by Eric Brown
Connaught looked up and said, almost under his breath, ‘As if you would know, Haxby.’
He scanned the guests and, noting his brother’s absence, muttered, ‘I thought Monty was joining us?’
‘He was here for drinks earlier,’ Langham said, ‘but he said he had to get off to meet friends at seven.’
‘That was his excuse, was it?’ the novelist grunted. ‘Fact is, he doesn’t like to be seen eating, on account of his hand.’
‘That must be awkward,’ Langham said, feeling the need to defend the man. ‘It must be difficult, operating his boat …’
Connaught shook his head. ‘Not difficult in the slightest. He has a couple of deckhands who do all the heavy work. All Monty does is sit, soak up the sun and type his terrible books.’
As they made their way through the first course, conversation broke out around the table; Maria asked Pandora about her paintings, and Charles quizzed the colonel about his time in Egypt.
Connaught said to Langham, ‘Annabelle mentioned that you’re a writer yourself.’
‘Well, I turn out a thriller a year,’ he said, and cursed himself for sounding so apologetic.
‘Must admit I don’t read modern writers,’ Connaught went on. ‘I don’t want to be influenced. Also – and I don’t mean this personally – I find that what concerns my contemporaries doesn’t in the slightest interest me.’
‘In terms of ideas?’
‘Just so.’ The novelist nodded. He ate slowly, reflectively; he wheezed between mouthfuls, smelled overpoweringly of cigarette tobacco and blinked at his guests short-sightedly.
‘What do you read?’ Langham asked.
‘History, philosophy,’ Connaught said, ‘and, of course, the Greeks. I find that they really said it all in terms of the summation of the lot of humanity. What followed, with the advent of Christianity …’ He waved, as if in disgust. ‘Fah! Two thousand years of indoctrination designed with one end in mind: to inculcate the idea of guilt into the human race.’ He stared around the table, as if seeking opposition. ‘Though, I admit, it’s a brilliant ruse: strike guilt into the heart of the populace and you have them by the balls.’
‘At least the Christian ethos,’ Pandora was brave enough to opine, ‘did promote the idea of the sanctity of the individual.’
Connaught pointed his soup spoon at the artist. ‘That’s the girl! You’re no more Christian than I am – or have you been converted, Pandy? No, you’re just being contentious for the sheer bloody hell of it.’ He waved. ‘Anyway, look what the sanctity of the individual ended up with: a citizenry cowed by collective guilt and an appalling Sunday school morality. It makes me sick!’
Colonel Haxby leaned forward, spilling claret down his blazer as he did so. ‘And what, sir, what … what do you intend to do about it? It’s … it’s all very well shouting one’s mouth off about the perceived ills … ills of the world, but what the ruddy hell …?’ He lost the thread of his argument and lapsed into silence.
Smiling tolerantly, Connaught said, ‘I write, my friend. That’s all I can bloody well do. I write to the best of my ability. My latest is all about … But I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, Charles.’
Surprised at the mention of his name, Charles raised his glass and smiled unsurely. ‘I shall look forward to that,’ he murmured dubiously.
The soup course finished, they were served game pie with roast potatoes, green beans and carrots – basic fare but expertly cooked.
‘Woman in the village comes in every afternoon and does for me,’ Connaught said when Maria praised the meal. ‘Watkins does breakfast, by the way, between eight and nine, so make sure you’re down in time or you’ll be making your own toast.’
Having said his piece about the ills of Christianity, Connaught seemed happy to retreat into silence, knock back whisky after whisky and allow others to take up the conversation.
From time to time, Langham caught Wilson Royce looking at him across the table, as if the young man was attempting to recall just where he’d seen his face before. Pandora Jade bombarded Charles with questions about his literary agency, then said that she was thinking of writing her autobiography. Colonel Haxby drank to excess and by some miracle of long practice managed to finish the food on his plate. Lady Cecelia ate with decorum, her arthritic fingers kinked around the cutlery, and from time to time addressed a quiet aside to Wilson Royce or Charles.
