Past Caring - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  For a moment after entering the flame, each page remained untouched, