Maxwell’s Reunion

by M. J. Trow

  He hadn’t remembered the cedars being so bare. In his day, in the swinging sixties, they’d spread their mighty arms, it seemed to him, across the sky itself, cradling, and protecting. The Altar was still there, in the crisp, pale moon, and he ran his fingers over the words carved into the wood; worn now and crumbling, but he knew what they said. ‘Who spot the verb and stop the ball …’ There was a shiver and something dark ran over the pile of debris that filled the pool. He’d swum in that pool countless times, arcing through the chilled water in the house games days, chlorine burning his nostrils as he came up for air, the cheers deafening as his fingers touched tile at the end of the race. He looked up at the dark silhouette of the buildings, like an old, abandoned film set. The fives courts, still ringing with the thud of ball and the roar of the teams, tumbling over each other. The chapel with its sanctuary candle still glowing and a solitary treble voice intoning the Te Deum, lamenting all the souls who had passed. In Big School he knew, as he knew his tables, the litany of the fallen, the dead of two world wars; he had read them so many times: Archer, R.J., Royal Engineers; Atherton, F.O., Hampshire Regiment; Bannerman, S.L.T., Artists Rifles … How often had he run his eyes down the list while the chaplain droned on in a prayer from Michel Quoist, ‘Lord, I am a five- pound note …’

  At the First Eleven Square he stopped, hearing again the faint click of leather on willow, saw the smiling schoolboy faces turn to sneers and applause to contempt. The wind was suddenly chill on the night air, rustling the cedars, creeping through the grass of early hours. He shouldn’t be here. But he’d always be here. He hadn’t been here for years. And yet he’d never left.

  As he reached the edge of the field and heard his footsteps crunch on the gravel, he looked up to the great canopy with its turrets and its bell rope, like a black lance taut on its housings, piercing the moonlit clouds. His days of verb-spotting were over. It was time to stop the ball.

  2

  The weekend starts here. Peter Maxwell strode his narrow world like a colossus, barring the gate to the devious little herberts who consistently tried to sneak through the carpark. What bastard put the Head of Sixth Form on gate duty on a Friday afternoon? Peter Maxwell knew the answer – Bernard Ryan, destined to be a Deputy Head for ever. Maxwell knew. He was biding his time.

  ‘All right if I go through, Max?’ A bland, bespectacled face beamed at him above the half-lowered window. It had all the bonhomie of a basilisk.

  Maxwell nodded. ‘Only because it’s you, Headmaster.’

  James Diamond, BSc, MEd, was always flustered when his Head of Sixth Form called him Headmaster, and since Maxwell always did call him that, fluster was his usual state.

  ‘Charmless nerk,’ Maxwell muttered as the Head’s Peugot snarled out on to the road, only to have to screech to a halt a second later by order of Mrs Silliphant, the lollipop lady, she who had been thrown out of the SS for being too nasty.

  Maxwell chuckled. ‘Sterling work, Silli. Ah, Gazza. Third Friday running, unless my memory is totally shot to hell.’

  ‘But I’ll miss my bus, sir,’ Gazza whined, hauling his backpack off his shoulder. He hadn’t seen Maxwell lurking by the shrubbery and he’d fancied his chances. He should really have known better.

  ‘Indeed you will,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘because now you’ll have to go all the way round, the way everybody else goes. That’s probably an extra three, maybe four minutes. You’ll probably miss a couple of buses in that time and have to walk all the way home, like we did in olden times. Life’s a learning curve, isn’t it?’

  Gazza flounced off the way he’d come, longing to swear under his breath, but knowing better. Everybody knew that Mad Max had radar sensors for ears. Dave Bradshaw had called him a bastard once, from three hundred metres. They never saw him again.

  The sound of her horn brought Maxwell from his flower-bed and he peered in through the open window. ‘Electric windows, Woman Policeman? Whatever next? The vote, perhaps?’

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Max.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He hauled his holdall from its hiding place behind the japonica and clambered in. ‘Gave me a chance to catch a few miscreants guilty of malfeasance.’

  She reached across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You say the most incomprehensible things,’ she said.

  He looked at her in the Friday afternoon light. Jacquie Carpenter, detective constable. Early thirties, clever, bright, loyal, the only woman in his life. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders and her grey eyes sparkled as he buckled himself in. ‘Now, are you sure about this?’ he asked again, as he had countless times over the past few days.

