The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘No, I’ve never seen it,’ Simon said, stepping back.

  When I finally made eye contact with him, I could tell that he was weighing up the situation. I saw something in the look he gave me, a frozen stare matched by thin judgmental lips. ‘Jolly good. Anyway, I must be off, I have to set the church up for the Evergreens tea party.’ He pressed on, following the path below the one we’d taken to the church. He kept his head held erect and didn’t look back. I knew he had seen through us.

  ‘Oh my God.’ I ran my hands through my hair. ‘I can’t believe it, of all the people, I hardly know anyone in the village and the one person I like and have only just met sees me out here with you. I just can’t bloody believe it.’

  ‘He won’t say anything. His type never do.’

  ‘You mean good honest people with morals.’

  ‘Martha, you gave me a hug. We haven’t broken any laws, we hugged.’

  I walked towards my car, my mind racing, and as I opened the door, I said; ‘I’m sorry, Rory, truly.’ He didn’t react, he just looked at me and I felt wretched. He was still standing, gazing after me as I did a three-point turn and drove away.

  28

  George looked over Cécile’s shoulder at me, his expression forbidding. ‘I had no idea you were going back to Oxford today, Carrick.’

  ‘I’m sorry, old man, I thought I mentioned it,’ I replied with insouciance. ‘As it happens, it fits in well with Cécile’s plans and I can escort her.’

  ‘But what of Alice, will you be back in time for her birthday?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I said, answering for both Cécile and myself. I saw her head move a little to the side, but she didn’t turn to look directly at me.

  ‘She is organising a special meal for us all.’ He stepped forward and kissed Cécile on both cheeks. ‘Please come back, my dear. We would love to have you representing Henry at the table.’

  ‘Of course, George. It would be my honour. This is only au revoir,’ She kissed him lightly on both cheeks. We climbed into the trap and, as Ogden flicked his whip over the cob’s wide rump, I saw George look crestfallen, but it did not weigh heavily on me because it was the moment I felt I had taken charge of the situation.

  The day was glorious, the dying days of summer giving way to a quite splendid autumn, and red and gold tipped leaves lined the fields of Oxfordshire as we passed through. The train journey was too short, too simple and I should have preferred to have been going further in her company. She asked me about my flat and Peterson, from whom I leased it, and I explained that he was still fighting in Normandy with the Grenadiers. We talked of Paris and London before the war and of her taste for escargots and my aversion to them. She was wearing a red jacket and a cheerful silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. The spirit between us was light, the connection strong. From time to time, when she was looking elsewhere, I looked down at her legs. She wore stockings, unlike Alice, and I imagined running my fingers inside the band and rolling them down her thighs.

  She marvelled at the spires rising up above us, and the beauty of the colleges with their immaculate emerald green quads. I smiled because this beautiful city suddenly seemed to be beckoning me onwards to a new life, a life with her, and I think she knew it too.

  ‘Is your studio here in the centre?’ We were standing at Carfax and I was about to ask her if she would like to meet for luncheon.

  ‘No, it is just over Folly Bridge. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, I would please.’

  It warmed my heart to think she was so interested in my art and I instantly regretted my lack of recent work. My studio was on the southern bank of the river, tucked away behind a line of willow trees. The grass was wet with dew, and small droplets rolled over the tips of our shoes as we walked towards it. It was above a boathouse and there was a small lobby at the rear and a narrow flight of stairs that led up to the first floor. I led the way, still carrying her small valise. She followed, her footfall light on the steps behind me.

  ‘Through here.’ I pointed to the small studio. It was dominated by a large half-moon window that cast a good deal of light across my desk and easel, the very reason I had rented it in the first place.

  The air in the room was stifling so I pushed open the roof light and the atmosphere lightened immediately. She removed her coat and laid it over the back of my chaise longue. My work was spread across various surfaces, the many sketches and watercolours I had completed over several years. The few that pleased me were framed on the wall.

  Cécile lifted up a small watercolour and inspected it closely. ‘Where is this?’

  ‘That is the church at Lapston.’

  ‘I thought so. George showed me around it. It is beautiful, Carrick, a fine piece of work.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She moved across to my plan chest, the sketch on top was a nude, a pencil study from art college, I had been using as reference. ‘And this?’

  I stepped to her side. I could smell the roses on her skin again. She was wearing a light woollen sweater, cream in colour. I could see the strap of her brassiere through the weave. I wanted to lay my hand on her shoulder, feel it under my touch.

  ‘That is something I did as a student.’

  ‘It is masterful.’ She turned towards me and I then was standing so close to her, I could feel her breath on my cheek. Her eyes were soft, drawing me to her. I lifted my hand to cup her chin, it felt natural and right but she moved to one side, away from me. ‘I wonder if you might draw me, I would like a nude done.’

  A lightning bolt of shock ran through me, the frisson of nerves seeming to swamp me for the moment. She was asking to be naked before me.

  ‘I would… would love to,’ I stammered. The deep surge of energy I had felt inside subsided, a warmth overtook me, for this was it, this was everything I had wished for.

