The Martyn-Heering bank was a prosperous private concern which invested and reinvested money for men who were already rich. Much of the business was risk business, the employment of venture capital in various operations throughout the world, but particularly in the Far East. It was here that Roger had come into his own by exhibiting a flair for involved, complex transactions that delighted the senior partners and, in particular, his adoptive uncle, Prosper Martyn.
Roger had been introduced by Lally into the Martyn household when he was twelve. Up to that time his existence was supposedly unknown to Prosper who, at first, deeply resented the presence of a third person in the household he wished only to share with his adored wife or, perhaps, a child of their union. That, however, was not to be. Roger had been brought up in a slum in Kentish Town with foster-parents and a large family of foster-brothers and -sisters. Taken from this environment by Lally, he was as indignant and unhappy as Prosper Martyn. The two did not at first get on. However, he very soon took to the style of life lived by the Martyns. He was a keen pupil. He learned good manners, how to speak the King’s English, and developed a taste for fine clothes.
It all seemed to be quite instinctive to him, and his schooling at Rugby completed the change. He emerged at the age of eighteen with good examination results and creditable sporting achievements. He was, in fact, the complete gentleman.
Prosper would have liked Roger to go to university, although he himself never had. But by instinct his nephew preferred the world of business that had also attracted his uncle. He was anxious to acquire wealth of his own, status in life, to obliterate the constant, hateful reminder of his humble working-class origins.
Like Lally, Roger preferred London to the country, but had mastered the gentlemanly skills of hunting and shooting; he also liked intimate dinners with interesting guests, superb foods and wines, large parties, and dressing up for stately occasions.
His encounters with Carson throughout the years had been minimal, so that when the two young men were thrown together in London, an underlying hostility, a mutual incompatibility, hitherto thinly concealed, rose to the surface. There was also the fact that Carson had to begin on the bottom rung of the business, whereas Roger had progressed well up the ladder.
But, worse, they also lived together; Roger on the second floor and Carson on the third of the Martyns’ London house. They ate together and were driven to work together in the chauffeured limousine provided by Prosper, a gleaming, bronze, six-cylinder Pierce-Arrow, imported from America.
The cousins said little on the way to work. First Carson was put off in Lower Thames Street, while Roger was driven on into the heart of the City.
It was not surprising that the nascent resentment festered in Carson’s heart and the relationship between the two deteriorated.
Nor was Carson helped by his close emulation of the attitude of his father, who had been forced into similar employment many years before. Guy had longed for a life of leisure, so did Carson; but whereas his father had liked to play cards, gamble, and flirt with pretty women, Carson longed to be back riding over the land, shooting rabbits or hunting with the farmers, and tossing the farm girls in the hay.
He thus brought to his work a lack of attention to detail, a lumbering, clumsy presence, and a Dorset accent which he made no effort to correct. He quickly fell foul of most of the people in the business, who found him a strange mixture of arrogance and humility: one who found work hard and uncongenial, but cared not a whit about it.
This simmering ill-feeling between Roger and Carson naturally affected the Martyn household, particularly Lally, who was more aware of it. Prosper considered himself semi-retired, going only occasionally to the City office. He preferred travelling abroad, mainly on the Continent, where he appreciated the comfort of fine hotels and he loved his Dorset home, far more than did his wife.
One day in early summer, when Carson had been struggling in the spice office for nearly three months, Roger took a client over to the warehouse one afternoon after a handsome lunch at the offices in Threadneedle Street. As his father had, Carson too fended for himself, usually eating a few chops and drinking a pint of beer in one of the many public houses in the small alleyways leading off Lower Thames Street. Determined to prove himself, to keep his word to his mother, whose health had indeed shown remarkable improvement after he left, Carson was back at work, bending earnestly over his desk, when Roger threw open the door and, with scarcely a glance at him, ushered in a gentleman of Oriental appearance. Roger didn’t introduce him to this guest but demanded, in the voice of one addressing an inferior, some ledgers appertaining to the spice trade with Java.
