The Sons of Adam

by Harry Bingham

  ‘Exactly –’ Alan felt a violent jerk of emotion at hearing Tom’s name spoken in that context – ‘and Major Montague, as he was then, is my brother. Now what I want to know is whether you saw anything … anything unusual involving the two of them.’

  ‘Maybe I did, sir, that would depend on what you was meaning.’

  ‘Hemplethwaite, I understand that there may have been an argument. There may have been a shot fired. I want to stress that this is not a court-martial affair. Anything you say to me will go no further.’

  Hemplethwaite nodded, turning Alan’s words over to see if he could find any threat in them to himself. He couldn’t. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, it was like this. The Hun was chucking stuff at us that day. I was bringing my Lewis gun up to the line, because George Davis, the poor sod who was there before me, got a bit of shell casing right up his arse – excuse me, sir, but that was where it was, two inches sticking out, four inches sticking in – and he hopped around so much his gun got all bunged up with dirt. Then there was a couple of other lads, Jones and Carragher, I think – it’s been a while, sir, so I couldn’t say for definite, like – shovelling out the trench. Regent Street they were calling it, I think, though it was a Jerry trench really. Anyway, they were shovelling it out, where a whizz-bang had knocked the banks in –’

  ‘Yes?’ Alan knew he should try to get the narrative in Hemplethwaite’s own words, since he was much more likely to get the truth that way, but he could barely suppress his impatience. At the same time, he was grateful for Hemplethwaite’s apparently perfect memory and stream-of-consciousness recall.

  ‘Well, sir, anyway, as I was saying, your brother it would be, Major Montague, was coming running down the trench. The phone lines had been all smashed to buggery, sir, if you pardon the expression, and the runners kept on being shot that day. Bloody barrage, that’s why the trench got into such a state. Anyway, top brass would have been all in a stew. That was why the major was up there, most likely.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know.’

  A train came in beside them, with a hiss of steam and a whine of brakes, followed by the clatter of doors and people. Alan wanted to move somewhere quieter, but Hemplethwaite stood as though rooted to the spot.

  ‘Exactly, sir, that’s right,’ he said, ignoring the train. ‘Well, your brother, he just about runs into Mr Creeley. I didn’t recognise the lieutenant, myself, but Johnny Jones knew Creeley from way back, a right good ’un, he used to say, extra bloody shame about raid, if you ask me – it was always the good ’uns that went, sir, no disrespect – and he said it was definitely Creeley, swear to God and everything. They have a bloody great row. Your brother and Creeley, I mean. I don’t know what about. There was shells still coming down. And I’d got the bloody Lewis gun caught in the revetting, sir, fucking great nail sticking out, remember it like yesterday, thinking I was going to get a whizz-bang down my backside before I’d got the bleeding gun unstuck.

  ‘Anyway, there’s me trying to free up the Lewis gun, but partly watching to see if there’s going to be a bit of a dust-up, when, bugger me – pardon me, sir – Creeley whips his gun out and shoots old Major Montague – that’d be your brother, sir, I’m afraid – bang, right in the leg. Looked to me like he wanted to stick the bullet some other place altogether.’ Hemplethwaite tapped the centre of his forehead. ‘That was it. Creeley went scarpering off up to the front and Montague came hollering down screaming blue bloody murder …’

  Hemplethwaite finished the story in his own inimitable style. Alan heard him out in a state of increasing shock. He’d seek out John Jones, of course, but he was already certain that the man would simply confirm the basic outline of Hemplethwaite’s account. Tom had shot Guy. In cold blood and without provocation. Guy hadn’t put his hand to Tom. He hadn’t even touched his gun, still less drawn it.

  On the train home that evening, Alan thought about Tom Creeley-Calloway, the twin with whom he had once shared his life. The man who now cared so little about his former attachments that he could live fifteen years in the United States and not bother, not once, to send Alan a message saying he was alive and well. The man who was willing to shoot his twin’s brother. The man whose darkness had outshone his light.

  Alan felt infinitely sad. He felt as though an ancient friendship had dissolved. In its place, there was nothing but loss.

