Echoes of the Past

by Maggie Ford

  They had never let him view the bodies – too young, they’d said. He’d been sixteen, old enough, but they wouldn’t let him. Uncle Henry had gone in his stead and forever after became grim-faced whenever the death of his brother was mentioned.

  Not being allowed to see his parents rather than helping had raised all sorts of pictures in his mind. The war had not been kind to the young – talk of people blown apart, buried under tons of rubble, burned to death, did not escape young ears – and what he saw in his mind was his parents’ broken, unrecognisable bodies, their lovely faces torn and rent. He had suffered nightmares, still indelibly etched in his brain to this day, while his waking life around that time remained clouded as though it had never existed.

  Everything had gone to Edwin, being their only child: their money, possessions, the house with all its contents and their shares in Letts, though Uncle Henry as the main shareholder in the family had still retained the controlling interest.

  As for himself, a wealthy young man, he had grown up with no interest in the family business. Life stretched ahead of him, and to block out what it had done to him, he took advantage of what its future had to offer a young man of means. He left college, despite Uncle Henry’s frowns, and did not go on to university. But his grades had been high and when called up for National Service after the war, he’d gone in as a junior officer as a matter of course. Stationed in Germany, he’d had a good time, lots of girls, plenty of booze, great mates. When he’d come out of that, he continued to seek the high life, bought the flat he had now, held parties there, had plenty of friends, his pick of the girls, but somehow it had all gone stale. There is only so much one can enjoy before that happens. One can weary even of eating caviar at every meal.

  He often wondered if his parents had ever felt like that, gallivanting all over the place as they had, gambling, spending money, always away somewhere. He had grown up hardly seeing them for much more than a few weeks at a time. Perhaps it was that which had affected him so on their death, the feeling of lost opportunities, of some sort of lurking void.

  For a while he had aped them, but it was forced, and he began to realise that he wasn’t like his wayward father – that deep inside him slept a more thoughtful character. It had often sent him downhill into a pit of misery. But he’d always had a base when the doldrums hit – his Uncle Henry and Aunt Grace in that big rambling house of theirs, so different from his parents’ ultra-modem home in High Ongar which he couldn’t bear going near. Under John Creasy, the manager in charge, it was well looked after. Now it would have to be sold off if he listened to William Goodridge.

  Edwin felt no pangs at the thought of seeing it go. It would be a weight off his back, sitting there in the countryside glowering accusingly at him for ignoring it all these years.

  Eventually Aunt Grace died, of cancer. Uncle Henry had sat with her for weeks in that private clinic, never leaving her side, was inconsolable after she went. But three years later he’d remarried. Now he too was dead. Things always moved on, and now it seemed it was his own turn to knuckle down and take on the responsibility of the family business no one else seemed to want, all only too eager to be rid of it.

  Edwin felt anger against them all rise inside him, like gall in his throat. Across the room full of people he saw Goodridge gazing at him as though reading his thoughts. As their eyes met, Edwin was dismayed to see him leave those he’d been with to shoulder his way across the room towards him. Edwin tightened his lips. The man was bent yet again on persuading him into taking on the challenge Letts held out.

  “Would you mind if I had a word with you in private?” he began, and what could Edwin do but nod assent, suspecting the worst? But it was not about the restaurant after all.

  “I have a great favour to ask of you,” he said, having guided him to the open but deserted front porch. “Do you recall my telling you about Helen’s mother?” he embarked, hurrying on before Edwin could affirm it, “and that I’m not her real father – that your Uncle Henry was?”

  Again he gave his listener no time to reply. “You did realise it makes you cousins? But that’s not important. What is important is that I need to know if you’ve said anything to her about it.”

  “I’ve not mentioned it,” said Edwin, mystified. “Being as we were with other people while we were together I never thought to say. Why? Should I have?”

  Goodridge bit his lip. The older face smoothed a little as though in thankfulness. “This is the favour I have to ask. I would be obliged if you didn’t mention the fact at all. You see, I’ve never told her that I wasn’t her real father. I’ve kept putting it off and now, at this late stage in her life, I find it excruciatingly difficult to embark on it. I know I should have told her at an early age, but to tell the girl who thought she was your daughter that her real father didn’t want his good name and his marriage messed up and so had me bring her up in secret as her father, that would have destroyed her. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  Edwin did not reply. Yes, he saw only too clearly. This man was a coward through and through. He’d lived a lie all his life and now he wanted Edwin himself to further that lie.

  “You can’t hurt her now.” The plea cut through his thoughts. “It has to come through me. I shall tell her. But please, not you. Please, say nothing.”

  Dismally, Edwin nodded. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this charade they call a funeral gathering.” He didn’t want to be around this man who was virtually making hell of a promising heaven with Helen.

  Two

  Across the restaurant, Edwin caught a glimpse of William Goodridge and swore under his breath.

  Certain of it being the restaurant manager’s day off, he had come here with the intention of seeing the place through different eyes, without Goodridge’s influence, but the best laid plans, as they say… There was nowhere to hide, and to walk out would in itself attract the man’s attention. All he could do was sit here and hope for the best. All he wanted to do was form his own opinion of the place, make up his own mind about it.

