Past Caring - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  “It seems a pity to leave so soon.”

  “Needs must. Talking of which, Leo’s in his study and wants you to look in on him there. I think he’s planning a business chat. You know how meticulous South Africans are where money’s concerned. Why don’t you have a word with him while I look for Tomás?”

  Sellick’s study was on the eastern side of the courtyard. It was a far cry from Strafford’s – small but pleasantly cool, with a window overlooking the fountain.

  Sellick swung round in his chair clutching a sheet of paper as if it was a profitable bill of lading.

  “Come in, Martin, come in,” he said. “Please excuse the cheerless venue. You’ve come at just the right time. I’m writing to my banker” – he flourished the paper – “instructing him to transfer to your bank account the sum of one thousand pounds, to start your research off. Then you need only let me know when you need more. I trust that seems satisfactory.”

  I assured him it did and gave him the name and address of my bank.

  “Thank you, Martin. That will have been arranged by the time you return to England. Now, how goes the reading?” The change of subject was abrupt, as if the sordid question of money was to be given minimal attention.

  “It’s going well, though there’s still a lot to read. But Alec tells me I can have a copy to refer to.”

  “Yes, and he wants to return to Funchal today. So I shall see no more of you until … well, until you’ve reached a conclusion. But I shall expect regular progress reports.”

  “You’ll get them. I’m eager to start. I should be able to finish reading the Memoir before I fly home on Wednesday. Then I’ll get straight down to it.”

  “Where will you begin?”

  “Difficult to say at the moment. I’ll decide after finishing the Memoir. But probably with the records of the time – before tackling survivors of the events in person.”

  “Well, that’s for you to judge. Just do your best. If we can find out something, perhaps Strafford will rest easier.”

  “I hope so.”

  He rose and held out his hand. “Good luck in our enterprise.” We shook hands. “You will carry my thoughts.” He looked straight at me with his keen blue eyes, no smile lightening their intensity. Yes, it was a serious business. I’d thought of it as enjoyable, lucrative, rewarding, but never till then as the solemn undertaking Sellick clearly felt it to be.

  We left a couple of hours later, in time for the bus Tomás assured us would pass the Quinta shortly before noon. Sellick saw us out into the courtyard, shading his eyes against the glaring sunlight. Alec headed down the drive, but I paused for a moment to wave farewell to Sellick as he stood, smiling, by his fountain. I remembered him as he appeared then – a small, dapper old man, my benefactor – longer than I did his clear calculating mind. I remembered above all the Quinta, its mood and magic as the place of Strafford’s exile, where he could search forever in the solitude of his study for the fatal error he didn’t know he made. Where Strafford ended, I was beginning.

  Two days away in the cool uplands had made me forget the noise and glare of the capital. There was only time to drop the Memoir off at Alec’s house and bolt some lunch before setting off for the football stadium in the western suburbs. I wanted to stay at home and read some more, but Alec wouldn’t have it.

  Presumably, he didn’t see why he should suffer alone. Maritimo, the island’s premier football team, were at home in a Portuguese League match that Madeira Life couldn’t afford to miss. The concrete stadium at Barreiros was ideal for basking lizards and well-oiled Madeirans who couldn’t tell good football from bad, but to English eyes the players looked unfit and unimaginative.

  “It’s always like this,” said Alec, as the ball was kicked lethargically around. “Mañana interspersed with melodrama. I’m sorry if it’s a bit of a bore.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just such a contrast with the Quinta.”

  “Well, it’s easy to be romantic about Madeira if you live up there.” A paunchy Madeiran with a beer bottle blundered into Alec while taking his seat. “This is as real – if not more so – than the Porto Novo valley. As an historian, you should know that.”

  “Perhaps it’ll stop me getting starry-eyed about Strafford’s Madeiran connection.”

  “No fear of that, Martin. You’re more of a realist than I am.”

  “Realist enough, I hope, to notice the part you played in getting me this job.”

  “Nothing to do with me.” He craned over a shoulder for a view of the match’s first shot at goal. “It was all Leo’s idea.” To universal groans, the Maritimo forward ballooned the ball over the bar.

  “Come off it, Alec. Leo hardly stopped saying what a glowing account you’d given of me. He seemed remarkably well-informed about how I’m placed at present. And didn’t you say in your letter the visit might be worth my while? Was that the come-on or wasn’t it?”

  “Well, okay, I suppose so. I told him you were a well-qualified unemployed historian. I knew he might put two and two together and figure you were the man for the job he had in mind. And I reckoned it would appeal to you. And I did what I could to help a friend. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for what you’ve done.” I was and that was all I’d meant to say till Alec had tried to deny the part he’d obviously played. But his unease reminded me of a conflict of interest that wouldn’t go away. Now that we were far away from the Quinta, I could at least see whether Alec would find it embarrassing.

  “Sorry, Martin, I didn’t mean to bridle. It must be the heat.” It was certainly hot, and about to get hotter. A Maritimo forward fell over in a tackle and everyone in the ground except the referee awarded a penalty. Shouts, threats and fruit hailed onto the pitch. “That referee will need a police escort afterwards. A riot would really boost circulation.” Alec was to be disappointed. It was too hot even for the Maritimo fans.

