by Jamie Probin
‘I heard that Andrea Ketterman was in your shop yesterday.’
Adele said this was true, and gave lengthy details of the latest floral arrangements for Saturday’s wedding.
‘Now why should she want to do that?’ mused Mrs Blackstone when she heard about the new top table centrepiece, as if they were discussing a dramatic change in military strategy evinced by a wartime general.
Privately Adele supposed that Andrea’s motives simply involved making the table more attractive, but said nothing. She was rare among the gossip elite in that she did not seek out conspiracy in situations where none lurked. Nevertheless, intrigue was the currency of the library, and the greater the mystery or suggestion of a morsel, the better it played to the public – and therefore the more Mrs Blackstone relished it. And no woman in the village wanted to disappoint Mrs Blackstone.
‘What a fabulous day it will be,’ commented the librarian. She leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, and Adele dutifully bent closer. Despite the fact that there was no one else in the building it was accepted practise for certain news to be imparted as if it were a matter of national security, and enemy agents were lurking behind every bookshelf. ‘They say that one of the society papers is sending a photographer to cover the reception.’
Adele always wondered who “they” were, who seemed to say everything later repeated around the front desk. In the case of this particular titbit, she suspected that “they” were Mrs Crabtree. It was well-known in the village that Mrs Crabtree had a propensity for conjuring “nice ideas” in her imagination, which within three or four days had usually transmuted from wishful fancy into a prediction of complete certainty. It was also known that her deepest wish was twofold: to make an appearance in a society paper, in absolutely any way possible; and to do so before her next-door neighbour, Mrs Thorpe, who would then never hear the end of the matter.
The door of the library opened once more, and Samantha McKinley walked in. Immediately the two women stopped talking and drew out of their huddle. However much everyone might know that the chief commodity of the branch was news and speculation, it should not be paraded for all and sundry to see.
‘Good morning Mrs McKinley.’
The three women all smiled and nodded amiably, and Samantha walked past the desk and into the area purporting to hold the fiction books. Samantha McKinley was one of the few regulars not involved in the rumour industry; for one thing her reputation from her lovers leap marked her out as a perennial focus of conjecture when contemporary news was experiencing a dry spell, and it would not do to have to have someone involved as both speculator and speculatee. One would not invite the king to the annual general meeting of the anarchists’ society.
A second objection to her induction into the circle was her position as wife of the local MP, which automatically excluded her from membership. Words spoken here were valuable precisely because they meant nothing in a legal or official sense, and theories that proved to be incorrect could be discarded without harm. The ladies of Upper Wentham would have been mortified to think that their fanciful supposition, pronounced as fact, might ever make its way to the ear of one of authority.
It only added to Samantha’s air of mystery that she had the unique ability of actually locating the exact book she desired in the library, however illogical its resting place. No one was quite sure how she managed this, but she always headed directly for some obscure section of the building, and emerged soon after clutching a book which had no business being there, but which she clearly wished to read. She disappeared into such a section now, and although any words spoken would still have been clearly audible throughout the library, Mrs Blackstone and Adele felt comfortable returning to their theme of the wedding once Samantha was out of sight.
‘I do think this match will be a good one,’ declared Mrs Blackstone. ‘Andrea Ketterman and Charles Wentworth will make a wonderful couple, don’t you agree?’
Adele said that she did agree. When a young man marries an attractive woman and a young woman marries a rich man, she thought, a reasonably content marriage can be expected to result.
‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,’ continued the librarian, ‘but I’m sure there was something not right with Ronald Asbury. Andrea was very wise to say no to him. She would not have been happy. I’m just glad that she found out whatever it was about him in time.’
She said these last words in a hugely unconvincing sotto voce whisper. It was the verbal equivalent of someone who presses their fingers and thumbs together and moves their limbs in an exaggerated manner to indicate that they are creeping quietly.
With local opinion divided roughly down the middle over whether Andrea really loved Charles, or in truth had loved Ronald Asbury but was wooed by the Wentworth estate, it was unsatisfactory for Mrs Blackstone to throw in her lot with either camp. As the high priestess of gossip in Upper Wentham she felt obliged to have an opinion over and above those of her subjects. Yet with the two obvious theories accounted for, some creativity had been required. A lifetime of hearsay had prepared Mrs Blackstone for such lengths of innovation, and it was not long before she had unveiled her new hypothesis: Whilst Andrea had indeed loved Ronald Asbury, it had not been the lure of money that had wooed her to Charles. Rather Andrea had discovered some terrible secret about Ronald, just in time to prevent her accepting him, and leaving Charles as the suitor of choice by elimination. Why this default engagement should bring such predicted happy results, or, indeed, what the damning piece of information was, that it could make Ronald Asbury so unsuitable a husband, Mrs Blackstone had yet to specify. Despite this, she imparted the idea in so omniscient a manner that no one thought (or, perhaps, dared) to question it, or to request a less ambiguous explanation.
Nevertheless, the subsequent death of Ronald Asbury had only served to augment the supposition, and it had taken quite a hold among the library patrons. In spite of herself Adele felt a thrill of pride at the news she was now able to lay on the altar.