  139

  The summerhouse had no chairs, only carpets and cushions. The Shah, the King of Persia, was sprawled over two dozen cushions of silk and silk-velvet, massively embroidered and glinting with jewels. The cushions left for Tom were ample enough, but he didn’t dare stretch out, and he didn’t have the knack of sitting in a way that was either comfortable or dignified. The Shah looked arrogantly at Tom, saw his discomfort, and didn’t care a straw. He was a big man, strong and military, and fully half a head or even a head taller than most of the men in his entourage.

  ‘Calloway?’ said the Shah. An interpreter by his side, pointlessly repeated the name.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Norgaard Petroleum?’ The Shah spoke the unfamiliar syllables with an accent so thick Tom hardly recognised them.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  The Shah grunted and sipped on the iced sherbet that he had and Tom didn’t. Despite his arrogant manner, the Shah had been an ordinary officer in the Persian Cossack Brigade. He’d risen to become colonel, and then, in 1921, led a troop of three thousand men into Tehran. He’d arrested some politicians, appointed his own prime minister and, after a decent delay, had himself crowned Shah of Persia, the oldest monarchy in the world. He was tough, uncompromising and decisive. In another life, Tom thought, he could have been a decent oilman.

  ‘Well?’ The Shah was blunt. ‘What do you want?’

  Tom had heard much about oriental codes of politeness. If you want to tell your adversary that he is the stinking son of an ox-driving dungheap and that you fully intend to cut his tongue out if he doesn’t repay you the two kran and one abassi he owes you – then naturally you have to begin by honouring his ancestors and praising his hospitality. And if you’ve come to flatter a king, then heaven help you …

  ‘Your Majesty, we in America have heard so much about the beauties of your kingdom and the richness of your land, particularly oil, that …’ Tom’s fine sentence sputtered to a premature close. He wiped his forehead, feeling uncomfortable. His old Persian lessons lay packed away in the back of his brain someplace. He couldn’t find them. Alan had always been the natural linguist, anyway. Tom was just a tongue-tied, English-speaking, all-American oilman.

  The Shah grunted again and looked impatient.

  Tom tried again: the American version this time. ‘Your Majesty, we would love to be able to drill for oil here. We think there’s lots more to be found. We’d drill it fast. Pipe it fast. Sell it fast. We’d make a huge contribution to your treasury.’

  ‘We have sold the concession.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You know this.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘To Anglo-Persian and the other one. Alanto.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘So why have you come?’

  Tom watched for a sign that the Shah would contemplate breaking an agreement. There was no such sign. A mountain breeze fluttered the corner of the tent. Tom saw a glimmer of silks and a woman’s foot. He longed to be out of the tent. He longed to see the woman’s face, to smile at her, to begin a flirtation. Here in modernising Persia, women went unveiled. Men wore fedoras above their robes. A surge of recklessness seized hold of him.

  ‘Your Majesty, Alanto Oil isn’t paying you enough. They’re robbing you blind – playing you for a patsy, as you might say. You’ve got some fine oil lands here, sir, and at Norgaard Petroleum we’d pay you a full price to drill ’em.’

  There was some difficulty over translating this speech. ‘Robbing blind’ and ‘play for a patsy’ were terms that Tom needed to put into more conventional Englis
h before the interpreters could get a grip on what he meant. The Shah looked as black as thunder as his interpreters stumbled.

  Then they were done. There was a moment’s silence. The mountain stream burbled down its marble channels through the summerhouse and on into the garden beyond. Tom didn’t know if he was going to be thrashed for his impudence or thanked for his honesty. Somewhere there was the laughter of women, quickly cut short. Birds called in the mountains beyond.

  Then, eventually, the silence was broken. The Shah spoke again. The speech was short and didn’t need much translation. It was two words long.

  ‘How much?’

  140

  It was gone midnight by the time Alan arrived home. He’d been met off the train from Manchester by Ferguson, the chauffeur, at half-past nine, but Alan had been unable to face going straight home. He’d gone first to his club, then just driven the streets. It was long gone midnight by the time Ferguson dropped him at his front door.

