That at least I could understand. ‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry. But there it is. However,’ he dropped his voice confidentially, ‘I could fix you up with something at Cornish China Clays, if you like. They’re always in need of holiday cover. Muriel couldn’t object to that. And you have a chemistry A level, don’t you, so they’re bound to be able to make good use of you.’
It was surprising in its way, even flattering, that Lashley was willing to go to such lengths to help me. Laying off one student worker wasn’t a big deal, after all. But apparently he really did like me. ‘Well … that’s kind. I …’
‘Call Ted Hammett at CCC Monday afternoon. I’ll have spoken to him by then. He’ll fit you in.’
I shrugged. ‘Thanks.’
‘I could be doing you a bigger favour than you think. CCC is going places. I intend to make sure of that.’
On my way home, I passed the Capitol, where people were going in for the 7.45 showing of Thoroughly Modern Millie, the very showing Vivien and I had arranged to go to. Vivien’s world had been knocked off its axis since then – and mine with it. What the future held for us I couldn’t have begun to guess.
It promised to be a miserable weekend. And the reality lived up to the promise. I mooched around on Saturday and in the evening went to a party I’d intended to cut, hoping, of course, to have fixed something up with Vivien. I soon wished I’d stayed at home. I left early.
I went for a long and exhausting walk down the coast to Mevagissey on Sunday. Holidaymakers were out in the sun. Well, bully for them. I was well on the way to convincing myself I’d never again be capable of such a simple thing.
When I finally arrived home late that afternoon, I vaguely registered the gleaming condition of the car as evidence that Dad had given it its weekly wash. This further proof that the banal routines of everyday life went on being observed without regard to individual tragedies only deepened my depression.
Dad was oblivious to this and seemed determined to twist the knife by actually describing the cleaning of the car to me.
‘The turtle wax gives it a really nice sheen, doesn’t it?’ he asked, to which I couldn’t summon a response. ‘I vacuumed the interior out as well, you know.’
I managed a glum nod at that.
‘Came across this in the glove compartment. Know anything about it?’
I belatedly realized he was holding something in his hand: a smooth, creamy white, roughly hexagonal stone – or rather, I saw as I looked closer, a pentagon and hexagon superimposed, fused together, as it were. It was several inches across and I knew at once what it was: a feldspar phenocryst – a fine example of a pig’s egg. And I also knew how it had found its way into the glove compartment of the car. I knew that with utter certainty.
I told Dad I’d got the pig’s egg from someone at work and had intended to show it to Oliver, but had forgotten. A direct connection to Oliver might have prompted him to insist I report it to the police and, for some reason I couldn’t properly have explained, I didn’t want to do that. It was clear to me the pig’s egg was some kind of parting gift: my gift, no one else’s.
When I examined it more closely, I noticed that the letter Z had been etched in one corner, too sharply and precisely to be mistaken for any kind of natural marking. There was nothing else unusual about the stone. Typically of Oliver’s communications, it was as intriguing as it was impenetrable.
My first impulse was to tell Vivien about its discovery. But the only person I wanted to confide in was the one person I wasn’t allowed to confide in, at least for the moment. I’d have to wait for her to contact me. And the waiting would be agony.
I rang Ted Hammett at Cornish China Clays on Monday afternoon, as Lashley had advised me to, and was instantly hired to do a few weeks in their research department as some unspecified form of dogsbody. The whole point of working at Wren’s had been that it wasn’t Cornish China Clays, of course, so there was more than a little irony attached to this. But it was only for a few weeks. And they paid ten shillings more than Wren’s.
I started on Wednesday and pushed my luck by immediately requesting Friday afternoon off. There was no objection. It was probably more generally known than I was aware that Oliver Foster had been a friend of mine. And Friday was the day Oliver’s funeral was set to take place at Holy Trinity Church at three o’clock.
I was beginning to wonder if I’d hear from Vivien before then. I didn’t want our next meeting to be at her brother’s funeral, surrounded by friends and relations. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d agreed to give her as much time as she needed. And how much that was I had no way of judging.