  She slammed the Ka into gear. ‘Am I sure I want to spend my precious weekend with a crowd of boring old farts reminiscing about their pubescent stirrings in the dorm? No, I’m not. Am I sure I want to spend the weekend with you? Yes, I am. Besides, I’ve got a new frock.’

  ‘Ah, and by spending the weekend … you mean … ?’

  Her smile was like the Giaconda’s. ‘Let’s see how it goes, Max.’

  ‘The letter did say spouses welcome,’ he reminded her.

  ‘And friends?’

  ‘Ouch!’ He pulled his finger away from her frosty aura.

  She laughed, patting his leg. ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ she said. ‘Fill me in on them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your old buddies.’ Jacquie roared off through Leighford, past knots of Leighford Highenas making their way home, scattering chewing-gum wrappers in their wake and proving every known adage about the youth of today.

  ‘Gemma Hipcrest,’ Maxwell murmured, unwrapping his University scarf and settling himself down.

  Jacquie frowned. ‘I thought you went to a boys’ school.’

  ‘I did,’ Maxwell said, ‘but that doesn’t prevent me from seeing Gemma Hipcrest at …’ He checked his watch. ‘… four-eighteen with a fag cradled in her less than reputable fingers.’

  ‘Max, you’re a bastard.’

  ‘True,’ the Head of Sixth Form said, ‘but a just one, I think you’ll find. Rather like Archbishop Temple of nobody’s blessed memory but mine. You see, in your capacity, you can arrest the little buggers. All I can do is make their lives hell on a daily basis for the seven years I have them in my clutches from eleven to eighteen. It’s just not the same. And the Headmaster’s Writ, for what it’s worth, covers behaviour to and from school. From the time the little bastards leave their front doors, we teachers are, God help us, in loco parentis.’ He leaned across to her. ‘Oh, you of little Latin,’ he chided softly. ‘It means “as mad as a parent”,’ and he winced as she hit him.

  They purred north, looking for the Winchester bypass as the rush-hour traffic started to build.

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ Maxwell slid down in his seat, tilting the shapeless tweed hat over his eyes and folding his arms. ‘Of the old gang, the Magnificent Seven, there’s Cret Bingham. Always wanted to be a High Court judge. You can imagine the shock I had when there was a Lord Chief Justice of that name a little while ago – no relation, though, as it turned out. I bet Cret was well pissed off – that’s a phrase I learned from Gemma Hipcrest, by the way, along with “gagging for it” and “I’d rather eat Mr Holton’s shit”.’

  ‘Cret?’ Jacquie asked, diverting her concentration away from the interchange for long enough to read the Great Man’s face.

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Maxwell sighed. ‘They were different days. There was a chap in the Remove who was a Sikh or something. We all called him Woggie. He didn’t seem to mind.’

  ‘God, Max, we’d be looking at a roasting from the CRE today.’

  ‘Ah, dear girl, but I’m talking about the good old days, the swinging sixties. Enoch “Rivers of Blood” Powell and the Racists were top of the pops. You weren’t even a twinkle in your dear ol’ pappy’s eye. One could call a spade a spade. Good sound, though, your mum and dad.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She fell for it every time.

  ‘The Carpenters. Easy listening.’

&
nbsp; She cuffed him round the ear with her gear-changing hand.

  ‘Then there was Quent – George Quentin. He made something of a fortune running the tuck shop. Not to mention Captain of Rugger, Captain of Cricket, Victor Ludorum. No …’ He leaned across again infuriatingly. ‘He wasn’t another chum. It means …’

  ‘I know what it means!’ she shrieked, pushing him away.

  ‘Quent swore he’d be a millionaire by the time he was twenty-three.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Come to think of it, I did see him interviewed on the telly a few years back. Dimbleby or Paxman, they’re all the same, talking money to the City whizz kids. He was one of them. Grey suit, glass of water, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So he made it, then?’

  ‘All power to his elbow. Then there was Stenhouse, the organizer of this little bashette.’

  ‘Shit, I’ve missed the turn,’ Jacquie muttered. ‘Never mind, I’ll take the next left.’

