The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  She says, “If I was rich I don’t think I’d even want to live in a castle or a mansion or whatever. I think I’d be happy living in a place like this.”

  The Scarecrow has found an unsmoked cigar. He sets it between his teeth and is able to get it alight. “Only in the summertime, mind,” he says indistinctly. “You just see what this place feels like in November.”

  “In November,” she says. “In November I should have the thing taken down and shipped to the West Indies. Then I would have it put up on the beach. Each morning I’d open the flap and step into the sea for a bathe. In the afternoon I’d throw in a hook and pull out something for dinner.”

  The Scarecrow coughs. “And where would you cook it – this fish you caught?”

  “Oh well, that would be the servants’ problem. I can’t be doing with cooking, you see.”

  “Fair enough, it sounds splendid. I’m relieved to see that you’ve properly thought this through.”

  Out of the tail of one eye, she sees something stir. She supposes the breeze is at play against the fabric again. Then, with a rush of alarm, she realises the source of the disturbance is lower down, among the piled cushions and throws, a portion of which now tumbles away to reveal a tangle of honeyed limbs and abundant hair. The marquee is not empty. It contains three prostrate figures in a dizzying state of undress. Two gorgeous young women frame a tall, dark-headed young man. They are tucked in so tightly that they might almost be one creature.

  Lucy freezes. She takes in the sight with a horrified stare. And while the fairytale dryads remain securely asleep, it is apparent their prince has been roused from his slumber. He extends one long arm and dislodges the woman at his front. He peels himself free from the naked breasts at his back. Lucy judges him to be a handsome gentleman in his early thirties, although arguably his mouth is too small and his eyes too widely spaced. He is barefoot and elegantly ruffled. His shell-pink shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal a muscular stomach and a tanned, hairless chest.

  Her paralysis breaks. She shuffles behind the table and seizes the Scarecrow’s hand, which means he cannot retrieve the cigar which still sits in his mouth. “Lucy,” he mutters. “It’s all right. Don’t worry.”

  The young gentleman props himself on one elbow. He blinks and squints, dazzled by the sunlight pouring in through the chintz. On registering the intruders, he manages the notable feat of arranging his face into a simultaneous smile and scowl. He looks from Lucy to the Scarecrow and back to Lucy again. Then he clears his throat without hurry and says, “Rub-a-dub-dub.”

  21

  The man lolling amid the cushions and silks inside the enchanted marquee is none other than Mr Rupert Fortnum-Hyde – although this is merely one of his names. Coach refers to him as the young master and his friends variously address him as King-Roo and Kanga-Roo and sometimes as Woody, after Grantwood, which is his preferred nickname. More formally, he is known as the Viscount of Hertford and stands to inherit the estate upon the death of his father, assuming the Treasury doesn’t strip him of the lot. Fortnum-Hyde for his part plans to live to one hundred. Moreover, he intends to live every one of those years to the full. He has been blessed with authority, charisma and pristine self-belief. He possesses the loose, lordly confidence of a man who has never been thwarted in his pursuit of whatever he wants at any given time.

  Naturally he has been raised as a child of privilege – the cherished heir of a titled family, succoured and sated by parental adoration. His mother would trill with delight whenever he so much as walked into a room. His father was constantly on the look-out for proof of ability and succeeded in finding countless bits of evidence which might have eluded those with a less discerning eye. It mattered not that the boy was an indifferent student, bored by books and drawn towards devilry. His boundless energy had already marked him for greatness. His gallant activities attracted a gaggle of admirers. Friends knew that wherever Fortnum-Hyde went, the adventure would follow.

  It is said that, while still a pupil at Eton, he stepped into the ring for a bet and within seconds proceeded to knock a prize-fighter on his tail. In his early twenties, on the grass at Grantwood, he had conspired to split the opening four sets against ironclad Arthur Gore, that old titan of lawn tennis, and was only trailing by a break in the fifth when Gore ran into the net post and had to be carried to his chair. He believes that this should therefore go down as a technical victory.

