The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘Were they lovely people? You speak of them very fondly.’

  She was still staring out of the window, exquisitely beautiful.

  ‘They were the very best of people and therefore good parents, and both George and Alice are exceptionally decent and honest people, brought up in the best of ways. Everything they are came from the guidance of Sir Reginald and Augusta.’

  ‘They had beautiful names too. Augusta is so very… how do you say? Graceful.’

  Cécile sipped her drink and looked up at me, the soft light playing on her skin. I felt a connection with her, an appreciation of beauty that we so obviously shared. ‘And how do you know George and Alice?’

  I was at school with Henry and George,’ I told her. ‘George and I were both in the first year together. We found ourselves in a rather strict Scottish school, many miles from home. My father, because of his business interests abroad, could not visit me and so, eventually, I came to spend my exeats and holidays here. I was company for George on the long journey home.’ She was listening intently. ‘I have been the beneficiary of a family life only through the kindness of these people.’

  ‘Then you have had more than me, I think,’ she replied.

  ‘You have no family?’

  ‘Not now. I lost my parents when I was a small child to La Grippe, I was lucky to have escaped it myself.’ She ran a finger down the edge of the curtain, turning her attention from me, steeling herself against the sad memories.

  ‘We all were. Spanish Flu ravaged through the country taking even our most healthy young people, with no mercy. We lost school friends. It was truly miserable and all after the suffering of the war to boot.’

  ‘And, were you in France like Henri?’

  ‘Not like Henry. He was incredibly intelligent and very brave. Only the best were selected to work behind enemy lines like him. I was with the Royal Horse Artillery, in Italy.’

  ‘On horses?’

  ‘Not since thirty three – tanks.’

  She was concentrating, her lips pursed. ‘Tell me of Henri.’

  ‘Henry was with the Parachute Regiment before he was seconded. He was the brains of the family, the one set to carry on Sir Reginald’s role in the business.’ I suddenly had to pause for a second and gather my thoughts because I couldn’t speak about him yet without feeling a sharp lump in my throat. She touched my forearm lightly and I looked down into those melancholic eyes of hers, the nod of her head so slight that it was barely imperceptible, but she was telling me that she understood. We all shared the burden of loss. ‘Henry was a pretty incredible man, a born leader and someone who I would describe as unstoppable but then, I suspect you knew that.’

  She was listening carefully taking in my words. ‘Yes, I agree. And George?’

  ‘Ah, George is the soft centre, the heart of the family. He is kind and generous; old-fashioned in many ways. He was always going to be “the spare” who went into the church, but of course the war denied us all our callings.’

  ‘And what would you have been, Carrick?’

  ‘My father was a Foreign Envoy in India. I should have liked to follow him but he, well, he met a new woman – his now wife – over there.’ It was then that my voice did weaken, something to do with the condition I fear, a ball of regret and anger in my belly that will never be unravelled.

  ‘I am very sad for you, Carrick, I can see that your life has been unhappy.’

  ‘Please don’t get me wrong, Cécile, I have had a wonderful life here at Lapston, I will be forever indebted to the Amshersts and would defend them to the death if it were required.’

  I looked down at the base of her throat and the silver necklace. ‘That piece you are wearing, it is a feather?’

  She reached up and touched it, running a delicate finger over it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The family emblem is a feather,’ I told her.

  For a moment I could not tell what she was thinking, she looked lost for words, then she said rather despondently; ‘Yes, I know… My dearest Henri gave it to me.’

  I reached out and took hold of her fingers to reassure her that I shared her pain. The look she gave me spoke of an understanding between us, but she had to let go of my hand abruptly because, at that second, the door opened and George and Alice swept in.

  Alice’s eyes were aflame with excitement as she rushed up to Cécile and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I am absolutely delighted to meet you, Madame Roussell. I am so thrilled that you knew Henry and have kindly accepted our invitation to stay. I’m simply dying to hear all about him in Paris.’