  Over the years he had seldom ventured here. Before his uncle’s death he’d been having a good time. Having done his National Service, and found it quite cushy really being a lieutenant, he’d had every intention of enjoying life to the full with friends of his own social standing, going to parties, having a good time with plenty of girlfriends. He’d hardly been near the family business. But the good life had worn a little thin of late anyway, and the thought that he must one day knuckle down and do something had begun to nag at him. Goodridge’s suggestion that he at least try to pull Letts up by its bootlaces was tempting, he had to admit. Tempting but frightening. So here he was looking the place over through the eyes of a customer.

  Goodridge hadn’t seen him yet, the place being just over half full this lunchtime. Office people mostly, enjoying their hour’s break. Once, according to Goodridge, it would have been full to overflowing, customers of notability rubbing shoulders with their own sort. Now it held white-collar workers.

  Edwin’s reverie was cut short. Goodridge had caught sight of him, was coming over. The tall figure in the dark jacket possessed the somewhat intimidating bearing of a man in control of an entire restaurant and all who worked under its roof, its smooth working assured under an eye that missed nothing. An almost imperceptible nod or lift of the chin sternly commanded one or another waiter to hasten himself, be more attentive or to mind himself in what he was doing.

  “Mr Lett, we don’t often see you here.”

  Edwin offered the man a smile. Still the precise formality despite his being so young, just twenty-five, a mere boy to William Goodridge who must be approaching sixty. All so different to the informality of the pub when he had spoken of the good old days of Letts. Perhaps it was because he was here in the restaurant rather than that pub. Edwin decided to keep to the formality this man had set.

  “I thought I’d cast an eye over the place,” he began. “After all you told me about it, I fee
l I’ve stayed away too long. I’ve had a lot of social catching up to do since doing my National Service.”

  The attempted joke fell flat; the other man’s lips hardly twitched. Still being bloody formal, making him uncomfortable. Suddenly any interest in resurrecting this place fell away. What was the point? Drop the whole thing.

  “May I ask, Mr Lett, if you’ve had any more thoughts on approaching your uncle’s widow and son about this place?”

  Why he should feel irritated, Edwin wasn’t sure. “No, not yet,” he replied curtly, huffy as a young girl. The man was being pushy.

  “You should get cracking, Mr Lett,” said Goodridge. “I’ve heard that Mrs Lett will be talking to some people on Monday or Tuesday. Doesn’t give you much time, if you’re still of a mind to buy her out.”

  Was he “of a mind”? He wasn’t sure. Uncertainty must have shown in his face as Goodridge said, “Don’t order yet, Mr Lett. I’d like you to come with me. I’ve something I want to show you.”

  He was already on his way, compelling Edwin to get up and follow him across the restaurant and up the curved flight of carpeted stairs to the mezzanine level, its gleaming circular dance floor at the moment deserted. One glance at the outdated art deco chandeliers, the glittering gilt cocktail bar, the surrounding plum-coloured carpet and the scattering of spindle-legged tables and chairs, and Edwin was instantly reminded of a film set straight out of the thirties. This was its problem: nothing had moved forward, all had become stuck in the decade prior to the war, his uncle loath to change anything.

  But why? There had to be a reason. To all accounts he’d been quite a go-getter in the twenties, his brother Geoffrey, Edwin’s father, much less interested in Letts except to spend its profits, if Goodridge was to be believed.

  The man had pulled no punches in telling him of his father – had told it as it was, no inflexion or emphasis of any sort on the memories he had raked up from the past in that pub some ten days ago, and everything he’d said had been utterly believable.

  Edwin, a little taken aback by Goodridge’s frankness about his parents, still retained a sneaking suspicion that he had held back more than he had told. It would have taken weeks, would have filled a whole book, and any memory related instantly off the cuff can never be that complete. No doubt a lot of it had been more forgotten than left out. The man perhaps could be forgiven.

  He was led on across the dance floor to a door exactly matching the surrounding decor. This Goodridge opened and, stepping through, Edwin found himself conducted along a dingy passage, up more stairs to another door that led to an office, then across that and through a glass door into a smaller room, a private office. There Goodridge went, pulling open the drawer of a wooden filing cabinet on the far side of the room and taking out a brown leather photograph album.

  “Here,” he said. Laying it on the desk he opened it. “Come and look.”

  Lying inside the leaves were photographs. “Taken of the restaurant in its heyday,” he enlightened Edwin. “From the 1920s onwards. Mr Henry liked to take photos of it all. See what you make of them.”

  Obligingly Edwin bent over them, scrutinising each one as he was shown it. One took his attention so that he stayed Goodridge’s hand in the turning over of the next leaf. He didn’t see the smile on the other man’s face as he let the page remain.

