Circles of Time

by Phillip Rock

  The footman who answered his ringing looked at him curiously. He knew quality clothing when he saw it and he sized up the well-tailored tweed trousers and Norfolk jacket at a glance.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but are you sure you want this entrance?”

  “If this is the servants’ entrance, it’s what I’m looking for.”

  The footman looked blank. “It is, sir—but …”

  “I used to work here at one time. Nineteen thirteen, fourteen.”

  The footman looked at Ross with frank curiosity. “You did? Here?”

  “Look, do you mind if I step out of the cold?” He didn’t wait for an answer and walked past the man into the pantry hallway.

  “I’m not sure if there’s anyone on the staff who would remember me. Is Mrs. Broome still here?”

  “Broome?”

  “She was the housekeeper.”

  The man shook his head. “No—sir. Come to think of it, I believe she died a few years back. Of the Spanish influenza. I heard them talkin’ of it once.”

  “Heard who?”

  “Why, them that knew the old dear. She was before my time, see. I’ve only been here six months.”

  “Who are them?” Ross asked patiently.

  “Why, cook and Mr. Coatsworth. They’ve been here for ages.”

  He had never known the cook except by sight; her world and his had never meshed. But he’d known Coatsworth well enough. The old man had never been particularly friendly—but then, butlers were a standoffish breed by nature.

  “Would you tell Mr. Coatsworth that James—Jamie Ross is here? The chauffeur,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I will if he’s about. He usually takes a bit of a nap this time of day. You can wait in servants’ hall if you’d like. Follow me.”

  He remembered the way. The house had obviously been redone—he could smell paint, and the kitchen when they walked past it was larger and more modern than he remembered it—but the basic structure was the same. Servants’ hall was in the same place it had been, and the same large size, but the furnishings were more comfortable. It was quite cozy, in fact, with chintz curtains and separate little tables where once there had been one long one.

  “Care for a cuppa?” the footman asked.

  “I’d prefer coffee.”

  “Right you are.”

  “No sugar—bit of cream.”

  He was finishing his coffee when Coatsworth came into the room, walking slowly. The old butler paused and looked long and hard before nodding his head slightly.

  “Ross. Yes. It is Ross.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, sir,” Ross said, standing up. “I’d have recognized you anywhere.”

  The butler’s smile was thin. “You always were good at spouting the blarney. I’m not two steps from the grave, man.”

  “Oh, more than that, Mr. Coatsworth. I’d say three at least.”

  The butler eyed him dourly and sat stiffly on the edge of a chair. “You’re Ross, all right. No doubt of that—the same twinkle in the eye. But you don’t sound like the Ross I knew. Where have you been these past years?”

  “America.”

  “America? Well, now, how about that? You’re not one of those gangsters, I suppose, that we read about in the newspapers?”

  “Not exactly. I’m an aeronautical engineer.”

  “An engineer, is it? Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You were always a clever lad when it came to machinery.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Broome passing away. She was a nice woman.”

  “Yes, a very equitable woman, Mrs. Broome.” He rubbed his hands across his knees, wincing slightly. “It was the influenza. It carried away a good many people. As many as died in the war, they say.”

  “It was very bad in America, too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was. Disease, I was reading in The Times, knows no boundaries. Missed me, though. I suppose God felt I had enough trouble with my arthritis.” He stood up painfully. “I’ll tell His Lordship that you’re here.”

  “Oh, no,” Ross said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s not intruding. His Lordship still speaks of you as the best chauffeur he ever had. He’s in his study having a postprandial cup of coffee. He would be most disappointed if I failed to tell him you were here.”

  It was apparent to Ross that the earl was genuinely glad to see him—which was heartening. He came striding across the study with one hand extended in greeting.

  “By Jove! It is Ross. I said to Coatsworth, ‘Not our Ross, surely,’ but here you are. By Jove, here you are indeed.” He shook hands with a good deal of force, then patted Ross on the back. “Come, lad—come sit down and tell me all about it. America, Coatsworth said—aeronautical engineer and all that. Yes, you must tell me all.”

  It took an hour or more, with the earl interrupting from time to time to ask a question or make a comment. Ross told him about being sent to Ohio to help the Americans construct Rolls engines, and of his enrolling in the institute and his three years of hard study, technical and cultural—elocution classes every Saturday, and a chautauqua program he had joined for two weeks every summer to study the classics. And he told of the company he had formed with his friend to purchase war-surplus Liberty and Packard airplane engines, and then of their decision to design and construct airplanes.

  “Fascinating, Ross. Most interesting indeed,” the earl said as he stood up and walked over to the cabinet where the whiskey was kept. “This Liberty engine you speak of—wouldn’t that have done for your new aeroplane?”

  “It’s certainly powerful enough, sir, but not suited for the aircraft carrier. Experience on the English carrier, the Argus, proved that the hard landings a plane makes on a ship’s deck causes problems with the radiators of liquid-cooled engines. Air-cooled radials are a must, and Blackworth’s makes the best.”

  “I’ve met Sir Angus a couple of times—own stock in his company. Any way I can be of help?”

  “That’s very nice of you, m’lord, but everything’s moving along smoothly now.”