  ‘Andrew Muir, aka Stenhouse. Expected to run Fleet Street, press baron par excellence, you know the type; Rupert Murdoch by way of Lord Beaverbrook.’

  ‘How did he do?’

  ‘He does a few pieces for the Mail from time to time – makes Simon Heffer look like a pinko liberal. Funny thing was, he couldn’t string two words together at school. Christ knows how he won those prizes – bit like the Booker really. I ran the magazine.’

  ‘Max, I thought you ran the school.’

  Maxwell eased himself upright with the deadly uncoiling motion of a rattler. He lifted his hat brim and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Yes, you’ll probably need that,’ he said.

  ‘Need what?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘That razor wit. The Magnificent Seven don’t take prisoners, if I remember rightly. Oh, and by the way.’ He slithered down again, his rattle still, his fangs retracted. ‘Watch out for Ash – David Asheton, serial groper. That man could lech for England. I remember one Cranton weekend in particular …’

  Jacquie shrugged. ‘He’s probably had the op by now.’

  ‘Doesn’t slow you down.’ Maxwell flounced, and the two of them laughed together in the warmth of her car, in the warmth of her smile, driving north.

  The Graveney once belonged to the Wilkinsons, descendants of that Iron Madman who’d got the army contract for cannon and insisted on being buried in an iron coffin. His descendants still made swords for officers and garden shears and lawnmower blades for hoi polloi, but they’d moved out of the Graveney years ago. It was grander than Maxwell remembered it, a sweeping nineteenth-century facade with Doric this and Corinthian that, to show how attuned English manufacturers were in their day were to their classical heritage. It was all but dark as Jacquie’s Ka crunched on the gravel and purred to a halt outside the main door. Lights twinkled from the chandeliers in the ballroom.

  ‘What?’ Maxwell looked around. ‘No flunky?’ His knees ached from the confinement of the journey.

  Jacquie got out.

  ‘May I take your bags, sir?’ The flunky didn’t look too pleased with Maxwell’s question. He’d been blessed with twenty-twenty hearing.

  ‘Too kind.’ Maxwell beamed and the guests made for the door.

  ‘Do you know.’ Maxwell dithered at the entrance. ‘I once spent nearly eight minutes in a revolving door somewhere in Birmingham. It’s really true, your life does flash before you.’

  ‘So you want me to lead?’ she asked.

  Maxwell nodded. ‘Just like a Policeman’s Excuse Me,’ he said.

  The foyer was dripping with expensive leather and plush carpets. Half of Sherwood Forest appeared to be growing out of the floor.

  ‘God, Max,’ Jacquie whispered.

  ‘It’ll do,’ the Great Man muttered, wishing he’d gone for that threshold pay rise now.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ a pretty blonde called from the reception desk.

  ‘Indeed.’ Maxwell beamed. ‘Peter Maxwell, here for a knees-up.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The girl smiled back. ‘One of Mr Muir’s party. Would you like to sign the book?’

  ‘Love to,’ and he took her pen.

  ‘Mrs Maxwell?’ The girl looked at Jacquie.

  ‘No,’ she told her. ‘Miss Carpenter.’

  ‘Will that be a double room, sir?’ the girl asked.

  ‘No,’ said Jacquie, perhaps more quickly than she’d intended. ‘Two singles, please.’

  The girl’s eyes flickered for the first time. ‘Would that be adjacent?’ she asked.

  Maxwell leaned on the counter and rested his head on his hand, looking quizzically at Jacquie. ‘Please.’ She laughed and kicked him hard on the shin.

  ‘Actually,’ said Maxwell, straight faced, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I’d like them side by side.’

  ‘There’s a complimentary bottle of champagne in your room, sir,’ the girl said, ignoring the remark and handing him a key. ‘Second floor, just past the bear. Compliments of Mr Muir. He has asked that all his party meet him in the Baculus Suite at seven for sherry. Will that be all right?’

  ‘I’m sure the sherry will be delightful,’ Maxwell said. ‘As for the reception, I’ll let you know. Does the hotel have a policy on bread-roll fights?’ But Jacquie was already leading him away.

  ‘Christ, she didn’t say it was a real bear.’ Jacquie didn’t like walking past it. It was seven feet high on its hind legs, all glass eyes and attitude. Even the moths left it alone.