  Cécile, who had smiled as she greeted Alice, was changed instantly, her expression clouded over, on hearing Henry’s name. ‘I am happy to tell you, but please understand that it is très difficile; it is hard for me to talk about him too much.’

  ‘Come, come,’ said George. ‘Alice, as I said earlier, we must not force ourselves upon Madame Roussell. Let us not talk of those matters until we are all good and ready. I see Carrick has made you a drink, Cécile, may I top you up?’

  ‘Oh no thank you,’ she replied. She was facing George and Alice, standing by my side, and I felt I could not move, that she already depended upon me even for the short time we had known each other. She turned to Alice. ‘Please, my dear, do call me Cécile or I will not feel at comfort.’

  ‘Yes of course, I would like us to be the best of friends, Cécile. Please come and sit down next to me. I so want to know about la vie de Paris.’ Cécile duly took a seat beside Alice and, as I was able to see the two women side-by-side for the first time, it struck me how very different they were. Alice had selected a blue dress. I had seen it many times before, with some lace at her throat. It was pleasant enough, but she looked too young and gauche in it. I did wish, very unkindly I’m afraid, that she would make an increased effort to look more sophisticated.

  She broke away from her conversation with Cécile, as if she knew I was considering her, and smiled warmly before turning back. All at once, I realised she was speaking French and Cécile was obviously charmed by her thoughtfulness. I watched them together, so different and yet both beautiful each in their own way. There was a soft roundness in Alice’s face next to the high arch of Cécile’s cheeks and long neck, the English rose versus the elegant fleur de lys of France.

  ‘George, Cécile loves gardens. You must let her look at Daddy’s designs for the knot garden after dinner. It will mean so much more to her when she sees it in the morning.’ She turned to Cécile. ‘Daddy was simply amazing. He put in the lavender walk too. It was always a great shame for him that the rest of the grounds were sold off, but the previous residents needed the money.’

  It occurred to me, given what I knew, that this might sadly soon be the case for the current residents and I noticed that George steadfastly avoided looking in my direction.

  ‘I would be delighted to show them,’ he said. ‘I will have Grant bring them to the lounge after dinner.’

  The dinner gong sounded and we each escorted a lady to the dining room on our arm. George, as was right, walked alongside Cécile, but I felt a little disappointed even so. ‘She is so lovely, Carrick,’ Alice whispered, pressing herself into my side. ‘I really like her. I can see why Henry loved her so much.’

  ‘We are lucky she had the desire to seek us out. I am hoping it will help us all come to terms with his loss,’ I replied.

  We were sitting at one end of the table, the fire crackling in the grate. Grant was serving with the help of Lizzie, Mrs Hall’s kitchen maid. It was embarrassing for George to have such a significantly reduced staff and I felt for him, for even if he had had a choice, there were no longer people willing to work as staff, particularly women.

  ‘Before the war began, we had footmen and more staff, but times have changed, Cécile, you find us much reduced in means and I apologise,’ he said. Alice glanced at me a little nervously. We both fo
und George’s statement surprisingly frank, but then he was a completely open and honest man – we should not have expected anything less.

  ‘It is of no matter,’ Cécile replied. ‘We are all affected in this way; I have no maid at home, but I am certain matters will resolve themselves, in time.’

  ‘I fear for the outcome of the war,’ said George. ‘I still hold out all optimism that we will defeat the Hun, but with so many of us injured, with no money left in the country’s war chest I do fear that we are going to be up against it.’

  ‘We have all fought so dashed hard, everyone of us,’ I added addressing no one in particular, but there was the briefest pause during which I noticed Alice and George exchanged a look. It was transitory and, if I had not known them so well, I would have missed it.

  ‘But the Allies have just taken Brussels and Antwerp,’ said Alice enthusiastically. ‘We have secured France. Hitler is surely on the back foot?’ She was doing her best to lift our spirits.