Maria asked Royce what he did before becoming Denbigh Connaught’s business manager, and he told her that on leaving Oxford he’d worked in the accounts department of a London publisher. Langham wondered when the young man had begun to take an interest in art.
The light beyond the French windows waned as the sun sank, and the twinkling points of a thousand stars appeared above the shipping lanes. The errant power supply made the electric lights in the room dim and surge, creating an effect like candles in a draught. Connaught ordered the butler to break out the port.
At one point a little later, during a lull in the conversation, Connaught slumped further down in his seat – resembling a bear that had failed to accommodate itself to the constraints of human furniture – and gazed around his guests.
The silence deepened and, as if by some unspoken consent, all eyes turned to the host.
Connaught, nursing a tumbler of whisky on his chest, purred, ‘C’mon, then. Tell me a little about yourselves.’
Into the startled silence, Colonel Haxby hiccupped. ‘What was that, old boy? Tell you about … about ourselves?’
‘Just the four of you: my old friends. The people I knew so long ago. You, Haxby, and Pandora, and you, Charles, and Lady Cee. I’d like to know … It’s been so long. Years and years. How … how has life treated you?’
Colonel Haxby opened his mouth, but remained silent. Pandora regarded the novelist with an amused expression on her round, owlish face. Charles looked uneasy, lost, for once, for words. Only Lady Cecelia smiled, as if taking the question in her stride.
‘The years have, all things considered, treated me well,’ she said. ‘After the war … after what happened … Well, my husband left me, but, to his credit, settled an annuity to ensure I was not forced into the poorhouse.’ She smiled at her little joke. ‘For the last ten years I have lived in a small flat in Knightsbridge, and I busy myself with charity work. I have friends whom I see every week. And living in London’ – she smiled around the table – ‘well, there is always so much to see and do, isn’t there? The theatre, and recently I’ve taken an interest in the cinema.’
‘And you never remarried, Lady Cee?’ Connaught asked.
Her smile was tremulous, and Langham’s heart ached for her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I never remarried.’ She brightened. ‘But then, I never met the right man.’ She beamed across at Maria. ‘Which perhaps is why I do so like to hear about young love.’
Connaught swivelled his bleary eyes to focus on Pandora. ‘And you, Pandy? How has the fickle finger of fate treated you?’
The artist sat back, twirling her wine glass and regarding Connaught evenly, her red lips twisted into an amused moue. ‘I wonder why you want to know, after so many years?’ She shrugged. ‘I get by, doing what I always wanted to do. I sell my paintings, always for amounts that make it necessary to do the next one faster than I would like.’
‘And lovers?’
‘I … I don’t stint myself in that department, Connaught.’
‘I bet you don’t,’ he said. ‘But are you happy, Pandy?’
‘Happy?’ she snorted. ‘What a bloody stupid question! How can anyone with half a brain claim to be happy? We’re born into chaos, heir to a plethora of ills, and die before we can fully realize ourselves. Of course I’m not bloody happy. But in the face of a hostile universe, as one must, I endure, Connaught. I endure.’
The novelist raised his glass, the gesture mocking. ‘And I applaud your spirit, my dear.’ His large head swung to the left of the table. ‘Colonel?’
‘What she says,’ he belched, p
ointing at Pandora Jade. ‘What the little round lady over there so wisely says. I endure, with a little help from the cup that cheers. Who said that drink hath charms to soothe the savage breast? Well, I agree with him!’ He slipped down in his seat, closed his eyes, and was lost to further rational debate.
Connaught said, ‘And you, Charles?’
Charles sat back in his chair and stared into his port. At last he looked up, into Connaught’s gaze, and said, ‘I think that one can be happy, pace Pandora, and not be consigned to the realm of fools. One must be a realist, and not wish for, or dream of, too much. Enjoy the fine things of life – always the finest, in books, art, and’ – he smiled across at Maria and Langham – ‘and friends. Give unto others as one would wish to be given.’ He fixed Connaught with a steely stare, which surprised Langham, and went on, ‘Remember the past, but do not be beaten by it. Remember that grief abates in time and, like memory, fades.’