  The war did not move him as it moved other people. He served as a staff officer at brigade headquarters and King George himself had pinned a medal to his breast. All the same, he was at pains to point out that he did little to earn it and knew of many chaps who had sacrificed rather more. In fact he had only had cause to visit the line once in three years and had not been overly impressed by its dismal, dirty tone. Every other Friday he was able to board a boat out of Calais and could be found dining at his Mayfair club before eight. He allows that most of the other poor sods were not nearly so fortunate, they had a lousy old time. He says that the Grantwood Foundation is about setting the past right.

  After the Armistice, against his father’s wishes, he spent six months in Paris and refers to this now as a life-changing experience. In the bars of Pigalle, he drank alongside the likes of Brancusi and Picasso, Modigliani and Picabia and even tried his hand at painting a few nude studies in a cavernous rented attic with a picturesque leaking roof. The act of painting the nudes did not interest him nearly so much as the nudes themselves did. But above even that – above even the nudes – was the pure thrill of discovery, the bright rush of fresh knowledge, the sense of standing at the very centre of something that could only strengthen and bloom and turn the world on its head.

  If the man has a failing it is that he is a hedonist, a spendthrift and a gadabout. He drinks too deeply, enthuses too wildly and is drawn like a moth towards sensation and risk. He enjoys smoking opium and injecting morphine, but in recent years has developed a taste for cocaine, which he carries with him at all times inside a screw-top glass vial. He holds the opinion that opium and morphine are the drugs for dreamers whereas cocaine is an agent of the twentieth-century: a drug for action, a drug for doers. He has always regarded himself above all as a doer.

  Rupert Fortnum-Hyde, then, has grown up with the conviction that he is able to do whatever he chooses to do. And what he has chosen to do is to think big and act boldly. What he wants is nothing less than the future itself – or, at least, his hand on its tiller, or his valise in its state room. The nation, he knows, is in a state of horrid confusion. This is because it is mired in the past, centrist and timid, in thrall to antique ideas and institutions. He pictures a future that is lean and hard and unafraid of extremes. To this end he is determined that Grantwood should be a friend to the new. It must be a seedbed for radical notions, a haven for anyone in flight from mediocrity, a home for heroes of every stripe, for outsiders and rebels. These are the men he feels a kinship with. These are the men he will nurture and promote. On this balmy morning in September, rolling half-drunk and hungover from a night amid the cushions, he fancies that his mission is already well underway.

  Six hours later, Coach comes trotting through the side gate in some agitation. He says that the young master desires to speak with both Winifred and Lucy at the earliest opportunity. He says they need to freshen up and run to the house right away. He says the young master is waiting by the pond in the loggia. He says that they are to remember their place at all times – and not to breathe a word about anything that he, Coach, may or may not have done in the past.

  “What’s loggia?” demands Winifred.

  “Italian garden. Just follow the path.”

  “Ooh,” she says, “Falconio.”

  “Shut up now. Shake a leg for God’s sake.”

  But at the gate an amusing thought strikes her and she turns back to the groundsman. “What do you reckon he’d do if I said you got me pregnant?”

 
The man’s start is so violent he nearly clears the cobblestones. “You what?”

  “Ooh please, your Lordship. Coach put me with child and I’m only fourteen years old.”

  “Get the fuck,” he says. “You’re a nasty piece of work alright.”

  In the intervening hours the viscount has changed into a lemon shirt, bright white slacks and two-tone brogues. A homburg hat is set back on his dark head. He is lounging at a table and regards their approach with a kind of glorious bored amusement. He says, “Miss Lucy, isn’t it? And the name of your fiery-looking little friend?”

  “Winifred, sir.”

  “Winifred.” He yawns. “I like it.”