  When the match lapsed back into torpor, I broached the burning question. “Obviously, I’m grateful for what promises to be a fascinating – and well-paid – assignment. But I can’t deny there’s something holding me back – something I can’t afford to have Leo hear about.”

  “You can trust me, Martin. God knows you could tell Leo things which might spoil my image as the white knight of journalism.”

  “It’s nothing like that. It’s a delicate matter of declaring an interest. You see, I’m related to someone in the Memoir.”

  “How?”

  “By marriage. Helen’s grandparents, the Couchmans, knew Strafford. They’re central figures in the story.”

  “Really? Well now, that is odd.”

  “It’s more than odd – it’s bloody awkward. How can I pose as the dispassionate researcher while knocking on my ex-in-laws’ doors asking embarrassing questions about their past?”

  “Surely it won’t be quite like that?”

  “Maybe not. But shouldn’t I tell Leo?”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “The thought that, if I do, he might withdraw the offer.”

  “Then don’t. It’s your problem, not his. Besides, aren’t there … compensations?”

  “If you mean antagonizing Helen’s family, I’m past that. And anyway, I’m in no position to bear grudges.”

  “Maybe not, but doesn’t it … well, add to the fun?” He grinned at me and I found myself grinning back. Yes, there was something to be relished in delving into the secret past of a family which had never hidden its distaste for me. I’d disgraced them, but maybe not as much as I’d been made to feel. I hadn’t sought revenge, but if it flavoured what I was about to do in the pursuit of truth, history and gainful employment, who was I to resist?

  “Coincidence is a strange thing,” I said at last.

  “Don’t fight it. After all, if I hadn’t known you, Leo might be offering this job to somebody else.”

  “That’s true. And I can’t afford not to take it.” With that, I disposed of the l
ast of my doubts. What I’d wanted – and received – from Alec was confirmation. However much he might have oversold my talents, I felt I could do the job as well as anyone – maybe better. Besides, I wanted to do it for its own sake. Like Sellick, I wanted to know the truth about Edwin Strafford.

  Next day, Alec took the Memoir off to photocopy it. Left with a free morning, I set off for an extensive exploration of the byways of Funchal. As I might have known, it was a tiring, unsatisfactory experience, which merely increased my impatience to return to the England of 1910.

  I was pleased and relieved to find Alec waiting for me when I got back to the house.

  “There you are Martin,” he said, pointing to a pile of xeroxed sheets standing by the Memoir on a table.

  “Great. Thanks, Alec.” I leafed through the copies. It was suddenly odd to see the old marbled tome reduced by modern technology to a stack of new white paper.

  “We’ll parcel that up for you to take away and I’ll return the original to Leo on Friday.”

  “Fine.”

  “Well, I’ve got to see my printer at two-thirty. If I don’t keep after him, the magazine will fall behind schedule. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Thanks, but no. Now the Memoir’s back” – I patted its leather cover – “I think I’ll catch up on my reading.”

  After lunch, Alec set off for his appointment and I chose the most comfortable camp chair to sit on in the garden, in the shade of a palm tree. Bees buzzed in the afternoon heat, but the high walls kept out the noise of Funchal, preserving the peace and my concentration. I returned to the Memoir.

  Memoir

  1910

  The qualified optimism with which I returned from Barrowteign in January 1910 did not long endure. I had supposed that Elizabeth and I would not have to separate our lives for many more months, but I was sadly wrong. My error, however, did not lie in the causes for pessimism then apparent. These were the disagreement within the Cabinet about the nature of the proposed Parliamentary reform and the delicate negotiations with the Irish Nationalists necessary to secure their support for both this and the outstanding Budget, upon which we were rendered dependent by the narrowness of our majority. Both these difficulties were, as it transpired, disposed of with some ease.

  The intractability of my own position did not become clear until an announcement by the Prime Minister to the Commons on February 21st, the content of which surprised many of his own party and dumbfounded one, namely his own Home Secretary. What Asquith said that famous evening was that, so far from having secured the King’s agreement before the election to create sufficient peers to force the necessary legislation through the Lords, he had not even asked for it and that the King had subsequently indicated that there would have to be a second election before he felt under an obligation so to do. I must have blanched visibly in my seat alongside Asquith and my dismay might have been noticed had there not been so many backbenchers on hand to express astonishment at this revelation. They had been led to believe that suitable guarantees by the King existed and now found themselves committed to another general election, a scarcely relishable prospect in view of the ambiguous outcome of the first. But whilst many condemned Asquith for improvidence, I had to hold my tongue before a far greater injustice. The figure standing beside me, orating upon the legal and procedural complexities in which the government now found itself, had deceived me. In the moment of that rounded pronouncement, I felt only the blackest outrage. Had he so soon forgotten his undertakings to me of the previous autumn? And if he had not, why had he left me so long to trust in a course and speed of events which could now no longer come to pass? It seemed to me that there could only be one answer: because it suited his purpose. The man whom I had come to regard as Lloyd George’s dupe had now duped me.

