by James Hilton
Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only mitigated by ramparts of newspapers and unwritten permission to be as morose as one wished. But this morning they all felt that such normal behaviour must be reversed—everybody had to talk and go on talking. Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with the additional drawback of having had less sleep. During the interchange of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper, Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.
He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience: "Er . . . I really do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as it must be to you—I suppose loss of memory's like that—but what I DO want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I'm a perfectly normal person so far as everyday things are concerned—I'm not ill, you don't have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special consideration. . . . So just carry on here as usual—I'm anxious not to cause any additional upset at a moment when we're all of us bound to be upset anyhow."
He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it had been wise to say anything at all. Then Bridget leaned over and touched his hand.
"That's all right, Charles."
Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table: "Quite understand, old chap. We're all more pleased than we can say, God bless. Of course with the old man being ill we can't exactly kill the fatted calf, but—but—"
"I'll consider it killed," he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with more coffee. They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.
Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal earlier, along with Dr. Astley. Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take care of the rest. He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family were children. Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.
They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor's suggestion began walking in the garden. Five minutes were occupied by a see-saw of congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and acknowledgments. Charles became more and more silent as these proceeded, eventually leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead broke by exclaiming: "Don't be afraid I'm going to ask you questions—none of my business, anyhow. Sheldon told me all that you told him—it's a very peculiar case, and I know very little about such things. There are some who claim to, and if you wished to consult—"
"At the moment, no."
"Well, I don't blame you—get settled down first, not a bad idea. All the same, though, if ever you want—"
"That's very kind of you, but I'd rather you tell me something about my father."
"I was coming to that. I'm afraid he's quite ill."
They walked on a little way in silence; then Sanderstead continued: "I'm sure the first thing you wished to do on coming back to us in this—er—remarkable way was to see him, and for that reason I'm grateful to you for deferring the matter at my request."
Charles did not think there was any particular cause for gratitude. He said: "Tell me frankly how things are."
"That's what I want to talk to you about. In a man of his age, and suffering from his complaint, complete recovery can't exactly be counted on—but we can all hope for some partial improvement that will enable him to—to—face a situation which will undoubtedly give him a great deal of pleasure once the initial shock has been— er—overcome."
Charles was beginning to feel irritated. "You don't have to break things gently with ME, Sanderstead. What you're hinting at, I take it, is that my father shouldn't learn of my existence till he's a good deal better than he is at present."
"Well—er—perhaps—"
"To save you the trouble of arguing the point, I may as well tell you I entirely agree and I'm willing to wait as long as you think fit."
"I don't know how to express my appreciation—"
"You don't have to. Naturally I'd like to see my father, but if you say he's not well enough, that settles it. After all this time I daresay we can both wait a bit longer."
They did not talk much after that. Charles was aware he had rumpled the doctor's feelings by not living up to the conventional pattern of a dutiful son; but he began to feel increasingly that he could not live up to any conventional pattern, still less could he be "himself," whatever that was; all he could do was to cover his inner numbness with a façade of slightly cynical objectivity. It was the only attitude that didn't seem a complete misfit.
A further problem arose later in the morning, but Sheldon broached it, and somehow he found it easier to talk to HIM.
"Dr. Sanderstead tells me you've agreed to his suggestion that for the time being—"
"Yes, I agreed."
"I'm afraid that opens up another matter, sir. Now that the servants know—which of course is inevitable—I don't see how we can prevent the story from leaking out."
"I don't suppose you can, nor do I see why you should. I'm not breaking any local by-laws by being alive, am I?"
"It isn't that, Mr. Charles, but your father sometimes asks to see a paper, and I'm afraid that once the story gets around it'll attract quite a considerable amount of attention."
"Headlines, you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wouldn't like that for my own sake, let alone my father's."
"It would doubtless be very unpleasant. A young man from the Daily Post was on the telephone just now."
"ALREADY? Well, if they think they're going to make a national hero of me, they're damn well mistaken. I won't see ANYBODY."
"I'm afraid that might not help, sir. It's their job to get the news and they usually manage it somehow or other."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
"I was thinking that if somebody were to explain the matter personally on the telephone, giving the facts and using Mr. Rainier's state of health as ground for the request—"
"You mean get in touch with all the editors?"
"No, not the editors, sir—the owners. You see, Mr. Rainier has a large newspaper interest himself, and that makes for a certain—"
"Owns a paper, does he? I never knew that."
"It was acquired since your time, sir. The Evening Record."
"Well, if you think it'll do any good, let's try. Who do you think should do the talking—George or Chet? Better Chet, I'd say."
"Well, yes, Mr. Chetwynd would perhaps explain it more convincingly than Mr. George. But what I really had in mind—"
"Yes?"