Carson stifled a retort and got to his feet and, finding the appropriate books, brought them over and laid them before Roger.
‘I think you will find everything here, Roger,’ he said.
‘Address me as Mr Martyn in the office, if you don’t mind,’ Roger said abruptly, and then, turning over the pages, he ran his fingers expertly along a line of figures. ‘You can see, Mr Sum, the volume of business we have transacted with the firm in which you are interested over the past five years. Let me see ...’ He frowned, turned the pages, and then barked at Carson.
‘The latest figures for the second three months of this year appear not to have been entered, Woodville.’
Anxiously Carson rose and peered over his shoulder. Then he went to his desk and produced a sheaf of invoices from a pigeon-hole.
‘They have only just arrived from the counting-house, Roger,’ he said, ignoring Roger’s request to use his surname. ‘I was due to enter them this afternoon.’
‘So you say,’ Roger sneered.
‘I tell you, it is the truth ...’
Roger shrugged and looked at the Oriental, who was peering over his gold-rimmed spectacles with some disapproval at the clerk, who was struggling to control his anger.
‘What is more ...’ Carson began, but Roger held up a hand.
‘We will have a few words afterwards about this, Woodville. Mr Sum can hardly be expected to invest in a business unless he has all the particulars to hand.’
‘If you had told me Mr Sum was expected, I would have entered them first thing this morning.’
‘I assumed your work would be up to date.’
With that, Roger, with a courteous smile, put his hand on Mr Sum’s elbow and ushered him out of the door.
‘The trouble is,’ Carson could hear him saying, ‘that one is often forced to employ people of an inferior character ...’
Carson, feeling his blood rise to boiling point, had just reached the door when Roger, turning casually to glance back at him, slammed it sharply in his face.
Carson stood there looking at the door, clenching and unclenching his hands, and then, once he had resumed his composure, returned to his desk where he slumped with his head resting in his hands.
Had he not considered it too feminine, he would have wept.
Although the limousine brought them to work, the two men made their way home separately, and that evening Carson loitered on the way to have a few drinks at various public houses en route. In one in particular, just by Blackfriars Bridge, there was a pretty barmaid called Nelly Allen. Nelly seemed to understand his woes and he had told her nearly all of them. But that evening Nelly was not there, so Carson downed his beer and caught an omnibus in Fleet Street which went along the Strand, up Regent Street and into Oxford Street, where he alighted for the short walk back to Montagu Square. He was not drunk, but his drinking had accentuated his sense of injustice, and when he saw Roger in the hall of the house as he entered, he seized him roughly by the collar.
‘Into the dining-room, if you don’t mind, Roger. I want a word with you.’
‘Take your hand off me,’ Roger said indignantly, slapping Carson’s arm with his fist. ‘Don’t you dare ...’
‘And don’t you dare ...’ Carson snarled, dragging Roger across the hall and into the room, where the table was already set for dinner. ‘
Don’t you ever dare talk to me like that again, or address me in that disgraceful way, or talk about me afterwards. I want to be introduced and to shake hands. Is that clear?’
‘You have made yourself clear,’ Roger said with dignity, once he had freed himself, gently dusting the crumpled arm of his suit. ‘But I think you forget just who and what you are at Martyn-Heering. A mere clerk, a nobody in the business. Also, if your work is anything to go by, you never will be anybody, just like your father ...’
‘Don’t you dare ...’ Carson raised a threatening hand.
‘Your father,’ Roger went on imperturbably, but taking at the same time a few steps away from Carson. ‘Your father was hopeless at figures and spent almost six years in the counting house. They wanted to make him a partner, but he was unfit. In the end they sacked him, never mind that he was a baronet, if you don’t improve yourself, that is exactly what will happen to you.’
