The Sons of Adam

by Harry Bingham

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The worst was simply this: so far, two years and hundreds of thousands of pounds into the search, no oil had been found.

  Tom somehow managed to maintain his enthusiasm, though each new disappointment was like a personal setback. The two boys stuck to their Persian studies, but when Sir Adam suggested that their lessons be reduced from three a week to just one, neither boy objected. Their geological studies continued for a while, then lapsed when their teacher moved abroad. Sir Adam didn’t seek a new teacher. The children didn’t ask that he did.

  And then it changed.

  One marvellous day, in January 1904, when the two boys were ten years old, a telegram came from Knox D’Arcy in London. ‘GLORIOUS NEWS,’ he cabled, ‘OIL AT LAST.’

  Tom went wild.

  When he saw the telegram, he let out a yelp of excitement so loud that the dogs were set barking as far away as the stable yard. Together with Alan, he set off on a dance of delight that sent him tearing right through the house, right through the grounds, down to his father’s cottage and then back again. Tom’s joyous energy lasted all that day.

  At dinner that night, when Guy happened to admire the new gunroom that Sir Adam had installed, Tom nodded his young head and commented, ‘Yes, Uncle, you’ve done it very well. I shall do it like that in my country house, when I get it.’

  8

  It was Guy who cracked first.

  There was something about Tom’s new-found confidence that he couldn’t stand. The enmity that simmered between the two of them crackled and spat with renewed energy. Boiling point arrived one weekend in early February, when the house was full of guests – including the pretty young daughter of an earl, whom eighteen-year-old Guy was sweet on.

  ‘Fetch my horse, stable boy!’ said Guy, passing Tom in the hallway and casually reaching out to flick his ear.

  Tom stopped dead.

  ‘Your horse?’

  ‘You heard me, stable boy. I feel like riding today.’

  Tom’s face whitened. The seven-year age gap between the two of them had never held Tom back from a physical confrontation when necessary. He looked Guy up and down, from boots to head and back again. His gaze seemed to assess Guy truthfully for the very first time. Then he dropped his gaze. He shrugged and said, ‘If you like. I don’t mind. I’m going that way anyway.’ He sauntered off.

  Guy couldn’t quite believe that Tom was going to do as he’d asked, but didn’t mind waiting to see. A group of house guests emerged from the drawing room and Guy strolled with them to the front of the house. Guy, in riding costume, stood and chatted. The earl’s daughter was there and Guy (slightly plump still, but charming and handsome enough to make up) stood swishing his whip and trying to impress her. She laughed a lot and blushed slightly when she caught his eye.

  Then Tom arrived.

  He had complied with Guy’s request to the letter – or very nearly. He had gone to the stable yard and saddled a mount. He led the animal in question by its bridle to the spot that Guy had indicated.

  But it wasn’t Guy’s grey mare he led. It was the donkey Guy had learned to ride on, a dozen years before. Guy’s saddle and stirrups drooped ridiculously low off the donkey’s back. The animal was old now and nodded its head ludicrously as it walked, as though deliberately setting out to provoke laughter. Tom himself walked with the exaggerated dignity of an expensive manservant. He had even, absurdly, found a pair of white gloves from somewhere and an old footman’s cap.

  ‘Your horse, sir.’

  The assembled house guests laughed and clapped at the spectacle. It seemed like a harmless comic turn, deserving its applause. But Tom hadn’t finished. He brought the horse close to Guy and his girl, before addressing the girl in a confidential whisper.

  ‘Excuse the donkey, ma’am. He learned to ride on one, you know. Poor chap’s just a little bit yellow.’

  Guy was white with anger, but with an audience all around him he was forced to act as though he didn’t care. He laughed and clapped with the rest of them, before taking the donkey and heading back with it to the stables. After hanging around to milk the congratulations, Tom hurried off to join him.

  ‘I’ll kill you for this, you little brat,’ said Guy, without turning round to look.

  ‘Like you killed my mother, you mean?’ said Tom, who had long ago heard the story of his birth in the various versions that flew around the servants’ hall.

