by Peter Rimmer
“Does mother know?”
“Certainly not and don’t you tell her. If the child’s a boy he could one day inherit the title. Why he must be born in the Manor: an Englishman.”
“Mother can count.”
“Our mother never thinks badly of any of her children.”
“We can drive down together.”
“Thank you, Barnaby.”
“Give Freya my congratulations.”
When Robert put down the phone he could hear his brother still laughing. Then he had put a second call through to his mother in Dorset. By the time he had finished organising his own crucifixion, the large trunk was in the customs warehouse ready for collection.
Two hours later while Genevieve unbeknown to Robert was still trying to call her father to cancel her own journey down to Dorset, he and Freya boarded the train for London.
* * *
“Lady St Clair,” said Mrs Mason to old Warren as they were drinking tea together in the kitchen of the Manor house, “is in a right royal fluster.”
* * *
The first call to Lady St Clair had come from Merlin saying he was driving down to Dorset for the weekend and bringing with him a surprise. Lady St Clair’s first thought was to pay a visit to her hairdresser in Swanage. Merlin, she was sure, had at last, found himself a bride.
Half an hour later the second call came from Robert in Liverpool. No sooner had Lady St Clair digested the fact of her new daughter-in-law being in England, Barnaby telephoned. They were all coming down for a visit. All three boys at the same time.
To add to her sense of panic, Barnaby said an American was coming down at the end of the month: a friend of Robert’s who wished to spend a few days with British aristocracy whatever that meant. The American, Barnaby had called Hank Curley, would be better off in a good hotel with servants of an age that did not require walking sticks to help them around.
As always, the thought of seeing Barnaby made her smile. He was her youngest. Only to herself did she ever admit he was her favourite.
The corridor was dank and dark and smelling of must… Children! What would she have done without her children? If only all the girls could be with them. All except Lucinda, the thought of which set Lady St Clair of worrying about Harry Brigandshaw.
“Are you all right, Lady St Clair?” called Mrs Mason. The footsteps in the corridor leading to the kitchen had stopped.
“I was just thinking, Mrs Mason.”
“Come and have a nice cup of tea.”
“What a lovely idea…”
“It’s going to be so nice with the boys in the house.”
“It is, isn’t it…? So silly. You have so many children you can’t get them out from under your feet. Noise. Arguments. Laughter… Then they go. All of them… What was the point?”
“A weekend like the one we are going to have. Old Warren’s going to slaughter one of the pigs.”
“I think Merlin has found himself a wife. He’s bringing down a surprise. I was thinking I should go to Swanage to have my hair done but it is all so far.”
“Your hair looks very nice.”
“Do you think so? The girls these days are all so well groomed… I live in the past, Mrs Mason.”
“We all do at our age. It’s one of the pleasures of growing old. Memories. Nothing wrong with memories.”
* * *
Little Mavis, at sixty, the youngest of the servants, had gone off to throw open the windows in the old house. To let the smell of summer waft into the rooms. Old Warren with the help of Lord St Clair made the Atco motor-mower start, the engine sending a cloud of blue smoke across the garden in front of the house. The lawn had last been mowed three weeks before. By the time the one piece of front lawn had been cut in straight lines, the summer air smelled of newly cut grass mixed with a slight whiff of petrol fumes.
