Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  Monty felt badly that he didn’t see much of his grandson these days, what with his living in Edinburgh where he worked at the branch store. Still, it was good for the young man to learn the business from the bottom up. He’d started as a porter before moving to the selling floor. By the time he was finished he would know every aspect of Adler’s. Maybe, Monty often mused, he could hang on long enough to see Albert retire. Then Michael could take over the business, and Monty could go to his grave knowing the stores were in capable hands.

  Over the Christmas holidays Michael was home for a few days, staying with his parents in Maida Vale. On the Monday morning after Christmas he called for his grandfather at his flat in the West End and took him for a leisurely drive before going to Maida Vale for lunch. Despite the tired feeling that lingered after his illness, Monty enjoyed the time with his grandson. He was anxious to learn how he was faring in Edinburgh. Michael, in turn, wanted to know about the trouble in Berwick Street Market; the Edinburgh store had been rife with gossip.

  ‘Your father, God bless him, stage-managed the whole thing.’ Monty knew Michael wouldn’t be offended at hearing blame placed on Albert’s shoulders. Michael respected his father, but he wasn’t blind to his shortcomings. ‘Took matters into his own hands and concocted a few new rules. Bribed a union man to cause trouble at one of our suppliers so our order would be late.’

  Michael nodded; he had heard that too. ‘What about this chap Eagles?’

  ‘Another lunatic.’ Monty started to cough and told Michael to roll up his window; he could do without the draft. ‘You’d probably get on well with him. He’s just like you. Young, knows what he’s about, stubborn as a mule and not afraid of anyone.’

  ‘Not even of a cantankerous old warhorse like you?’ Michael flashed his grandfather an affectionate smile.

  ‘Not even of me. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Monty said with a laugh. ‘Maybe that’s why I came down so hard on him, because he refused to bend. Even after he’d sold our stuff in the market he had this holier-than-thou attitude, kept telling me that we’d left him with no choice. Never even showed one bit of regret. And on top of that, he had the damned nerve to suggest that I only offered him the full price because I didn’t want to see Adler’s merchandise go on sale in Berwick Street – not because it was our agreement.’ Just thinking about it made Monty feel worse. Albert and his bloody stupid schemes. The man had no business in retail; with that kind of warped attitude he should have been a politician or a lawyer. And all because of him, Adler’s had been made to look foolish and Monty had come down like a ton of bricks on a young man whom – he had to admit – he actually liked. Roland Eagles was hard-headed, bombastic, vengeful – just like Monty himself – but he was likable all the same. To compound matters, Simpkins had quit. Not that it mattered all that much . . . if the buyer hadn’t resigned Monty would have dismissed him for not bringing Albert’s double-dealing to his attention. If Simpkins had said something instead of refusing to get involved, the whole mess would have been avoided.

  By the time they reached Albert’s home in Maida Vale, Monty had worked himself up into a quiet fury. ‘Have a good Christmas?’ he greeted Albert. ‘If you did, you must be the only one around here who managed to.’

  Albert’s wife, Helen, a mousy woman with hair dyed jet black to hide the onset of gray, attempted to kiss Monty, who abruptly turned his head away. ‘Michael . . .’ His grandson was the only member of the family he could tolerate at the moment. ‘Get me a drink, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Now you know what the doctor said, Mr Monty,’ Helen Adler chimed in. During her twenty-eight years of marriage to Albert she had never called her father-in-law by any name other than Mr Monty. ‘You know it’s bad for you.’

  ‘A drink’s good for me. It’s your bloody husband that’s bad for me.’ Monty was past caring whom he upset now. He took a glass of Scotch from Michael and sat down, suddenly uncertain why he had even bothered to accept the lunch invitation. He cooked for himself at home a damned sight better than Helen did. She specialized in burned meat and raw vegetables – or was it the other way around? He couldn’t remember. No wonder Albert and Helen looked like a couple of rakes. Thank God his grandson was there, he thought. At least his company compensated for the food.