  They had arrived at the stable yard. A couple of stable lads sniggered discreetly as they watched. Guy stopped. He flicked his whip at the stables and the big house beyond.

  ‘None of this is yours, you know. Not now. Not ever. Got that, garden boy?’

  For a short while, that had appeared to be that, but Guy hadn’t forgiven, hadn’t forgotten.

  Four days later, Guy was alone with Sir Adam in the billiard room. Sir Adam had just had news from Knox D’Arcy. The oil well in Persia was yielding just a hundred and twenty barrels a day, but there was great expectation of enlarging the strike to something far more lucrative. D’Arcy was already hopeful of finding City investors to share the risks and profits.

  ‘Must have increased the value of our own little bit of concession,’ remarked Guy.

  ‘Yes, I should suppose it has. I suppose once they’ve discovered even a little bit of oil, it makes it all the more likely that there’s more to be found.’

  Guy, who was a decent billiards player, threw the three balls softly on to the table and began to knock them around with a cue. Sir Adam watched the game, but hardly played any more these days and was happy to drink his brandy and watch his son.

  ‘What will you do with the concession?’ asked Guy. ‘I suppose if you were going to sell, now would be the time.’

  Sir Adam looked up in surprise. ‘Why, that’s hardly a fair question! It’s not really mine to sell. Little Tommy absolutely treasures the thing.’

  Guy let out a small puff of laughter as he took his shot. The three balls, trapped on the same bit of baize, clattered round and round against each other. Guy straightened again and chalked his cue.

  ‘Little Tommy might absolutely treasure one of your paintings, Papa, but if it made commercial sense to sell it, then I dare say you would.’

  ‘I dare say, but the concession belongs to Tommy.’

  ‘Legally, Father? I’m surprised.’

  ‘No, no, no. Of course not legally. Morally. I told him he could have it.’

  ‘Did you? Really? As I recall, you told him it was a fine patch of land. That’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Guy! I meant he could have it. He knew I meant it. The boy’s besotted with the damn thing.’ Sir Adam spoke sharply. Guy was his elder son and heir, but there were times when his behaviour wasn’t all it should have been. There were times when Sir Adam didn’t entirely like his own son.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Guy, ‘but, with respect, you’re missing the point. You gave him the land because you were certain it was worthless. If you had been sure it had been worth something, you wouldn’t have dreamed of conceding it like that.’

  Sir Adam frowned, waving his brandy glass as though to brush his son’s point aside.

  ‘Well? Would you?’ Guy insisted.

  ‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t. But that’s hardly –’

  ‘Father, may I be blunt?’

  ‘It would seem you’re more than capable of it.’

  ‘The concession is yours. Legally yours. You let an eight-year-old boy dream about managing it because he clearly wanted to dream and you saw no reason why not. But now, against all probability, the concession may actually have a value. Suppose, sir, a syndicate of investors in London were prepared to pay something for the blasted thing. A hundred thousand pounds, let us say. What then? That would dwarf any settlement you’re able to make for Alan. I don’t think of myself in this matter, but it’s hard to avoid noticing that it would look like a very fine thing if your elder son and heir had bare
ly greater expectations than the boy you rescued from the kitchen garden.’ Guy struck the balls savagely round the table. Again and again, the cue ball slammed the red into the pockets. The red disappeared with an abrupt clack of ivory against wood. ‘I think you have been very generous to young Tommy, Father. I’m not sure you’re holding Alan sufficiently in your thoughts.’

  9

  From that point on, events ran a hideously predictable course.

  Sir Adam, unable to put Guy’s comments out of mind, decided to write in confidence to his London stockbroker, asking him – discreetly – to try to gauge whether there was any value in the Persian concession. Sir Adam told Guy that he had done as much. Guy let a few days pass, then told Tom.

  Angrier than he’d ever been in his life, Tom flew to Sir Adam.

  ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Tommy! Hello there!’

  ‘What’s this about the concession?’