  The earl poured whiskey into two glasses and carried them back to where Ross was seated in a leather chair by the fire.

  “It seems like a millennium since you were last in this room, Ross. The first winter of the war, to be exact. You came to tell me you were leaving here to join the Rolls-Royce company at Enfield. I was quite put out about it as I recall. Leaving me with no one competent to replace you. I can remember your telling me to learn how to drive the car myself. That bit of advice only irritated me further. Well, there’s been a good deal of water past the mill since then. I’m a damn good driver, I’ll have you know—and I’ve even been up in an aeroplane.”

  “That’s worth drinking to, m’lord.”

  “Times have changed so much. It seems a tragedy that it took a war to do it, but there you are. God’s bitter jest, I suppose. But if it hadn’t been for the war, you’d probably still be driving me around and not building aeroplanes in San Diego, California. Curious thought, is it not?” He raised his glass. “Let’s drink to that instead, Ross. To your continued success.”

  “Thank you very much, m’lord.”

  “And no more calling me m’lord, Ross.” He smiled wryly. “You’re an American citizen now. You chaps fought a revolution to avoid calling chaps like me m’lord.”

  The earl walked with him along the terrace and around to the back of the house where he had parked his car.

  “I’m sorry Charles isn’t here, Ross, but he’s up in Derbyshire staying with his brother. He mentioned your name just the other day on the way to the station. We had some trouble with the car, and Banes—do you remember Banes, by the way? He was Lord Gavin’s driver, over at Newton Cross.”

  “I think so. Elderly man.”

  “A good deal more elderly now, I’m sorry to say, but it’s difficult finding young chaps who are willing to go into domestic service. They’d rather drive taxis or live off the dole. Not a bad driver,
Banes, but quite hopeless when faced with the mysteries of the internal-combustion engine. Anyway, we were driving Charles to the station when the car began to act up, stalling every time we stopped at a crossroad. It seemed to Charles and me like a simple matter of adjusting something or other, but Banes got all fluttery and said he’d have to call the Rolls people in London and have them send a man down. Charles turned to me and said, ‘Ross would have fixed it in a minute.’ So you see, we all remember you.”

  “I’m glad Mr. Charles is all right. I was afraid to ask.”

  “He’s fine. Had some problems, but he’s over them now.”

  They reached the car and the earl shook Ross by the hand. “I’m glad you decided to drop by. I enjoyed our chat very much.”

  “So did I.” Ross paused by the car door. “Did they send a man down, by the way?”

  “Rolls? I’m sure they will eventually, or we’ll take the car into Guildford. There’s a halfway decent mechanic there.”

  “Let me have a look at it, sir.”

  “Oh, no, my dear fellow. Wouldn’t think of troubling you like that.”

  “It’s no trouble. I’d enjoy it, as a matter of fact. Haven’t tinkered with a Rolls car engine for years. Sounds like the idle is set too low—or the fuel-inlet needle is clogged—or—”

  The earl laughed and held up his hand. “Why, you’re positively straining at the bit, like an old war-horse hearing a bugle. Very well, if you insist. I’ll go find Banes and have him give you the ignition key.”

  Ross swung open the garage doors so as to let out the exhaust fumes, while Banes, unhappy at being dragged away from his tea, looked on morosely.

  “There’s nought much you can do with it.”

  “Oh, I think there is.” He got into the car, turned on the engine, and sat listening to its uneven reverberations for a few minutes before switching it off and climbing out.

  “Told you,” Banes said gloomily. “Sounds like a major malfunction to me.”

  “Don’t be daft, man. Where’s the tool kit?”

  The old chauffeur stared at him blankly. “I think there’s one in the boot.”

  “Think?”

  “Seems to me there is. I’m not much for tools. I’m a driver, not a bleedin’ mechanic.”

  “Look, you can stand around and learn something or you can go back to the house and finish your tea.”

  “You don’t need me, then?”

  “Not really, no. But thanks for your help anyway.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Banes said as he started out. “My pleasure, I’m sure.”

  Ross took off his jacket, undid his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He experienced a visceral pleasure when he opened the car bonnet and studied the great engine. There were some fine motorcars a man could buy in the States—Apperson and Duesenberg, Jordan and Stutz—but there was nothing built in the world to compare with the Rolls Silver Ghost.

  He found the tool kit in the boot and began to remove the carburetor, working carefully, loosening each bolt a half-turn at a time. He was so intent on what he was doing that he did not hear someone calling until the name had been repeated twice.

  “Banes—Banes—”

  He straightened up with the spanner in his hand and looked toward the open end of the garage. A woman was standing there, silhouetted against the light. She took a step into the garage, and when she did he could see her face. There was no forgetting its loveliness.

  “But you’re not Banes,” Alexandra said. “You’re—Ross?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good Lord, I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, it’s true,” he said lamely.

  “That’s marvelous! I’m very happy to see you back, Ross. I’m glad father has a proper chauffeur for a change.”

  “Well …”

  “Is there anything the matter with the car?”

  “The—carburetor needs some work.”