Mrs Mason took herself off to the station at Corfe Castle driven by Lord St Clair in the Rover 14 Barnaby had given to his father earlier in the year. Going as far as the station with Lord St Clair at the wheel was quite enough for Mrs Mason. After that, she took the train to Swanage for her day of shopping. She and Lady St Clair had prepared a list in the kitchen over the cup of tea. The boys had their favourite food. On the shopping list was a small barrel of herrings which Mrs Mason was going to souse in vinegar with fresh herbs cut from the garden outside her kitchen: fresh bay leaves from the big tree, sorrel, thyme, mint and wild oregano. The herrings she would layout in dishes, deep enough for the split open fish to be covered. The fish would be soused in time for Sunday lunch in the garden under the walnut tree. Honey she needed for the cakes. Dried fruit. Spices. The list went on for a page and a half. After the long shop she would have a cup of tea with Mrs Pringle, the young Mrs Pringle married to young Edward, Mrs P’s son who worked on the fishing boats. Then the train back and the taxi to the Manor. It was going to be a lovely day. A nice change away from the old house that would look so nice when she came home… Mrs Mason’s heart was all of a flutter with happiness at the thought of her house being full of people once again… They were such dry old sticks on their own, she told herself. Old people needed the young to liven them up. To remind them what it was all about. Why they had had such long and happy lives… Mrs Mason couldn’t wait to see Barnaby again. Despite all his nonsense, he was still her favourite.
* * *
Barnaby and Robert were the first of the boys to arrive at the Manor on the Thursday afternoon. Lord St Clair had heard Barnaby’s car from far away, as it drove the high road through the Purbeck Hills. Most times the family used the small door cut into the side of the big Gothic front door of the Manor house. The doors stayed closed. Imperious. In one of Lord St Clair’s grand gestures, they had all helped open them, the creaking sound going out far into the hills. Through the grand doors gaped the hallway into the old house.
They all waited on the high terrace above the newly cut lawn. Everyone who lived in the house. A tradition that had come to them down the centuries when the knights of old came home from the wars.
When Barnaby’s Rolls-Royce came into sight at the end of the driveway through the trees, everyone took a deep breath. Like Merlin’s Bentley, the car was black, shining black with newness, Barnaby having only driven his new car out of the showroom in Regent Street the previous day.
Lady St Clair smiled down on them as they got out of the car. The bride looked radiant, confirming Lady St Clair’s suspicions aroused by the sudden invitation to the wedding in Denver. Even if their invitation had come months in advance of the day, neither of them would have travelled to America. They were too old. Robert was married and going to be a father which was all that mattered. All mothers could tell when a girl was pregnant. There was so much happiness in their eyes.
Walking forward as the trio came up the steps on to the terrace, Lady St Clair went first to her daughter-in-law and gave her a hug. They were old friends from the time Freya had spent at the Manor while Robert was writing one of his books. Then they looked at each other at arm’s length.
“Welcome home, Freya. Welcome home. I just know how happy you two are going to be… Robert… Barnaby… What a lovely surprise.”
“Why are the big doors are open?” said Robert.
“My sons have come home,” said Lord St Clair awkwardly. He never liked to show his emotions.
“Merlin is on his way,” said Lady St Clair kissing her sons on the cheek in turn.
“What’s Merlin coming for?” asked Robert.
“He’s bringing a surprise.”
“Did he tell you anything?” asked Barnaby.
“Of course not. He’s bringing down a girl who is going to be his bride.”
They all trooped into the house.
* * *
Barnaby would go back for the luggage after he had had some tea. He was nervous. All three of them were nervous. The big house was silent with disapproval. Only when the dogs burst out from somewhere inside did the old house seem normal to Barnaby. His mothe
r was looking at Freya, directly at her stomach. After shaking hands, the servants had gone. Barnaby had given Mrs Mason a hug. Everything to Barnaby had seemed to be in slow motion. He and Robert had yet to agree on a way of broaching the subject of the parchments. They had agreed to say nothing the first day. Neither of them was sure who to speak to first. Now he was at home the idea of asking his parents to tell a lie was impossible. All the bravado of being thirty years old and rich had evaporated. The disaster of Tina and Harry was nothing in comparison as to how he felt now.
By the time they had drunk tea at the table laid out under the walnut tree in the garden, neither of his parents had mentioned the wedding. Or Harry Brigandshaw. His mother kept smiling at Freya. There was no doubt in Barnaby’s mind his mother knew Freya was going to have a child. He was not sure whether the smiling complicity was a good omen or bad. Barnaby just wished Robert would stop fidgeting. Maybe Merlin’s big surprise was telling their parents the family home was about to be dragged through the mud. Typical of Merlin. Doing it the right way. In person… As the idea of Merlin broaching the subject first made it seem worse he got up from the tea-table to take the dogs for a walk. Robert gave him a look of panic. The dogs began barking. Dashing around the table with excitement.
