The Wilt Inheritance (2010)

by Tom Sharpe

  In Ipford Eva was preparing to drive down to Sussex to pick up the quads. The Headmistress’s letter had arrived that morning with its warning that the school fees were being raised yet again. That had alarmed her so much that she had even thought of phoning Sandystones Hall to ask if she could speak to her husband. She’d finally decided not to because he would only say it was her fault for taking the girls out of the Convent in the first place, and that the fifteen hundred pounds a week he was earning was scarcely going to cover the increase for one girl, let alone all four of them.

  Lurking at the back of her mind also was a memory of the way Lady Clarissa had looked at Wilt over lunch. Eva hadn’t liked that look at all. It was obvious her ladyship had found him sexually alluring. If that was the case, the sooner Eva and the quads were up at the Hall the better. She’d told Henry there was not to be any hanky-panky when they’d cycled home, and she’d meant it.

  Not that he was exactly keen on ‘gender’ or even the word itself. He said it was an abomination and insisted on referring to political correctness as the ‘destruction of the English language’. It was the same with the word ‘gay’ which he refused to use either except when they’d been to a party he’d particularly enjoyed. In short, he was determined to be old-fashioned and to embarrass her. Eva had tried to fight back but too often had used the word ‘sex’ instead of ‘gender’ when she was talking too quickly and forgot. Anyway he wasn’t keen on it, whatever you called it. If Lady Clarissa tried to seduce him, or whatever the politically correct word was, she’d have her work cut out. He’d probably run a mile.

  There was besides the presence of Sir George, though he had been born under another name or something, according to Wilt, and who according to Lady Clarissa was a very bad-tempered man indeed. He’d soon put a stop to any hanky-panky. And then, of course, Wilt was earning all that extra money on top of his salary at the Technical University and she and the quads were getting a free holiday by the seaside into the bargain. That would save money too. Feeling much more cheerful, Eva finished packing and took the suitcases out to the car, had a cup of tea and made some sandwiches for the drive. Then, in a better mood, she set off down to the school. Come to think of it, she would need to hurry if she were to get to St Barnaby’s in time.

  As she drove she tried to decide what she was going to say to the Headmistress to persuade her to let the quads stay on at the school. She was so absorbed in these thoughts and keeping within the speed limit that it was only when she reached Hailsham that she realised she was on entirely the wrong road and almost out of petrol. She stopped at a petrol station, filled up the tank and, having paid, asked the man behind the counter the way to East Whyland.

  “You’ve come a long way out if you want that village. It’s practically in Kent.”

  “How far from here?”

  “About forty miles, but it’s along side roads. You’d be safer to go back to Heathfield and take the A265 to Burwash. Ask someone there.”

  He turned to the next customer, grumbling, “People who have no sense of direction ought not be on the roads in the first place. Or they should at least have the gumption to get themselves a satellite navigation system.”

  He obviously hadn’t met Henry who would sooner find his way by the alignment of the stars in the night sky than lash out good money on a box of electronic tricks when a road atlas would do the job just as well. Not that Eva had ever been any good with maps.

  Feeling foolish, she sat in the car studying the road map. East Whyland remained invisible to her. The next problem was that she had to turn round to get back to Heathfield and there was a queue of traffic which made it impossible for her to get across to the opposite lane. After half an hour she managed it thanks to a polite man who left a space for her in front of him. Even then she was stuck in a snarl up for an hour more and it was six o’clock before she reached Heathfield and turned right on to the A265.

  By the time she reached Burwash Eva was beginning to wish she’d listened to Wilt when he’d tried to show her how to read a map, but that had been years ago when they were first married and she’d been in love with him. “I don’t need to,” she’d said then, “I can’t drive so how can I get lost?” By the time she’d passed her test Wilt’s exasperation with her had grown to such an extent he was more likely to have spent time teaching her how to get lost than how not to.