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night, Ferguson. Sorry to keep you so late.’

  ‘Not to mind, sir. Good night.’

  Alan took out his house key and turned to the door. Ferguson was back in the driver’s seat, and was putting the big car into gear, about to move off. Alan had a sudden thought and hurried back to the Rolls. He rapped on the window.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Listen, Ferguson, you don’t by any chance know how to make cocoa, do you?’

  ‘Cocoa, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Montague loves the stuff and I haven’t a clue how to make it. It’s just I don’t want to wake the kitchen staff.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. I’d be happy to …’

  A few moments later, they were downstairs. Alan was hopelessly unfamiliar with his own kitchen. He didn’t know where the milk was kept, or the cocoa, or coal for the range. Ferguson found each item in turn and set a pan of milk to heat.

  ‘The trick is not to let it boil, sir. And stirring. It goes lumpy unless you stir it.’

  ‘You’re very domestic, Ferguson. I’m ashamed of myself.’

  ‘Does Mrs Montague take sugar, sir?’

  ‘Um … I’ve no idea. Is it usual?’

  ‘I’ll put some in a bowl. She can add it if she likes it. You’ll have a cup too, I expect, sir?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alan found a tray and put it out on the table: his one contribution so far. The milk came close to boiling, Ferguson whipped it from the heat and made the cocoa. Alan thanked him again, saw him to the door, where they wished each other good night for a final time. Alan went upstairs bearing his tray. Lottie was sleeping, stretched out, holding Alan’s pillow in her arms as though dreaming about the real thing. Alan woke her gently.

  ‘My love, it’s me. Sorry to wake you. I’ve brought cocoa.’

  Lottie blinked – once, twice – rubbed her eyes – yawned – and sat up.

  ‘Well, of course it’s you. If you’re sorry about waking me, then why do it? And I wasn’t missing cocoa.’

  ‘I wanted to talk.’

  ‘My dear, you are very welcome to talk. It’s the listening part I have an objection to.’

  Alan kissed Lottie into something like compliance and settled the cocoa into her hands.

  ‘You didn’t wake up the kitchen staff, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. Ferguson made it for me.’

  ‘Good old Ferguson.’

  ‘Yes … Listen, my love, I’ve got news.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Big news.’

  ‘I just said yes. Should I say it again?’

  ‘Two things, actually. First thing. I’ve found Tom. I don’t mean our son Tom, I mean Tom Creeley. My twin, Tom.’

  Lottie took the news in slowly as though still needing to distinguish carefully between dream and reality. Then, with gathering amazement, she said, ‘Darling, you mean you’ve found Tom Creeley? Alive? Here? Where … ?’

  ‘I haven’t found-found him. But I know his name. I know when he arrived in America. I have a firm of detectives who are sure to find him if I ask them to.’

  ‘If you ask them to? If?’

  ‘Which brings me to my second piece of news.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Alan paused. He suddenly didn’t know how to say what he had to say.

  ‘Yes?’ repeated Lottie.

  ‘Um … well, this sounds extraordinary. But true. Apparently true … The fact of the matter is that Tom shot Guy.’

  By this time, Lottie was wide-eyed and wide-awake. ‘Tom shot Guy?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Shot him? Shot Guy? Just now? When? I thought you said –’

  ‘No, no. Not now. In the war.’ Alan took a deep breath and began. ‘Tom and I had quarrelled. It wasn’t the first quarrel of our lives, not by any means, but it was the worst. It was easily the worst. Guy had prompted the quarrel quite deliberately. He sent me to where he knew Tom was in bed with my girl – the girl I thought was mine, I hadn’t realised she was … she was common property.’

  Alan swallowed. He’d never mentioned this detail of his pre-marital life to Lottie before, but she simply shrugged. ‘It was war,’ she commented.

  ‘Yes … Anyway, Tom would have been angry. Furious. It appears that he met Guy in the trenches during the Somme. He argued with him, then shot him. In the leg. Here.’ Alan indicated the spot on his own thigh.