"Lord Borrell has stayed here several times, sir—bringing his valet, a very intelligent man named Jackson. So I thought perhaps if I were to telephone Jackson—"
An hour later Chet came up to Charles with a beaming smile.
"Everything fixed, old boy. Sheldon wangled it through Borrell of the International Press—there won't be a word anywhere. Censorship at source. Borrell was puzzled at first, but eventually he said he'd pass the word round. All of which saves me a job, God bless."
So the story, which became one for curious gossip throughout the local countryside as well as in many a London club, was never hinted at by Fleet Street. The only real difficulty was with the editor of the Stourton and District Advertiser, a man of independent mind who did not see why he should not offer as news an item of local interest that was undoubtedly true and did not libel anybody. A personal visit by Chetwynd to the landlord of the premises in which the Advertiser housed its printing plant was necessary before the whole matter could be satisfactorily cleared up.
Charles spent the morning
in a wearying and, he knew, rather foolish attempt to play down the congratulations. Every servant who had known him from earlier days sought him out to say a few halting, but demonstrably sincere words. It rather surprised as well as pleased him to realize that he had been remembered so well; but the continual smiling and handshaking became a bore. There were new faces too, recent additions to the Stourton staff, whom he caught staring at him round corners and from doorways. They all knew his story by now and wished to see the hero of it; the whole thing was doubtless more exciting than a novel because more personal in their lives, something to save up for relatives when they wrote the weekly letter or took their next day off.
Once, on his way through the house, he passed the room on the first floor where his father lay ill. It was closed, of course, but the door of an adjoining room was open, and through it he could see two young nurses chatting volubly over cups of tea. They stared as he went by, and from that he knew that they too had heard and were excited over the news.
When he appeared at lunch, he found Sanderstead and Truslove in the midst of what was evidently a sharp argument. Truslove was the family solicitor, a sallow sharp-faced man in his late fifties. During the little hiatus of deferential how-d'ye-dos and handshaking, the doctor and the lawyer continued to glare at each other as if eager to make an end of the truce. It came as soon as Charles said: "Don't let me interrupt your talk."
"What I was saying, Mr. Charles," resumed Truslove, eager for an ally, "is that the problem has a legal as well as a medical side. Naturally one would prefer to spare your father any kind of shock, but can we be certain that he himself would wish to be spared—when the alternatives are what they are?"
"All I can say," Sanderstead growled, "is that in his present state a shock might kill him."
"But we have Mr. Charles to think about," urged Truslove; which made Charles interject: "Oh, for heaven's sake don't bother about ME."
"Very natural of you to say that, Mr. Charles, but as a lawyer I'm bound to take a somewhat stricter viewpoint. There's the question of the WILL." He spoke the word reverentially, allowing it to sink in before continuing: "None of us should forget that we're dealing with an estate of very considerable value. We should bear in mind what would be your father's wishes if he were to know that you were so—so happily restored to us."
"We should also bear in mind that he's a very sick man," retorted Sanderstead.
"Precisely—and all the more reason that his desire, which I am sure would be to make certain adjustment necessary for the fair and equal division—"
Charles drummed his fingers on the table. "I get your point, Truslove, but I'm really not interested in that side of it."
"But it's my duty, Mr. Charles—my duty to your father and to the family quite as much as to you. If I feel morally sure that a client of mine—"
Sanderstead interrupted: "If changing his will is what you're thinking about, he could no more do that than address a board meeting! And that's apart from the question of shock!"
"Isn't it possible that a shock caused by good news might give him sudden strength—just enough to do what he would feel at once to be necessary?"
"Thanks for the interesting theory, Truslove. When you want any advice about law, just come to ME."
Charles intervened with a slightly acid smile. "I don't know why you two should quarrel. You may be right, either of you—but suppose I claim the casting vote? I don't want to see my father if there's any chance the shock might be bad for him, and I don't give a damn whether I'm in or out of his will. . . . Now are you both satisfied?"
But of course they were not, and throughout lunch, which was a heavy affair with nobody quite knowing what to talk about, he was aware that the two men were engrossed in meditations of further argument.
During the afternoon he tried for a little quiet in the library, but Chet found him there and seemed anxious to express HIS point of view. "You see, old chap, I can understand how Truslove feels. Legally you're—well, I won't say DEAD exactly—but not normally alive. He's bound to look at things from that angle. What I mean is, if anything were to happen to the old man—let's hope it won't, but you never can tell—you wouldn't get a look in. Now that's not fair to you, especially as there's plenty for everybody, God bless. That's why I think Truslove's right—surely there must be a way of breaking good news gently—Sheldon, for instance—"
"Yes, we all think of Sheldon in emergencies. But I do hope, Chet, you won't press the matter. Truslove tells me there'll be no difficulty about my resuming the income we all had from Mother—"
"But good God, man, you can't live on five hundred a year!"