  ‘Then I will be here at ten,’ she said calmly as she shrugged on her jacket. ‘Would you please tell me how to find my hotel. It is not far from here I think?’

  She was staying at The Angel Hotel on The High.

  I insisted on walking her there and, as we arrived, the pavement was spattered with polka dots of warm rain.

  I thought she might let me kiss her there and then, but we were in the street so when her lips brushed each cheek and she moved away from me, I simply said: ‘Au revoir,’ for the following day she would be all mine.

  As I pulled away from her, I noticed a telephone box some sixty feet along the road, a blue Jaguar parked beside it. I felt so uplifted by my journey into Oxford, and my time in Cécile’s company, that I wanted everyone to be happy, including Alice. I felt the urgent need to apologise to her but, as I was about to dial, my attention was attracted to a flash of red, in the corner of my eye, coming out of the hotel.

  It was her, Cécile. She was standing looking away from me, her hand shielding her eyes. I pushed on the stiff door. It was obvious to me she was looking to see if I was still in the vicinity. I strode towards her, raising my hand so that she might see me as she turned around.

  Then I halted, for a companion, a man of medium build wearing a trilby and tweed overcoat, was joining her. She kissed him on both cheeks and linked her arm with his. I watched them cross the road and both were running a little as the rain fell more heavily. I could smell the pavements, the sand in the concrete becoming wet beneath my feet, creating that uniquely English scent.

  I think my hand may have still been raised in the air, ready to wave, as she turned the corner and disappeared, with him, into Turl Street.

  29

  I watched Steve as he sipped his wine. We were sitting in the garden, him reading a Stephen Hawking book, me with a women’s magazine closed on my lap. I wanted him to ask me if I was okay, take some notice of me, just once tell me again that he loved me. Does this happen in marriage, especially a seasoned marriage, the passion repla
ced by a trusting companionship? I wanted to scream at him, “Steve, another man wants me, you must fight for me.”

  I constantly revisited every minute of the afternoon with Rory in my mind. The memory was glorious with colour, like a painting I could travel over, examining every tiny detail. The church; the narrow shingle path up from the river to the bench; the half hour or so sitting next to him; Scooter lying below us in the long grass, panting.

  There was a bumblebee on the pot of flowers next to me. I could hear its angry buzzing as it tried to fly with its legs heavily laden with pollen. That was me; my burden being the life I had built with my husband, what would it be like, I wondered, to fly away?

  It was a few days later, I saw Simon in the churchyard as I walked past with Inca. He was talking to a young couple and I guessed they were discussing their wedding plans. I nodded at him and he was about to acknowledge me but his face darkened, just a little, and he looked away. He knew.

  I found every day away from Rory harder than the one before. I thought about everything else, cleaned the house, baked cakes, worked on the project, but my mind constantly returned to him. Each time I saw him, Lapston Manor and its secret and incredible knot garden.

  ‘Have you found anything else about Lapston?’ Angela Gattis and I were sitting in the front room of her little cottage. The curtains and sofa coverings were chintz and the carpet, threadbare in places, had seen long service. Her pretty rose tea set was very old, but by far the finest china I’d seen in a long time.

  ‘My dear, they have found very little, nothing of note.’ I passed her the photocopies Simon had given me.

  ‘I have these.’ I showed her.

  She took them from me and, putting on her glasses, she read them slowly. I was very pleased with what I brought to the table, but she was distinctly unmoved.

  ‘I had heard that about the butler,’ she said. ‘But the name Grant comes more to mind. I thought it was he who was investigated by the police, I must have got that wrong.’

  ‘I wonder why you thought it was Grant and not Fellowes?’

  ‘I don’t know, let me think.’ She stood up and walked over to a large antique chest of drawers, which stood proudly against the wall behind her. She pulled out a brown file, an old fashioned thing, and placed it on the coffee table between us. As she opened it, I saw the contents, a mixture of assorted notes and writings, all in her recognisable hand.

  ‘Here it is.’ She passed me a record card, a pink one, at the top was written Lapston Manor and then there were three paragraphs.

  “Grant, James. Butler, Lapston Manor 1921-1944. Born in Kingston, Surrey.

  “Started work as a hallboy at fourteen, trained at The Ritz arrived at Lapston in 1921.

  “Grant was a corporal in the Home Guard in 1939 whilst three other inhabitants of the house included Major Henry Amsherst, Major George Amsherst and a family friend, resident at that time, Maxwell Carrick.

  “Grant was dismissed from his post when ownership of the house was transferred.”

  Angela was reading the card alongside me. ‘I can’t believe I missed all that info, honey. We could put some more flesh on the Lapston bone with that.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out about Grant and the Amshersts. There might be something on Google about them.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Google, oh never mind.’ I smiled inwardly. ‘I bet I can find out a bit more now.’

  ‘And don’t forget this Carrick fellow,’ she said, passing me the card and tapping her nail on the name. ‘Here, take this, but let me have it back when you’re done.’