  The butler glides in, pours three glasses of wine from a decanter and then glides out, as stealthy as a stoat. Lucy sips from her glass and attempts to hold her gaze steady but she is entranced by the place. What with this and the marquee, her head is positively spinning. She keeps catching sight of the cream-coloured gods. She is terribly conscious of the proximity of the house itself, separated from them by no more than a run of stone steps and some trailing bougainvillea. It is all she can do not to stand up and gawp.

  In his unhurried fashion, Fortnum-Hyde says, “Indirectly you have each provoked quite a scandal.”

  “Oh,” she blurts, “I’m so sorry.”

  He raises a hand. “Relax. I am assured that it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Or mine,” rejoins Fred.

  He says, “I must add at this juncture that I had not the faintest idea what Coach and Crisis were getting up to out there. They are a pair of fucking troglodytes, the both of them, and we are still to decide what their punishment should be. It was wrong and it was dangerous. And I would stress that Grantwood in no way condones such activities.”

  Lucy stares fixedly at the rim of her glass. She feels a flush rise on her cheeks and dearly hopes it won’t show.

  “All that being said,” he continues, “if you desire to visit with our house guests – of your own free will, of course – then I see no particular reason why you shouldn’t do that. And removing the groundsmen from the equation, I see no particular reason why you shouldn’t also make yourselves a little money from the opportunities provided.”

  “Independent traders,” Winifred says.

  “Independent traders.” Rupert Fortnum-Hyde snorts; laughter lines etch his cheeks. “I do like this one,” he tells Lucy. “This one has got spunk.”

  There is something fascinating about the tall man at the table. He might have recently winged in from some neighbouring galaxy. The antics of humble earthlings are a source of entertainment to him; enough to provoke a mild, casual interest. But his thoughts are directed towards higher matters.

  Plucking up her courage, she takes a gulp of wine and asks if it was he who named the funny men after Dorothy’s companions in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. He grins and says, “I believe that was more my sister’s doing. Do you disapprove?”

  “No, sir,” she says. “Of course not.” She is thrilled by the news that this man has a sister.

  The meeting in the loggia appears to have concluded. But when Lucy and Fred get up to leave, Fortnum-Hyde lifts his tanned hand and the gesture is so commanding that it fixes them both in a semi-standing position. He reaches for his glass, appraises the girls with a fetching frown and says that he likes to fill Grantwood with unconventional people. In the house alone, he explains, he is currently playing host to an avant-garde painter and a political playwright. A group of negro musicians. All kinds of types.

  Fred interrupts. “We’ve heard the musicians. My stars, what a racket.”

  Fortnum-Hyde appears tickled all over again. “I shall have them make that the title of their next composition. My Stars, What a Racket.”

  By now Lucy’s knees are aching. She lowers herself to the chair and nods at Fred to do likewise.

  Fortnum-Hyde says, “What I look for is people who gamble and chaps who take risks. I must say I’m half-minded to throw your gentlemen friends in amongst that number. That is why I pay their costs. That is why they will always be welcome on my estate. You should be aware that your fine fellows are heroes to a man. They are men of action. They are stone-cold killers, or at least they were. And of course they are outcasts besides. All of which makes them hunky-dory with me. These, you see, are the individuals I like.”

  “Yes sir,” Lucy murmurs.

  He reaches into his pocket and removes a glass vial. Next he instructs the girls to each hold out their left hand and make it into a fist. The man judges the breeze, leans into the table and expertly applies a hillock of white dust to Lucy’s hand and then to Fred’s.

  “What is it?” says Fred.

  He says, “You can call it a lot of names in a lot of languages. I have heard it called dowser and I have heard it called bouncer. And a friend of mine likes to call it a secular sacrament. That’s rather good, I think – a secular sacrament. Take it quickly, before it blows away.”

  And yet when Lucy obediently sticks out a tongue, her response sends Fortnum-Hyde into paroxysms of mirth. “No, don’t eat it, you dope. Sniff it up your nose. Oh foolish child, lapped it up like a dog. Would you believe it? Is she always like this?”

