Deck With Flowers

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “What would I have to pay, if I wanted to buy the house?” Rodney asked.

  “It is on an extremely valuable site,” Mr. Waring pointed out. “It is large, and the gardens are extensive and take in the street corner. We should have no difficulty in selling it tomorrow for forty thousand pounds.”

  “In that case—” Mrs. Laird began, and stopped. Rodney had risen.

  “In that case,” he told Mr. Waring, “I should like a little time to consider the matter.”

  Mr. Waring’s eyebrows went up, and a brief, frosty, contemptuous smile touched his lips; as clearly as if he had spoken, he indicated that boys must be allowed to show off.

  “By all means, Mr. Laird. Shall we say twenty-four hours?”

  “No. The funeral takes place tomorrow. I’ll give you an answer the day after—by midday,” Rodney told him.

  “Thank you.”

  They were shown out.

  “You don’t change, do you?” Mrs. Laird remarked as they walked to the car. “Just because you don’t like a person’s manner is no reason for leaving the impression that you can produce forty thousand pounds.”

  “Or even forty. He knew, but he couldn’t say so, so now he can wait forty-eight hours before closing with his customer. That’ll teach him not to twitch his nose contemptuously when speaking of his betters, as for instance my uncle and your brother.”

  “He was simply being businesslike.”

  “He didn’t think it worthwhile disguising from us the fact that he considered Uncle Julian a demented old dodderer.”

  “According to most people, your uncle was a demented old dodderer. It was nice of them to buy the house and let him live rent free.”

  “Nice? Nice? It was the best stroke of business they ever did, the stinking sharks. I’m willing to bet they bought at fifteen or twenty thousand. They’ve doubled their money. Nice?”

  “Very well then, not nice.”

  “Right. And was that wart of a Waring donating his time just now? He was not. We were buying it. He must have charged Uncle Julian a fat fee for drawing up those two lines, and we’ll have to pay him a fat fee for reading them out to us. One of these days, somebody’ll lean across his desk and wipe him out—all but the sneer. That’ll stay, like the Cheshire cat’s grin. Do you want to go back to the hotel for tea, or would you like to go straight. . . Well, to see Uncle Julian’s body?”

  “I don’t think ‘like’ is the word. I don’t want any tea.”

  There were more people than Rodney expected at the funeral; he felt he could hardly call them mourners. There were old members of the once-large staff of servants. There were representatives of civic bodies; there were the three heads of the firm of Creed, Boyd and Waring. A puzzling note was introduced by a small group of sea scouts, smart and solemn under a youthful leader. At the conclusion of the ceremony, Rodney stood beside his mother and exchanged a few words with all those who had been present. Then they were alone. They walked slowly to the car.

  “Do you want to go to the house again?” Rodney asked.

  “Not at this moment. I’d like to look round it tomorrow, before we leave. Did you notice when we were there, Rodney, that there was no—”

  “—telescope. I suppose he sold it, and put the money into more rolling stock.”

  “I dare say.”

  “I’ll take you back to the hotel and then I’ll go to the house and do a bit of clearing-up. You can spend some time there tomorrow, while I go and tell Mr. Waring that I’ve decided to invest my forty thousand pounds in something else.”

  “Will you ask his advice as to what should be done with the railway?”

  “I won’t ask his advice about anything. When I’ve left his office, I’ll go round a few schools—after all, this part of the country is stiff with schools. One of them might have an outhouse they could make into a railway depot.”

  “Will you ask for any payment?”

  “Payment? Mother, if somebody doesn’t ask me to pay for dismantling all those lines, I’ll be surprised.”

  “But look what your uncle spent on it!”

  “We don’t know what he spent on it.”

  “Oh Rodney, don’t be silly! Those engines are all beautifully-produced, specially-ordered models. They’re worth a lot of money.”

  “They were—to Uncle Julian.”

  He left her at the hotel and drove to Victoria Lodge. Approaching it, he saw with surprise that a car was standing at the gate. The surprise was greater as he drew near and recognised it. It was Madame Landini’s Rolls-Royce.

  Madame Landini—here? It was impossible, but that was her car, and her chauffeur was standing beside it. Rodney returned the man’s greeting and was about to ask him whether Madame was here, when he saw coming down the drive two figures: Signor Piozzi and the Maharajah. He pushed open the gate and went to meet them, but before he could speak, the Maharajah had addressed him.

  “Mr. Laird, if I had known that you were related to Sir Julian, I wouldn’t have let you go away from Madame’s without talking to me. Did you know that he and I were great friends?”

  “Not until my mother told me yesterday, sir. Did you come down to see him?”

  “I had two objectives. I had to see a school a few miles from here—my grandsons are to enter next term. Having finished with the school, I decided to call on your uncle. On the door was a notice—I have just read it—to say that he was dead. The notice gave your name, and the name of your hotel. I was going to drive there in the hope of seeing you and talking to you about him. We hadn’t met, he and I, for over thirty years.”

  Rodney had turned; the three men were walking slowly back to the gate. The Maharajah continued to speak in a reminiscent tone.