  ‘The bear and baculus.’ Maxwell was still fidgeting with his bow tie. ‘That’s a ragged staff to you, Policewoman. The crest of the Earls of Warwick. You’re in Shakespeare country now, dear heart. Non Sans Droit, that sort of thing.’

  Jacquie looked adorable in her pale blue evening gown, her red-gold hair swept up and her eyes sparkling along with the chandeliers. Maxwell hadn’t worn black tie for years. She saw his face light up as they reached the half-landing that was the entrance to the Baculus Suite.

  ‘Stenhouse Muir!’ he roared.

  A man in full Highland rig swirled to face the pair. He had a mane of auburn-grey hair and a beard that flashed silver.

  ‘Maxie!’ The men collided mid-carpet with much back-slapping and hugging. Maxwell grabbed Muir’s hand and they strathspeyed the length of the room, guests scuttling aside to let them pass. Muir let out a whoop as they reached the cocktails, twirled round and strathspeyed back again.

  ‘Jacquie.’ Maxwell steadied himself as they got back to her. ‘I’ve just given you a lifetime’s opportunity to find out what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. And that’s hunting Macpherson, unless I miss my guess, you old charlatan. You’ve about as much right to wear that as Mel Gibson.’

  ‘Madam.’ Muir stooped to kiss Jacquie’s hand. ‘I’ll tell you before he does I’ve never been north of Berwick in my life, but all life’s a front, isn’t it? Andrew Muir.’

  ‘Jacquie Carpenter.’ She smiled.

  ‘Your daughter, Max?’ Muir asked. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ A starchy-looking woman had glided to Muir’s side. There was something vaguely Scottish about her, overlaid with Home Counties.

  ‘Janet.’ Muir placed a tentative hand on her arm as if he were afraid her ice would burn his fingers. ‘I’d like you to meet Peter Maxwell, old Hallardian par excellence. You’ve heard me talk of him often.’

  ‘Yes,’ Janet Muir said, bored already.

  ‘Charmed.’ Maxwell kissed her hand, taking in the expensive cluster on her middle finger.

  ‘This is his daughter, Jacquie.’

  The women smiled at each other.

  ‘It’s been bloody years.’ Muir looked at Maxwell.

  ‘It has that.’ Maxwell laughed. ‘Any threat of a drink?’

  ‘Dear boy. The straws are this way. Remember that old …’ And the men disappeared into a small crowd desperately trying to mill.

  ‘I’m not actually his daughter,’ Jacquie confided to Janet.

  ‘I�
�m didn’t thank for a moment you were, my dear,’ the older woman said. ‘I wish I could say I wasn’t actually Andrew’s wife. Can we get a drink? I think it’s going to be one of those weekends.’

  ‘Peter Maxwell!’ The name was roared above the chatter.

  ‘It can’t be. Cret!’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Oh, sorry … er … Anthony.’

  Anthony Bingham gripped Maxwell’s hand. He loomed larger than Maxwell remembered and the hair was on its way out. The pin-stripe had gone out years ago. ‘Yes, I’m not sure “Cret” cuts much mustard in the Inner Temple.’ The judge looked at him and offered his verdict. ‘The years have not been kind.’

  ‘Bitch!’ Maxwell took up the champagne flute a passing tray afforded him. ‘Still place-dropping, I notice. Inner Temple, eh? Good address.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Thirty eight, Columbine, Leighford. Know it?’

  ‘Leighford? South Coast somewhere, isn’t it?’

  ‘Somewhere.’ Maxwell nodded.

  ‘Anthony was just telling me, Max,’ Muir joined them, Scotch in hand, ‘how he was saying to the Lord Chancellor only the other day …’

  Maxwell caught Muir’s raised eyebrow and buried his nose in his champagne flute. ‘Ash!’ He caught sight of the old lecher on the landing as he turned. David Asheton, the bastard, hadn’t changed at all. He looked as if he’d just thrown his blazer in the swimming pool. ‘Jesus!’ Maxwell faltered a little as he crossed the floor. On the bastard’s arm was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen, with long black hair and eyes to drown in. They sparkled like the gems that circled her neck and tumbled on to her breasts, loosely held in place by an exquisite white gown.