‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said huffily. ‘End of lecture.’
‘No, honestly, Ned – I’m interested. I’m sorry I yawned. I’m sure what you say is true. It’s like you say, we common folk find political theory boring. I know we shouldn’t, but forgive me if we go back to Verity. She came running to you to prove her friend wasn’t a murderer after all?’
‘That’s about the size of it, Connie.’
‘And did you?’
‘Sort of. I was able to find Tilney – but not alive. He had been murdered but not when the police thought he had. When we found him, he had only been dead an hour or so.’
‘So the man who was buried as Tilney wasn’t him after all? How very complicated! Verity must have been pleased because that presumably let Mr Griffiths-Jones off the hook. Sorry, I didn’t mean to put it that way, but he couldn’t have done it because he was in prison. Do you know who did?’
‘No. I didn’t think that was my problem. Verity had wanted me to find a way of getting David out of gaol and, more by luck than anything else, I did. Then I got your wire and I wanted to be back here.’
‘Did Verity understand?’
‘No. We had a bit of a row about it. There was a lot of tidying up to do which I had to leave to her, and she thought . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. The main thing was, I had to get back here as fast as I could. I have my priorities too, and you and Gerald, and Frank of course, are top of the list.’
Connie pressed his hand warmly. Under the great copper beech that trailed its branches in the slow-running river, they talked of other things – of old memories, of the castle they both loved so much and of their hopes for the future.
‘I do so fear – I haven’t said this to anyone else, not even to Gerald – specially not to Gerald – I do fear there will be another war and Frank will have to go and fight and . . . die like the Uncle Franklyn he never knew.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Edward, who was haunted by precisely the same fear but had no wish to admit it to his sister-in-law. ‘The next war, if it does come, and pray God it doesn’t, will be as dangerous for those who stay at home as those in the front line. Did you hear the Prime Minister say how “the bomber will always get through”? I have a terrible feeling he may be right.’
Connie shivered. ‘I’m cold, let’s go in, Ned.’ She folded her arms, defensively, across her chest. ‘Oh, why can’t we all be left in peace to live our own lives without interfering with anyone else’s! Oh dear! There I go again. That’s exactly what I’m not supposed to say, isn’t it?’
‘Why indeed,’ he sighed.
As they strolled back together across the lawn, green and soft as the baize on a billiard table, to the fairy-tale castle innocent of any military attributes, Spain seemed far away to Edward but the cloud of depression which Verity’s attack on him and the news of his brother’s accident had precipitated, deepened and darkened.
The next day, standing at his brother’s bedside in the hospital, he looked gloomily at the pale, lined face of the man who had been more of a father to him than a brother. Was this the state between living and dying, between sleeping and waking, he wondered, which Catholics called purgatory? He thought of the little Norman church in Mersham in which generations of their family had worshipped, married, and been buried. The marble effigies of Sir Marmeduke Corinth and his lady lay on a dais near the altar in cold splendour, Sir Marmeduke’s legs crossed to remind strangers that he had been a crusader. How often had he as a boy knelt in the family pew and glimpsed through his fingers the feet of the ancient warrior warmed by lifelike effigies of his favourite hunting dogs. He had, during dull sermons, fantasised about what exploits would bring him the honour and glory which had brought Sir Marmeduke eternal fame.
In 1921, a war memorial had been unveiled in the church. Thereafter, when his attention wandered during the service, his eye would stray to the plaque on the whitewashed wall. Beneath a few words from Laurence Binyon’s ‘Poem for the Fallen’ were inscribed the names of those from Mersham who had given their lives so that he and his generation could live in peace. It was a burden which weighed heavily on both Franklyn’s surviving brothers. In 1914, from a population of four hundred and seventy-five, twenty-nine able-bodied young men from the village had marched to war, leaving only old men and women to till the fields. Only seven had returned to their families in 1918 and, of these, four had been wounded. Franklyn had died first – as perhaps old Sir Marmeduke might have expected of him. These were the empty places to fill and Gerald, for one, had tortured himself with the fear that he was not worthy to do so. He had devoted himself to preventing a second, even more savage war which would destroy a new generation, and he had failed.
