Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  ‘Quite possibly. But it’s making people think of them as good value. And I keep reading about expansion plans. Fifteen or twenty new stores. Mostly in towns where we trade rather satisfactorily.’

  Miles spent Friday feeling troubled. He did not like it when any Company he represented hit a rough patch. In such situations, businesses re-evaluated their advisors. He had seen it many times; the last, desperate act of a cornered management was to change its communications consultancy. Not that he expected Straker Communications to be replaced by Pendletons. His ties to the family were too strong. Nevertheless, Miles took nothing for granted, not even his friendship with the brothers. Long before he’d arrived home at Chawbury on Friday evening, he was filled with resolve. His mission to undermine Ross must step up a further gear.

  He arrived to find Davina in nervous form; more nervous than usual, that is, for she was always anxious on Friday evenings when her husband returned, testy from a week in the office. She had checked the ice bucket was filled with ice, and the double doors onto the terrace from the drawing room were unlocked. When she was at Chawbury on her own, Davina seldom used the terrace doors, preferring the side door from the flower room which was simpler to go in and out of without fuss, but Miles insisted on the big doors, even in winter. He liked to mix a drink, stroll outside and survey the valley … his valley … in which every tree was perfectly shaped by the bi-annual visit of the tree surgeon, and the Test ran clear and unimpeded through his nettle-free meadows. As usual, this evening, he flinched at the horizon, where the Clegg mansion was visible through the bare trees. There were lights on all over the house and he cursed the light pollution.

  ‘Darling, we’ve had a lovely invitation,’ Davina said as matter-of-factly as possible, though her voice wobbled. They were eating supper in the kitchen, which Miles never really approved of, but Mrs French had an evening off and had left a pheasant casserole. Peter, Archie and Samantha were also away that weekend, so only Mollie was present.

  ‘Invitation? From whom?’ Miles had never lost his excitement at the prospect of a social engagement.

  ‘Well, it’s to Mandy’s christening,’ Davina said, stumbling over the words. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Dawn dropped round an invitation. They’re having her christened at St Marks. The last weekend in February. We’re all going to be here because it’s half term.’

  Miles stared at his wife. ‘They’re what? They’re planning a Christening? You have to be joking.’ It was simply unbelievable. Why would anyone want to do that, given the circumstances? The last thing they should be doing was drawing attention to themselves.

  Davina handed him a card, or rather two cards. The larger one was an embossed Birth Announcement on silvery cardboard with rounded corners, with a pattern of silver ferns and a silver bow. In the middle was a photograph of a particularly ugly baby, or so Miles reckoned, captioned ‘Amanda (“Mandy”) Grace Clegg.’ The Cleggs had evidently sent it out to all their friends. The second, a handwritten postcard from Dawn, confirmed the Christening at St Mark’s, Chawbury, during morning service followed by ‘drinks and nibbles’ at Chawbury Park. ‘Your family are all most welcome,’ Dawn had written.

  Miles’s first thought was to chuck them both into the kitchen bin. The last thing he intended to do was stand side by side with Ross in St Mark’s—his local church, where Miles read the lesson once a year—publicly acknowledging this unfortunate infant.

  ‘Obviously we’re not going,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m going, I have to,’ Mollie said. ‘Gemma’s asked me to be Mandy’s godmother.’

  ‘You most certainly will not. None of us is going. If we do, people will start putting two and two together about Archie. Why else would we be there? It’s not as if the Cleggs would ever be personal friends.’

  ‘But I’ve agreed,’ Mollie said. ‘I said yes to Gemma. And to Dawn, Mrs Clegg I mean. I have to go, I’m Mandy’s godmother.’ Mollie’s eyes blazed with indignation. ‘I am going and you can’t stop me.’

  Miles was a quick thinker. The problem, he could see, was that he simply didn’t know what the Cleggs had been telling people about the baby. Specifically, he didn’t know what they were saying about its parentage. Were they saying Archie was the father? He damn well hoped not, but were they? If not, what were they saying? That the father was unknown? That Mandy was Ross and Dawn’s own child? Accustomed to being perfectly briefed in every situation, Miles felt horribly disadvantaged.