  “Most times,” nods Fred. The girl applies one nostril and is then forced to pinch the bridge of her nose to prevent herself sneezing.

  But Lucy has collapsed against the back of her chair. Her face is glowing and her mouth is fizzing. Her lips inflate like balloons. Her teeth are colossal. She is feeling utterly out of sorts. She vows that next time – assuming there is a next time – she will be sure to follow procedure and sniff the powder instead.

  Still chuckling, the man asks how she is faring and she nods and beams to let him know that she’s fine. He asks what she thinks it tastes of, the powder, and she shakes her head because she has not the slightest idea. The dust tastes almost citrus but it has a dry, savage edge. It prickles and rasps. It might be crushed human bones.

  “Think about it. What does it taste like to you?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Think about it. Take a second.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rupert Fortnum-Hyde grins. “Then I shall tell you, my child. That taste is the future.”

  22

  In the cobbled yard by the cottage, Fred says, “And we had yellow wine and everything and we just sat there in the Italian garden, fancy as you like, and anyone who walked down the steps and saw us would probably have thought we were his sisters or his nieces or something like that.”

  Toto says, “He’s a proper gent and he’s done us proud. You’ll have no argument from me about that.”

  “And he gave us this amazing dust to sniff, only Lucy licked it and that made him laugh. And he’s quite spiffing, I like him. And wait, best of all, he really likes us all too. He said we can go up to the house just whenever we want. So that shows how much Coach knows, he can’t tell us what to do.” She adds, “I might go up there tomorrow. He’s throwing another party, because he likes parties best of all.”

  Round and round the bottle goes. Above their heads the stars are bright. This has become their nightly ritual. It takes an extremely cold evening to drive them into the kitchen, which is narrow and oppressive and fills too quickly with smoke. The yard suits them better, and they genuinely do try to keep the noise down. Each time they argue or joke it sends Crisis quite demented.

  It is shortly before midnight when Lucy’s sense of balance becomes strained and her stomach flip-flops and she excuses herself to run off and be sick. When she returns it is clear that during her five minutes away the conversation has petered to a halt. The funny men stare silently at the heavens. She rather believes that the Tin Woodman might have fallen asleep. She stands among them, breath misting. It is as though she has walked in after several hours away.

  Winifred says, “Come alon
g chaps. I might as well be talking to myself.”

  The Tin Man stirs. “Poor little Fred. Someone tell her a bedtime story.”

  Toto says, “Roll the bottle this way if you please.”

  “Only if you have a bedtime story to tell.”

  “Well, who knows, I might at that. Roll the bottle this way and we’ll see what comes out.”

  He takes a deep drink and explains that right now his head is foggy, which means he can only think of one particular story. He says it is chiefly about a soldier he once knew by the name of Reggie Cooper and he may not have the exact details down pat but what the hell, he’ll give it a go; old Reg isn’t around to complain. Toto says that it was a well-known fact that some soldiers had been born lucky and that whatever rotten things were about to happen would always happen to other men and not to them. It got to the point where this level of good fortune made the soldier the most prized possession of his regiment. They became like those sacred white cows you can see in Calcutta – all the natives following them about and patting them on the back in the hope that some of the magic might rub off.

  That’s what it was like for Reggie Cooper. Of course it didn’t hurt that he was a popular and sociable lad to begin with. He had the common touch, the gift of the gab, and that always helps. But word of how lucky he was soon got around and before you knew it he was practically mobbed, everyone crowding around him in the firing line. They believed they were as safe as houses so long as Reggie was there. Nor did it matter that he occasionally liked the boys as much as the girls. A good many soldiers would have had a problem with that, but they didn’t mind what Reggie did, they reckoned it was best to let Reggie do as he pleased. Even those lads who would never dream of letting themselves be involved in that sort of thing would often make an exception when Reggie came calling. Maybe they thought that if they rubbed themselves on Reggie they could grab a little of his sparkle.