The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  We? George did not so much as flinch and it passed Alice by too. We? She handed me the watch and I wrapped it around my wrist, but as I tried to fasten it, I was fumbling, the most frustrating long-term symptom of my condition.

  ‘Here, let me,’ she said and leaned down so that I was looking directly at her décolletage, her skin white as porcelain and the soft roundness of her breasts held fast in a black velvet bodice.

  The watch was soon on. Her fingers being nimble and quick, made short work of it. She stood back and I saw her hips turning away from me, and the roundness of her derrière moving under the velvet. When she had gone, I found myself face to face with Alice and I saw in her a rather ugly female envy. Perhaps not quite, but certainly she was unsettled by my closeness to Cécile. Was it my fault? I think not.

  Alice was quiet at dinner whilst George, by comparison, was quite animated. ‘Carrick, we walked down to the village at four and saw that big brute of a stag in the woods, he was standing there bold as you like, wasn’t he, Cécile?’

  ‘He was. I have never seen one that close, except in a zoo.’

  ‘We should have a day’s shooting, Carrick,’ George suggested and ordinarily, and certainly before the war, I should have jumped at the chance to go deer stalking, but I had completely lost the heart for it.

  ‘Maybe later in the winter,’ I said dully, and Alice must have mouthed something at George for he changed course midstream.

  ‘I was telling Cécile about the ball. Those days are long gone now but I remember, as a child, watching from the top of the stairs, the dancing in the dining room, the colour and the music, such a spectacle.’

  ‘It was on the wane by the time I was born,’ said Alice. ‘I have always been rather miffed about that, but I suppose things will never be the same again.’ She sighed.

  There was a moment of stillness as Henry entered our hearts and left just as quickly. It would always be so; his ghost was something we had to accommodate from here on.

  ‘I recall Christmas, all those candles in the windows and the snow, the people arriving in furs, the wreath Mrs Hall and I made for the front door. When the rationing is over, we should make every effort to bring back Christmas, it would be so very lovely,’ said Alice. She was a little more cheerful for the thought of it.

  ‘I’m just glad we three have made it through,’ said George. ‘I feel that every occasion we are together will be a very special one, to be savoured, and I am doubly glad to welcome Cécile to Lapston. Her coming here may have been under the saddest of circumstances but how very joyful it has been, for all of us. May I also be so bold as to say it has warmed my heart, in particular, to be able to meet the lady who won my brother’s.’

  I watched them both. She was looking at him demurely, he with something akin to self-satisfaction but when she turned away from him, it was me she looked at, the special regard you see only in the eyes of a companion of the heart.

  23

  ‘Hello Simon. What a surprise!’ It was pouring down and standing on my doorstep, dripping wet, was Simon from the church.

  ‘Hello Martha. I’ve brought something for you.’

  ‘Come in.’ I stepped back and ushered him into the hall.

  ‘I say, what a lovely house,’ he said as I helped him off with his drenched walking coat. ‘It’s what they call a villa, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Pass me your coat and I’ll hang it in the utility room.’ He followed me, a briefcase pressed to his chest as I sorted out the coat. ‘What a foul day.’

  ‘I know, but I had to be up this end to deliver the Parish newsletter. I once saw a postcard, you know, it had two pictures side by side, both the same cartoon of sheep huddled together in the rain. One caption read “Britain in the Winter,” the other said “Britain in the Summer.” I thought it was very funny.’

  ‘And true!’ I added. We made our way to the kitchen were I was cooking a batch of scones and the smell of them was divine. Over the past fortnight, I had discovered my inner Mary Berry, and Steve and I were both growing fat as I experimented with tray bakes and puddings.

  ‘Can I do you a cup of tea and a scone?’ I asked.

  ‘Ooh, rather, I’m famished.’ The ting of the bell was telling me the scones were ready and I lifted them out of the oven feeling outlandishly proud of myself even though my mother used to produce such things all the time.