‘Do you consider yourself a success, Charles?’
‘I run a successful agency, so yes, I think I do.’
‘I meant,’ said the novelist, ‘do you consider yourself a success, personally?’
Rather than wither under Connaught’s onslaught, Charles rallied. ‘I have had my burdens to bear, Denbigh. I have suffered loss and pain, as you well know. And though I might not concur with Pandora that happiness and foolishness are synonymous, I do agree with her that one endures.’
Connaught nodded, as if satisfied with what he had heard. At last he said, ‘You’re all probably wondering why I invited you down here. Or, rather, why now I find it in my heart to apologize to you for sins committed many years ago.’
In the tense silence that followed, he looked around the group, one by one, and then went on, ‘And tomorrow I will tell you. Usually, when writing a novel, I would work on Saturday. But as I have almost finished … tomorrow I will see you all. Lady Cee first, and then you, Charles, and then the colonel – if you would be good enough to remind him, Royce? – and Pandy. I’ll see you each every half hour, beginning at ten, in my study.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see Monty later. He’s staying at the Fisherman’s, for some damned reason. Royce, give him a call and get him up here after lunch – understood?’
Langham looked around the group. Lady Cecelia was gazing at Connaught with tenderness. Charles, his lips pursed, was staring down at his port, as if perplexed. Colonel Haxby was by now snoring, oblivious to the novelist’s words. Pandora Jade watched Connaught with calculation, as if she suspected him of planning some ruse but not knowing quite what it might be.
Connaught stood suddenly, muttered, ‘Until then, goodnight,’ and stumped drunkenly from the room.
‘I think that,’ Pandora Jade declared, ‘calls for another drink.’
TEN
Maria awoke to sunlight and birdsong flooding the east-facing room. She turned on to her side, propped her head on her hand and stared at her husband. He was fast asleep, his head buried in the feather pillow, his dark hair mussed. She’d had a nightmare in the early hours – she was a child again, chased by a poodle – and had come awake with a startled cry to find that Donald was soothing her with quiet, reassuring words. She’d fallen asleep in his arms a little later.
She slid out of bed, bathed quickly and returned to find Donald awake and yawning.
‘Sleep well?’ she asked.
‘Like a log. You?’
‘Fine, apart from the nightmare.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember. All right now?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
Donald climbed from bed and dressed. ‘I wonder how Charles is this morning?’
‘I had a quiet word with him last night, before we turned in. I insisted that I accompany him when he met Connaught this morning.’
He glanced at her as he knotted his tie. ‘And what did he say?’
‘You know Charles. He’s fiercely independent. But in this case, I think he was secretly grateful for the offer.’
Donald strolled to the window and stared out. He turned and asked her, ‘What did you make of last night?’
‘Connaught’s performance?’ She bit her lip, considering. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure that I trust the man. I mean, all that business about two thousand years of collective guilt, thanks to Christianity, and his calling his old friends – or acquaintances – here to apologize.’
Donald shrugged. ‘Perhaps, in his old age, he’s been stricken by the dread Christian guilt.’
‘He’s not that old. The same age as Charles – fifty-six.’ She considered. ‘But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he’s had cause to look back and reassess his life … and is overcome by guilt and the need to make reparations.’
He looked at her, frowning. ‘I’m intrigued. It’s given me an idea for a book. Sam Brooke Investigates the Case of the Guilt-Stricken Novelist.’
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘But I think the title needs a little work.’
‘I agree.’ He offered his arm. ‘Breakfast?’
They descended to the dining room to find Wilson Royce seated at the long table, tucking into bacon and scrambled eggs.
‘All alone?’ Donald asked.
‘Lady Cee requested tea in her room,’ Royce said, ‘and Pandora was down earlier, looking like death after indulging last night. She had a couple of sips of coffee and fled back to her room.’
Maria helped herself to toast, eggs and coffee.