  Well, she was lost now. The last time she’d come down to the school Wilt had been driving and she had been too busy telling the girls to stop squabbling in the back to notice the way they had come. She pulled into the side of the road and was studying the map without much hope when an old woman came out of a house nearby and walked towards her. Eva got out and went around the car. “I wonder if you could help me,” she said when she’d reached her. “I’m looking for Saint Barnaby’s Girls’ School and I’ve lost my way. It’s in East Whyland.”

  “East Whyland? Never heard of the place. Mind you, I don’t live down here. I’m from Essex. Just visiting my niece, and she’s only been here for a month so there’s not much point asking her. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  When she’d gone Eva consulted the map again and cursed the garage man in Hailsham. The only solution she could think of was that there was probably a hotel in Heathfield and she didn’t care if it did cost more than a bed and breakfast, she was throughly fed up and exhausted. She was also desperately hungry. She’d spend the night there after ringing St Barnaby’s to tell the Headmistress she’d had a puncture and wouldn’t be arriving until the following day. If she found a nice hotel she’d be able to treat herself to a very good dinner with a glass of decent wine. With what Wilt was earning, they could jolly well afford it.

  Next morning, armed with painstakingly written directions from the hotel porter, Eva found the school and spent an acrimonious half-hour with the Headmistress who demanded that she remove the quads at once and seriously consider looking for an alternative.

  “What have they done now?” Eva demanded angrily.

  “What have they done? Well, let me tell you that unless they leave straight away you are likely to end up being multiply sued for the wanton damage your girls are inflicting on staff cars and school property. The only reason I haven’t called the police so far is that I didn’t want them arrested here – I do have the reputation of the school to consider. All I’m saying is, you’d better consider the legal cost, if members of staff do end up taking you to court. I have so far persuaded them not to but, unless your daughters leave immediately, they may change their minds. One of my best teachers has already resigned thanks to your girls. She had to go to hospital because your daughters deliberately tampered with her car. I hope I’ve made the situation clear.”

  Eva said she had and left the Headmistress’s office feeling suitably chastened. She collected the quads from the sick bay where they had been put in isolation. She was already dreading the return journey.

  ∗

  The following day Sir George seemed to be in a slightly more affable mood. “So where is that son of yours?” he asked his wife at breakfast.

  “Why do you want to know? Keeping out of your way, I should think. I’m determined to make sure you won’t be seeing much, if anything, of Edward. He’ll be spending most of his time being coached by Henry.”

  “By whom? If you’re referring to Wilt, I’d be grateful if you’d call him by his surname and not his Christian one. After all, he’s merely an educated servant. I don’t go round calling my secretary Doris or whatever her first name is. She’s Mrs Bale to me. Come to think of it, you can address him as Mr Wilt.”

  Clarissa glared at him poisonously.

  “I’ll call him what I like,” she snapped. “I’m still waiting for an apology from you.”

  “An apology? What on earth have I got to apologise for?”

  “For being so nasty to me about Uncle. I still don’t see why my family can’t be buried here. I’m your wife, aren’t I?”

  “Sadly, my dear, yes, you ar
e. But you won’t be if you carry on in this way.”

  They sat in silence broken only by Sir George’s crunching of the badly burned toast which he had covered with lashings of butter.

  “Your manners are disgusting,” Clarissa snapped. “Thank God Edward’s tutor isn’t here to listen to you. By the way, where is he?”

  “In the kitchen, of course. That’s where Mrs Bale eats.”

  “In that case, I’ll have breakfast in my room and leave you to make a pig of yourself in here. After all, you treat me like a skivvy too.”

  She left the table and headed for the door. Behind her Sir George muttered, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  Lady Clarissa turned on him. “If there’s any rubbish in this place, it’s what you’re currently stuffing down yourself. It looks lethal enough to land you in the morgue. Now that would be good riddance!” And she left, slamming the door behind her.