  Sir Adam liked and admired Tom. The boy had pluck, doggedness, flair and passion. But, in moments of fury, he could also be rude, even violently rude. Sir Adam frowned.

  ‘What’s what?’ Sir Adam’s voice should have sent a warning, but Tom was unstoppable.

  ‘What are you doing with my concession?’

  ‘It’s not your concession, Tom. It’s in my name as your guardian.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What makes you think I’m doing anything at all?’

  ‘Guy.’

  Sir Adam answered slowly, trying to keep his calm. He nodded. ‘At Guy’s suggestion, which was a good one, I am taking steps to discover if the concession has marketable value. It may well do, seeing as D’Arcy seems on the verge of a major discovery in a region not so very far from our own patch.’

  ‘My patch. My concession.’

  Then Sir Adam got angry. Tom’s impertinence was too much.

  ‘It is not your concession, Tom, nor is anything else for that matter, unless and until I damned well give it to you.’

  ‘You did give it. You said.’

  ‘I said it was a fine patch of land and I hoped you’d have fun dreaming about it. The idea that it might come to be yours – might one day come to be yours – arose when I believed the property in question to be without value.’

  Tom almost staggered backwards. He crashed back against a mahogany sideboard.

  ‘You gave it to me because you thought it was worth nothing?’ Tom half laughed to himself. ‘And you’ve taken it back, at Guy’s suggestion?’ He blinked and looked down at the sideboard, where there stood a vase and, next to it, a framed photograph of the family: Sir Adam, Pamela, Guy, Tom, Alan. ‘Thank you, Uncle. I understand.’

  He nodded once as though confirming something to himself, then swept his hand along the sideboard, knocking the photo to the floor. Almost by accident, he also caught the vase and toppled that too. The blue and white china shattered with a hollow boom and littered the floor with its wreckage.

  Tom stared briefly and unemotionally at the mess, before walking quickly out of the room.

  10

  Alan paused at the door to the seed shed.

  The building was invisible from the big house and the nearest gardeners were over the far side of the kitchen garden. Alan watched them go about their business, until he was sure that none of them was watching. Then he quickly slipped the catch and entered.

  The wooden-built shed was about twenty-five feet long by only eight wide, with a line of windows running down the south side. Now, with winter ending, the workbenches were crammed with trays of compost, ready for the March sowing. The shed had a warm smell of earth and wood and growth and sunlight. A couple of mice scuttled away as Alan closed the door. Apart from the mice, there was total silence inside the shed. Once again, Alan checked he hadn’t been seen, then he raised his arms to one of the roof joists and swung himself up.

  The roof space was narrow and only two and a half foot high at its highest. Boards lay loosely along the joists. Apart from some cobwebs and some rusty old garden tools, there was nothing up there. Nothing except Tom.

  Alan squirmed forwards to join his twin.

  ‘Hello,’ said Tom.

  Alan produced a paper packet containing bread, ham and cheese. ‘I’ve got apples in my pocket,’ he said.

  Tom took the gift in silence. His eye asked a question of Alan and, without needing any further explanation, Alan answered it.

  ‘There’s an awful fuss,’ he said. ‘They’re looking for you everywhere. Everyone’s sure you’ve gone to your dad’s house. He’s saying not, of course, but I made them think so by pretending to try to get in there when I thought no one was watching. Only they were. I made sure.’

  Tom nodded. Alan had done well. It hadn’t needed any secret signal to let Alan know his whereabouts. The two boys had maybe half a dozen favourite hiding places round the house and grounds. Alan had, by instinct, come first to the one where his twin lay hidden.

  ‘I won’t, you know,’ said Tom. ‘Not until …’

  ‘Yes, but he’s in an awful stew.’

  The two boys’ conversation was always like this: all but incomprehensible to an outsider. Tom meant that he wouldn’t return to Whitcombe House until Sir Adam made the concession over to him properly and for good. Alan doubted that that would happen.

  Tom looked at the other and grimaced. ‘I’ll be stuck here for ever then.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘And what about the Donkey?’ Tom made a braying noise and pretended to jump on Alan. They laughed a second time, but Alan was uncomfortable as he answered.