  Monty only picked at lunch, then debated how long family courtesy – if any remained within him – dictated he stay before asking Michael to drive him home.

  ‘Christmas takings were up eighteen percent over last year,’ Albert remarked conversationally after lunch.

  ‘Of course they were. There’s more money around,’ Monty replied. He turned to Michael. ‘You like it up in Scotland?’

  ‘I’d rather be in London.’

  The answer was what Monty had been hoping to hear. ‘Do you want Bruce Simpkins’ job? It would give you a chance to get into the buying side of the business.’

  ‘I’d love it.’

  ‘Albert, make the arrangements. There’s no point in keeping Michael in Edinburgh when we can use him down here.’

  ‘But he’s never done any buying.’ Albert was horrified at the prospect, knowing why Monty was bringing his son into the London store. He was using Michael as he had once tried to use Meir, as an ally against him. But was it his fault that he’d never lived up to his father’s expectations? That he hadn’t been physically strong like Meir? If anyone was to blame for that it was Monty. But the old man had never been able to see it and blamed Albert for his shortcomings.

  ‘So what if he’s never done any buying? He’s got to start somewhere. Anyway, we need a buyer in a hurry – a buyer who knows when to come to me and tell me what’s going on.’ Insulted, Albert got up and left the room.

  ‘Michael,’ Monty said, turning to his grandson, ‘do me a favor and take me home. I feel tired.’

  Michael drove his grandfather back to his apartment, then went inside with him. After Monty put on the kettle the two sat in the living room with tea. The apartment looked just the way Michael remembered it when his grandmother had been alive. In seven years, Monty hadn’t had the heart to change anything; the sameness seemed to be a comfort to the old man.

  ‘You’re getting too old to live here alone.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Monty asked. ‘Move in with your parents? God forbid! Go into an old age home? I’m happy here, thank you. Walking distance to the store. What else do I need?’

  ‘Company.’

  ‘I’m past the stage of wanting company. Your grandmother, bless her, was the only company I ever needed.’ Monty swung around in his chair to look at a framed photograph of his late wife. ‘Tell you what, Michael, when you’re back in London you can come in and see me a couple of nights a week.’

  Michael grinned and leaned over to clasp his grandfather’s hand. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. Now go out and enjoy yourself. Young fellow like you doesn’t want to waste a day off with an old man like me.’ He pushed Michael toward the door, wanting for the moment to be alone with the memories the apartment generated. From the window he watched his grandson drive away, then sat down in a chair next to a mahogany bureau. He opened one of the drawers and took out an old, frayed picture album. Faded black-and-white photographs of his wife when she was young stared out at him. As he leafed through the pages, the pictures became more modern. Monty with his wife, family shots. Then pictures with pieces missing as if some mischievous child had wielded a pair of scissors at random; blank spaces where pictures had been removed entirely.

  Monty felt his eyes mist as he studied the pages. He replaced the book and fumbled among the other mementoes stored in the drawer. At the very bottom his fingers felt a wooden frame, then glass. He pulled it out and sat staring at a photograph taken of Meir Adler when he was eighteen.

  Meir . . . Monty mouthed the name silently, looking at the photo until he was overcome by a coughing spasm. Before he could raise his hand, spots of saliva had spattered onto the glass covering the picture. Monty carefull
y wiped them away with his handkerchief, put the photograph back in the drawer and went to his bedroom to lie down. Contrary to his customary fastidiousness he didn’t bother to undress. Instead, he fell back onto the bed and lay quietly as he stared at the ceiling.

  Michael – how in God’s name did Albert have a son like Michael? Meir would have had a son like Michael, but surely not Albert . . . It just didn’t make any sense.

  Monty raised his hand to his forehead. It felt cold and clammy, yet his cheeks were burning. He felt a sharp pain growing in his chest. Damned indigestion, he thought. Bloody Albert’s wife had poisoned him again with her rotten cooking.