‘Andrea Ketterman told me something yesterday that might be linked to it. She said a policeman visited her with some questions, and he said that Mr Asbury’s death was connected with blackmail.’
It was possible that Mrs Blackstone gave the gasp that Adele had hoped to provoke with this news, but if so it was drowned in the crash of books dropping to the ground from the depths of the library. Moments later the flustered form of Samantha McKinley emerged, haphazardly clutching a selection of books in her crossed arms. Her face was pale as she hurriedly disgorged the books on the front desk and fumbled in her handbag for her ticket.
Adele eyed the woman with concern.
‘Are you feeling alright Mrs McKinley?’
‘Hmm? Oh, oh yes, I’m quite well,’ came the unconvincing reply.
The disbelief shown by the other women at this statement was evident as Mrs Blackstone deliberately collected the cards from the books and arranged them in the ticket. She studied the books with interest: one was a biography of Sir Isaac Newton, one detailed the history of the East India Company and one was a mystery that Mrs Blackstone vividly recalled discussing with Samantha when the latter returned it three weeks earlier. In Mrs Blackstone’s opinion, Samantha McKinley had no desire to read any of the three books.
The librarian stamped each book slowly, studying Samantha as she did so. The object of her scrutiny was either unaware of the stares, or ignoring them with an impressive totality. Once her books were finally checked out she bolted for the door without a word. The other women watched her go.
‘How extraordinary!’ exclaimed Adele.
‘She’s not fooling anyone,’ agreed Mrs Blackstone. ‘“Quite well”, my foot! Why, she only read one of those books three weeks ago, and I’m quite sure she wasn’t interested in the others.’
Adele did not respond, but merely stared at the door, deep in thought. Why should the mention of Ronald Asbury being blackmailed cause such a reaction from Samantha McKinley? She recalled the notion that had first
occurred to her some months ago, and rolled it around her mind once again, this time in the light of what she had just seen.
‘That might be it,’ she muttered to herself, too quiet for Mrs Blackstone to hear. ‘I wonder…’
Suddenly Adele had the urge to be alone and consider her idea. She paid just enough attention to the news that Miss Green’s prize-winning cake recipe may have been stolen to not offend Mrs Blackstone, and then made her departure.
Chapter 17
Some hours later, as Adele Carmichael began pursuing her new idea, her son continued to wallow in the old one which weighed down his life. Like many men of his generation, the hazy and nostalgic shadow of the Great War loomed over Richard Carmichael, condemning him to a curse of comparison against ghosts with which he could not hope to compete. Some of his peers accepted the legacy won by their fathers at such great cost, and surged onwards, seizing the opportunities of this brave new world and commemorating the sacrifices of the previous generation.
To others, like Richard Carmichael – often the ones whose fathers never returned – the memory of the war, or more specifically its protagonists, was a millstone around their necks. They were, or at least perceived themselves to be, men marked out by history as forever inferior.
Almost 900,000 Britons died in that war, and logic dictated that, whilst many no doubt were good men, countless others must have been thieves, adulterers, bullies, liars and murderers. Yet through the lens of history, with their names etched indelibly into memorials wherever one travelled, they were cast as gods, forever young; golden warriors riding their chariots of perfection.
Nothing that Richard Carmichael or his contemporaries could do, in their minds, could ever compare to the feats of their fathers, not only uniquely brave at the time, but further amplified through the years.
And so, unable to live up to these noble memories, Richard Carmichael instead tried to invalidate them. He bristled with the injustice of the hand dealt to him by the circumstance of time. His father’s generation did not choose their destiny; law and politics compelled them into the trenches of battle, and then venerated them as though they had each personally made their choice between noble sacrifice and selfish riches. There had been no choice; they were forced, first by expectation and peer pressure, then by conscription. They did their duty, nothing more. Just because his duty did not require him to live in a muddy hole in France, before walking mindlessly into a hailstorm of shrapnel and flesh, did that make him less worthy?
Rather than accept his good fortune in being born too late for such a horrific sacrifice to be demanded of him, and paying the costless and priceless respects that such sacrifices deserved, Richard Carmichael dwelt on the semantics of conscription. To those who would listen, he argued that a hero chooses his fate when another route was available, instead of being coerced into service by others.
Perhaps it was the mothers who bore partial responsibility for this brand of citizen. Whilst some clung to their sons as though their lost husbands lived on vicariously through their offspring, others failed to disguise their disappointment. They decided their sons would never be the men their fathers were, before they ever had chance to even try. The attitude was frequently more pronounced when there was also a sister, for they rarely suffered similar burdens of comparison.
Adele Carmichael had not only displayed her opinion of her son’s inadequacy, albeit unintentionally and without ever realising, but had compounded the issue with her second marriage. It was difficult enough to have an idea rather than a father, an idol fashioned from such exceptional memories, but when a physical being then replaces that idol, it becomes even harder to accept. And when that person is such a cad as Sir Alfred Wentworth, the curse is complete: Richard himself cannot aspire to the memory of Archie Carmichael, but a louse like Sir Alfred Wentworth could?