On an impulse, and after checking that there was no one in the corridor who might come in upon him without warning, Edward knelt beside the hospital bed, as simple as any soldier’s cot, and prayed. After a minute, he rose from his knees, self-consciously wiping the dust from his immaculately pressed trousers. Finding to his relief that he was unobserved, he took the flower out of his buttonhole – it was a daffodil head he had picked just outside the front gate as he left for the hospital – raised it to his nose and inhaled the scent of spring. Then he placed it on the pillow beside the head of the unconscious man.
A nurse came in, saw the flower and smiled at him, and Edward returned her smile. Neither spoke a word but something passed between them. In the Lagonda going home, Edward felt strangely refreshed as though he had done his duty or, more than that, had expressed, however inadequately, the love he felt for his brother. In ordinary life, Englishmen, and brothers in particular, seldom touched each other beyond the occasional firm handshake. The nearness of death, the final farewell, after which there could be no embraces, only regrets, made it absurd not to show his feelings. However, like Prince Hal at his father’s deathbed, if Gerald did wake up, Edward knew they would revert to their usual outward show of mutual indifference. As he drove through the castle gates, the phrase from Love’s Labour’s Lost, which Maurice Tate had quoted, came back to him: ‘To move wild laughter in the throat of death.’ He thought he almost understood what Berowne had meant.
11
The following Saturday, he drove down to Eton in the Lagonda to see Franklyn.
‘I say, Uncle Ned, she’s a stunner. May I drive her?’
‘No, dash it, your mother would kill me,’ then seeing the boy’s face fall: ‘At Mersham you can have a turn at the wheel, on the drive mind you, not on the road. But, you’re right, Frank, ain’t she a beautiful thing.’ The two stood in companionable silence admiring the car before the boy said, ‘What’s the news of Pa?’
‘The same, I’m afraid. All we can do is hope and pray.’
‘Mother’s being most awfully brave.’
‘Yes, she’s been amazing. And she worries about you.’
‘About me?’ said Franklyn in surprise. ‘Why me?’
‘Well, why do you think, you young idiot? She doesn’t want this to spoil things for you here or prevent you doing as well as you might have done in your Trials.’
‘Oh, I say, Uncle, tell her not to worry. I just feel the only way I can help Pa is by doing the very best I can in exams so, when he wakes up, he will be proud of me.’
Edward ruffled his nephew’s hair but was temporarily unable to speak.
He was not a particularly good ‘old boy’. He had enjoyed Eton but it was at Cambridge that he had really blossomed. He had not been back to the school for several years and it was an odd feeling walking past his house – Mantons – in Common Lane. His housemaster, a man called Hobbs whom Edward had not liked, was now dead. The boys streaming in and out – the little ones in their ‘bum-freezers’, the bigger ones with coat tails flying – brought vividly back to him the schoolboy past he thought he had forgotten. He was particularly struck by one boy, about Frank’s age he guessed, his top hat perched precariously on the back of his head, almost hidden behind a pile of books in a strap, crossing the
road in front of them. He could not see his face at first but, when the boy looked his way, he experienced a shock of recognition.
‘Frank, see that boy over there – do you know who he is?’
‘Yes,’ his nephew said without hesitation, ‘his name’s Thayer, Charles Thayer. Why, do you know him?’
‘I knew his father,’ Edward said. ‘We were in the same house, this one, in fact,’ he said, indicating Mantons. ‘I was his fag.’
‘Good Lord, Uncle Ned, what a lark. Charles is one of my best friends. Wait there, I’ll just go and get him. I’m sure he would like to meet you.’
Edward put out a hand to stop him but it was too late. Frank had hared off down the street and was now talking animatedly to his friend and gesturing towards Edward. Edward smiled weakly. He hoped, at least, that Thayer’s father was not in the offing. That didn’t seem likely as he was clearly going off to some lesson or lecture.