  “It was another life, Mr. Laird. A forgotten life. But your uncle would not have forgotten his visit to me. It was of course a visit made officially, in the course of his duties, but it didn’t remain official for long. Did he ever tell you ... No, of course not. If he had ever spoken of me, you would have mentioned him to me when we met at Madame Landini’s.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “This is a pleasant house. Had he lived in it for long?”

  “He was born in it. He always refused to let it or sell it.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He had a heart attack while he was out walking.”

  “A good end; quick and I trust painless. I am more sorry than I can say that I didn’t come down to see him before.” He rested a hand on the gate. “He was an unusual man—I suppose you knew that?”

  “Yes, I did, sir.”

  “You were fond of him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So was I. He was sent, you know, to reform me. I was behaving in a very un-English way. He was to give me good advice, and keep me from misbehaving. He was to remonstrate with me. Instead of that, we became friends. Good friends. We found that we had a great many tastes in common—the usual things like hunting, of course, but also something else which I never met in any other man, before or since. I’m speaking of his extraordinary interest in, his extraordinary knowledge of, railway systems. Did he ever tell you … No. I don’t suppose he told many stories of Hardanipur. I’m afraid he got into trouble when they recalled him. It was a—what’s the expression?—a blot on his career. He promised to write to me, but he never answered my letters. I think someone conveniently forgot to forward them to him. Do you know what he did, he and I, in Hardanipur? We built a model railway, mean a real railway, a railway in which my small sons could travel. It ran from your uncle’s palace to mine. Then we extended it. We had a tunnel constructed. The trains came out of the tunnel into a clearing I had made in the jungle, and then the trains ran round a large, very beautiful lake, so beautiful that we decided to call it the Hardanipur Scenic Railway. The Viceroy prolonged his visit to advise on a ranch line we thought of building. If you think that sounds an absurd, a crazy thing for two grown men to have done, then that’s just what it was, but I’m glad to say that first my sons, and no
w my grandsons, are victims of the same mania. I wonder, I wonder if your uncle ever thought of those days, and recalled the Hardanipur Scenic Railway?”

  “I’m quite certain he did, sir.”

  “You mean that he kept his interest in trains, and everything to do with trains?”

  “Yes. In fact, he had a kind of railway system in the house.”

  “This house?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It’s still there, sir. Have you time to look?”

  “Time? If I hadn’t, I’d make time. Guido, you come and look too.”

  He was still at the controls when darkness began to fall. He had sent every one of the trains on its way. His coat was off, and he had removed his shoes to facilitate stepping on to the allotted spaces. He had set Signor Piozzi to drawing up accurate timetables. He had, with Rodney’s permission, put an extra station on the Darjeeling-Himalayan Railway. When Signor Piozzi, with great courage, reminded him that he must be back in London for dinner, he had to say it several times before his words penetrated the railwayman’s absorption. Then the Maharajah sighed. He allowed Rodney to help him on with his coat. Signor Piozzi helped him to lace his shoes. Together the three men went out into the dusk, and Rodney locked the door behind him.

  “For that,” the Maharajah said slowly, when they reached the gate, “I shall never cease to be grateful to you, Mr. Laird. Mr. Laird? You are Sir Julian’s nephew, which means that you are almost mine. I thank you, Rodney. You’ve given me more pleasure than I’ve enjoyed since they decided I was a bad influence, and took your uncle away. Tell me, who has bought it?”

  “Bought it, sir?”

  “The railway. Didn’t you say just now, in the house, that the railway had been sold?”

  “No, sir. I said the furniture had been sold.”

  “Ah. You mean that you’re going to keep the railway.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. I’ve nowhere to keep it.”

  The Maharajah, who had been about to walk through the gate held open by the chauffeur, halted.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “As far as I know, Sir Julian never married. Surely you are his heir?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then obviously, this house is yours. Even if you had a very large family, in time, you would not need all those rooms. So there’s enough room for the railway.”

  “There would be, sir, if I could have kept the house. But it’s up for sale.”

  “This house?”

  “Yes.”

  “The house is up for sale?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as you have nowhere to keep the railway, are you also going to sell that?”

  “Well, I was going to offer it to—”

  “Don’t offer it. Don’t offer it to anybody. Let me get this quite clear. Guido, you will please listen attentively. The house is for sale?”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m afraid the price—”

  “How much?” demanded His Highness.

  “Forty thousand pounds.”

  “I shall buy it,” the Maharajah said without a moment’s hesitation, “on condition that you will also sell me the railway. Is that a deal?”

  “I… I’d very much like to think of you here, sir.”

  “I can only be here if you sell the house to me. I shall use it when I come to visit my grandsons. We won’t discuss the price of the railway; Guido will arrange that with you. Remember, when you fix your price, that money can’t be measured against the pleasure I got from my friendship with your uncle. I’m sorry I came too late to see him.”

  He shook Rodney’s hand, his other laid in a fatherly manner on his shoulder.

  “The house and the railway are mine. Guido will see to everything. Can you imagine, Rodney, the excitement of my grandsons when I show them those trains? I shall see you when you get back to London. We’ll meet again soon—why isn’t there a short way of saying that in English? There isn’t—so au revoir, auf Wiedersehen—or as Guido would say, arrivederci.”