If nothing else, this gave Richard a focus for his anger. He might claim the cause of his mother’s honour when reviling Alfred Wentworth, but in truth he was not so selfless. Subsequently the true depths of his stepfather’s nature emerged and it was clear that he was no equal of Archie Carmichael, but by then the idea had rooted firmly in Richard’s head: instead of the hopeless task of focussing his frustration on a glorious army of ghosts, he could embody every injustice and resentment he felt in one person; and moreover a person who could have fought, yet did not…
This familiar train of thought had no time to gestate further before a knock on the door of the cottage disturbed him. Grumbling to himself he stomped into the cramped hallway to answer the summons. Outside the door his sister greeted him with a smile, and for once Richard Carmichael’s spirits lifted.
Rebecca Hollins was one of the very few people of whom it could genuinely be said that Richard enjoyed their company. Whilst his mother had never quite managed to hide the disdain she felt for him after the war, his sister instead had a sibling respect which shone through her demeanour and actually pierced the armour of inferiority he had cultivated. In her presence he felt valued for who he was, and could actually drop the sullen exterior that everybody else saw.
‘Rebecca.’
‘Hello big brother.’ Rebecca kissed him on the cheek. ‘Would you like to come for a walk?’
A few minutes later the pair were heading out of the village and into the countryside. It could never be said that Richard Carmichael indulged in small talk, but for a while they discussed Joseph and his newspaper, a favourite aunt who had recently had a fall and even the forthcoming wedding of Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman.
‘Do you remember,’ asked Rebecca, ‘how we used to play in that field when we were younger?’
Richard turned to see where she was pointing, his lank brown hair briefly swinging away from his forehead in the motion before settling back over his eyebrows. Beneath it a rare shine appeared in his eyes as memories raced through his mind.
‘Of course I do. Although you fail to mention how mean you were to me.’
‘I was not!’ protested Rebecca with a smile. ‘I was the model little sister.’
‘You made me pretend to be your horse. I even had to eat grass!’
Rebecca laughed at this. ‘I thought you’d forgotten that bit. Well, you were a fine stallion.’
‘They were good times,’ agreed Richard. And then, from nowhere, as it always did with these glimpses of nostalgia, the ghost of Sir Alfred Wentworth swooped down to swallow the happy memories. No one but them could understand how going from a poverty-stricken home with a single young widow to the opulent surroundings of Blackwood Manor could be such a source of regret. But the recollections of that brief period of joy before their mother remarried were genuine treasures to the pair.
Rebecca put a hand affectionately on her brother’s back as they walked on.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ asked Richard abruptly. ‘You don’t look too well.’
‘Well thank you very much!’ exclaimed Rebecca lightly, but her efforts failed to disguise the truth of the comment. ‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? You can tell me, Rebecca.’
She paused, and looked at him for a moment.
‘It’s just that…’ She broke off and considered. ‘Richard, where does one go to find military records?’
The question seemed such an incongruous change of direction that one might have expected her brother to react with bemusement. In fact his reaction was indeed pronounced, but not with bewilderment. He jerked his head and looked at her with suspicious and astonished eyes. Why had she asked him that question today? It would be an odd query at any time, but especially this of all days. Had the same thoughts that had struck him independently occurred to Rebecca? Or was it possible that she somehow knew what he was doing?
He marshalled his thoughts and then spoke, a moment later, with amused indifference.
‘Military records? Rebecca! What are you talking about?’
She looked at him uncertainly for a moment, before smiling weakly.
‘It’s nothin
g. I’m being silly.’
Suddenly she wished she had said nothing, and desperately tried to think of a new conversation. There must have been countless trivialities to discuss, but right now there was nothing in her mind but her husband and a white feather. She had thought Richard would know what to do and take care of the matter, but it dawned on her now that this was a problem she must solve alone. A fierce desire for silence and solitude enveloped her, but at the same time the company of her brother was a source of comfort.
For his part Richard sensed that she needed his presence rather than his words and they walked on together supporting a weight of silence as dusk settled over them.
Sir Oliver Anstruther surveyed the guests assembled around his table and spoke in the rich baritone that had once terrified most of those unfortunate enough to be in his courtroom.
‘On behalf of all of us, I wish you a fine day on Saturday and a wonderful life together afterwards.’ The toast was met by murmurs of endorsement. He raised his glass. ‘Charles and Andrea!’
The guests rose and similarly lifted their glasses as the words were echoed around the table.
Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman held hands and smiled thanks to their host and the other guests. As the good wishes continued to flow Charles privately caught Sir Oliver’s eye once more and surreptitiously nodded to him, slightly raising his glass in a grateful gesture. Sir Oliver winked back at him. There was great fondness between the men, although such affection would never have been found between the families in the past
Anstruther Hall, some twenty miles from Upper Wentham, was second only to Blackwood Manor so far as opulence and luxury went in the local area. Historically the Wentworth and Anstruther clans had been bitter rivals, each desperate to establish themselves as Gloucestershire’s preeminent family. The Anstruthers had, in the past, always resented the splendour of Blackwood Manor and the extent of the Wentworth fortune, whilst the Wentworths had always felt embittered that the Anstruther family was one of a very few with closer ties to the highest in the land, especially the various royal families.