The answer was waiting for me in the car park when I left CCC that Wednesday, however. Vivien tooted the horn of her Mini and waved me over.
She was wearing her white safari-suit and looked outwardly every bit as carefree and glamorous as the first day I’d set eyes on her. Only the shadow behind her gaze and the nervous tremor I felt as we exchanged a brief, uncertain kiss suggested otherwise.
‘Can we go somewhere and talk, Jonathan?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I know … you’ve been wanting to talk to me ever since …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry … so sorry I couldn’t …’
‘It’s all right.’ I touched her hand. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think so.’
We headed for Porthpean, the nearest beach to St Austell. On the way Vivien asked me about my first day at CCC. I heard myself faithfully describing the many contrasts with working practices at Wren’s, as if she might really be interested – or as if any of it mattered at all.
There was a shared sense that we couldn’t really communicate until we’d reached Porthpean and walked out on to the beach and faced the cleansing sea air. The evening was cool and grey. There weren’t many people about. We lit cigarettes and wandered out towards the gentle surf.
‘I’m on probation, you know,’ said Vivien. ‘This is my first trip out alone since …’
‘I’m sorry, Vivien. So sorry I didn’t …’
‘You’ve nothing to apologize for. It wasn’t your fault that Oliver … did what he did.’ She sighed. ‘Or that I fell apart.’
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Delicate. Isn’t that what they say? Yes. Delicate. That’s exactly how I feel.’
Several waves slowly broke while I sought the right words in vain.
Then, as if taking pity on me, Vivien said, ‘I think I’ve feared Oliver might kill himself ever since Father died. I tried so hard to stop it happening, but in the end … there was nothing I could do. And confronting my failure was like staring into a pit. A black, bottomless pit. That’s why … if there is a why …’ She shuddered and l longed to put my arm round her. But something held me back. ‘The truth is a painful thing, Jonathan. And the truth about Oliver is this. He wanted there to be some deep, dark secret that would explain what Father did. He wanted there to be people who’d driven him to it that could be exposed and punished. He wanted that so badly that when he realized there was no secret beyond Father’s own depressive temperament he decided to … manufacture one. The information he found in Wren’s records; the missing knapsack; the man following him: all designed to suggest a mystery … where there was actually only a sad, mixed-up boy.’
‘Is that what you really believe?’
She nodded glumly. ‘Yes. I believe it. Don’t you?’
‘I suppose … I have to.’
I told her then about the pig’s egg, news which she received as if it was yet further confirmation of her brother’s elaborate campaign of mystification. ‘I wonder what he intended the Z to signify? The end, perhaps.’
‘You’re assuming he inscribed the Z.’
‘Oh, I think he did, yes.’
‘Would you like … to have it? I could …’
‘No. You keep it, Jonathan. It’ll be something for you to remember him by.’
‘I’m sure I’ll always remember him.’
‘Will you?’ She smiled weakly. ‘That’s nice.’
‘What are you going to do … between now and Cambridge?’
‘I’m going away.’ It was the answer I’d dreaded. The realization had begun to seep into me that we were here to say goodbye. ‘Mother and I are going to Egypt. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids. It’ll be hot and dusty and completely different from everything I know. It’s what I need at the moment. A foreign land.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Saturday.’
‘So soon?’
‘It has to be soon. I can’t stay here. After the funeral … I have to get away.’
Another silence, timed by the sussurous swash of the sea. It deepened around us as we stood there, two figures on a beach, that early evening of late August, when we were young and thought the future was unwritten.
‘I’m sorry, Jonathan,’ Vivien said at last.
‘Me too,’ I murmured.
TEN
OLIVER’S FUNERAL WAS attended by large numbers of people he could barely have known. Greville Lashley gave a eulogy that skirted adroitly round the specifics of his stepson’s death. From my place towards the rear, all I could see of Vivien was the back of her head. I didn’t see much more of her at the gathering afterwards, held in the function room at the White Hart. She knew I was there, of course. But we’d already said all there was to be said. I didn’t linger.