  ‘Guy got a terrific dressing-down. Father said he’d been told in confidence. Guy said he thought you already knew. I don’t know if Father believed him.’

  ‘He always does.’

  ‘Probably.’

  They slipped into silence for a while.

  ‘What’ll you do?’ asked Alan eventually.

  ‘Oh, I s’pose I’ll stay here for a day or two.’ Tom waved his hand airily round the tiny loft, as though it were an apartment he often rented for the summer.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It is my concession, you know.’ Tom rolled onto his elbow and looked directly at his twin.

  Alan nodded.

  ‘But it is.’

  ‘I know. I said yes, didn’t I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I nodded. That’s the same.’

  ‘’Tisn’t.’

  ‘’Tis.’

  ‘Then say it. Go on then. Say it’s mine.’

  ‘Look, Father probably will give it in the end. It’s just Guy got him into a stew about it.’

  ‘There! See? You said he’ll give it in the end. He can’t do that, he’s already given it.’

  ‘Not with the legal bit as well,’ objected Alan. ‘I meant with the legal bit. I mean, I know it’s yours.’

  Tom stared hard at the other, little spots of red appearing high on his cheeks. Then he rolled away, staring out of the tiny cobwebbed pane of glass that was his only window.

  ‘Then I s’pose I’ll have to go to Dad’s place. I’m old enough now.’

  Tom didn’t spell out what he meant, but he didn’t have to. Alan understood. Tom meant that he’d go and live permanently with his father, away from Whitcombe House, away from Alan. The only thing that would stop him would be if Sir Adam backed down and made definite and permanent his gift of the concession.

  Alan swallowed. He pretended to be calm, and began poking at the cobwebs with a bit of twig, while kicking his feet against the low roof just above. But he wasn’t calm. Tom was threatening to leave. Tom was implying that a quarrel over property was more important than the two boys’ friendship. He scooped up a bit of cobweb that had an insect caught in it: trapped and dying.

  ‘Look.’

  ‘So?’

  Alan shrugged and scraped the insect off.

  ‘You know that vase?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Apparently it was worth tons of money. About a
thousand guineas, I should think. It didn’t help.’

  ‘So what? He shouldn’t have –’

  ‘You could say sorry.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Just to get him to calm down a bit. I only mean to make him calm down.’

  ‘You think I ought to say sorry?’

  ‘Look, he’s probably not going to sell the concession. He probably knows it’s yours really.’

  ‘Probably? D’you think you’re probably going to get your stupid farm or whatever? Do you think the Donkey is probably going to get everything else?’ Tom’s blood-spots had vanished now, leaving his face pale, and there was extraordinary intensity in his long-lashed blue eyes. As Tom looked at things, every time he challenged Alan to take sides, Alan tried to be nice but ended up taking his family’s cause. Even now, this late in the conversation, Alan hadn’t even said directly that the concession was Tom’s.

  ‘Anyway,’ cried Alan, ‘what does it matter? If I get the stupid old farm, then you can have half of it. You don’t think I wouldn’t share? Who cares about the stupid concession?’

  It was a disastrous thing to say.

  Tom stared for a full ten seconds at his twin, then looked away. He put the paper packet of food in his pocket, wriggled backwards to the gap in the boards, then swung the lower half of his body down. With his head still poking through into the roof space, he said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to my dad’s now. I don’t care if they see me. They can’t stop me, can they? Bye.’

  And he was gone.

  Away from the seed shed, away from the big house, away from the family that had brought him up.

  11

  For twenty-four hours: stand-off.

  In Tom’s eyes, Alan had said the worst thing he could have possibly said. ‘Who cares about the stupid concession?’ As far as Tom was concerned, Alan might as well have said, ‘Who cares if you’re a proper part of the Montague family or not?’

  At the same time, as far as Alan was concerned, Tom had also committed the worst crime imaginable. As Alan saw it, Tom had placed a trivial argument about money and land over the best thing in the entire world: their friendship, their twinhood.