Two minutes later, Edward was shaking the warm, wet hand of his friend’s son. ‘I say, sir,’ said the boy eagerly, rescuing his top hat which had fallen into the gutter, ‘how absolutely ripping to meet you. My father was only talking about you the other day . . . when I mentioned Frank here,’ he punched his companion affectionately with his free hand, ‘was my greatest friend.’
‘Ah well, please give him my regards.’
‘But, sir, you can do that yourself, if you have the time. He’s having lunch with the Head Man and the Provost – you know, he’s a fellow and all that rot – but then he’s going to have tea in my room. Do say you will come, with Frank of course.’
‘Oh well, I don’t . . .’
‘Oh please, Uncle Ned.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Edward said, not wishing to be rude to his nephew’s friend. He was curiously hesitant about renewing his acquaintance with Thayer whom he had not seen in over a decade.
‘Oh good, that’s splendid, sir. Now I will be off. I’ve got to see m’tutor – Mr Blanchard. Of course you won’t know him, sir. He’s quite a young man.’
Edward admired the boy’s effort of imagination to see that it might be tactless to designate Mr Blanchard, who was probably Edward’s age, as one of the ancient.
‘He’s your classical tutor?’ Edward said.
‘That’s right, sir. M’tutor is Mr Caine.’
‘An ominous name,’ Edward joked.
‘What? Oh yes, I see what you mean. His nickname’s ‘Whacko’ Caine but actually he doesn’t like beating boys. He’s very popular.’
When they had said their goodbyes, Edward watched in amusement as the boy loped off down the street, employing that peculiar, careless, almost simian gait known as the Eton slouch.
‘I haven’t seen your friend’s father for some years and I had no idea he was a fellow and all that.’
‘Yes, he’s quite a swell, but he has no side. I like him.’
With that compliment, all the more effective for being unconsidered, they strolled back to Frank’s house, which was in the High Street, so that he could change for a house match.
The Field Game, a combination of rugger and association football, was never a favourite sport of Edward’s when he had been at school. He had played it with some success because he was a natural athlete but his enthusiasm had been then, and still was, cricket. He had been captain of the eleven, no less, in his final year – and he had rowed a bit too – but now, muffled against an unseasonably cold wind, he cheered on his nephew with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Inevitably, his mind went back to his schooldays. Stephen Thayer was three years his senior, which meant a lot at school. Edward had been his fag. He had brought him tea in bed in the morning, blacked his boots, toasted cheese sandwiches at tea time and run errands for him.
Thayer had been a glamorous figure: he was in the sixth form and a member of Pop. But, more importantly, he displayed elegant unconcern for the honours which accrued to him. Nothing was more attractive to Etonians than achieving triumphs – sporting, social or academic – without seeming to strive for them. If he was arrogant, he hid it behind a mask of courtesy; if he was selfish, it was disguised as sophistication. At home in the holidays, he mixed with famous actors and actresses, politicians and ‘society people’ whose faces regularly appeared in the illustrated papers, and this gave him a superficial maturity, a world-weary tolerance of school regulations which even his masters – the beaks – found winning.
And yet, Edward had a feeling that Thayer had left under something of a cloud. He couldn’t quite remember exactly what sort of cloud. He had, nevertheless, gone up to Oxford but remained there for just a year, whether at his own desire or the university’s Edward did not know. He had gone into the City and was now, he had heard, a successful merchant banker. Edward had always been mildly surprised that his old schoolfellow had not made more of a splash: become Prime Minister, climbed Mount Everest or even become a newspaper tycoon like Lord Weaver. He had charm, he was not afraid of hard work when this was absolutely necessary, but perhaps there was some fault-line in his character which prevented him achieving everything his friends had hoped and expected of him. Could the same be said of himself? Edward thought wryly.