  ‘So Guy says?’ said Lottie, gently suggesting that the truth might be a little different.

  ‘Yes, so Guy says, but he has witnesses, dammit. I interviewed one of them today. He wasn’t acting, I’d stake my life on it. There’s another man I need to see, but he’ll confirm Guy’s story, I’m absolutely certain.’

  ‘But, darling, Tom is supposed to have shot Guy?’ Lottie’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘Yes. You must understand that Tom had a tendency to be …’ Alan struggled to find the right word, ‘to be overimpulsive.’

  ‘Which is a polite way of saying that he could lose his head completely.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, he’d never ended up shooting anyone before … although …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, there was another time.’

  ‘Another time? This isn’t sounding good.’

  ‘Earlier in the war Tom stole a motorbike and drove to Arras to threaten Guy with a revolver. He thought Guy was plotting to have the pair of us split up. He was probably right.’

  Lottie’s eyes were wide with astonishment, though she was careful over what she said. ‘Twice? Once he threatened Guy, the other time he put a bullet into him?’

  Alan nodded.

  ‘Guy was a senior officer, presumably, when it happened?’

  Alan nodded again.

  ‘And there were witnesses?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Lottie mildly. She knew as well as Alan what Tom’s offence would have meant at court martial.

  ‘Yes, “gosh” is about right.’

  Lottie spooned the skin off her cocoa and began to drink. ‘Ferguson makes excellent cocoa,’ she commented.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘If I was being fussy, perhaps he could have used a little more cocoa powder. If I was being very fussy.’

  Alan nodded.

  ‘But no lumps. That’s the difficult bit, getting it smooth.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Darling, how do you feel about all this?’ said Lottie at last. ‘You must be in rather a stew.’

  ‘The devil only knows what I think,’ said Alan. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Lottie put down her cocoa. ‘Will you promise to answer my next question honestly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you like Guy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never have?’

  ‘No. Never have.’ Alan sighed. ‘Look, I’m a different sort of person from him. I haven’t ever quite approved of him. But in the end he is my brother. I don’t want just to give up on him.’
>
  ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean that … And Tom? You loved him, of course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still do?’

  ‘Still do.’

  ‘And you approved of him? You said you didn’t approve of Guy.’

  ‘I admired Tom as I’ve almost never admired anyone else. As a matter of fact, I think you may be the only exception, my dearest. Tom was crammed with faults, I knew that. He was maddening, impulsive, foolish, quarrelsome, a devil with women – good Lord, he was no kind of saint. But there was something infinitely noble in him too. I always felt that, deep down, his goodness was a thousand times stronger than his darkness.’

  He sighed deeply, and Lottie finished the thought for him.

  ‘But now you’re worried. You think perhaps Tom is only human, after all – and perhaps not even a particularly good one. He shot Guy in a mere temper tantrum. It was wartime, of course, and emotions run high – but still. Perhaps you need to recognise that Tom was a bit more flawed than you realised.’

  ‘A bit more? A bit? It would be an unforgivable thing to do. Absolutely unforgivable … And then on top of all that, Guy thinks the reason why he left for America was fear of court martial. If that were true, it would make Tom a coward as well as a villain.’

  There was a pause. Lottie sipped her cocoa. Alan sipped at his.

  ‘And something else,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve been right all along. I should have known.’

  ‘Of course I have and of course you should, but perhaps you could tell me what on earth you’re talking about.’

  ‘The war. It isn’t over … till – well – until it’s really over. When I think of going to see you at the hospital, it’s almost more than I can bear. The men. The soldiers. It’s as though I see my entire platoon lying there again. The few that didn’t die, that is. I hadn’t realised till now. There are some things that never leave. The horror. The loss.’

  ‘Oh, my poor love!’

  She kissed him, and Alan felt as though some awful distance between them had suddenly collapsed and shrunk to nothing. He kissed her back, hard. He had fallen in love with Lottie because of her bravery and compassion. He felt he was about to fall right back in love with her, and for the same old reasons.