2008 - The Irresistible Inheritance of Wilberforce

by Paul Torday

  I went downstairs and found that the hot water worked in the shower room, and then found Francis’s razor and shaved. When I had finished, I wandered into the kitchen with a towel around my waist to look for the kettle and the coffee jar. Catherine was standing in the kitchen. She was wearing a pullover and jeans, with a handbag slung over her shoulder.

  “My mother thinks I’m at Fenwick’s,” she said, “organising my wedding list.”

  I pulled the towel around myself tightly, feeling embarrassed.

  “Don’t be silly,” she laughed. “I had to take all your clothes off last night and put you to bed. It’s too late to blush now.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you, Wilberforce?” she asked, coming up to me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then do it now.”

  2002

  ONE

  The first time I entered Francis’s shop I did not see the undercroft.

  Inspired by some unaccustomed lightness of heart, some unaccountable impulse to see what was beyond the valley where I had worked for so many years, I had driven past the shopping mall and up the hillside and discovered Caerlyon. Maybe it was something in the evening light: a hint, in the colours of a spring sky at evening, of undiscovered country. I drove up the hillside and came at last to the house and saw the sign, placed on the edge of a quiet little country lane, that invited passers-by who were interested in fine Bordeaux wines to drop in to the shop in the courtyard. Whoever had caused the sign to be written and placed there had suffered from an excess of optimism; or pessimism; or both.

  I crossed a cobbled courtyard in which three cars were parked, opened the door of the shop and went inside. In front of me was a large desk, and behind it a man with his feet propped up on the desk top was reclining in a swivel chair. On my side of the desk two other, younger men sat with their backs to me. All three were swirling a pale-coloured liquid around in their glasses and going through the motions of sniffing the contents of the glass. Beyond the desk a wide and ancient stone staircase led downwards to some interior darkness. The rest of the room was filled with wooden cases of wine, with bottles stacked singly or in pairs upon them. The walls were lined with racks on which more bottles gleamed. A half-empty bottle of white wine sat on the floor.

  As I entered, a bell rang above the door, the man with his feet up looked up, and the other two turned to see who had come into the shop. A small brown spaniel pattered around the desk from where it had been sitting in a basket and inspected my trouser leg. One of the two men on my side of the desk, who had gingery receding hair and red cheeks and blue eyes said, “Good heavens! A customer! Things are looking up, Francis.”

  I felt I had intruded into a private party.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I just wanted to have a look, but I think I’m interrupting you.”

  The man behind the desk swung his feet from the desk top to the floor and stood up. He was very tall and thin, and I guessed he was the far side of sixty. He was wearing a baggy grey cardigan, out at the elbows, and very old fawn corduroys. His face was sad and handsome, with bags under his brown eyes and arched eyebrows. His black hair, streaked with silver, was brushed straight back from his forehead. Despite the scruffiness of his clothes he wore them with an air of ineffable elegance.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, and to the spaniel, “Campbell, go and sit down. We are certainly open, and you are very welcome. Eck, find the gentleman a chair.”

  The ginger-haired man went and started to drag a chair towards the desk. The third man, still seated, now rose and introduced himself. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Ed Simmonds.”

  Ed Simmonds was also tall and thin, but much younger than the man behind the desk. He had a mass of curly blond hair spiking in every direction and a friendly, open face.

  “I’m Wilberforce,” I said.

  We shook hands. Ed turned and indicated the older man with a wave of his hand. “That is Francis Black, the proprietor of this shop, and the man struggling with that chair is Hector Chetwode-Talbot. We call him Eck.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said, “but I feel as if I’m intruding.”

  “Then the fault is ours,” said Francis Black. He produced a tall-stemmed wine glass from somewhere, like a magician bringing a rabbit out of a hat, and reached down to pick up the bottle of wine on the floor. He poured a measure into the glass and then handed it to me.

  “We are trying out some Condrieu I have just got in,” he said. “Sit down and taste it. No obligation to buy anything.”

  “No one ever buys anything from Francis,” the man called Eck said to me. “If you hang around here long enough he gives you a glass of something anyway. Francis is the last of the world’s great wine bores, aren’t you, Francis?”

  “I have an interest in the subject,” said the older man modestly. “But you haven’t tasted the wine, Mr…” He paused, evidently having forgotten my name.

  “Wilberforce,” I said. “Please just call me Wilberforce. That’s what everybody else does.”

  “No relation to the great liberator of slaves, I suppose?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  I realised that I was expected to taste the wine, so I took a sip. I managed to stop myself from making a grimace. I very rarely drank wine and did not really enjoy it. The wine tasted tart at first, then a little sweeter. I took a second sip.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “I don’t think you drink wine very often,” said Francis Black.

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked.

  “Oh, I can always tell. Nothing gives me more pleasure than introducing newcomers to the art of tasting wine.”

  “Watch out,” said Ed Simmonds. “He’ll sell you a case before you know about it.”

  “I should never take advantage of anyone like that,” said Francis Black seriously. Then he asked, “How did you happen to come across the shop tonight? Had you heard about us from somebody?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “The truth is, I work down in the valley. I was on my way home but it was such a lovely evening I decided to go for a drive. I’d never come up the hill before, you see. And then I saw the sign to your shop and I thought I would just come and have a look.”