And then she was gone. To Egypt, to Cambridge, to places out of my reach. I soldiered on at Cornish China Clays, where I got a crash course in computing and an insight into just how far behind the times Wren’s had really been. The takeover soon took effect. TO LET signs were up at Wren’s East Hill offices within weeks. Pete Newlove confounded his own pessimism by securing a clerical post at CCC and we had a drink at the General Wolfe to celebrate. He asked what I thought the chances were that I’d end up working at CCC after university. I put them at zero and he bet me five pounds I was wrong. I reckoned my money was safe.
Then I was gone too, to London. I had to return briefly to St Austell after a couple of weeks, though, to appear as a witness at the inquest into Oliver’s death. Vivien had supplied her evidence in writing. ‘Thought it best on medical advice not to have her relive the whole terrible business in court,’ Lashley explained to me over lunch at the White Hart. ‘She’s settling down well at Cambridge. No sense putting that at risk, is there?’ I was in no position to disagree. The verdict – death by misadventure – happily avoided the conclusion that Oliver had emulated his father by taking his own life. All in all, the outcome from his family’s point of view was, as Lashley described it, ‘Satisfactory – really quite satisfactory.’
I wrote to Vivien, reporting how the inquest had gone, wishing her an exciting time at Cambridge and floating the idea of visiting her there, as we’d once discussed I might. I phrased it merely as a possibility. She didn’t have to say yes or no. In the event, she said neither. My letter went unanswered. ‘I have to get away,’ she’d told me that last day at Porthpean. And now I knew for certain I was part of what she had to get away from.
Student life in London brought enough novelties to distract me from the loss of what I’d hoped might blossom between Vivien and me. Resilient, Lashley had called me. And maybe he was right. Or maybe I was just young and eager to expand my world. New friends; new scenes; new experiences: I welcomed them all. The LSE was a hotbed of student activism in those days and finding myself on the fringe of the Grosvenor Square riot was a revelation of just how stultifying my existence in St Austell had been. Other revelations followed. This was 1968, after all. And I was where it was happening.
I went home for Christmas with long hair, a ‘Hey, man’ drawl I cringe to recall and plenty to talk about – but none of it with my parents. I did a couple of weeks as a relief postman and it was on Christmas Eve, after finishing early and downing several pints in the Queen’s Head with my fellow posties, that I encountered Vivien, walking along Fore Street with an irritatingly good-looking young man who was introduced to me as Roger and had public school, not to mention Cambridge, written all over his fine-boned features. Our conversation was brief and on my part muddled. I was too drunk to be taken for sober, but not drunk enough to be unaware how oafish I must have appeared. A light rain was falling, I remember. My breath was misting in the air. A busker was strumming a soggy guitar outside the Midland Bank. The dank grey afternoon was suddenly heavy with unspoken regret. ‘Merry Christmas, Jonathan,’ said Vivien, kissing me on the cheek. And then they moved on, hand in hand, strolling along the street, bound for Nanstrassoe House, I assumed, and tea beside a roaring fire. I watched them go – and bade Vivien a silent farewell.
2010
ELEVEN
DR FAY WHITWORTH WAS a slim, plainly dressed woman in her forties, with short, dark, grey-flecked hair, a calm, patient face, and brown, soothing eyes. Something in her tone and bearing conveyed practicality as well as intelligence – in ample doses.
We met in a chicly minimalist restaurant in Bristol’s tarted-up harbourside district. Intercontinental Kaolins were paying, of course, and I’d been happy to let her choose a more comfortable (and expensive) venue for our discussion than the university canteen. I’d spent many of the long hours of my journey from Augusta struggling to comprehend how and why Greville Lashley had allowed the stand-off with Dr Whitworth to develop and sat down to lunch with her exasperated by the conundrum – and by the need not to appear so.