  Sir George went across to the sideboard and helped himself to another portion of fatty bacon from the chafing dish. The only clouds on his horizon were due solely to Clarissa’s relations. He was damned if that disgusting old man was going to lay his bones in Gadsley family ground. And as for that moronic son of hers…If someone had pilfered the keys to the gun cabinet it was bound to be Edward. Stupid idiot. Wilt was going to find it almost impossible to get that lout into Cambridge. Well, Sir George wasn’t going to have the boy cluttering up the Hall much longer, that was certain. He was determined to make dear little Eddie’s life so miserable he’d keep out of his step-father’s way altogether or, best of all, get a job and leave home. But what work could he possibly be fitted for? Sir George considered the problem and came to the conclusion his step-son might just qualify as an emptier of rubbish bins. He was sniggering over this thought when Mrs Bale came into the room and reminded him that he had to hear a case in twenty minutes.

  “What’s the charge?” he asked.

  “It’s the one where the taxi driver was beaten up by drunks who wouldn’t pay the fare after he’d taken them back to their village.”

  “Oh, that one. Soon sentence him for causing an affray.”

  “Fine the taxi driver? Why him? Why don’t you fine the drunken hooligans? After all, they started the whole thing?”

  “You don’t appreciate the pathetic weakness of the twenty-first-century legal system. There aren’t enough prisons, and we aren’t allowed to use police cells instead because the cost incurred is too great. Oh, yes, much better and more economical to teach the taxi driver not to allow drunks in his car in the future. He won’t complain when he sees I’m sentencing him: he’ll know he’s lucky not to be thrown straight into jail. You should see the other magistrates on the bench…as wet as sponges soaked in bathwater! Anyway, please get me my coat.”

  Mrs Bale left the room with a sigh, wondering why she’d ever become his secretary. Her late husband had frequently quoted the saying “The Law is an ass.” If Sir George was anything to go by, it was worse even than that: it was as barking mad as a hyena. She fetched his raincoat and waited for him to come down to the garage. As usual, she pressed the buttons and opened the electronic gates for him.

  ∗

  Lady Clarissa and Wilt were down at the cottage. He had spent three hours that morning trying to teach Edward the rudiments of twentieth-century European history, but had found the boy to be every bit as dull and dim-witted as he’d feared. The only contribution he’d made to the morning’s lesson was to draw some idiotic link between the First World War and the Polish man who cleaned the Hall’s windows, and when he’d failed to return from a loo break Wilt had decided to call it a day.

  He’d tried to broach the subject with Lady Clarissa but she had refused to listen and instead had dragged him off to the cottage in the grounds. He feared the worst, especially when she tried to take his arm which led to a rather ungainly tussle between them as he pretended not to realise what she was doing. But after that one attempt she kept her hands to herself and Wilt wondered if she had given up on him, following the disappointment in her bedroom. He certainly hoped so. It was bad enough fending off Eva, let alone another sex-mad harpy. They walked on in silence for a while.

  “I want you to be quite sure your wife will like it here,” his employer announced, producing the key to the cottage from her pocket. “I don’t want her to feel lonely.”

  Wilt decided not to mention the quads. The chance of Eva’s being lonely while they were around was about the same as his chance of winning the Lottery and retiring to Spain a millionaire. That was to say, zero: the last time he’d bought a Lottery ticket was four years ago and Eva had thrown a fit then, accusing him of reckless gambling.

  “I’m sure she won’t. I’m away all day during term-time,” he told Lady Clarissa.

  “Of course you are. But the Hall can be a lonely place…a hell of a lonely place. Take it from me.”

  Clarissa sniffed and Wilt pretended to study the ground as he waited for her to rally.

  “Perhaps after we’ve inspected the cottage you could show me where the caravan you saw was parked. You said the woman was short and very fat. I have a shrewd idea who she was.”

  They went into the cottage which was built of the same mellow brick as the garden walls. It was surrounded by a pocket handkerchief of lawn and a small flower garden, planted with roses and hollyhocks and edged with lavender.