‘After you retired last night,’ Royce went on, ‘we repaired to the drawing room, and the colonel and Pandora were still knocking it back when I turned in at one. I wouldn’t like to have the colonel’s head this morning.’
Donald smiled. ‘I should think he’s quite accustomed to the effect,’ he said, pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey.
Maria attended to her eggs and toast. The coffee was excellent, surprising her. If there was one thing she’d learned from drinking coffee in England, it was that the experience was often disappointing.
They ate in silence for a time, before she asked Royce, ‘I don’t suppose Connaught said anything to you about his wish to apologize to some of his guests?’
Royce dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘No, and no one was as surprised as I was. Apologies are the last thing I’d expect from him.’
Maria glanced at Donald. He was staring at the young man as if calculating something.
‘Tell me, did Connaught remarry after the death of his wife?’ Donald asked.
Royce lowered his tea cup. ‘Remarry? But he was never married. What made you think …?’
Donald frowned. ‘It was something Annabelle said yesterday. I must have picked up the wrong end of the stick. She said that her mother died when she, Annabelle, was very young.’
Royce shrugged. ‘Connaught had a legion of women in the past, but he never married.’
Maria refilled her cup and asked, ‘Do you think he’ll be down for breakfast?’
‘He doesn’t have breakfast. Watkins takes tea to his room at six.’ Royce finished his own tea. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get to it.’
‘Day off?’
‘Half a day. A round of golf this morning, and this afternoon Connaught wants me to go through his papers, sorting out what can be burnt. He’s finally decided that the accumulated paraphernalia of a lifetime can be discarded.’ He pointed towards the ceiling. ‘I’ll be locked in his old study all afternoon, amid dust and mouse droppings. No rest for the wicked.’
He smiled at Maria, sunlight glinting off his eye-tooth, nodded at Donald and hurried from the room.
She pointed to the bacon, sausage and eggs on Donald’s plate. ‘You certainly have an appetite. Not hungover?’
‘Didn’t you notice?’ he said. ‘I paced myself last night, too interested in what was going on. I’m intrigued by Lady Cee, as Connaught calls her.’
‘In what way?’
‘She appears, of the four old “friends” he invited down here, to be the only one who doesn’t bear him a grudge. In fact, I
’d say that she’s still fond of the old goat.’
Maria sat back and nursed her coffee. ‘Mmm. I wonder what happened between them, during the war? I mean, for Connaught to apologize about?’
‘I think, my darling, that that will remain their secret until the grave.’
The door opened and Charles eased his bulk through the opening, with not much room to spare.
‘How delightful!’ he sang. ‘Newlyweds at breakfast. And what a spread!’ He cast an epicurean eye along the sideboard laden with silver salvers and hot plates. ‘Oddly enough, I have an appetite this morning.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ she said. ‘I’d recommend the scrambled eggs. And the coffee is rather good.’
‘My word! Kidneys!’ Charles declared. ‘I could write an ode to the delight of the humble kidney!’
While Charles was filling his plate, Donald caught Maria’s eye and murmured, ‘He’s on form.’
She nodded, frowning. ‘Suspiciously so,’ she whispered.
‘Making the best of a bad job?’
‘I think so.’
Charles came to the table with a laden plate, sat beside Maria and poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘What a wonderful morning,’ he said. ‘Later, perhaps – when we have satisfied Connaught’s desire for amateur theatricals – we might venture abroad.’
‘Good idea,’ Donald said. ‘How about a drive? Tell you what, how about we motor along to St Austell and have lunch?’
‘Capital idea,’ Charles agreed, munching on a kidney.
‘Yesterday,’ he went on, ‘Lady Cecelia was telling me about her friends in London, and it so happens that we have someone in common. Cecelia knows Caroline Dequincy.’
‘What a small world,’ Maria said, and for the next five minutes they chatted about the American actress.
Through the window, Maria saw Monty Connaught striding up the drive towards the house, and a minute later the double doors at the far end of the room opened. Monty greeted Maria, Donald and Charles, poured himself a coffee, and leaned back against the sideboard, clutching the cup in his mangled hand.