  During the night, further disturbing thoughts occurred to him. Didn’t the identity of the father have to be entered into a register at the church, during the baptism ceremony? The vicar of St Mark’s was actually a woman, one of the few female clergymen, and a particularly inappropriate one in Miles’s opinion, being left wing. He could easily imagine her announcing the name of the absent father to the entire congregation—Archie Straker. So far, not a hint of scandal had surfaced anywhere, not in any gossip column, nor locally so far as Miles was aware. It occurred to him that, in the interests of news management, it might be advisable to be at the Christening after all to ensure nothing went wrong. So at breakfast the next morning, he announced, ‘I have decided we should all go to this Christening charade. Just to the service, mind you, not the house afterwards.’

  21.

  St Mark’s and Holy Trinity Church, Chawbury, was widely regarded as the prettiest small church in Hampshire. Originally a Saxon ‘shepherds’ church,’ it had taken its present form in Norman times and been sensitively restored and extended in the seventeenth century. With its Norman tower and font, knapped-flint walls and finely carved Georgian pews, it drew its congregation from well beyond its parish boundaries. People drove ten miles for services at Chawbury, attracted by the pretty setting with swans on the duck pond by the village green and its proximity to the Chawbury Arms, a popular gastro pub.

  Miles planned strategy for the Christening with meticulous care, and gathered Team Straker for a last minute briefing. This was over breakfast which all Straker children were commanded to attend. Peter and Archie arrived in dressing gowns with tousled hair, half asleep. Samantha looked gorgeous, having got up early for once to wash and blow-dry her hair and loving the opportunity to get dressed up. Mollie, taking her godmotherly duties very seriously, had bought a new black coat and hat from Principles in Andover and looked like a district nurse.

  ‘This is how we’re going to play it today,’ Miles addressed the breakfast table. ‘Peter, you listening? Archie? Good. Now, in forty minutes time we set off for church. We arrive twelve minutes before the service begins, not earlier, not later. We will take up a position all together in the third pew on the right hand side. Understood? That’s close enough to the font to monitor developments, while not necessarily appearing to be part of them. When we see the Cleggs, we behave courteously but coolly. We don’t get involved. With luck, there won’t be too many people in church who know us, but we can’t count on that. In a way, it’s an advantage you’re a godmother, Mollie, because it provides us with an alibi for being there. If asked, we say nothing about Archie of course, but simply mention Mollie’s connection to this baby. All clear? Good. Now, you boys, go and get dressed. I’d like to see you in a suit, Archie. And tie, obviously. Then straight after the service ends, no hanging about, into the cars and back here for lunch. I’m sorry, Mollie, but no one’s going on to the Clegg mansion.’

  They arrived at church and parked the Mercedes on the verge outside. Davina complained it made it difficult for her to get out, since the passenger door was on an angle, but Miles was positioned for a quick getaway afterwards. As they entered the church, Miles acted nonchalant. The Cleggs hadn’t yet arrived, which was a relief.

  Gradually the pews filled with villagers. Miles recognised several from the garden opening. Norma Tappet, the lady vicar, arrived with her carpet bag full of the paraphernalia for communion, which she plonked down on the altar. With her spiky grey hair and shockingly plain face, Miles considered her a preposterous choice for a Hampsh
ire parish priest, especially in a premium parish like Chawbury. He was looking around, trying to appear disengaged, when he was surprised to see Philippa Mountleigh waving at him and heading over.

  ‘Morning, Philippa. Not your usual church this, is it?’

  ‘I’m here for a Christening,’ Philippa replied. ‘Dawn Clegg’s asked me to be a godmother to little Mandy. Gemma’s baby … you’ve probably heard …’ and she winked in a meaningful way.

  Miles flinched. It sounded like Philippa didn’t know about Archie, but her presence was uncomfortable.

  He surveyed his own pew. Archie, home from school for five days for half term, was staring into space. He’d brushed his hair and looked quite smart in his pinstripe suit. Sam was examining her handbag, wondering if she liked the handle. Peter and Mollie were whispering. Davina looked strained.

  There was a commotion in the pew behind, and Miles saw Bean and Nigel Winstanton taking their seats. And then, across the aisle, he spotted Serena and Robin Harden.