  ‘Maybe a new career is unfolding,’ said Simon. ‘Those look extremely good. I don’t suppose I can interest you in running the church fête cake stall?’

  ‘No, but you can interest me in making a cake for it,’ I said kindly. ‘I don’t do anything related to religion.’

  ‘Really? May I ask why?’

  ‘Wars, famine, tsunamis, cruelty, sick children, you name it I cannot see that any loving God could allow those things to happen.’

  ‘Yes, fair point, that is the standard non-believer’s reply, I see it rather differently. You see, the whole God thing needs to be taken apart and reconstructed, oh that we were allowed to, but to me it means cohesion, community, helping those who are poorly or not well off. It helps those who have lost their way too, gives them a moral compass.’ I placed the jam and cream on the table and poured hot water into the teapot to warm it. ‘I think God is in here.’ He patted his chest. ‘If only people would seek to find it in themselves.’

  ‘I think two thousand years of the beardy old man on the cloud has caused the problem,’ I replied. ‘I’d be much more open to your inner God theory, but that belies the need for organised religion, doesn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Quite so, but what would happen to all the beautiful churches? I love the buildings, the sheer craftsmanship.’ I piled the warm scones on a plate and put them in front of him, the smell was mouth-watering. ‘Goodness,’ he said, ‘I called at just the right time, didn’t I?’

  We dived into them and they were delicious.

  ‘Would you like to know a secret?’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, eyes alight.

  ‘I’ve never made scones before.’

  Then we were laughing and discussing the last series of the Bake Off like two old friends.

  ‘Anyway, talking of old beautiful buildings as we were doing before your gorgeous scones, I have some thing to show you,’ he said.

  He lifted his briefcase up onto his knee and unclipped it.

  ‘Look at this.’ He passed me a blue plastic file. It was the front page of a newspaper, the local rag. “Priceless items stolen from Lapston Manor,” the words big and bold. I looked up at the date, seventh of March 1921. Under the picture of the house, the same front door, was a three-column news piece.

  “Three brothers were apprehended last night in the grounds of Lapston Manor by police officers who had lain in wait to apprehend the villains. The thieves resisted arrest and the youngest of them sustained a serious injury and is now under the care of the doctor. Charges have been brought against the burglars who are known to police as Thomas Edwards (20), Richard Edwards (18) and Harold Edwards (16) all of whom were found with silver and other stolen items of value in their possession.”

  I looked up at Simon who was watching my face for a reaction.

  ‘Goodness. It was Lapston,’ I said. ‘I knew about this from the history group.’

  “The owners of Lapston Manor were not present at the time but their butler, a Mr Fellowes, said he had been awoken by a strange sound at two o’clock which had set the dogs barking. The thieves had entered through an unsecured window in the library.”

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said Simon mischievously. ‘Actually, it was my very own mother, I was visiting her last Wednesday and we got onto you and your visit to the church and that you mentioned Lapston. Blow me if she didn’t stand up, walk across the room, open up a drawer and produce this little lot!’

  �
�Wow,’ was all I could say.

  ‘I know. It was the last thing I expected from dear old Mama. She had simply kept hold of them because they were connected to someone she knew, a lady called Sally Fitzgerald, daughter of the sister of the brothers. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes, and again wow.’

  ‘I know but that’s not all. Look in there.’ He pointed to the file lying beside me on the table. There was a small press cutting, about two inches square.

  “A court in Moreton, Gloucestershire, today found Mr James Fellowes guilty of aiding and abetting a burglary on the sixth of March, 1921 at Lapston Manor. Mr Fellowes, an employee of the Amsherst family since 1910, confessed to police following questioning. Mr Fellowes will be sentenced in April, at a date and time yet to be confirmed.”

  ‘Well I never,’ I said, holding the small piece of paper out in front of me. ‘The butler did it in the library! May I keep these for a few days?’