  ‘The fighting is one thing, Mouse dear, but I do feel a deep concern about the aftermath,’ George continued. ‘Over fifty per cent of our workforce is engaged in the war effort and we have nothing to offer them because the industries, on which we built our wealth, no longer exist.’ He leaned back so that Grant could pour him a glass of wine, a rich ruby red in colour. ‘We need a government that can lead us out of the war and put the “Great” back in Britain. We are losing the Empire, and if we borrow from America, which is being mooted at Westminster, we will be in debt for a very long time to come.’ Then abruptly he changed tack. ‘But this is no talk for ladies, Carrick, enough now. Let us make a toast to “absent friends.” He held up his wine glass, the light of the candles reflecting brightly in the crystal.

  ‘George where did you get this beautiful wine?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Madame Roussell brought it for us, from Paris.’ Our eyes turned to her as one and, although it was not our intention, I think we made her a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Then I suggest a toast to Madame Roussell,’ I offered and as soon as Grant had charged my glass, George, Alice and I raised our glasses and I watched with pleasure as Cécile accepted our acknowledgement of her kindness. She dipped her head to us and her eyes expressed her gratitude. The wine was a beautiful, warm and well-rounded Haut-Médoc.

  ‘The Germans hoarded the wines they stole from we Parisians,’ Cécile explained. ‘It wasn’t so long after The Liberation that they were being sent around again. I can tell you, for example, they found eleven thousand cigars in just one vault. I managed to obtain a few bottles. I hope it is to your taste.’

  ‘Oh my dear, it is a very great treat for us. How extremely kind of you.’ George was almost moved to tears. None of us had seen such a bottle of wine for many months. He held his glass high and beaming, he quipped; ‘I suggest we all sip with infrequency!’

  As the soup arrived, a paltry vegetable which I felt lacked salt, we talked of those things we had had before rationing and what we missed most of all. I longed for roast pork. We had pig clubs in the village, of course, but it was still a rare treat. George missed his fine wines and Swiss chocolate.

  ‘What is Paris like, now it is no longer occupied?’ I asked Cécile.

  ‘It is like a bird that has broken her wings; she is unable to fly but is instead eating anything thrown to her. It is a very distressed and sad city. They chopped down trees that had lined the streets for hundreds of years, so that they were lying across the road to make, how do you say, defence?’

  ‘Barricades,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, barricades, and there is nothing to eat, not enough, but it feels worse here and I am grateful that you have let me share in your food tonight.’

  ‘Being in the countryside, we have access to more,’ said Alice. ‘It is those in the city I feel for. It’s not easy is it, Carrick?’

  I shook my head. ‘People have nothing, and I have no idea how we shall ever recover from the damage and destruction.’ All of us sat silently for a second or two before Alice spoke up again.

  ‘Come on now, we said we would talk of lighter things. What of Scotland, no one has even asked me how everyone is up there.’ And so we progressed through a conversation about the Scottish Amshersts, who as usual, were in rude health and not suffering nearly as much as we.

  ‘I have venison, smoked fish, shortbread and whisky for my party; they sent me home with a hamper,’ Alice announced brightly. ‘And my gift was a new wrap, and, in the clan tartan too.’

  ‘They really are so very kind. I will telephone Douglas in the morning and tell him how much we appreciate it.’ George looked terribly pleased.

  ‘Oh George, you must tell them about Cécile too. Perhaps we could take her up to visit them on my next leave?’ Alice was then struck with a sudden thought. ‘Oh Cécile, it has just occurred to me… Say you will stay for my birthday. It’s next Wednesday, but we are having a party on Saturday night, a few hunting friends and some girlfriends of mine. Do say you’ll stay. ’

  ‘I am afraid that will not be possible. I must not outstay my welcome. I feel I would be taking advantage.’ Cécile looked bashful and a little embarrassed.

  ‘You would be most welcome, my dear,’ George said kindly. ‘I insist that you at least think about it. What say you, Carrick?’