  Faded to sepia, the photo was an enlargement of a group of revellers, clustered close together for the snap to be taken. Behind them people were seated, every table occupied. All around were Christmas decorations that even in this faded photo looked as though they still moved, still glittered in the bright light of a myriad chandeliers. For a moment or two Edwin felt he could almost hear the raucous din of a dance band, the echoing murmur of voices, felt he could even hear the tune – “I’ll See You In My Dreams”?

  Why that song? The more he stared, the more he was drawn into the picture, as though becoming part of the excitement. His blood had begun to run like a river approaching a cataract. His face had become hot as though he had been drinking, his breath grown sharper. In his mind the people were actually moving, laughing, responding to the photographer’s commands to “smile and say cheese!”

  Edwin looked up quickly, realising his lips too had formed around the word, and experienced a small shock to discover the office in which he stood all still and quiet. He found himself looking at Goodridge, his own eyes, he was certain, glowing from the experience he’d had.

  Goodridge was looking intently at him, smiling, the older face creased with satisfaction. “You see what I mean,” he stated simply.

  Slowly Edwin nodded, then straightened his back, found it stiff from the posture he’d adopted to stare at the photo. Not only that, the scene was still with him and so was a desire, so strong that he could almost taste it.

  “I’m going to do it, Mr Goodridge. I’ll go and see her this afternoon.”

  “First,” warned Goodridge, his face now grown serious and businesslike, “look in on your bank manager and find out how much he would lend you on top of your own finances for such an enterprise. I cannot see him refusing you, Mr Lett. You are one of the family. Your credit will always hold good.”

  “I wonder,” mused Edwin as the album was put lovingly away. He could still see the photo as though it had taken up permanent residence in his brain. “The place isn’t worth half of what it once was.”

  “Don’t be too sure, lad.” Informality dropped away from Goodridge; it was like a father talking to his son. “Once an outsider is interested in developing it the value will rise soon enough. Mrs Lett and your cousin are eager to get rid of it and take what they can before it loses any more of its value. That catering firm they are meeting may be keen to snap up it up before word does get around and up goes the value. On the other hand they might delay making a decision to scare your aunt into lowering the price even more. I don’t think she or your cousin have much idea of business. They just want to take the money and have out. Though Lord knows, your aunt as his wife has Mr Henry’s entire estate other than what he bequeathed in his will.”

  Edwin stared at him. One thing he hated was Marjory Lett being called his aunt. She was a money-grabber, leaping into the shoes of his real aunt hardly was the woman cold in her grave – or that was how he saw it. The other thing he hated was being told what to do as if he hadn’t any savvy of his own.

  “Whichever way,” Goodridge went on, “if you’re serious about giving this place a go, you’ve got to move fast, lad.”

  It seemed this man was practically taking over, making decisions for him. Edwin felt angry. “I’ll make my own choice,” he said.

  Goodridge held his gaze. “I know you will. And it’ll be the right one, I’m sure.”

  In all this he’d not once mentioned the conversation about Helen.

  Edwin had come away not sure whether to be angry at being so spoken to, as though he were a boy, or chastened by superior knowledge. He did know that things were becoming urgent and that should he decide to buy Marjory out, he needed to confront her with an offer that would top rather than match the one being quoted. William Goodridge, who seemed to have an ear permanently to every inch of the ground and had no doubt been talking to Hugh, had told him what the present offer for the majority share in Letts was. He’d also warned that, in his experience, any assurance that might be given during negotiations to include the family name with that of the new management or guarantee that the staff would keep their jobs would be all eyewash.

  “I’ve seen it before,” Goodridge had said. “Hardly are signatures dry than promises are neatly side-stepped under the excuse of streamlining the business. It’ll be the last you’ll ever see of Letts Oyster Restaurant, lad.”

  Edwin went to see his bank manager immediately. He came away quietly elated, the promise of a sizeable loan ringing in his ears. His father’s country house, Tilse Hall in Epping, Edwin’s own since losing his parents but seldom visited, would be collateral. Yes, he could do this thing. If only he felt a
little easier about what he was letting himself in for.

  This venture would leave him pretty well strapped. No matter what, he’d keep his flat in Mayfair, bought with money his father had left him – he would need a place to live if things went wrong. But everything else would be tied up in the expansive loan his bank manager Mr Shawcross was arranging on the back of his shares in the business, on Tilse Hall. Its farm still required a manager, as it had done when his parents had been off elsewhere, mainly in the South of France, spending Lett’s profits in casinos. He’d heard how Uncle Henry would often settle his father’s debts; Geoffrey had even at one time sold some of his percentage in Letts back to his brother, leaving his son fewer shares in the business than he would have had even though a decent living still came from the farm.

  The loan had been given on the back too of all he had in savings, the restaurant itself if he went ahead with it, and above all on the family name. The family name went a long way. But if Letts failed now to make profits, he’d lose everything. Not a nice thought.

  Driving out of London towards Essex and Swift House, he wondered more and more what the hell he thought he was doing. How would Marjory receive him? Though he could hardly see her sending him packing, not with what he was offering. She couldn’t care less who took over the restaurant so long as she could have done with it, hard cash in her hand instead.