  ‘No need. I made copies on the vicar’s photocopier.’ Simon handed me an A4 envelope from his case. ‘And before you ask, I’ve made a copy for our local history buffs too.’

  ‘Oh well done, Simon.’ It was to be my next question. ‘I’m really grateful, in fact this earns you another scone.’

  24

  George was talking with great animation and I could only imagine that something had come over him. We were all struggling, each in our own way, with Henry’s death and all of us were quietly mourning him, making mention of him at a suitable juncture, but none of us had yet thrown our heads back and roared with laughter. George was doing so now and I felt nothing but embarrassment for him and for the situation.

  George and I were the closest of friends, but he had hardly spoken a word to me since Cécile had arrived. Granted, I had been confined, but there was a time when we sought each other out quite naturally for example, both reading the papers together in the morning room post breakfast or enjoying a cigar after dinner. These simple pleasures seemed to have been on the wane since Cécile had arrived.

  ‘Are there still nine holes open at the club? I thought it might be nice to golf tomorrow, George.’ I said this almost as an extension of my thoughts.

  ‘What? Oh yes, that is no. I’m afraid I cannot, old chap.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I said through my teeth. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Why I am taking our delightful guest to meet the Fosters.’

  ‘The Fosters?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it would be a pleasant change of scenery and they should be delighted I’m sure to meet Cécile.’

  Cécile was sipping her soup, her eyes not meeting mine. ‘I should have thought the Fosters a little old hat,’ I said sharply. ‘Surely we have better acquaintances who would be, shall we say, of more interest.’

  Alice, who had been extremely quiet until that point, put down her spoon and said, ‘I think that is a little unfair, Carrick. Sir Gerald and Lady Beatrice are the most charming of couples and their house and particularly the gardens, are an absolute delight.’ I felt slapped down, like an annoying spaniel. I continued with my soup.

  George, who has never given any quarter to angry silence, stepped in. ‘My dear, you will simply love the topiary gardens and they have a collection of rare ducks called Mandarins, they are charming little things.’

  The Fosters’ unending drivel about their birdlife was so dire I could think of nothing worse for Cécile, who had surely lived such a cosmopolitan life in the city.

  ‘Do you like ducks?’ I asked her impudently.

  ‘I have nothing to say about them, except they taste very pleasing,’ she replied and this made us all hoot, particularly George who seemed to find it extremely amusing. Perhaps, I thought, she has been able to lighten the atmosphere and good for her, given what she had been through.

  It wasn’t until after George and Alice had gone to bed that I found myself alone with Cécile. Dinner had been all prattle but, after dinner, we talked of the new way forward, how we each saw the future and what would happen to Churchill. Alice said there were rumours that he was very ill. George was fearful of further inheritance tax and the ramifications for the house. The plain truth was that we had nothing left to sell to maintain it, especially if any surprises were to come along. We had replaced our most expensive works of art with cheap copies, purchases made in Stow, or worse, my own paintings which all felt rather desperate. The silverware had survived the burglary in twenty-one, only to fall foul of inheritance tax when Sir Reginald passed away.

  Cécile was beautiful in the lamplight as she stood by the piano, looking at a picture of a young Henry. She had her hair up in a chignon. It looked glossy and immaculate, so much so I wanted to reach out and touch it. She sipped a glass of water, her fingers enhanced by a glinting ring on her right hand, third finger.

  ‘Are you not tired, Carrick?’ she asked as she placed the photograph back into place.

  ‘I’ve slept too much today to be tired.’

  ‘Me too. That is I am not tired, the night is yet young.’

  I stood up and moved towards her. That was my cue, the chance to talk to her more intimately, but she turned and walked away.

  She moved over to the globe and gently pushed it so that it rotated under her hand. ‘Tell me, Carrick, where have you been? In the world, I mean.’

  I quickly moved to stand beside her, her hand lingering over Africa. ‘I have been to Cape Town,’ I told her. ‘My father met me for a holiday there. I travelled out by boat with another family who were emigrating. I was eighteen.’

