The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  The rear door opened onto a stone terrace and from there a long narrow garden fell away. Of course it was dark, so she could barely see anything at all.

  ‘You can do anything you like with the gardens, obviously over half is vegetable beds, but there is a small upper lawn which catches the afternoon sun very well,’ I told her.

  ‘And my girls?’

  ‘Ah, the hens. We’ll pop them in the Anderson tonight and then we’ll repair the coop tomorrow. It only needs the netting stretched back into place.’

  ‘The house is very small, Mr Carrick. I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t trip over each other.’

  ‘I think you’ll find anything after Lapston is small,’ I said in my most reassuring voice. ‘Upstairs are two bedrooms of good size and a bathroom. You have a bed, an armchair and a fireplace with a good draw. It’s cosy but serviceable, please do make it your own. Now, dear Mrs Hall, what do I pay you? I have no idea of such things.’

  ‘Oh Mr Carrick, you have been so kind, I need only a small amount if you are letting me have bed and board and I promise in a few days it will look like a new pin in here.’

  ‘Do I assume it doesn’t quite look like a new pin at present?’ I asked with a smile.

  ‘It needs a woman’s touch,’ she said, rubbing a finger along a bookshelf and holding up a rather dusty fingertip. Of course what she said only served to make us both think of Alice. I could see Mrs Hall’s face was about to crumple so I suggested we fetched the birds and took them down to the shelter.

  Later on, we both sat, she nursing a drinking chocolate, me on the couch with a whisky, both tired but too afraid to go to bed because we were burdened with a grief so strong it was almost certain to consume us. The events of the day, I realised had been a diversion, and a good one at that.

  ‘What happened to Grant?’ I asked, staring into the flickering flames of the small fire.

  ‘I have no idea. He was very angry when he left, he packed his things immediately and was gone. Such a lovely man. He went back to London – he said a friend of his needed help running a restaurant. It broke my heart to see him go, well it does doesn’t it when you know someone so well?’

  She paused momentarily. ‘At least, I thought I knew him well…’

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Hall?’

  ‘Oh I shouldn’t say it really.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, he had struck up more of a friendship with Mr George, and I didn’t think it was quite right for a man in his position. Sir Reginald would have put a stop to it, chatting with the staff in the library and such. They would discuss matters and then just tell me what had been decided. That was a bit upsetting – I did feel left out – but I cannot complain really because Mr Grant was a fair man with a good heart.’

  ‘And Lizzie? You told me in your letter she left soon after.’

  ‘She did, she was pushed out too.’

  ‘Pushed?’

  ‘Yes, by that woman, Madam Roussell. It was like having a cuckoo in the nest, forcing us all out.’

  ‘Do you think she did it deliberately, I mean orchestrated it?’

  ‘Normally I don’t speak out of turn about anyone, but I didn’t like that woman. I did everything I could to please her, made her French food and the like, but do you know she never once said a word of thanks.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, and Mr George changed too. It was like he was under her spell and all so quickly. He became, I’d call it aloof, as if they were both better than anyone else. Then she was wearing Lady Augusta’s clothes, helped herself to a blue evening gown and a very expensive tweed suit, she did.’ I remembered the latter, in the library that terrible afternoon, the penny dropped. ‘That’s why Miss Alice left so soon, she couldn’t stand it, and I told her we would all miss her, but she just said she had to go.’

  I could have shared with her my deep misgivings about Alice, but even though we were closer than ever we had been, I couldn’t say anything. It was as if all the words were stuck in my throat.

  ‘Yet Cécile showed me such kindness when I, when I–’

  ‘When you had your funny turns?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘That was Alice,’ she leaned forward. ‘That was my Alice. She sat next to your bed. I covered her with a little blanket when she fell asleep.’ Mrs Hall shook her head. ‘She nursed you, Mr Carrick. That French woman never came near except if George asked after you, then she popped her head round the door.’

  I tried to remember, but one image leached into another, dull shadows only, no clarity.

  The mantel clock chimed midnight, a cold noise in the cosy room. It stirred us both.

  ‘My dear Mrs Hall, I do believe it is Christmas Day.’ I held up my glass in a half-hearted salute. ‘To Alice, our darling Alice.’ We turned back to the fire where the embers were slowly dying. The year was dying too, but inside both of us something was already dead.

  51

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ I said, turning away from my daughter.

  ‘Yes, you do. I can see it a mile off. Dad can’t but let’s face it he couldn’t see it if it was written on the side of a bus and parked outside the window. I collected up the empty mugs and the basket full of left over croissant crumbs and took them into the kitchen but it was no good, she followed me. ‘I could see it written all over your face, Mum.’

  I turned back to face her, she was leaning against the Aga.

  ‘I, I don’t know what to d-do,’ I said, tripping over my words like an idiot.

  ‘How long?’ All of a sudden she sounded accusatory, unpleasant.

  I swallowed back the things I could have said. I wanted to snap her head off for talking to me in that tone, but more than that, I so wanted to explain how he made me feel, how much I yearned to be with him, how I couldn’t go any further without causing pain to everyone, including her.

