Love Song

by Charlotte Bingham

  Hope looked up at him briefly, and although she did not say Thank God for that she certainly felt it.

  Jack and Hope did not dare to meet either in London or anywhere close to Hatcombe, or at any venue where they might be recognized by anyone at all. If they wanted to hold hands, or go to a pub or have lunch out together, they had to meet miles away.

  This particular day they had planned to meet in Bradford-on-Avon, and that was where they both fled, in separate cars, to huddle together in the back room of a wine bar. While driving rain outside flung itself against the windows, they were served fresh king prawns and home-made mayonnaise and thick brown bread that had been baked only an hour before, and white wine properly chilled, and then, the rain having ceased, to spin out their last hours together before what Jack called ‘the dreaded moment of return’ they wandered together round the antique shops playing ‘guess the price’ and marvelling at the audacity of what was being asked for what might indeed be fakes.

  ‘When I think about it, some of Aunt Rosabel’s furniture must be almost priceless,’ Hope said at one point to Jack.

  He nodded absently, because for some reason she could not quite fathom Hope had noticed that Jack, who had obviously earned and still did earn a great deal of money, never seemed to be very interested in its reality. In that he was precisely the opposite of Alexander, for he obviously enjoyed earning it, loved spending it, but never gave it another thought.

  ‘My father worked in the City,’ he explained, ‘and he had such a thing about money, you know? I mean he ate, slept and breathed numbers but he never enjoyed it, never relaxed and let it roll in. Never spent it either, as a result of which when he slipped off to heaven the government took it all. What was the point of all that work? I mean you don’t have to go mad, but enjoy it; or join a Buddhist monastery. We only pass this way once, if you notice.’

  For some minutes Hope felt puzzled that such a philosophy should sound so appealing when expressed by Jack and so unappealing when expressed by Alexander, but then she realized that there was, in fact, a profound difference. Jack’s money was earned from what he did, and not from gambling on what someone else did. Among many other wonders, she knew that she could love him for that alone.

  And then it was time to part, and as always at such moments they clung to each other and wondered how they would be able to get through the next days.

  ‘I keep trying to write a song to you, but every time I start all I can see is your face and all I can hear is your voice and then it seems to me that there is no point because nothing I could write would do justice to how I feel about you, nothing describe how you are to me, and knowing that you love me too is to stop and not be able to go on.’

  Jack should never have written that to her, and Hope should never have kept the letter, but lovers keep things. Most of all, they keep the look in their eyes.

  ‘What’s this, he’s writing a song to you? He’s in love with you?’

  ‘Alexander – I can explain!’

  Hope woke up from her dream and gazed round her room with such gratitude that her bedroom could have been paradise itself. For a few minutes she lay in bed, alone, thanking God that she had written nothing down, and neither had Jack. There was no actual proof of how they felt. No-one else would know, so long as they never saw them together, no-one could even guess.

  And yet. She covered her face with her hands. And yet she knew she must stop seeing him. It was impossible. She would have to tell him, next time she saw him or spoke to him, that she had to stop seeing him. It was no good, their relationship, the two of them loving each other as they did. It would all end quite terribly.

  But when she phoned him to tell him exactly that, he sounded so buoyant, and so happy, that Hope found that the words simply would not come out, and all she heard was her own voice agreeing to meet him once again in the wine bar at Bradford-on-Avon, our bar as they were beginning to think of it, after only one visit.

  After shopping and making her call to Jack, Hope went to the bank, realizing that although they were destined to meet in two days, and despite all her good resolutions, the time would drag until then. At the same time she felt guilty, because she knew that time should not drag when she had so much that any other woman would envy. A beautiful house in which to live, a delightful old relative to whom her husband was heir, four ever more delightful daughters. Time should not drag. And yet the truth could not be avoided either. It did drag when you were loved as she knew now that she was loved. Every minute and every second was a thousand times longer for not being with Jack, so that meant time dragged. It moved with leaden feet. It mocked and stared out at her, saying, Wait, wait, wait, not yet, not yet, Mrs Merriott, still another twenty-nine hours – Mrs Merriott – until you meet your lover, still another whole twenty-nine hours.

  ‘Mrs Merriott?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Mrs Merriott?’ The round-faced woman with dark-rimmed spectacles behind the security glass in the bank was staring at Hope and pushing Aunt Rosabel’s cheque back towards her.

  ‘Mrs Merriott, I’m afraid this cheque that you presented the other day has been stopped.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The woman looked embarrassed, but she continued to push the cheque towards Hope.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Merriott, I’m afraid it’s been stopped,’ She glanced towards the small queue, obviously feeling awkward for Hope, knowing that although they were lined up dutifully behind a notice they could all still understand what she was saying.

  ‘But this is our great-aunt’s cheque – Mrs Fairfield of Hatcombe House. Surely there has been some mistake?’

  The woman smiled sympathetically at Hope, but since her eyes had started to stray towards the man in the queue behind her Hope had nothing to do but drift towards the exit, all the time staring down at the cheque and seeing Aunt Rosabel’s signature on the bottom, the correct sum, and the correct date, as if in a haze.