  Rodney stood watching the car out of sight.

  “And likewise salaam,” he murmured in fervent thanksgiving.

  Chapter 12

  “I don’t believe it,” Mrs. Laird said firmly.

  “Neither do I. But it’s true.”

  “Rodney, you must have got it all wrong. People don’t go round waving a hand and saying: ‘I’ll buy that’. Not when it costs forty thousand pounds.”

  “People like us don’t. Maharajahs do. Why don’t you believe it? Wasn’t it only yesterday that you were telling me about all his millions, not to mention his diamonds?”

  “But it’s... it’s absurd.”

  “I agree. But think how much I’m going to enjoy calling on Mr. Waring tomorrow. I shall inform him that I’ve bought the house. That’ll shake him.”

  “But won’t you explain?”

  “No. Guido’ll pay the money into my bank account, and as soon as the bank manager has recovered consciousness, I’ll take it out again and hand it over to Waring and Co.”

  “Guido? Oh, the Italian accountant. You’re not going to get into rather an odd set, I hope?”

  “I’m not going to see much of the Maharajah, if that’s what you mean. I like to keep my feet on the ground.”

  “What will he do with the house?”

  “I told you: furnish it and use it when he visits his grandsons, or when he wants to play trains.”

  “I’m glad it’s not going to be made into bits and pieces. It’s such a lovely house.”

  “It was. He’ll have to give it a face-lift.”

  “Who was the girl you took there?”

  “To see Uncle Julian? Madame Landini’s secretary. At least, she was her secretary until Madame decided to switch to dictaphone. She lives in Brighton. Her father was a pastry-cook.”

  “In that case, she ought to know something about cooking.”

  “She does. Chef standard. She’s also tidy, and handy about the house.”

  His mother’s eyes rested on him with a congratulatory glow.

  “Oh, Rodney, how fortunate you are! As I’m here, can’t we meet?”

  “Yes. She’s down here now. I’ll take you to see her. She and her mother live above the shop, but they don’t own it any more. Her father’s dead.”

  “I wish you’d told me about her when I arrived—it would have cheered me up. You haven’t told me her name.”

  “Nicola Baird. But there’s nothing definite yet.”

  The glow in his mother’s eyes faded, leaving only astonishment.

  “I don’t follow you. You can’t mean that she ... she won’t have you?”

  “I haven’t asked her to have me—yet.”

  “But why not?”

  “I was going to.”

  “Going to! A wonderful cook and a wonderful housekeeper. Going to! Is she pretty?”

  “More than pretty.”

  “Then surely there’s a great risk that somebody else ... I mean, is a girl like that likely to be waiting until you make up your mind?”

  “I sized up the competition. It didn’t look serious.”

  “But I still don’t understand what there was against your telling her you were in love with her.”

  “There was money, for one thing. She’s got none and I’ve got less.”

  “You’ve got a job, you have good health and good prospects. If she loves you... but perhaps she doesn’t. Does she?”

  “I don’t know. I think if she didn’t, she would have made clear; she’s that kind of girl. As to prospects, I don’t know.”

  “Does Oliver still want you to join him?”

  “Yes. I’d rather stay where I am, but it can’t be long before Claudius and Phoebe pack up, and to prevent the firm from picking up too, I’d need money. Real money. The only real money I’m ever likely to see is the forty thousand pounds that’s going to brush past my whiskers on its way from Guido to Mr. Waring.”

 
“How much will you ask for the railway?”

  “I’ll leave that to Guido. Do you want to go and see Nicola and her mother?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I wish,” she said, as Rodney drove her to Number 12A, “that your uncle had mentioned Angela in that Will. There was nothing to leave her, but I have a feeling he left her out because he always thought she was your father’s favourite. It would be just like him to have the last word.”

  “I’ll give her half the proceeds of the Hardanipur Railway. That ought to pay for a trousseau.”

  He regretted the word the moment it was out. But it was too late to withdraw it; his mother had seized on it.

  “Trousseau? Do you mean Angela—”

  “No. Nothing definite. Oliver’s engagement fell apart and he spent his birthday evening with Angela and myself and two bottles of champagne. Then he went down to Oxford, and began to show signs of missing her. Probably on the rebound. If it keeps up, the thing will be to prevent her from making things too easy for him. I know you’re against what you call shilly-shallying, but he’s been dilly-dallying with a number of women, so I hope Angela won’t fall into his arms.”

  “If I’d behaved like that with your father—not making things too easy, as you put it—I would never have married him. That’s to say, I would have lost the chance.”

  “If you were back where you started, would you still have him?”

  “Oh, Rodney, yes! There can’t be a more difficult man alive, but I’m not very easy to live with myself. We’ve both had a lot to bear. That’s what there’s so little of nowadays—making a marriage come off in spite of everything. Today, there’s no question of taking the rough with the smooth. To have stayed together and made it work is quite a feat.”

  “Is that the voice of the turtle?”

  “Don’t joke. Marriage is a serious matter.”

  “Only if you’re married to Father. Here we are.”

  They were at the door of Number 12A. But before Rodney could get out of the car, a woman emerged from the patisserie.