  She gave him a radiant smile. “I’m sure you’ll fix it, then. Do you think it’ll be done by five-thirty?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good. There’s someone to pick up at Godalming station at six-fifteen. The London train.” She turned to go. “It is nice having you back. Really like old times again, isn’t it?”

  And then she was gone. He stood staring after her, watching her walk toward the house, then he turned back to the carburetor and removed it from the engine.

  Old times. He thought about the old times as he cleaned the choke-valve assembly with kerosene and a small brush. Driving young Lady Alexandra around London had been one of his chores. The summer season, the earl’s daughter party-mad and dance-crazy. Drive her here, drive her there—Chelsea to St. John’s Woods … Mayfair to Knightsbridge, all in one evening, the back of the car crowded with her friends. The tango had been the craze the year of her seventeenth birthday and she’d danced it till dawn her birthday night. He’d stood beside the car in a Chelsea mews, gabbing sleepily with other chauffeurs while tango music throbbed through the dark street.

  Now he heard the click of her high-heeled shoes as she came into the garage, and he looked toward her. She hesitated a moment and then walked slowly toward him, looking slightly abashed.

  “I just saw my father. I do apologize, Ross. I feel an utter fool.”

  “Do you?” He grinned at her. “There are worse things can happen to a man than being mistaken for a chauffeur.”

  “I’m sure there are, but I—”

  “Made an honest, and perfectly logical mistake.” He was holding the delicate mechanism of the step-up piston and spring between his fingers. “You might do me a favor. On the bench there—a very thin screwdriver.”

  She found the screwdriver and handed it to him. He carefully transferred the tiny spring-lift piston to one hand, tightened a small screw and set the mechanism carefully inside the partially disassembled carburetor.

  Alexandra watched him, intrigued by the procedure. “Very delicately done, Ross. I always thought that mechanics just slammed things with hammers.”

  “That’s one way.”

  “Father told me that you live in San Diego, California. It must be a beautiful place.”

  “It is. Actually, our factory is in San Diego and I live across the bay, on Coronado Island. The navy has an air base on the north end of the island and we test our seaplanes there.”

  “Do you fly?”

  “No. I don’t like heights. I do all my testing with a slide rule. It’s safer that way.”

  Her closeness was disturbing. The smell of her perfume mingled with the raw odor of petrol and kerosene. An unlikely mixture, he was thinking. About as unlikely as her standing next to him talking about San Diego. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the soft curve of her neck. He tried to shut his mind to it and concentrate on the ticklish job of putting the carburetor back together. He dropped a small screw into one of the vents and had to fish it out with a piece of wire.

  “We’d considered going to California,” she said. “My husband had been asked to spend a year at the American army hospital in San Francisco.”

  “He should go. It’s an interesting city.”

  “He died a year and a half ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. Did you marry?”

  “No. Haven’t had the time to meet anyone. I will when things settle down. California’s heaven for kids. Seems like a sin not to have any.” He made one final adjustment and put the screwdriver down on the workbench. “There. That does it.”

  “Good as new?”

  “Better, if I do say so.”

  She held out a hand. “I must go in and dress. It’s been pleasant talking to you, Ross—and the best of luck.”

  He looked at her slim white hand and held up his own, amber with kerosene. “I’ll not shake hands or you’ll smell of solvent for a week. But it’s been good talking to you as well. I hope we see each other again before I go home.”

  It was the sort of thi
ng one said in America. But why would they see each other again? What was there to see each other about? To talk of old times? He picked up the carburetor and took it back to the car.

  “Perhaps we will,” she said.

  He tested the car by driving it around the long, circular drive in front of the house, stopping every few yards to satisfy himself that it wouldn’t die again from lack of enough fuel. When he brought it back to the garage, the earl was waiting there with a stony-faced Banes. The chauffeur was now dressed in uniform, black cap and leather gaiters, black gloves. At least he looked like a proper driver of motorcars.

  “Thank you most awfully, Ross,” the earl said. “It sounds perfect now.”

  There was an offer of a drink—which Ross turned down as nicely as he could—and then he was back in his own car and grateful to be there. It had been a strange few hours.

  Our Ross.

  He had not been patronized in any way. It was all his own failings, not the Earl of Stanmore’s or his daughter’s. The problem with being at Abingdon Pryory was that he felt like our Ross. The servant who had come back.

  “Damn,” he muttered as he drove quickly down the long gravel road toward the gates. He hoped he would not see Alexandra Greville again. That wouldn’t be her name now, of course—she had been married. But whatever her name was, he hoped he would not see her or be close enough to her to detect her perfume or notice the perfection of her face.

  As he got out of the car to open the gates, he spotted the evening star, low and bright over the woods. A line of poetry popped into his head—a line learned at the chautauqua in Parma, Ohio. She walks in beauty like the night....

  She walks in beauty.... He had never been able to associate that line with a living face before, but he could now.

  VIII

  “HELLO, DARLING.” NOEL Edward Allenby Rothwell, Esq., got into the back of the car and planted a kiss on Alexandra’s cheek. He sat beside her, holding her hand, while Banes saw to his luggage.

  “And how was London all week?” Alexandra said.

  “Lonely.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Frightfully lonely.”

  She laughed. “But productive, I hope?”