  The Cleggs arrived and filed into their reserved pew at the front. Ross was leading the way, followed by Dawn and Gemma fussing over a baby wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket, then the fat son Greg in mauve corduroy shirt and Levis, and the youngest daughter, Debbie, in a hat with a feather. Mollie waved as they passed, which annoyed Miles.

  The service began and soon infuriated him further. The hymns were all horribly happy-clappy, including his least favourite, ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine.’ Then Norma gave a sermon about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, before inviting the congregation to pledge 10 percent of their post-tax income to the church. As if!

  Sitting alongside her husband, and picking up on his unease, Davina was doing her best to think holy thoughts. She said a little prayer for her granddaughter—for little Mandy—but it was hard to concentrate. It was just all so awkward. She looked at Archie and felt so sorry for him. Yesterday, he’d spent half the afternoon playing football on the lawn with Peter and Mollie. It was ridiculous really, Archie having a child, he was still a child himself. He was gazing up at the ceiling, miles away, blocking it all out. He was in denial, Davina reckoned.

  Mollie moved to sit with the Cleggs, to be closer to Mandy and her new friend Debs, who’d started at college. Peter was quietly amused by the whole unfolding drama, because it had all spun out of his father’s control for once. As the eldest son of a control freak, nothing pleased him more than a dash of healthy chaos.

  It was time for the baptism, and Norma invited the parents, godparents and families to join her at the font. Miles gave Archie a restraining glance, but he wasn’t moving. Mollie, Philippa and the fat boy, Greg, shuffled forwards and assembled with the rest of the Cleggs around the stone basin. Soon the vicar was dipping her finger into the water and tracing the sign of the cross on Mandy’s forehead, and the little baby burst out crying at the shock of the cold water. ‘I baptise thee in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.’

  ‘Forasmuch as this child hath promised you his sureties to renounce the devil and all his works,’ proclaimed the vicar. Intentionally she mispronounced the arcane language, because she resented being made to use the traditional prayer book by the parish council. Ross looked equally lost by all the mumbo-jumbo, but Gemma and Mollie, who were now holding Mandy between them and joggling her about, seemed fulfilled and happy. A couple of times Gemma looked rather beseechingly over at Archie, which made Miles stiffen, but either Archie didn’t notice or he was ignoring her. Dawn was ridiculously overdressed, Miles reckoned, in a pink suit with lacy panels on the lapels and cuffs, and a pink hat and veil. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman beneath the fake tan and make-up, but she hadn’t a clue. As for Philippa in her old tweed suit, Miles couldn’t imagine how she’d got herself dragged into being a godmother.

  They were now into the final hymn, and Miles was almost starting to relax. They’d got away with it. No one in the congregation had given Archie a second look. All they had to do now was get out.

  At the end of the service, however, the vicar announced, ‘Dawn and Ross—and Gemma too of course—have very kindly invited us all, the worshippers, back to their home for a celebration drink and snacks. It’s an open invitation. So I hope to see many of you up at Chawbury Park very shortly.’

  Miles grimaced and began shepherding his family towards the exit, but it quickly became apparent all their friends were going on to the Cleggs.

  ‘Surely you’re coming, Miles?’ Bean exclaimed. ‘We’ve all got to go for twenty minutes. Dawn will be disappointed if we don’t.’

  ‘I wish you would come,’ Philippa said. ‘And Mollie should be there, my fellow godmother.’ She turned to Dawn, who was proceeding gingerly up the aisle towards them, wondering whether she dared say hello to Miles. ‘Dawn, I’m telling Miles and Davina they must all come back to your house for a drink.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Dawn replied uncertainly. ‘I did send them an invitation.’

  ‘I insist you come, Miles,’ Bean said. ‘After all, it was me who first introduced you to Dawn and Ross. You haven’t forgotten? At Old Laverstoke Mill, at our party. I said then you were all going to become tremendous friends.’

  And so, protests pushed aside, the Strakers found themselves swept up in the exodus to Chawbury Park.