  ‘It hasn’t,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘Nothing has happened.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Since early spring. He has this dog, you see, he knocked me over, and then there is Lapston.’

  ‘The old house?’

  ‘Yes, we, that is he, does the garden, the knot garden and he showed me.’

  ‘Mum, you look absolutely terrified. I’m not going to say anything to Dad.’

  I felt a strange kind of relief wash over me and I realised that my skin was tingling as my subconscious recalled Rory. That kiss. Even then, in front of my own daughter. My stomach churned and twisted, and I ran a hand through my hair wondering, as I did so, when had it become so thin? How on earth did he think I was attractive?

  ‘Mum, you’re not listening to me.’ I realised she was right. ‘You’re not listening.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m just all over the place at the moment. It’s very difficult.’

  Sarah placed her hands on my shoulders, her head tilted slightly. When did she grow so tall, or was I shorter now? They say your backbone starts to crumble past sixty, don’t they?

  ‘Mum, you’re going through a bad time, you’ve left work, you’re feeling lonely then you’ve met this man and he’s brought a bit of excitement in your life. You couldn’t do that to Dad. He may be grumpy and boring now but you and him have history, a shared life, it’s not worth throwing it all away.’

  ‘That’s what Becky said,’ I told her.

  ‘Then she’s as sensible and mature as me.’

  I placed a hand on my daughter’s soft cheek. Her skin felt cool under my palm, the flawless complexion free of any signs of ageing.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know, I could never hurt your dad.’

  52

  I woke up wringing wet, the sheets were wrapped around me and my right leg was hanging over the edge of the bed. I clasped my hand to my forehead; it had been a t
orrid and very real nightmare. I had been in the lounge at Lapston, I was miserable and overwhelmed with loss and then I saw Alice through the door. I fumbled in my pockets for a key and found one, but it didn’t fit the lock. I pressed my hand against the glass hoping it would pass straight through, that I could control the subconscious thoughts myself, but the way was barred to me.

  Outside the window, I could see Alice. She had a bonnet on with a scarf wrapped around it. She looked just like her mother, the same lovely face. I waved back and she beckoned me to come and join her in the knot garden. I began to cry, hot tears rolling down my face, and then she was turning and walking away, threading her way through the winding paths to the river and onto the long, flat field where the aeroplane wreckage lay strewn about her. Dead people lying like broken dolls in the muddy fields…

  There was a light tapping on the door.

  ‘Mr Carrick, is everything all right?’ For one absurd second, my heart lifted and I thought it was her, Cécile, coming for me to take her down for dinner, me with her on my arm.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, Mrs Hall.’ I shook the images from my head and downed the glass of water by my bed. ‘I’ll be ready for breakfast shortly.’ I got a grip of myself. I had to go on, even if it were just for Mrs Hall’s sake.

  Indeed, the arrangement had been working very well. Mrs Hall had cleaned everywhere, washed my bedding, tidied the garden, and whenever I wanted it, she always managed to rustle up something to eat. My appetite, since Alice, was small and each day stretched into another, the gloom of darkness barely withdrawing before it began all over again. The hum of American planes rattled the house to the foundations at times, and outside the streets were dark and dreary.

  In early January, I took the train into the city.

  As I walked past the second-class carriages, I saw it was packed with people, like so many crates of chickens bound for market, bemused heads peering out through grimy windows.

  It made sense for me to go up to London and oversee some business on behalf of my father. He had suggested, in his latest letter, that I might find employment in the war office, and I had to look willing. Mrs Hall had joined the local Women’s Institute and was out more evenings than she was in. I was glad for her; she deserved better than the ghostly halls of Lapston. As for me, I missed it with every fibre of my being and, to make matters worse, George had made no contact with me. I had presumed that by snatching Mrs Hall from him, I might at least deserve some rebuke, but much worse was the silence and the very fact that he did not want to talk to me about Alice. I felt desolate for that reason, as if I had not only lost her, but him as well.

  Between the latticed tape of carriage windows, I saw that London was grey and forlorn. It reminded me of the great flank of a dead whale I saw in a cove in Cornwall. The skin was slashed, the fibres of the flesh beneath it transparent, dull grey slits visible in the tough, limpet-clad skin. That was London now, a huge monster lying wounded and almost dead, the life draining out of her and made worse by the smog and the soulless winter. War had taken everything and was testing the very last of the British fighting spirit. In the back yards of dark terraced houses and the litter strewn streets were people with drawn ghostly faces. Women, old men and children, every one of them, shattered by loss, if not of loved ones, of their homes, their places of work or way of life.

  Is this what Hitler had planned? To eradicate us, to raze our cities to the ground and then stick a flag in the rubble, his jack boot on our heads? It was madness from the start, pure madness begetting even more madness.

  The train arrived at Paddington and the doors banged open accompanied by the hiss of the engine and then a cloud of steam surrounded me. As it cleared, I saw a familiar figure on the concourse. I stood on tiptoe to give me the advantage above the heads of my fellow passengers, but it was of no use. I quickened my pace, edging around a large group of children and their teacher, and caught again the sight of blond hair. Grant. He was walking quickly, nimbly passing through the American troops who huddled in groups waiting to board a train. I picked up my pace, half running and made after him.