  The room seemed to be getting dark. Couldn’t be twilight already, he thought. Monty’s hand fell away from his forehead, dropped listlessly onto the bed. It was getting darker. He could barely make out the pattern on the ceiling now. He shifted his focus. The outline of the wardrobe in the corner of the room was dim and fuzzy, too.

  Monty’s last thoughts before the black veil descended completely were of his older son. With his last bit of strength he forced the tears of agonizing sorrow from his eyes.

  *

  Simon Aronson telephoned Roland the following afternoon with news of Monty Adler’s death. Details had made the early editions of the evening newspapers. When the old man hadn’t turned up for work nor answered any phone calls, Albert and Michael had gone to the flat. The superintendent let them in and they found Monty lying on his bed, the victim of a heart attack.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ Roland asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Edmonton. Why?’

  ‘I’m going.’

  Simon was amazed. ‘I can understand you wanting to attend if Adler’s was a major client. But surely—”

  ‘I’m going,’ Roland repeated firmly.

  ‘Do you think you had something to do with his death? Don’t weigh yourself down with that kind of guilt, Roland.’

  ‘Never mind my reasons.’ Roland dabbed at his eyes, felt the moisture. Would the old man have still been alive if Roland hadn’t caused him all that aggravation, especially when he was so sick? Stop it . . . Roland told himself. If anyone was to blame it was Albert. Albert had set the ball rolling, and once it was in motion there was nothing anyone could do until it halted of its own accord.

  Roland recalled the last time he’d seen the old man, when he’d visited the factory threatening revenge. He hadn’t looked well then, but he wasn’t the kind of man to let something like a cold slow him down. Stubborn old bugger, Roland thought. Now he was dead, with his cheating son left to run the business.

  ‘I’ll see you at the cemetery,’ Simon said resignedly.

  ‘Why are you going?’

  ‘We’re equal partners, remember? If you turn up, so should I.’

  Roland was about to protest that their reasons for attending couldn’t possibly be the same, but Simon broke the connection.

  *

  Roland reached the cemetery in north London at ten the following morning, and parked next to Simon’s black Daimler. The lot was packed and he could see a huge crowd streaming into the chapel. Monty Adler had known a lot of people. Roland found Simon standing just inside the chapel door, pressed back by the mass of people.

  ‘Here, put this on.’ Simon handed Roland a black silk skull cap. Roland peered across the heads of people to the coffin lying on a simple wooden trolley. Standing next to it was Albert, head bowed, a hand resting on the trolley handle. Behind him stood a young man of roughly Roland’s age, tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair and blue eyes.

  ‘Who’s that with Albert?’ Roland asked Simon.

  Simon shrugged his shoulders and asked the man standing next to him. ‘Albert’s son, Michael,’ came the reply.

  Roland had no idea what the service was about. He simply stared at the prayer book Simon was holding and tried to make sense out of the strange letters, the lines running from right to left. He’d only seen a large body of Hebrew lettering once before, when he had taken apart the mezzuzah his father had given him; had he stayed in the army and gone to Palestine, he thought, he might have become more familiar with it.

  The praying stopped. There was a movement at the front of the chapel as Albert wheeled the trolley carrying Monty’s coffin toward the door leading to the burial ground. Michael walked alongside his father, holding his arm. The crowd of mourners filed after them at a solemn pace as Albert led the procession toward a freshly dug grave. Roland stood at the back of the crowd, blinking back tears. Even when the mourners shoveled earth onto the coffin he didn’t step forward. He couldn’t bring himself to face Albert; at least, not yet.

  After the interment Simon joined a line of men waiting to ritually rinse their hands at a small fountain. Roland waited for him. Back inside the chapel after the service Albert sat alone on a stone bench as people filed past to shake his hand and offer condolences. Roland fell in behind Simon, feeling awkward as he approached the stone bench. He saw Simon grasp Albert’s hand, wish him a long life, and move on. Then Roland stood in front of Albert, shook his hand. Albert stared blankly until he heard Roland speak. ‘I’m very sorry about your father.’ Only then did Albert look up. As he finally recognized the voice, his mouth tightened, his eyes blazed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He leaped up from the bench, throwing Roland’s hand from him.