  ‘And what was it like?’

  ‘Cape Town?’ I said, placing my finger alongside hers. ‘It was very beautiful.’ I was drinking in the fragrance she wore; I could smell roses.

  ‘I have heard they have purple trees there. Someone, I forget who, once told me about them.’

  ‘The Jacaranda trees,’ I said, my voice still little more than a murmur.

  She looked up at me, her eyes so warm, so honest, I could see everything in them, everything I needed to know.

  ‘Are they as beautiful as my friend told me they are?’ she asked softly. I was hypnotised by her lips, so full, a fresh application of red lipstick on them.

  ‘They are.’ I leaned in towards her. ‘They are as beautiful as you are, Cécile.’

  She moved away again, leaving me standing, teasing me. I could feel myself reacting to her. She was everything I had ever wanted in a woman. I followed her to the sofa and we sat down. At first I thought we might sit together but she placed herself at the near end of the couch, in front of the coffee table, and was therefore blocking my way, so that it would have been ungainly to try. Begrudgingly, I took a seat opposite.

  ‘May I have a cigarette?’ she asked. I told her sourly that the box was in front of her and then I thought better of myself, and relenting, I stood up to light it for her.

  ‘I should like to return to Oxford on Sunday,’ she said, blowing the smoke into the air between us. I sat up, tapped the ash from my own cigarette, and immediately asked if I might escort her.

  She looked at me, eyes half-closed behind the smoke, those terrifyingly attractive cats eyes that could fix on me and demand my attention. ‘I should very much like you to escort me, Carrick, I shall look forward to travelling with you as I am not sure of myself in England.’ A feeling came over me then such as I had never really known prior to that moment, not in all my life. I felt the first strands of the joy of love wrapping around my heart and pulling themselves tight. I knew that in Oxford I should have her all to myself.

  25

  I was determined to stay away from Rory. It had been nice, an interlude and a reminder of those first tentative steps of a relationship, of being fancied even, ridiculous as that might sound. However, I was sixty and laughter lines were appearing round my eyes, the skin was starting to crinkle under my chin.

  Steve and I had b
een together forty-two years, a lifetime. I had met him at our local youth club, he a gangly youth who was good at pool, me a real sight with a beehive and thick black eye-liner. We’d passed the stage of lovemaking and become good companions, best friends. That’s what I read everywhere; you just accept each other and rub along neither of you making overtures or silly declarations. I knew that whilst talk of future plans had diminished and Steve had become less outgoing over time, we were absolutely certain of each other.

  When the envelope dropped on my mat, I knew it was from Rory. I went to the window and saw him striding down the hill, with Scooter straining on the leash. I tore the envelope open and saw it was a postcard.

  “Meet me at the gates at four tomorrow.”

  No signature, just an instruction, something I wouldn’t have equated with him. I pressed the card to my lips and breathed in. I could smell him, the countryside, fresh air, earth.

  Steve was at school. It had taken him so long to recover from the virus I had been worried. He had been very weakened by it and started talking of retiring and, to my dismay, of moving to Wales. I wrote a cheerful note, telling him I’d gone to look for a birthday card and a present for Becky in Chipping Norton. I had already bought both.

  Rory was leaning against the four by four, his hands in his pockets and as I pulled up, he smiled.

  ‘Hi,’ he said as I climbed out of the car. ‘Was I mysterious enough?’

  ‘Very,’ I heard whining and a repeated thumping sound from inside his car.

  ‘Are you ready for the black bomber?’

  I had on my old clothes and girding my loins, standing square on two feet as Rory opened the door of the pick up, I was prepared. Scooter launched himself from it like he’d been shot from a cannon. He was soon sucking my arm and then he bounded off as if he knew where we were going.

  ‘Follow him,’ Rory said, motioning me towards a narrow bridleway that led along the outside of the wall to the woods.