  She drove home as fast as she could, which on reflection she realized made no sense. Arriving back faster at Hatcombe did not mean that she would necessarily find a faster solution to the problem that faced her. In fact it would have made more sense had she driven more slowly and less dangerously and spent the time trying to work out what could have happened.

  Finding Aunt Rosabel in high good humour eating lunch with Verna and Letty in the kitchen made the stopping of the cheque seem even more unreal, and Hope found that there was no point at which she could interrupt the fun they were all having with a casual remark such as By the way, Aunt Rosabel, what happened to the cheque you wrote me?

  And since, after lunch, they all went for a walk, laughing and talking, wrapped up against the weather and looking every inch the ideal companions, Hope could only stare after them as they walked down the drive and wonder what she should do. The answer was that she could do nothing until Alexander phoned.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, sounding irritated and bored at the same time. ‘It’s just a cheque bouncing because she’s probably drawn it on the wrong account, that’s all. She has three or four accounts for different things, that’s just her local one. Really, Hope, you’re hardly going to starve until the weekend, are you? I mean I’ll pay in a cheque if things are that bad.’

  Hope could only agree that she was not going to starve until the weekend, but nevertheless she asked Alexander to pay some money into her account to cover her housekeeping and tide her through until he came down and sorted everything out.

  But when he eventually appeared that weekend Hope took one look at his face and realized at once that far from having everything sorted out they were in a much worse situation than she could possibly have imagined.

  Alexander walked her into the now vacated housekeeper’s cottage. Following him, Hope could see that there were lines under his eyes, he had not shaved for at least a day, and his usually immaculate clothes looked as if he had slept in them, which perhaps he had for all she knew.

  ‘She’s only spent it all!’


  ‘What all?’

  ‘Her money. She’s spent it all!’

  But Alexander was wrong, in a way, for the fact was that Aunt Rosabel had not spent all her money. She had given it away. Every penny that her husband had left her had been made over to other relatives or to her favourite charities, and all that now remained to the old lady in the way of assets was Hatcombe itself.

  ‘And you bet they’ve all cashed it. Cousins who have never seen her, relatives in America or South Africa, charities – dozens of those – they’ve all spent it, every last penny of it, and pronto. It’s unbelievable. Hundreds of thousands of pounds, all gone.’

  Alexander walked up and down the tiny sitting room, white-faced, as he spluttered out the news to Hope as if in some way, it seemed to her, it was her fault that the poor old lady’s mind had obviously gone.

  ‘The stupid old woman has made over hundreds of thousands of pounds to orphans, old-age pensioners, anyone and everyone except us. We who are here looking after her, we whom she has made to pay for the house she has given absolutely nothing to, and now she has no money whatsoever to pay us back!’

  Hope stared up at Alexander and for a second – it was probably hysteria – she wanted to laugh. The situation was so terrible, and Alexander was so terribly furious, but somehow it was so funny too, just because it was so terrible. And also, and the thought would not be put away, she knew that if she was with Jack, and not Alexander, they would stare at each other and while still finding it all terrible they would have to laugh. Then she turned her attention back to the grim reality of the present.

  ‘Alexander, let’s not panic. We aren’t ruined. We still have most of our house money, haven’t we? The money from West Dean Drive?’

  There was a long pause as Alexander poured himself a whisky and considered what Hope had just said. He drank the whisky, and then another, without thinking to offer his wife one.

  ‘No, we have not got our house money, Hope, for the simple reason – for the very simple reason – that I invested what was left. How do you think I have kept going in the City these last months? No-one would invest in me, so I had to invest in me, and that is where the house money went. Helping me invest in my business ideas, invest in projects I really believed in.’

  ‘Well, we can sell the investments, can’t we?’ Hope asked, determined to stay calm no matter what.

  ‘No we cannot sell the investments as you so naively put it, and for a very good reason.’

  ‘You haven’t lost our house money, Alexander? Please tell me you haven’t lost it all?’

  ‘I haven’t lost it, Hope. It’s just that some of the sure-fire investments I was advised to take on have not proved as sure-fire as everyone thought they would be. Believe me, I’m not alone. Everyone out there is having a seriously bad time, and it’s not just trout farms and all that, it’s everything. Black Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, black everything as far as investments go. But I’ve bought into certain areas while they’re cheap, and they’re going to come good, I know they are – it’ll just take a little time, that’s all.’

  Hope stood up and wiped her hands down her skirt, because they were running with sweat as she understood just what had happened. She had trusted Alexander and he, in return, counting on the old lady’s money, had gambled away all the money they had realized from the sale of West Dean Drive.

  ‘You have yet again bought into all the wrong things, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been in London for such lengths of time, and why you go back so quickly, because you’ve been having a bad time?’

  ‘I have been working, which is more than I can say for you, Mrs Merriott. When did you last bring in a penny to the house?’

  ‘I gave up West Dean Drive and my job because you told me to!’

  Alexander leaned towards Hope and she could smell the whisky on his breath.