Roger took out a slim silver cigarette-case from the vest-pocket of his waistcoat and, casually opening it, extracted a cigarette which he put in his mouth. Before, however, he had time to light it, Carson, crossing the room, snatched the cigarette from his arrogant lips and dashed it to the floor. Then he took hold of Roger by both his lapels and effortlessly raised him a few inches from the floor until their eyes were level. He crossed to the side of the room, still carrying Roger by his lapels, and began to beat his head against the wall with such ferocity that Roger began to scream.
‘You leave me alone! You’ll kill me and then you’ll hang ... and I hope it takes a long time. Do you hear me, Carson …!’
In the face of such wrath, gripped by a strength that seemed almost superhuman and seeing that his words had no effect, Roger, growing genuinely afraid, changed his tone and began to whimper.
‘Please, Carson ... please ... I beg you ...’
The room began to spin round, the shapes of the furniture grew misty, and he could feel his knees buckle.
At that point the door flew open and Lally, beautifully gowned and dressed for dinner, stood on the threshold, one hand on her hip.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted in a voice fit for a fishwife and, with a few unladylike strides, she crossed the room and, taking a silver candlestick from the dining-room table, brought it down hard on Carson’s shoulders. ‘Take your hands off Roger, immediately ... this instant!’
Carson, knocked almost sideways, released Roger, who fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. Immediately Lally sank to her knees and, gently raising Roger’s head, laid it in her lap.
‘Roger, dearest, speak to me. Are you all right? Oh, my poor baby, my boy, what did he do to you? Say something, Roger ...’
‘Urrh!’ Roger groaned, struggling to sit up while his hand clasped the back of his head. ‘My God ... my head. Is it broken?’
Tenderly Lally ran her hands round it.
‘I think it’s only bruised, my dear ... Oh Roger, what happened for you and Carson to have such a fight? What provoked it?’
‘He insulted me, Aunt Lally,’ Carson said, feeling suddenly contrite. ‘He made a fool of me at work. I am sorry. I let my feelings get the better of me.’
‘But that is monstrous, Carson.’ Lally, raising her head, stared at him with an expression that almost froze his blood. Aunt Lally was a woman Carson liked and respected, and he couldn’t quite believe the hatred he saw in her eyes. Gently she began to stroke Roger’s head, an action which seemed to surprise Roger as much as Carson. She gazed tenderly down at him, aware of her pent-up maternal feelings, of the confusion she was undoubtedly causing in the breast of the young man she was nursing.
One day Roger would have to be told.
Roger began to struggle to his feet and Carson bent over to help him, feeling by now thoroughly ashamed of himself, also a little frightened of the way his emotions had once more got out of control. Roger refused his hand offered in help, and then turned to assist Lally to her feet.
Their close proximity made Carson realise for the first time just how alike they were. They had the same fair hair, white skin, blue eyes. Lally was so petite, and Roger too was small for a man. Carson had heard that Roger was the son of a sister of hers who had died. This undoubtedly explained the family likeness.
‘I apologise,’ Carson said again. ‘I am sincerely sorry for my behaviour.’
‘I should just think you are.’ Lally, by now on her feet, was brushing down her dress. ‘What a disgraceful display of ill-temper. Why, you could have killed Roger.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Carson protested shamefacedly. ‘I was not using much force.’
Roger gave a grunt of disbelief and began massaging his head again.
‘You don’t know your own strength, Carson,’ Lally said, ‘besides which, I cannot have such behaviour in this house. I shall have to consult with my husband as to what to do about you. It may be that he will feel we cannot offer you our hospitality any more.’
‘Oh please, Aunt Lally,’ Carson cried, a stricken look on his face. ‘My mother will be so upset. You know it’s for her that I am doing all this, and already she is improving. I love my mother and I would not wish to hurt her, or set back her recovery.’
Lally, a little breathless, sat down on one of the dining room chairs, an exquisite piece by Chippendale who had also designed the ornate rococo mahogany dining-table with claw-and-ball feet. She held out a protective hand towards Roger and drew up a chair on which he, too, gratefully sat down. His collar was awry and his tie hung like a limp piece of string, his sartorial elegance completely gone.