“What’s going on here?” said Lady St Clair. “What’s the matter with you two? If you’re worried about me finding out Freya is going to have a baby, I think it is wonderful. Truly wonderful for both of you. Children are the glue that holds together a good marriage.”
“Oh, it’s not the baby,” said Robert with a faraway look of doom on his face.
“Then what is it, Robert?”
“I want you to both lie for me, mother. Or my reputation, and with it this family’s, is in tatters.”
“Sit down, Barnaby!” said Lady St Clair. “Now. Freya, you are now part of my family so you will stay. I presume you also know what is going on?”
“We wanted to be sure we could have children.”
“Very sensible. What we preach and what we do in this life are usually two very different things. Very sensible. Have you seen a gynaecologist?”
“Only a doctor.”
“You need a specialist. Especially for a first child at your age. This is your first child?”
Freya nodded. Robert gave his mother a weak smile.
“Right, Robert. You are the man of words. While your father is still sitting down what do you want me to lie about? There are no secrets in this family, I hope… Out with it and don’t beat about the bush.”
For ten minutes Robert tried to make out what he had done was all part of the business of writing books. Of how he wrote his books. Neither of his parents said a word until he had quite finished.
“It wasn’t your great-grandfather who spent all the money,” said Lord St Clair, “it was your grandmother who threw the chalice at your grandfather. My father. Jolly good shot by all reports… You have a tremendous memory, Robert. I haven’t told that story for more than thirty years. You must have been a small boy. Everything you told your publisher and this Hank Curley is quite true. Only jumbled. All the family bits you heard as a boy has come together in a jumble. Only when you wrote it down in Holy Knight did it all make sense. I’ve read your book twice. You have my full approval. There are certain parts in all our lives we don’t shout about. Certainly not to strangers. We must just hope we learn from those mistakes.”
“But we don’t have any parchments to show Hank Curley,” said Robert miserably. “However true my story may be based on fact, I told Max Pearl I had proof. Not legend passed down through the generations.”
“But we do have proof.”
“Where?”
“I think we all deserve a glass of sherry. The proof can wait. It’s been in the house long enough. Suckling pig in the dining hall tonight. Done especially by Mrs Mason on the spit. Stop looking so worried, Robert. Do you think all those years ago I would tell you family stories that were not true? That would have been telling you a lie. Something your mother would never have permitted.”
“Where are the parchments?” asked Barnaby.
“Whoever said parchments? You said you wanted to show Mr Curley the proof. Then we shall. The parchments you thought of as paper are tablets in stone.”
“You mean the family history is written in stone?”
“Exactly. I rather think we had something to do with the saying, written in stone. But I’m not sure, so I would be lying if I claimed it for the family.”
“Where are the stones?”
“At Corfe Castle. Naturally. Where the story of our family began.”
“But it’s a ruin. Clumps of pulled-down building blocks covered in grass and moss. Nothing taller than a small tree.”
“That’s what the ruins look like now. It’s what is underneath that I will show you. The castle in its heyday went down as far as it went up. Deep into the hill.”
“Why didn’t you tell us children, father?”
“The one who inherits the title is told. Can you imagine all the archaeologists digging away if it became common knowledge? We St Clairs were not saints, you know.”
“What about Curley? If he finds out what is under the ruins he will tell the world.”
“Leave Mr Curley to me. Now, let us men go into my study for a glass of good Spanish sherry and let Freya talk to my wife in private. Can’t you see they are both bursting with things to say they would never let us men hear for a moment… Does Merlin know all about this…? Good. I’ll show you all after he arrives with his big surprise whatever that is going to be.”