  He was striding most purposefully, with me some thirty feet behind him. As I left the shelter of the station the rain was like stair rods. I tried calling to him but he had his collar up, and unusually, no hat. It was obvious that he couldn’t hear me.

  I was almost upon him when he turned a sharp left into a building just off Conduit Place. It had a narrow frontage with a blue, anonymous looking front door and a window to one side, covered in criss-crossed tape just like the train. I stepped inside making the bell ring and brought in with me a cloud of wet air. It was an old shop and the display shelves and glass cabinets were all empty and covered with dust.

  From behind a filthy curtain in the corner a man appeared, he was small with dark hair swept over a bald pate. His glasses being round and cheap made him look older than his years. He was looking very surprised to see me standing there, of that I was certain.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  I looked around me. There was no reason at all to explain my presence. I decided there was nothing for it, but to tell him the truth. ‘I followed an acquaintance in here. I have not seen him for some time and, by chance, saw him again just now at the station.’

  ‘An acquaintance, sir?’

  ‘Yes, a Mr James Grant.’

  He stood looking at me up and down. The steam was rising from my woollen coat, the room seemed to be filling with moisture from it.

  ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. There is no Mr Grant here.’

  He reminded me of the confounded little man at The Angel hotel.

  ‘I have just walked in behind him and saw him enter.’ I did not conceal the annoyance in my voice, but he merely met my words with silence. ‘I insist that you tell Mr Grant I am here.’

  ‘I cannot, sir, because he is not here.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It is my private business, sir,’ he replied coldly. ‘May I ask if you have been referred to me?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, are you a doctor or some such?’

  ‘No, sir. Now, if I may ask you to leave, I would be very grateful; I am a very busy man.’ He came from behind the counter and escorted me the two yards to the door and as I left he pushed it closed with great vigour.

  I waited some ten minutes, on the other side of the road, in the shelter of a shop doorway, but no one came out. I spotted a workman, huddled under an oilskin on a bicycle, coming along the street. I stopped him and asked if he knew what the place was, but he said he did not and it was none of his business to tell me if he had known. I tried to give him a coin for his trouble and to tease some further information from him, but he shrugged me off.

  That night I was in my hotel in Mayfair. It was surviving, but only just. Yards along the road my father’s club had taken a direct hit. The whole atmosphere of the place had completely changed, I would have to describe it as a pervading weariness. The maître d’hôtel barely spoke, his face was haggard and his uniform looked shabby, echoing the mood of the place. Inside, I found Lewis back from France, his right hand bandaged, he was smoking a rather fine cigar with his left. I had asked him to meet me there.

  ‘Carrick, old man,’ he said. ‘Take a pew.’ I sat down beside him, knowing that he knew a little about everyone and a lot about the most important things. ‘I haven’t seen you since autumn. How is everyone at Lapston? I heard about Alice, dashed bad luck, a fine girl, looked just like her dear mother.’

  ‘It is a huge loss for us,’ I said, masking the deadened feelings inside me. There were many times in those dreadful days that I just wanted to explode with anger and this was one of them. I looked around at the men in their leather chairs surrounding me, wondering how many of them were experiencing the same thing.

  ‘How is George?’

  ‘He’s fine, coping very wel
l I expect. He is in Scotland currently.’

  ‘Gone back already?’

  I tilted my head. ‘Already?’

  ‘I had a drink with him at The Café Royal on Thursday.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, he wanted to organise getting to France for him and a companion, knew I could pull some strings and all that.’ I was completely wrong-footed and quite taken by surprise.

  ‘Where was he staying?’ I asked as calmly as possible.

  ‘The Cumberland, I think, no The Strand, that’s it.’

  ‘He wanted to go to Paris. I told him he stood no chance, only top brass and civil servants higher than me could pull that off, but I could find some method of transport that would get him within shouting distance.’

  ‘A companion?’

  ‘Yes, he was taking a lady friend with him, apparently all very hush, hush. I would have thought he’d have told you, Carrick.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I must apologise, it slipped my mind, when is he going?’

  ‘Next week, all things being equal, I still have some calls to make.’

  ‘Could you do the same for me?’ I asked, as a waiter placed my whisky in front of me.

  ‘What’s all this about needing to get to Paris?’ Lewis exhaled a smoke circle that rose between us, I watched as it dispersed. ‘Suddenly everyone wants to go, it’s a mess, lawless.’

  ‘I have some urgent business to undertake for my father, he would like it addressed as soon as possible,’ I lied.

  ‘That doesn’t cut any ice, I’m afraid, old man. The opportunities are very slim, but I will see what I can do. Your father and I go back a long way and he pulled the odd string for me in times past, if you know what I mean. In early February a lot of my colleagues are going to and fro in an effort to make sense of it all. Maybe I could rope you in. The Yanks are working with us now.’

  ‘Do you have any positions?’

  ‘In Paris?’