  ‘I would be delighted if you would stay,’ I replied with complete honestly, for I could see myself taking her for a walk around the village, getting to know her better, being her confidante and friend.

  ‘Then we are all three agreed,’ said Alice. It was obvious that she was overjoyed.

  It could have been different. Alice might not have invited her to stay, George may have thought of a reason why it was not possible. I could have argued some stance of disagreement, but none of that occurred and that is where it all began.

  9

  The magazine landed with a thud on our doormat a few days later. I tore open the wrapping and leafed through the magazine. There was a double page spread on him – Rory McBride, aged fifty-nine, a landscape architect and father of three, though now divorced. Helen Clark, the feature writer, had interviewed him. I sat down in my favourite old armchair by the window and began reading.

  It was very interesting. Rory explained that he could design from scratch or redesign any outdoor space. He was responsible for the wild meadows at Eversham House and the Water Gardens at Lancester Hill House; both were pictured and looked stunning.

  He had started his freelance business after his divorce and moved to Sarsten four years earlier. Rory was pictured at the bottom sitting on a low wall with Scooter, who was holding a trowel in his mouth.

  At the bottom of the article, it said, “Rory is always looking for a special project that presents a challenge. He says, ‘My favourite project was designing a walled garden in the Western Isles of Scotland. It was a pretty wild area and the client wanted a very static, regimented planting that carried the colours of the moorland outside into the interior. I planted Scotch roses, cardoons and foxgloves intermingled with a deep purple globe thistles. I’ve been back since and it really is stunning. The owner has cared for it very well and it is thriving.’ Rory’s next project is to design a clock face flowerbed for a former rectory near Moreton-in-Marsh.”

  I had almost finished reading when the phone rang, making me start. ‘Mum, it’s Sarah.’

  ‘Sarah, how lovely. Where are you phoning from?’

  ‘I’m in Warwick, at a work conference, and it’s not exactly thrilling. They’re going to merge with another company and I’ve got to get rid of the “dead wood.” That’s what they call their loyal staff. Irony is, I’m the last in and I’m going to be handling all the redundancies. It’s going to be unpleasant and, plus, the other company hasn’t got a very good reputation. Anyway, c’est la vie, I’m here now.’

  ‘You’ll do them proud, my love. They’ve got the best person for the job in
you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, I knew you’d say that. You are, after all, my number one fan.’

  ‘No darling, that’s your father!’ I told her and she laughed.

  ‘Okay number two fan. Anyway, it’s not that I’m calling about. I’m going to ask you something and I need you to not say no straight away.’

  I froze for a second because Sarah had always been extremely good at springing surprises and not always nice ones, like the time she asked if she could bring her miserable friend Anna home for the weekend. That had been a long and tortuous two days.

  ‘I can’t promise–’ I faltered, and she didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Mum, I think this is perfect for you. You remember Anna?’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Not again please. Remember when her boyfriend dumped her and you brought her home with you.’

  ‘Oh you were both brilliant about it, Mum. That’s why Anna thought of you.’

  ‘Thought of me for what?’

  ‘She married “the boyfriend” Frank, but they have split up after a year, he wanted her barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen knitting her own uterus and stuff, but she couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘Knitting her own what?’ I chuckled because this was my funny and clever daughter to the hilt.

  ‘They bought a puppy, a black labrador called Inca. She is beautiful and really well trained. You remember I told you Frank was a police dog handler for years?’

  ‘Sarah, if you are asking what I think you’re asking…’

  ‘Mum, she’s gorgeous. You’ll fall in love with her.’

  ‘The cat, I just know the cat wouldn’t cope.’ It was my first line of defence.

  ‘Cassie is blind in one eye and deaf as a brick and she spends all her days in the spare room. She wouldn’t even know there was a pup in the house.’

  ‘How old is this pup?’

  ‘Ten months. She’s house-trained and very quiet. She’s lived with two cats already.’