  I tasted the wine again. A fragrance like honey filled my mouth, and infused itself into me.

  Francis watched me and said, “You’re beginning to find the taste of the wine, aren’t you? How long have you worked in the valley?”

  “About twelve years,” I said.

  “And this is the first time you’ve been up here? You must keep your head down,” said Eck. “What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I work in computer software,” I said.

  “Really,” said Ed Simmonds. “You must be enormously brainy. I am absolutely baffled by computers. I’ve just had to buy one for my office at home and I simply can’t get it to work at all. I don’t even know how to work the email. I can hardly turn the computer on. Waiting for it to start up is as exciting as watching paint dry.”

  “It’s probably not set up quite right,” I said. “It’s a common enough problem.”

  “I’m sure,” agreed Ed Simmonds, “and it’s got me beat.”

  “Well, if you like,” I said, “I’ll come across and see if I can fix it up for you.”

  Ed said, “Would you really? That’s nice of you. I tell you what: come over on Saturday if you’re free and have a look at it, and then I’ll give you a spot of lunch. Could you bear to do that?”

  “I’d be very happy to try and help,” I said, “and Saturday would be fine.”

  “Well, this is my lucky day,” said Ed.

  “But where do you live?” I asked Ed.

  Eck laughed and said, “Ed always imagines everyone knows where he lives.”

  Ed Simmonds blushed and said, “Do you know where Hartlepool Hall is?”

  Of course I did: Hartlepool Hall
was an enormous stately home a few miles away, which was open to the public. I had never been there, but I knew exactly where it was. “Yes,” I said. “Where at Hartlepool Hall should I come to?” I imagined he must have a cottage on the estate or work in one of the estate offices there: I knew it was a huge set-up.

  “Just come to the front door and ask for me,” said Ed. He stood up and said, “Thanks for the wine, Francis. I’ll pick up a couple of cases later on in the week, if you can get them up from the cellar. I think my pa would like it. No, no, don’t bother now: I’m going out to dinner and I must get moving—I’m late as it is.”

  He turned to me and said, “See you on Saturday morning about twelve, Wilberforce. And don’t forget, you’re expected to stay for lunch.” Then he was gone.

  I said, “Does he really live at Hartlepool Hall?”

  “Oh yes,” said Eck. “His father is the Marquess of Hartlepool, and Ed will be Ed Hartlepool one day. Sooner rather than later, from the look of his father.”

  Then Eck also stood up and said, “I must go too, Francis. I can’t afford to buy any wine today, but thank you for the free sample. I’ll look in again soon.” Eck turned to me and said, “Glad to have met you, Wilberforce. Perhaps we’ll meet again here if you decide to make a return visit. I’m often hanging around about the place.”

  He left and I stood up too and put the glass that had contained the Condrieu down on the desk. “Thank you,” I said to Francis Black. “That was very kind of you.”

  “Not at all,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “I’m not much of a wine drinker, as you can see,” I said.

  “But you might become one,” said Francis. “I think you appreciated the taste of that wine. I hope so, anyway. It’s one of life’s most civilised pleasures.”

  On an impulse, wanting to appear civilised, I said, “I’d like to buy a bottle of wine to take home with me.”

  “Certainly,” said Francis Black. “What a good idea. What did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” I said. “Do you have any red wine?”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Francis Black’s sad face. He said, “I have red, pink, and white. But what I have most of is red wine.”

  He went across to one of the racks along the wall of his shop, took a bottle down and looked at it for a moment, then brought it across to me. “This is a Château Gloria,” he said. “It’s a good wine, not a great wine, but a good, well-made red Bordeaux. Take it and make sure you open it an hour before you drink it.”

  “Oh, thanks very much,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” said Francis Black. I began to object, but he held up his hand. “I won’t hear of your paying. It is a gift. Only one obligation comes with it.”

  “What?” I asked, though I knew before he told me.

  “You must come back here soon and tell me exactly what you thought of it.”

  §

  On Saturday I drove to Hartlepool Hall. Most people have been there on open days and will have seen its vast lodge gates and the drive, nearly a mile long, that runs between a row of ancient limes, then avenues of Wellingtonia and finally a double row of great blue Atlantic cedars. The house itself is enormous, a great colonnaded front looking out across terraces of rhododendrons and, beyond, a lake. At the top of its four storeys the house is crowned with a stone balustrade, and above the centre of the house is a grey-stone dome. Behind the house are stables, tack rooms, disused brew houses, bakeries, and storehouses and, nowadays, an estate gift shop and tea room. Quarter of a mile from the house are three vast walled gardens, which have now been turned into a garden centre, where once glasshouses full of figs, peaches and nectarines grew.

  As I drove past several signs saying ‘Private’ or ‘Not Open to the Public: Trade Vehicles and House Visitors Only’, I felt it very likely that someone would stop me and turn me back. Ed Simmonds would have forgotten about asking me and it would all be monumentally embarrassing. No one did stop me and I parked my car at the front door and got out. I wondered for a moment if my car would be towed away.