  I was walking home up Pudding Lane, a one-way street, when I heard a vehicle coming up behind me. When I turned, I saw him at the wheel of his pickup but he drove past and my heart, which had soared for a few tremulous seconds, sunk immediately. Then he stopped and backed up, so I picked up my pace and drew level with the driver’s door. He looked so sad, so not himself. I wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m fine. You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve thought it over and have decided to give in to me?’

  ‘No. That is, I’ve thought about it, of course, but no, Rory, I can’t.’

  He looked away, eyes focussed on the building site at the top of the road where men in hard hats walked backwards and forwards pushing wheelbarrows.

  ‘That’s a great shame, Martha, because I think we’d be good together, and you should know that I’m very good in bed.’ He turned his head towards me as he said the last bit and I had to laugh.

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  ‘Is it Scooter? Only I could pack his sandwiches in a road map and send him off somewhere.’

  ‘No,’ I replied kindly. ‘It’s not Scooter. I’m married. It’s a small consideration, I know, but it means I’m prevented from hanky panky with other men.’

  He looked away again and I flattered myself that, even though we were joking with each other, I was breaking his heart.

  ‘You’d have to bring your own hanky, I only have panky at home.’

  It was so silly. He was so very different from Steve, I laughed heartily. At that moment, a car came up the road and the driver sounded her horn crossly. I pulled away from the pick-up’s window sharply .

  ‘What’s your number?’

  ‘My mobile?’

  ‘Landline, I can’t remember mobile numbers.’

  ‘832757.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, releasing the handbrake. ‘Norman Fry’s home, saw him yesterday.’ And then Rory was gone and I gave the driver of the car behind a killer stare for interrupting me while I was talking to the man I was falling in love with.

  30

  He is holding a knife to my throat. I have my eyes closed. No, they are open. I can see the blade and the fine edge of the black steel. It is cold and hard against my neck, he is slicing slowly, back and forth, making it unbearably painful, and I can taste the iron of the blood gurgling in my mouth. I try to scream but I can’t make a sound.

  And then, I realise it isn’t me after all. I’m watching Collins, it’s him not me. The Jerry has him by the hair, his neck is exposed, the white of his chest, the line of red where he is sunburnt, the sunburn is red, no the blood is red, he is red, he falls forward. I am still. I am waiting, my heart is beating, thumping in my chest, and it vibrates around my rib cage. Now he’s coming for me and I can’t free myself from under the iron bar, my feet, my feet. I scream. No one hears me. The flats are half empty, so many men away fighting, so much iron-tasting blood being shed everywhere.

  I scramble to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  I let it run over my hands, but there is no blood, just my fists curled into tight balls of anger.

  I expected her to change her mind, but at ten I heard the light tapping on the door and she was standing there before me. She kissed me on both cheeks, taking in the gaunt tired expression on my face, no doubt. Sleep, after my nightmare, had proved impossible.

  This time, I followed her up the steep stairs. She was wearing a high heel, the seam of her stockings running up the calf.

  In my studio, I asked if she would like some tea. She declined.

  ‘Where do you want me to sit, on here?’ She pointed to the chaise longue I had dragged into the middle of the room. It was covered in a William Morris fabric, opulent and strong, cyan and magenta, to offset the white of her skin.

  I nodded, unable to speak. I had not drawn a figure for over ten years. I even had doubts in my abilities, but I was determined. She took off her jacket and handed it to me, and I hung it on the back of my door. She said not a single word, in fact she had her back to me as she pulled the blouse out of her skirt and began to undo it. It shimmered as she shrugged it off and I caught hold of it before it dropped to t
he floor.

  She was not wearing a brassiere. Her naked back was smooth, not a single blemish. She unzipped her skirt and it skimmed her legs as it fell off. I bent over and picked it up, placing both her blouse and skirt on the back of a chair. When I turned back to her she was rolling her stockings down her legs, her fingers under the band, her pale pink nail polish showing through the sheer fabric.

  I felt a lightness in my head and a knot in my throat, all at once pleasurable, disturbing. I had never felt this way about any woman before. She was standing in front of me absolutely naked, her bottom pear-shaped, the light soft on her curves. She leaned over and straightened the fabric, so that it lay completely flat against the bed, then she turned around and sat on it, one arm draped over the higher end.

  I had moved back behind my board and easel, the sight of her blocked from me whilst she adjusted herself. All at once, I was overcome with awkwardness, absurd as that might sound, but when I peered around the edge of the board, I saw not only the object of my study, but of all my desires.

  I could not help my eye as it travelled over the long legs, the calves curved one upon the other, the thighs slender, the darkness of her, and the stomach flat, inverted and perfect between her hipbones. Then her breasts, full and round, the dark nipples erect under my gaze and finally, her eyes. They were not hers but instead the unconditional stare of the nude woman in “Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe.” Challenging, unmoving and audacious. I had to shake myself out of my deepest thoughts when she asked, ‘Will I do?’

  ‘Yes.’ I half croaked the word and without saying anything further, I picked up my pencil and began to work on the points of reference, skimming over the shapes she made. I could feel myself overcome with the desire to commit her to the paper before me, and with everything I had in me, I would make her mine, enjoy that delicate skin under my lips. The thought was filling me with an uncomfortable desire.