  With the exception of Davina and Mollie, none of the Strakers had previously visited Chawbury Park, the subject of so much negative conjecture. So it was with considerable curiosity they drove back through Chawbury, past the entrance to their own house then up as far as the Micheldever road before doubling back along the newly tarmaced drive to the Cleggs. The drive, which was unexpectedly long, passed first through a beech copse, then between large paddocks with post-and-rail fencing. Several new trees had been planted, protected by timber frames, and a chestnut mare and pony were visible beneath a shelter. ‘Those trees look ridiculously spindly and new,’ Miles said. ‘Thank God we have decent mature trees at home.’

  They pulled up in front of the house where a dozen other cars were already parked, including Serena and Robin Harden’s Volvo, Miles was alarmed to see. From this elevation—which was the one that faced up the valley towards Chawbury Manor—the house was unashamedly grand. ‘Like JR Ewing’s house in Dallas,’ Miles said with a sneer, as they trooped up to the pillared front door. Curved brick walls extended on both sides, full of overlarge plate glass windows. To their left was a windy expanse of lawn, looking particularly bleak on this winter’s day, its perimeter defined by replica Victorian lampposts. As they passed the entrance pillars, Miles tapped one and it was hollow. ‘Fibre glass,’ he said meaningfully.

  They entered a double-height hall with marble chip flagstones off which led the drawing room, from where could be heard the hubbub of a party in progress. The double sweep of a horseshoe-shaped staircase led up to a galleried mezzanine, laid with salmon-coloured carpet. Moments later, Ross appeared to greet them, showing them where to leave their coats and genuinely touched they had come. Having not spoken to Miles since their awkward encounter at the Manor, he made a special effort to make them all feel welcome. He shook Archie by the hand and said very sincerely, ‘Good of you to be here, young man. Much appreciated.’ Miles found it excruciating.

  ‘Now, what you folks need is a drink,’ Ross said. Several bottles of Freeza Mart’s house champagne stood open on the hall table and he made sure everyone had a glass (‘We’ve earned this’) before leading them through to the drawing room.

  Davina’s first impression was of overwhelming newness. There was a lingering smell of paint and the pale grey carpet looked like it had just been laid, which was hardly surprising since this was the first time the room had been used. It felt very formal and empty; a pair of gilded French sofas with wooden backs and elaborately carved legs stood on either side of an Adam-style fireplace. The fire itself had evidently never been lit since the bricks behind the grate were unblackened by flames, the
fire tongs and shovel shiny and brand new. In a bay window were a pair of tapestry-covered Knoll chairs, neither of which looked like they had ever been sat in. To Miles, the whole effect was a show home. Most tellingly, he thought, was the almost complete absence of any pictures. In the Strakers’ own drawing room, there must have been twenty-five different paintings—eighteenth-century oils of ships at sea, watercolours of Venice, small abstract paintings bought at the Royal Academy Summer Show—decades of random collecting to achieve the patina of a proper English home. Here one solitary painting hung above the mantelpiece, of a forest glade. To Miles, it resembled a tea tray, or a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the kind old ladies sat over in care homes. How could Archie have got himself involved with people like this?

  Inexplicably, as he surveyed the room, the other guests appeared either not to notice or to mind. They were crowding around the baby, cooing over it, or talking happily together. Philippa was chatting away to Dawn and the vicar, and the Winstantons were making conversation with the fat brother, Greg. Serena, looking very tasty in leather trousers and the red Valentino jacket Miles had bought for her in Capri, was peering at the baby and chatting-up Gemma, which worried him. It was disconcerting to see his mistress and his—whatever Gemma was—his son’s illegitimate child’s birth-mother, talking together. A dozen nosey-parkers from the village were knocking back Ross’s champagne and saying how lovely the new house was. Well, there’s no accounting for taste. He couldn’t see a soul, other than Philippa and Serena, that he wanted to talk to. He’d liked to have fixed up his next bonking session with Serena, but didn’t feel safe doing so in a room full of people.

  Greg was talking at cross-purposes with Bean, while glaring hungrily at Samantha from the corner of his eye. Suntanned and luscious from a recent skiing trip, she was distractingly sexy. Naturally she was avoiding him, like he didn’t exist, because he wasn’t good enough for her. The irony! He wanted to tell her he’d just had his PhD accepted and was now entitled to call himself Doctor. Dr Gregory Clegg. That would make her think twice, surely? Something told him, however, it wouldn’t impress her one bit.