  ‘You have never given up anything, Hope, not a thing. You think life’s just about staying at home and having babies and you couldn’t even do that right. You couldn’t even give me a son, could you? No, you had to trust to luck that you would have a boy instead of taking my advice. Had you had a son, we wouldn’t be in this mess now. In fact Aunt Rosabel and her money wouldn’t matter a tuppenny ha’penny damn if you had done what you should have done, just kept terminating, for God’s sake, until you had a son. That way I would be rich now, not in this mess. And we would not be lumbered with this stupid old woman and having to make her sell her wretched house.’

  Hope stared up at Alexander, appalled. That night when he had told her that he was to inherit Hatcombe she had known that nothing good would come of it. She had felt it so strongly, and yet there was nothing she could do.

  ‘Well, so be it. She can sell Hatcombe and pay us back all that we have spent on it.’

  ‘Try making her sell her house, Hope! Just try! Just try making her leave it to us, too! I’ve been talking to our lawyer about this. I said I’d have her proved insane, but it’s not as easy as that. Believe me, it’s not as easy as that at all.’

  Hope closed her eyes. ‘When has anything ever been easy with you, Alexander?’

  She waited for him to say something but he merely poured himself yet another whisky and stared out at the darkness outside the cottage windows. For once he had nothing to say.

  Hope eventually let herself out of the cottage and went to find Aunt Rosabel. That was all they could do now, all that was left to them, to find Aunt Rosabel, explain what had happened and try to get her to understand that they were all penniless, all three of them, and they would have to sell the house and move somewhere cheaper. She knew it was not going to be easy, but nevertheless it had to be done.

  As she walked across the lawn to the main house Hope remembered the kindly man who kept calling from the Orphan Welfare Trust. No wonder he was so grateful to Aunt Rosabel. He must have taken thousands from her for his orphans.

  She pushed open one of the double doors that made up Hatcombe’s entrance and stepped into the hall.

  ‘My dear!’ Aunt Rosabel was waiting for her, and yet again she made that curiously theatrical gesture of hers, her hand dropping down in her excitement. ‘Too wonderful!’

  Hope stared at her. She was so sweet, despite all her comings and goings. Hope was always cheered by the sweetness in her face.

  ‘Yes, my dear, too wonderful. I have just been told. The war is over!’

  Chapter Nine

  The next day found them all in Aunt Rosabel’s drawing room.

  ‘Right, now, Aunt Rosabel, we have to come to grips with things, business things.’ Alexander was standing in front of a blazing winter fire, and she seemed to be listening and smiling, as he was smiling, but to Hope, who was serving tea at a far table and intent on bringing them cups and small side tables, it seemed that Aunt Rosabel knew about as much about business things as Hope did about nuclear physics.

  ‘My dear boy, so sweet of you to take an interest, but you know Uncle Harold has always taken care of everything, and really it’s terribly important to ask him too, because I have no idea about money, I really have not. Ask Victoria here.’ She turned a laughing face towards Hope, who smiled back and placed her tea on the table beside her. ‘Our father would hardly trust us with our pin money, let alone our inheritances. Originally our money came from linen, you know, in Ireland, and then I think we went into sheep, and of course that went at the beginning of this century – but at all events you know how it is, dear boy – men’s palaver, that’s what I call it – men’s palaver!’

  Alexander walked back up the room to Hope and taking her arm he marched his wife towards the French windows.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ he demanded. ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘But we did, Alexander! Verna and I kept telling you, over and over, but you just said it was her pills or only to be expected because she was so old, and all that, that’s all you said. And when I wanted to take her to see her doctor in London that tim
e you said it wasn’t worth it because he couldn’t put back what had worn out, don’t you remember?’

  Alexander could remember many things over the past year, but he was damned if he could remember a thing about Aunt Rosabel going round the twist, or Hope ever telling him about it.

  Seeing that he did not believe her, Hope added, ‘Ask Verna, she’ll tell you. It started ages ago.’

  ‘But you must have been aware she was writing out cheques!’

  ‘Absolutely not. She sat here, or in the housekeeper’s cottage, and all we saw her doing was writing letters. We didn’t know she was putting cheques in with them.’

  This conversation was conducted in such low voices that when Alexander returned to Aunt Rosabel and the fire he felt quite exhausted from the effort of trying not to be heard. He sat himself down beside her on the Knole sofa and tried a new tactic.

  ‘Darling,’ he said, looking deep into Aunt Rosabel’s eyes. ‘What I am about to say to you is pretty terrible, but you have completely mismanaged your affairs. Not through any fault of your own, just through misplaced generosity and others taking ruthless advantage of you, but as a consequence I’m afraid that you will have to sell your house in order that we can straighten everything out.’

  Aunt Rosabel stared at him for a second and then, turning towards the small side table beside her chair, she picked up her faded flowered teacup and sipped at her Earl Grey tea as if she had heard nothing of what Alexander had just said. Alexander returned to his subject and began again, but this time he spoke in an altogether firmer tone, looking her in the eyes so that he could be sure that he had her complete attention.

  ‘Aunt Rosabel, due to financial problems Hatcombe will have to go. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it is a fact. Hatcombe will have to be sold, and soon. On the bright side, however, things are slightly looking up in the property market, so I am sure you will get quite a good price for it. So all is not, as it were, lost. But I am afraid that the house has to go. You and we have no alternative.’