  I went up the steps to the great double doors below the central pediment. After a moment I found a bell pull and tugged at it, hoping it would not come away in my hand. It did not. Nothing happened for a while; I turned and looked at the lake and saw a flock of geese taking off, wheeling overhead, then skimming back down to land on it. I heard a noise behind me and turned, and saw a very distinguished-looking older man with silver hair in a dark suit standing holding the door open for me. I decided it must be Ed’s father and put out my hand and said, “Hello, I’m Wilberforce. I’ve come to see Ed.”

  The man ignored my outstretched hand—not rudely but simply as if it was not there—and inclined himself in a slight bow. “My name is Horace, sir. If you would like to follow me, Lord Edward is expecting you in his office.”

  I realised, feeling stupid, that Horace must be the butler. I followed him into an enormous, gloomy hall. It had dark panelled wood, with obscure portraits of men, mostly in military costume of earlier centuries, half-hidden in the shadow on the walls. Horace led me through this and then onwards through a maze of corridors, up stairs and down them again until we came to a long corridor. At the last of a series of doors we stopped; Horace opened it and gestured to me go in.

  Inside was a brightly lit office with two desks, on one of which sat a computer. Ed Simmonds was sitting in front of it, staring blankly at the screen. When he saw me he jumped to his feet and came across and said, “It’s so good of you to come. Thank you, Horace. I’ll ring through when I think we’re ready for lunch. Wilberforce, this bloody machine has got worse. I think it’s sickening for something.”

  I sat down at the desk and started to check the settings on the computer. It took me about ten minutes to fix the problem and another twenty minutes to set up an email account. Ed sat opposite me watching me in awe, as if I was a witch doctor. When I had finished, I showed him which buttons to press and how to use his email.

  Ed Simmonds was ecstatic. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “You really are a genius. I’ve had three people look at that machine and none of them could do a thing with it.”

  “What do you need it for?” I asked.

  “Well, no modern estate office is without a computer, so I thought I ought to have one in here, and our accountants and our estate manager all insist on sending everything by email these days.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time in here?” I asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” said Ed. “I’ve got a secretary who does most of that for me, but it’s a bit shaming if I can’t even switch on the machine, or open an email without help. Now, thanks to you, I will be able to impress them all. Come and have some lunch.”

  As we walked back through the house I began to appreciate its enormous scale. I glimpsed staircases soaring towards the upper regions of the house. We crossed two halls tiled in black-and-white marble and filled with pale marble and alabaster statuary. We passed rooms labelled ‘Billiard Room’, ‘Smoking Room’, ‘Lord Simon’s Study’ and ‘Butler’s Pantry’. At last we came back to the hall where we had started out. Ed strode across the hall and opened a door.

  Inside was a vast dining room, with a table about fifty feet long. The walls were hung with large pictures, this time mostly Venetian scenes, or improbably robust-looking women clutching suckling children to their breasts. At the far end of the room was an alcove, where a small round table was laid for three. Next to the table was a sideboard with a decanter filled with a golden liquid, and two glasses stood next to it. A third glass was being clutched by Eck, who was sipping from it while he stared out of the window.

  When he heard us, he turned and said, “You took so long I thought I would help myself to some of your sherry.”

  “You did the right thing, Eck,” said Ed. “Wilberforce, can I offer you a glass?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I don’t really drink.”

  L
unch was served from a trolley, which was wheeled in by Horace: soup and then lamb chops. Ed and Eck drank wine and I drank water. Afterwards we went through to a small sitting room, where Horace brought us coffee. The conversation was mostly carried on between Ed and Eck, but I never felt left out. They treated me like an old friend, not as if I had appeared in their lives barely five minutes ago. I felt an odd sensation as I sat there, which I tried but failed at first to define. Then I realised what it was: I was enjoying myself.

  The door of the sitting room opened, and an elderly man shuffled in wearing a threadbare crimson-velvet smoking jacket and a velvet tasselled cap. On his feet he wore scuffed slippers covered in a tweed check.

  Ed sprang to his feet. “Hello, Pa,” he said. “You know Eck, but you haven’t met Wilberforce.”

  “Who?” asked the old gentleman, chewing at the corner of a ragged moustache while he gazed at me.

  “Wilberforce,” Ed repeated. “He’s lunching with us.”

  “Never lunch myself,” said Ed’s father. He turned to me and said, “Well done. Well done. Splendid effort. A marvellous innings. Showed those Aussies how to play cricket.” Having delivered that encomium he left the room again without further words.

  “He must think that you’re someone else,” explained Ed to me. “Don’t mind him. He gets ideas into his head.”

  A little later Ed announced that he had promised to go and call on a girl called Catherine. “Don’t hurry away,” he said. “Horace will see you out when you want to go. Wilberforce, thank you so much for coming. Will you come again soon? Will you write a telephone number on the pad by this phone? You really mustn’t disappear out of our lives now we’ve all met. It would be so nice if you could come over again. I’ll be in touch.” He was gone.

  “Who’s Catherine?” I asked Eck.

  “His squeeze. She’s very nice. You’ll like her,” said Eck. He went over to a table where a humidor sat, and helped himself to a large cigar. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”