‘You have a fine way of showing your love for your mother,’ Lally said severely, ‘or that you are grateful to your Uncle Prosper and to me. Not that I expect thanks, but we have done our best to help you, Carson, to remove the rough edges that were so distressful to your parents, and give you a little purpose in life. Above all, you do indeed owe it to your dear mother, who is not a well person.’
‘I beg you not to tell Mother, and I promise it will never happen again.’
‘But I ask again, what brought it on, what exactly caused it?’ Lally, a little mollified by his repentance, gazed from one to the other.
‘He attacked me as he came into the house,’ Roger said, ‘using a minor incident at work as a pretext. It was quite unexpected, an onslaught. I have heard sometimes that the Woodvilles are unstable, and now I have proof of it ...’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Carson’s voice rose and he felt his anger beginning to take hold of him again.
‘It is well known that there is a mad streak in the family.’ Roger said spitefully. ‘Your father was a reprobate and your aunt ran away with a peasant.’
‘I don’t think that is exactly madness,’ Carson said thickly.
‘It’s certainly representing something.’ Roger again dusted his shoulder fastidiously and rose from the chair. ‘If you will forgive me, Aunt Lally, I have had enough of this farce and I will go to my room to change for dinner.’
‘Of course, my dear.’ Lally once more looked at him anxiously, then, as he quietly left the room, she turned to Carson and lowered her voice. ‘Roger is ambitious,’ she said more gently. ‘He is proud of his achievements and maybe it has made him a little thoughtless. He surely didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘It is true I have no head for business and I do not like it,’ Carson confessed regretfully, shaking his head. ‘I know I do follow in the footsteps of my father but, unlike him, I am determined to make a success of it. The way I have hurt my parents has given me great grief. Too late have I realised it, and earnestly wish to reform. But it is such dull, boring work, Aunt Lally. I will never be successful like Roger, but what happened today will never happen again. I have a temper and I am determined to do all I can to control it.’
Impulsively Lally went up to him and, putting a hand on his arm, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
‘You’re rather sweet, Carson,’ she said, ‘sweet and puzzling. Today I have seen a side of yo
u I didn’t know existed, two completely different sides of the same person, each warring with the other.’
Then she held up a warning finger and shook it gently at him. ‘You must be careful you don’t allow the baser side to win.’
4
Sophie Woodville knelt in a pew at the rear of the church, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her head bowed. The sounds of the organ permeated the large, light building with its long nave and narrow transepts. Although the organist was out of sight in the sanctuary, Sophie knew it was Connie Yetman practising, as she did most days of the week for an hour or two, sometimes more. Connie was the church organist and her fame had spread wide. She gave recitals at other churches in the diocese, had even played in Sherborne Abbey and Salisbury Cathedral.
The gentle strains of a Bach prelude filled Sophie’s heart with such nostalgia and grief that the tears trickled down her cheeks and, unashamed, she let them. Here, in the dark end of the church, near the belfry with its celebrated peal of bells, there was no one to witness her distress.
Sophie came every day to the church to pray, and she liked, if she could, to choose the time when the organ played softly, the notes rising and falling with such sublimity as to seem to echo her own emotions, the doubts and uncertainties that tormented her soul.
The consolations of religion no longer seemed sufficient to uplift a woman who had been conscious of the presence of God all her life. She had been an ardent church-goer, a keen student of the Bible, a Sunday School teacher from the age of sixteen. Such had been the strength of her faith that it would never have occurred to her that it might diminish, might seem to drift away like the notes of the organ lost among the rafters.
There had been a coldness in her soul for months; she repeated her prayers, assiduously trying to perpetuate the devotional mood of her youth and young womanhood, but it was not as it had been. She knew about the dark nights of the soul of the mystics; times when their faith seemed to vanish, when they were obsessed by doubts, spiritual blindness, even delusions.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 8