  “This used to be the head gardener’s home,” Lady Clarissa explained, “but now I keep it for visitors who don’t find my husband’s company to their liking. Frankly, I find him unbearable myself most of the time. He’s eating himself into an early grave and I can’t say I’ll be sorry when he succeeds. You may think that sounds harsh but he treats Edward in the most beastly way.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, he’ll be meting out injustice in court by now so we may as well go and look for that camper thing.”

  “Where does the head gardener live now then?”

  “Oh, down in the village somewhere. He found it lonely up here when his wife died, and too far from his favourite pub. We get contractors to come in and mow the lawn. It’s far too big for the old fellow. How do you feel about the cottage?”

  “I think it’s a delightful alternative to living in India.”

  “I didn’t know you had been to India?”

  “I haven’t, though I feel as if I have been. I was thinking of the Hall.”

  Clarissa laughed.

  “I try not even to look at the front of the place. I always drive in through the back where we park the cars. Sir George says the hideous look of the place keeps burglars away. The moat and drawbridge help too.”

  “So do the guns.”

  “The cannon or the ones in the cabinet?”

  “I was thinking of the cabinet. I’ve never seen so many guns in one place. Although I suppose massed cannon aren’t exactly welcoming either.”

  “George is always showing off his guns, he probably wanted to impress you with them. Although he does have quite a few enemies.”

  “Enemies? What sort of enemies?”

  “Innocent people he’s sentenced to prison terms. He’s rather fond of doing that. He’s very wary of poachers and trespassers, too. In fact, there are a lot of people who would like to see him dead. Seriously, I wouldn’t go wandering about the woods at night while you’re here. Someone could mistake you for George.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  They left the cottage and walked on through the woods, noticing the tyre print of a heavy vehicle preserved on a dusty unsurfaced track to the right. Lady Clarissa put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Stay where you are. I’m going down there by myself. There’s a clearing not far away, I’m pretty sure. I bet that’s where he’s put the hussy.”

  She took off her shoes and handed them to Wilt who watched her move off silently down the track. After a while he sat down under a tree, wondering what on earth he’d let himself in for. Even struggling to overcome Edward’s stupidity was preferable to getting embro
iled in the Gadsleys’ affairs. And he supposed ‘affairs’ was the right word.

  It was twenty minutes before Lady Clarissa returned, put on her shoes and led the way back to the Hall before speaking.

  “Just as I thought: Philly’s down there. What I didn’t know is that there’s a gate in the park wall, allowing access to the grazing fields beyond. She got into the wood that way. Well, she’s bound to want to get out again sometime so I’m going to go and buy a strong lock in the village, to make sure she won’t be able to. You can come with me, if you feel like it.”

  “I think I’d better not. I’ve got some checking up to do on the twentieth-century arms race,” said Wilt, not having a clue who this Philly was, or wanting to. In fact, the only thing he wanted was to keep right out of whatever was going on. And, after their last encounter, he certainly wasn’t going to be trapped in any enclosed spaces with Lady Clarissa.

  “Do you mind if I head back now? I want to give Eva a ring…let her know how much I’m looking forward to seeing her.” Wilt knew that if he said any such thing to his wife she’d think he was suffering from a brain storm. Either that or drunk.

  “Make yourself at home.” Lady Clarissa collected her handbag and went out to her car.

  Wilt watched her drive off before heading back to the house. Halfway there he heard a loud bang and for a horrible moment thought Sir George’s enemies were closing in before he concluded it was just the Jaguar backfiring as it made its way up the lane. As he went inside Mrs Bale was coming out of Sir George’s study.

  “Just about to call my wife to see if she’s back from the school in Sussex,” Wilt explained. “She went down there to pick up our daughters.”

  “If you want my advice, I’d get her up here quickly. Her ladyship is in an odd mood. She’s…well, if she were an animal, I’d say she was ‘on heat’. If you know what that means. I can’t say I blame her. The boss has got someone on the side himself…”

  “Really? It wouldn’t be someone short and fat, would it?” asked Wilt, who’d rather begun to like Mrs Bale for the light she invariably shone on all of the household mysteries.