  Try as I might, I was unable to confront Asquith that night. I returned home to think long and hard about how this left Elizabeth and me. I had no wish to tell her of the implications of the announcement: firstly that the constitutional crisis would not be resolved that spring, secondly that our marriage would not be deemed politic until well after a second general election, whenever that might be. It was unthinkable, after all our self-denial and patience, to wait again, who knew how long. I could not sleep for fury at Asquith, paced the empty streets that night and presented myself at 10 Downing Street the following morning at an early hour determined to see him.

  In a typically Asquithian gesture the Prime Minister made no difficulty about seeing me. I found him alone, still at his breakfast, and he offered me tea and toast, which I abruptly declined.

  “Sit down, Edwin,”he said appeasingly. “I do apologise for greeting you thus, but after a late sitting I am up surprisingly early.”

  “It is about last night’s sitting that I wish to speak.”

  “I thought it might be. My announcement must have discomposed you somewhat.”

  “Prime Minister, you understate the case greatly. I was shocked. May I remind you that …”

  “Last autumn,” he interrupted, “we discussed your marital ambitions and agreed they were better deferred until our present difficulty with the Lords is settled.”

  “And you promised that, if we won the election, it would be settled this spring, which it cannot now be.”

  “I promised nothing, Edwin. I expressed certain hopes to you in good faith. I hoped to have suitable guarantees from the King that …”

  “But you said you had not even sought them.”

  “That was to avoid embarrassment to the Crown, which is my duty. Of course I asked the King, in December, after dissolving Parliament. He said that he could not resort to the creation of peers unless two successive elections confirmed our mandate.”

  “You did not tell me that.”

  “How could I? Think of the damage it might have done party morale, not to mention our popular support if it had then been known that two elections would have to be endured if we were to have our way.”

  “I said that you did not tell me.”

  “I judged it inappropriate at that stage.”

  “After the election?”

  “I hoped to sway the King to consent without a second election. Had our victory been clear, I might have succeeded.”

  This, I felt sure, was a lie. The King was not of a temperament to budge on such issues, as Asquith knew better than most. He had merely been trailing me on a string. What was I to do?

  “I think you might have forewarned me of your announcement.”

  “I regret that I could not. Relations between an elected leader and his monarch are essentially delicate. They rely upon complete confidentiality.”

  “If you say so, Prime Minister. The point is: how does this leave me placed?”

  “Not as badly as you may have feared, Edwin. Let me explain. We need to present the Lords with the Budget and a Parliament Bill to remove their veto. I think the latter will frighten them into passing the former. But they will jib at the bill and we will go to the country on it. If we win again, the King will be obliged to support us.”

  “When?”

  “Timing is difficult. The Cabinet needs to agree the terms of a Parliament Bill; I hope you will assist me there. Then we need to secure the Irish votes to pass such a bill through the Commons, and you know how slippery they can be. Whatever the form of the legislation, I have little doubt that the Lords will reject it outright.”

  “And then?”

  “We will dissolve Parliament, knowing this time that success is assured if we win.”

  “I cannot see that being resolved before the end of this year.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Then you are extending the term of our agreement substantially. I am not sure Miss Latimer and I can wait that long.”

  “Say not that I am extending anything, Edwin, rather that we are all the victims of circumstance. I can only repeat what I told you last October: that I need your support, that the party and the country need it to secure historic reform.
Does delaying your marriage until next year really seem an unacceptable hardship in the light of that?”

  “I can only say that I will consult my fiancée and decide with her what to do.”

  “Then I pray you reach the right decision – for all of us.”

  He had me, as he knew, caught on any number of snares. If he had deceived me once, he could deceive me again. Yet what he said was superficially true. This was no time for what would seem to the ignorant a light-hearted indulgence of my whim. I cared deeply about what the government was striving to achieve, as Elizabeth cared deeply for the suffragist cause. The events then unfolding might serve both aims. Following the election, an all-party conciliation committee had set about drafting a bill for limited female enfranchisement which, along with several other just reforms, might come into being in the wake of a Parliament Act. Neither Elizabeth nor I wished to be responsible for so prejudicing the outcome of an election as to risk all that. And Asquith had laced his high-principled call for personal sacrifice with a hint of venal reward for those who stood by him. If he could not persuade me, he would seek to buy me. That, and his persistent duplicity, told against his argument. Yet what could tell against the facts of the matter, standing as they did beyond his control and mine?

  I left Downing Street that morning my mind reeling at the complexity of what once, on a rock in Devon, had seemed so simple. I at once took a cab to Putney and reached Mercy’s house with the frost still on the lawn. Elizabeth was in the drawing room with a friend, a suffragette of similar cast, who rapidly excused herself upon my arrival. Elizabeth beamed and kissed me, but uttered a warning word.

  “Julia will have recognized you,” she said. “I thought we were to be cautious.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but caution could not stand in my way this morning. Have you heard what Asquith said in the House last night?”