"Oh, I don't know. Quite a number of people seem to manage on it."
"But—my dear chap—WHERE? What would you DO?"
"Don't know exactly. But I daresay I should find something."
"Of course if you fancied a salaried job in one of the firms—"
"I rather feel that most jobs in firms wouldn't appeal to me."
"You wouldn't have to take it very seriously."
"Then it would probably appeal to me even less. . . . But we don't have to decide it now, do we?"
"No, of course not. Have a drink?"
"No, thanks."
"I think I will. Tell you the truth, all this is just about wearing me down. Gave me an appetite at first, but now I feel sort of—"
"You mean all the fuss connected with my return?"
"Oh, not YOUR fault, old chap. After all, what else could you do? But you know what families are like—and wives. Argue a man off his head."
"But what could there have been any argument about?"
"Well, Truslove and Sanderstead—like cat and dog all day. Personally, as I told you, I back Truslove—but Lydia—well, she's never seen you before—she can't help feeling there's something a bit fishy about it—and of course, old chap, you must admit you haven't explained everything down to the last detail."
"I'm aware of that. If the last detail were available, I should be very glad to know it myself."
"Don't misunderstand me, though. Far more things in heaven and earth than—than something or other—know what I mean? I accept your statement ABSOLUTELY."
"But I haven't made any statement."
"Well, at breakfast you did—you said you were all right—NORMAL, I mean. And I'm prepared to take your word for it whatever anyone else thinks."
"Meaning that your wife believes I'm a fake?"
"A fake or else . . . Well, if she does, she's wrong, that's all I can tell her."
"I hope you won't bother to."
"Nice of you to put it that way, but still . . . Sure you won't have a drink?"
"No, thanks."
"Cheerio, then. God bless. . . ."
By evening he had decided to leave. It was not that anyone had been unkind to him—quite the contrary, but he felt that he was causing a disturbance, and the disturbance disturbed him just as much as the others. He had given Truslove and Sanderstead his decision; it merely irritated him that they continued to wrangle. "The fact is, Sheldon, my remaining here is just an added complication at the moment, affording no pleasure either to myself or anyone else—so I'll just fold my tent and silently steal away. But I won't go far and I'll leave you my address so that you can get in touch with me if there's any need—if, for instance, Sanderstead decides my father's well enough to see me. Don't tell Truslove where I am—I don't want any messages from HIM—and as for what you say to the others, I simply leave it to you, except that I'd rather they didn't take my departure as a sign of either disgust or—er—abdication. . . . Perhaps you could think of something casual enough? And while I'm in Brighton I'll warm your heart by buying a few good suits of clothes."
"BRIGHTON, sir?"
"Yes, I always did like Brighton. I'll be all right alone—don't worry. If you could pack a bag for me, and get hold of a little pocket-money from the family vault or archives or wherever it's kept—I suppose the hardest thing is to find any spare cash in a
rich man's house. . . ."
"I can advance it, sir, with pleasure."
"Good . . . and put a few books in the bag, some of my old college books if you can find them."
"Maybe you oughtn't to overtax your mind, sir?"
"On the contrary, I feel rather inclined to treat my mind as one does a clock when it won't go—give it a shake-up and see what happens. . . . Oh, and one other thing—I'd prefer to have the car drive me to Scoresby for the train. I'm so tired of shaking hands with people, and most of the station staff at Fiveoaks—"
"I understand." Sheldon hesitated a moment and then said: "You really ARE going to Brighton? I mean, you're not—er—thinking of— er—"
Charles laughed. "Not a bit of it, Sheldon. Put detectives on me if you like. And to show you it's all open and aboveboard, you can send a wire booking a room for me at the Berners Hotel."
"BERNERS? I don't think that's one of the—"
"I know, but I looked it up in the back of the railway guide and it's in Regency Square—where my mother and Miss Ponsonby used to rent a house for the summer when I was a small boy."
So much for sentiment; actually when he got there he found the Berners Hotel in Regency Square not quite comfortable enough, and moved to a better one the next day, notifying Sheldon of the change. It teased him to realize that though he did not care for grandeur and did not insist on luxury, he yet inclined to a certain standard in hotels—a standard above that of the clothes in which he had arrived at Stourton. He wished he hadn't told the Liverpool tailor to throw away his original torn and rain-sodden suit; it might have afforded some clue to the mystery. He pondered over it intermittently, but the effort merely tired him and brought nearer to the surface an always submerged sadness, that sense of bewildering, pain-drenched loss. He was afraid of that, and found relief in recollecting earlier clear-seen days of childhood and boyhood, the pre-war years during which he had grown up to be—as Miss Ponsonby would have said (only a governess could say such a thing outright)—an English gentleman.