‘I gather from Mr Beaumont’s PA that you’ve worked for Intercontinental Kaolins and Cornish China Clays before it for more than forty years, Mr Kellaway,’ Dr Whitworth said, as she perused the menu. ‘I’m glad your superior saw the sense of sending someone with experience that goes back so far.’
‘For more than forty years we’d have to count some casual spells as a student,’ I said, downing a mouthful of white wine. ‘But I do have a lot of experience, however you tot it up.’
‘It was implied to me that you’re the corporation’s senior troubleshooter.’
‘I’m not sure there is such a designation.’
‘But if there were, you’d be it?’
I smiled. ‘I’m certainly here to help solve your … research problem.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘It’d be useful if you told me the exact nature of the problem first. Presley – Mr Beaumont – was a little hazy on the particulars.’
‘It’s quite simple, really. I—’ She broke off as the waitress came to take our order. Dr Whitworth plumped for salad and white fish. I opted for something from the less healthy end of the menu.
‘So,’ she resumed, ‘my problem. Well, our problem. I’m bound to say it’s rather confirmed my reservations about becoming involved in commercially contracted work. In the academic world, you see, there’s a … presumption of cooperation … that’s been generally lacking in my dealing with IK, despite the fact that your own former chairman commissioned my study.’
‘The staff you’ve dealt with have been uncooperative?’
‘There’s certainly been some obstructiveness, camouflaged, quite convincingly at times, by smiles and sundry blandishments.’
Sundry blandishments, indeed. The mind boggled. ‘Could you be more specific, doctor?’
‘Please call me Fay. I never persuaded anybody in St Austell to drop the “doctor”. I hope for better from you … Jonathan.’
‘Well, Fay …’ I smiled. ‘Let’s hope you get it.’
She returned the smile. ‘Now, you asked, quite rightly, for specifics. I’m happy to supply them. I made it clear from the outset in accepting Mr Lashley’s offer that I’d only be able to spare a limited amount of time from my university commitments. To make best use of that time I needed to be able to conduct my research in discrete, concentrated packages. I proposed to start in Cornwall and move on to the American side of things later. As matters currently st
and, however, my work in Cornwall is incomplete, suspended, if you like, with no prospect of resumption before I’m provisionally scheduled to visit Georgia.’
‘Have you met Mr Lashley, Fay?’
‘No, no. Discussions were conducted through intermediaries. I gather he’s quite infirm. But is it important whether I’ve met him or not? My clear understanding is that he wants the history of the company to be written and published, preferably while he’s still alive to read it.’
‘An old man in a hurry.’
She looked surprised, if not shocked, by my disrespectful tone. ‘Is that how you see him?’
‘It’s probably how he sees himself. He’s a realist if nothing else.’
‘Well, we can agree he wants me to make progress with the project, yes?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. So, after familiarizing myself with the general history of the china clay industry, I went down to St Austell to amass detailed information on the origins and development of Cornish China Clays. Of course, as you’ll know, that effectively means the origins and development of half a dozen separate companies that eventually became Cornish China Clays through a series of mergers and acquisitions. I was somewhat surprised to discover that Mr Lashley didn’t start his career at CCC, as I’d supposed, but with one of the smaller outfits they took over in the nineteen sixties: Walter Wren and Co.’
‘Why did that surprise you?’
‘Because, speaking as something of a specialist in the field of corporate studies – the reason Mr Lashley hired me, after all – it’s very unusual for the principal of an acquired entity to become the principal of the acquirer.’
‘That didn’t happen overnight.’
‘No. But that it happened at all is remarkable. And not just once. From Wren and Co. to Cornish China Clays. From Cornish China Clays to Intercontinental Kaolins. Of course, I appreciate his ascent to seniority at Intercontinental Kaolins was smoothed by his marriage to Jacqueline Hudson.’ She paused, perhaps hoping I’d make some unguarded comment on Lashley’s highly advantageous second marriage. When it became obvious I wasn’t going to, she went on. ‘No such factor applies to his rise within CCC, however.’
Fault Line - Retail Page 10