* * *
Robert thought he was walking on air to his father’s study where they found the windows flung open by little Mavis who was still letting in the summer air to compete with the smell of old books. Being told to go to his father’s study as a child was never good. Robert still expected the worst. How could something so valuable go unknown for centuries he asked himself as his trembling hand took the first glass of brown sherry? Unlike most people who drank sherry in England, his father liked the sherry to taste sweet.
“Maybe you had better sit down, Robert. I’m your father, don’t forget… She’s a very lovely lady and better still she has brains. You are a lucky man… Now, let me see if I can find what I’m looking for.”
The two brothers sat and looked at each other not saying a word. Both quickly finished the sherry. Barnaby sniffed as usual at his father’s bad taste in sherry. The paler, the drier was how his friends drank it in London.
“Here they are,” said Lord St Clair a few moments later. “Some of them anyway.” He was carrying under his arm what looked like tubes made from rolled up paper which he put on his desk in front of his sons… “Now. What have we got here? This one is in French. So is this one.”
Lord St Clair had unrolled what was in his hand.
“What is it father?” asked Barnaby.
“Here we are. One of the ones I was looking for. They’re all jumbled up I’m afraid. This one is in English, Robert. Come and read over my shoulder while I hold the damn thing open. They spring back into a roll if you let them go. I used brass weights at either end when I read them after inheriting the title. You were about six, Robert. I must’ve told you everything I read not imagining you were taking it all in. Do you remember those winter nights around the big fire in the cosy room where I went to relax after a day’s difficult work? I must’ve been bursting to tell someone but couldn’t according to the will.”
“But these are the parchments I’m looking for,” said Robert reading over his father’s shoulder.
“Not really, Robert. Anyone with knowledge at a quick glance would know the paper is nineteenth century. This was the work of your great-grandfather. He was a scholar. My father was the reprobate who spent all the money and threw wine at his wife. The fifty-year great love you talked about Robert was true but it was one generation back. From your child’s memory, you put the two stories together to come up with the thrown chalice a
cross the great dining room table, the table that has been in the family for all the centuries. I must’ve talked about parchments. These parchments but they were not in the wall of the great hall. Yes, there was a hollow ring when the silver cup hit the wall behind my father. Yes, there was a secret cavity but there was nothing inside when my father had a look. He was looking for something valuable to sell. To pay his debts… What we are looking at is one part of a book written by our ancestor’s grandson. Sir Henri Saint Claire Debussy’s grandson. In French, naturally. We came over with William the Conqueror from France… You are not the only writer in the family, Robert. Like so many things, what we are is passed down to us from our ancestors.”
“But this is in English,” said Barnaby.
“First my grandfather copied the tablets down in French. Then he translated the old French into modern English which is what you are reading now.”
“Do the original tablets really exist?” asked Robert, “Or was my great-grandfather just a writer like me. Making stories up around the family legends?”
“Oh yes, they exist all right. I’ll show you. When Merlin arrives. But of course, they are written in French so you won’t be able to read them… Now, who would like another glass of brown sherry? I heard a rumour that Mrs Mason is making her famous soused herrings you like so much, Barnaby.”
“And suckling pig, tonight,” said Robert. “But you never slaughter piglets.”
“Well, this time we had to – the poor old thing. Sally-Sue the sow had nineteen piglets. To paraphrase old Warren they weren’t enough tits though I think he meant teats. They are the two smallest we are eating tonight. The rest of the piglets wouldn’t let them drink their mother’s milk. Nature has some terrible ways of making life survive. Every one of us is in a fight for survival and it never stops… Don’t you worry about this American, Robert. Leave him to me. The St Clairs have been around a long time… Now I have another good idea. Why don’t the three of us take those dogs for a walk in the fields? If you think about it, the mess you were in Robert was all my fault for talking out aloud all those years ago and having no idea a small boy was taking it all in. Let alone going to write it down in a book thirty years later. It must be a great blessing in your work to have an almost total recall from that far back.”
