don’t think the English ever grow used to their weather. It’s going to snow all night.”
“Tomorrow,” said Will, “Byron and I are going tobogganing. Want to join us, Randolph?”
“Of course. I took you on your first ride.”
“It was Dad.”
“Maybe, but I rather think it was me.”
At five minutes past seven the folding door was pulled back from the wall and Red Langton joined his family in the warmth of the cosy room. The forty-year-old monkey jacket fitted remarkably well as with the advancing years and lack of proper meals, Red Langton was free of fat. If anything the sleeves were too long, as if his arms had shrunk. The smooth barathea cloth of the dress uniform was faded to a light blue and at one corner moths had made a hole. The pilot’s wings on the breast pocket were faded white and the campaign ribbons were indistinguishable from the ribbons of the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Force Cross. The small star in the centre of the DFC, which indicated the medal of bravery in action had been won twice, shone where the worn metal showed through the Bakelite coating. The row of miniature medals hung from just under the double line of ribbons. Instead of patent leather shoes, the group captain wore bedroom slippers but the bow tie was as straight as the pilot’s wings. The four thick rings of the rank of group captain stood out clearly.
“Now where’s the CO?”
The silence pervaded as their father glared round the room. No one spoke. “Never mind. I’ll take a glass of sherry.” With the glass in one hand and the other behind his back he warmed himself at the fire. After a minute of silence, he took a sip from his glass of sherry. Having assumed the position of senior officer of the night he was not required to talk. Chit-chat with junior officers was frowned upon at formal gatherings.
“Carry on,” he said and dipped his head a second time into his sherry. As mess president for the night, he expected to be ignored.
Will Langton was not sure whether to yell or cry until he saw there was nothing any of them could do to bring reality back. The charade continued through three glasses of sherry and their removal to the dining room at exactly seven-thirty led by the mess president. Will was junior officer and designated mess vice-president by his father for the evening requiring, him to propose the toast to the King with the port, decanted by Josephine before the meal into a cut crystal decanter. The group captain then told them they could smoke, his first words of the evening. Five minutes after the royal toast, the group captain said good night to no one in particular, scraped back his chair and left the room.
When the dining room door had closed and the footfalls had faded into the old house, Adelaide smiled at her children. “At least your father had a proper meal. Reminds me of the subterfuge I used with you children when you wouldn’t eat your vegetables.”
“Will he be all right?” asked Anna.
“Only God will know,” said Adelaide, “and I’m not even sure of that anymore. Let’s go back to the cosy room and enjoy some more of Byron’s generous supply of wine. He was a good husband and a good father to all of you and that is how he must be remembered. Just help me take the debris into the kitchen and then we’ll enjoy the wine and each other. I have the premonition this will be the last time we will all be together, except in each other’s thoughts. You see, life just moves on, that’s all. There’s nothing we can do about it. You have your own lives to live. Most of mine has gone. Happiness for me so often is looking back on the happy parts of our lives together and tonight we are all going to be happy.”
At a little after eleven o’clock, Adelaide left her children in the cosy room and went up to her lonely bedroom to try to find some sleep. Her life was over. The rest was merely a question of waiting.
The red wine played its final magic and sent her off to sleep where she dreamed she was young again with all the excitement of life’s expectant future. Outside the window, the soft white snow fell and fell on the old house.
Downstairs the fire was stoked and Byron pulled the cork from the fourth bottle of red wine. They were all quite tight and liberated from the aura of a ghostly war, none of them fully understanding the end of their parents’ lives.
“Randolph, you and Anna best stay the night,” said Byron, filling up their glasses. “I have a mind to sleep in Dad’s armchair in front of the fire. This is the only warm room in the house. Now, young Will, you’d better tell us why you came back from America in such a hurry.”
“Give me another glass of wine,” said Will, holding out his glass. “You’re right. I’m going to sleep here too and pretend it’s a campfire… You’ve been to New York, Byron? Well, Melvin Raath and his daughter, Mary-Lou, decided to show me the town my second night in America. The day was cold, but the sun was shining and after a good lunch in some restaurant, Melvin hired a horse and buggy and off we went round Central Park for me to look at America. Over lunch they had offered me a ten per cent free ride in a chain of restaurants he was going to finance and she and I were going to run, all of them to be called ‘Zambezi Bar and Restaurant’. The first three to be owned and the rest on franchise. This franchising is a big thing in the States. You prove an idea that makes money and sell the concept and expertise to as many entrepreneurs as you can find and everyone seems to get rich.”
“What about all the money I just gave you?” interrupted Byron. “You could have done the deal without this Melvin Raath.”
“He was American, and I thought I needed an American partner. I never told them about my new money. They still think I’m practically broke. Anyway, a few yards down the road, he stops the driver and gets us a six-pack of beer and off we go again. Round about four it was getting so damn cold as all those tall buildings put us in shadow, so he paid off the driver and we went into this bar. Looked like any other bar to me and pretty empty but warm. Feeling guilty I hadn’t put my hand in my pocket, I ordered three more beers. Then Melvin sees this Negro down the end of the bar and walks out with his daughter, leaving me with three beers to pay for and no time to drink. Being a new boy in New York I didn’t want to stay in a strange bar and when I went outside, they were waiting for me on the pavement.
“‘What was that about?’ I asked Melvin.
“‘Don’t drink with niggers,’ was all he said, which wasn’t true as he often drank with the trackers when Hannes Potgieter was alive. So I came home.”
“You can’t judge a country by one person,” said Josephine, holding out her glass to Byron for a refill.
“No, I couldn’t. But this one was going to be my partner. They’ve got some problems in America we don’t even know about in A
frica.”
“But we are not in Africa,” said Byron. “We are snowed in in England.”
“I’m going back,” said Will. “That money you gave me, Byron, was seeded with elephant ivory and crocodile skins. I’m going to return it. I’m going to join Hilary on the mission outside Mongu.”
“They won’t let you into Zambia,” said Byron.
“They will with one and a half million pounds.”
Will woke the next morning and swore never again to drink red wine. He was stiff, cold and his mouth felt like the bottom of a well-used birdcage. The fire had gone out and without double glazing on the windows the cold had come back into the room with a vengeance. Josephine was pulling back the big curtains and outside the windows, snow was thick on the trees, weighing down the evergreens. Randolph was snoring deep in sleep on the sofa and Anna, his wife, was out of the room. Byron was looking at Will across the cold fireplace.
“I love red wine but red wine hates me,” Will said for something to say. The look had made him feel uncomfortable.
“Join the club… What was the other reason?”
“What other reason?”
“For leaving America so fast… You’re the camping man. Better make up the fire. You’ll need to go and fetch some kindling… I don’t believe one poor man in a bar could turn you around like that.”
“Have you waited all night to ask me that?”
“I’m always curious why people change their minds. All the previous thought and effort is just a waste of time… We would have been better to find a cold bed with lots of blankets.”
“I was rather drunk. You make the best you can… She had eyes like gimlets.”
“Who?” asked Byron.