  ‘I came to pay my respects.’

  ‘I don’t need your respects!’

  ‘My respects are for your father, not for you.’

  Around the two men, the movement of people stopped. Everyone was watching the small drama which had suddenly unfolded in the chapel. ‘My father doesn’t need your respects either! If it weren’t for you, he’d still be alive!’

  Roland felt himself slipping. He tried to hold back, but failed. ‘Don’t you mean if it weren’t for you? You’re the one who broke the deal, not me!’ The moment the accusation was out he caught hold of himself. Damn! Why had he come? Out of sorrow and respect, or to get involved in a fight?

  ‘You . . .!’ Albert brought up his hands, clenched them angrily into fists. Simultaneously, two figures darted between the men. Simon grabbed hold of Roland’s arm and dragged him away while Michael Adler stood in front of his father, gently pushing him back onto the bench.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Simon hissed as he escorted Roland out of the chapel, back toward the cars.

  ‘All I said was that I was sorry about his father—’

  ‘You should never have come here,’ Simon muttered, still unable to understand why Roland had attended the funeral.

  ‘Mr Eagles!’ a voice called from the chapel doorway. ‘Mr Eagles! Can you wait a minute?’

  Simon and Roland turned around. Loping toward them was the tall figure of Michael Adler. Roland braced himself. Perhaps Michael was not as tall as Roland but he was far more muscular; he looked as if he enjoyed sports as much as Roland detested them.

  Michael reached the two men. To Roland’s surprise – and relief – he seemed contrite, even embarrassed. ‘I must apologize for my father’s behavior, Mr Eagles. He’s under a tremendous strain at the moment, but that doesn’t excuse what he did.’

  ‘It’s all right. I know what he’s going through.’

  ‘I’m sorry that he blames you for my grandfather’s death. If anyone is responsible it’s my father and myself.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I was the last person to see him alive. I took him home from my father’s house. I could see he wasn’t well but he wanted to be alone. Maybe I should have been more attentive, stayed with him a while longer.’

  Roland managed to smile. ‘Your grandfather wasn’t the easiest person in the world to say no to, was he?’ he said as he continued walking toward the parking lot.

  Michael kept pace. ‘It didn’t take you very long to know him, did it? But he was a wonderful man.’

  ‘I saw the size of the crowd, you don’t have to tell me. Do you know my partner, Simon Aronson?’


  ‘I’m familiar with the name.’

  ‘Incidentally, how did you know my name?’

  ‘Easy. Only one man could have gotten my father so worked up at the moment. You had to be him.’

  ‘That wasn’t the reason I came.’

  ‘I know, and I appreciate your presence. My grandfather mentioned you to me the day he died. He spoke very highly of you.’

  Roland was surprised and at the same time moved that, regardless of what had happened, old Monty had spoken of him fondly. ‘The last time I saw your grandfather he threatened to grind me into dust.’

  ‘That was his way. You’d got the better of him and he wasn’t about to let it go at that. It didn’t stop him thinking a lot of you, though,’ Michael said as they reached the cars.

  ‘You had better get back inside and take care of your father,’ Simon told Michael.

  ‘I will. But I just wanted to set the record straight.’ He shook hands with both Roland and Simon and jogged back toward the chapel.

  ‘Would never have guessed he was Albert’s son,’ Simon remarked as he climbed into his Daimler.

  ‘Neither would I. See you Friday at the sales meeting.’ Roland started the Jaguar and drove slowly to the factory, going over the incident once again and reaching the same conclusion that Monty Adler once had; the son had more character in his little finger than Albert had in his entire body. When Roland arrived at the factory, his secretary told him he had a visitor. Still wrapped in thoughts of the funeral he opened his office door, then came to an abrupt halt. Behind his desk sat Catarina.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Roland said, amazed at the sight of her. He rushed across the room, lifted her from the chair and hugged her. ‘How did you get away?’