It was hard to explain why he had lost touch with Thayer. There was the age difference, of course, but that became less significant as time passed. They had gone to different universities and made different friends. For a year or two after that, Edward had seen his friend at London parties and he seemed just the same: charming, interested in what Edward had to tell him of his travels but reluctant to talk about his own affairs. They had made those very English assignations to meet, so vague as to be meaningless. When Edward was in Africa, he had heard from a friend that Thayer had married and that his wife had died in childbirth. He had been saddened by the news and meant to write to him but had put it off from month to month until it became too late to write at all. And now they were to meet again through the happy coincidence of his nephew being Charles Thayer’s best friend. Fate had a way of bringing everything full circle.
As they strolled back to the house after the match, Edward felt an immense affection for Frank – perhaps because he was seeing his own youth in the boy beside him. He found himself wishing Verity could meet him. He thought they would like each other. Also, he wanted her common sense, her contempt for privilege and tradition, to cauterise the sweetness of nostalgia which threatened to overwhelm him. He wished he had not parted with her so abruptly and on bad terms. He decided he would make a few telephone calls when he got back to Mersham and find out what was happening in Madrid.
With Frank showered and pink with good health and excitement, they walked the few hundred yards to Thayer’s house. Close friendships between boys in different houses were rare unless they were related in some way and Edward asked his nephew how he had become such good friends with Thayer.
‘I suppose we got to know each other because we both play the clarinet – very badly in my case – and in the summer half we both play cricket. But it’s not that. It’s just that we both . . . we both liked each other as soon as we met.’
Edward wondered if there was a schoolboy crush involved but would not have dreamed of even suggesting such a thing.
‘Edward! How very good to see you again. It’s been much too long. Why is it one never sees the people one really wants to? It is so good that my Charles and your nephew should be such friends.’
‘Yes indeed, Stephen,’ Edward said, shaking the hand of his old school friend. They scrutinised one another as men always do when they haven’t met for some time, looking for signs of their own mortality. Both looked young for their age: Edward still had the figure of an active man and Thayer was tall and willowy. There was perhaps a puffiness round his eyes which betrayed late nights and too little fresh air, but Edward could still recognise in the middle-aged man the schoolboy he had once been.
‘I’m so sorry to hear about your brother. I do hope he will recover quickly,’ Thayer said, still grasping Edward’s hand.
T
he words were commonplace enough but the look in his eye, the expression of concern, was altogether captivating. Although Edward knew he was being, in some sense, manipulated, he could not help but feel a surge of warmth towards the man. Thayer was displaying the ability most public figures have for making anyone they speak to feel that, at least for those few seconds, they are the most important person in the world. Edward wondered again why he had chosen not to go into politics.
The boys were gathered round the little grate attempting to set fire to stapled brown-paper strips called Burn-A-Witch. When the coals were hot enough, toasting forks would be got out and crumpets attached to their prongs. There was a whole ritual to tea-making which every small boy – every fag – had to learn if he hoped to escape chastisement. Toast had to be laid against the teapot and not flat on a plate where it would become soggy. The teapot had to be warmed before tea was spooned into it and the boiling water – it had to be bubbling not just hot – poured over it. The pot then had to rest for two and a half minutes. Although each boy, even the most junior, had his own room, two or three would choose to eat together in what was called, in naval style, a ‘mess’. Edward, conscious of schoolboy etiquette, asked if they were inconveniencing Charles’s messing partners.
‘Oh no, sir, thank you, sir,’ said the boy politely. ‘When we have parents, it is quite all right for us to eat in our own rooms, not with our friends.’
‘But please don’t smoke, Uncle,’ said Frank firmly, seeing Edward take out his cigarette case.
‘Oh no, of course, I forgot for a moment. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’
After ten minutes discussing the boys, Thayer took Edward to one side and said, ‘It’s so good to meet you like this, Edward. As it happens, there is something about which I want to consult you. I imagine you know that Makepeace Hoden’s dead?’
‘Yes, I gather he was killed on safari. It was a shock.’
‘It was, and I gather you have just got back from Madrid investigating the death of another of our old friends, Godfrey Tilney.’
Bones of the Buried Page 14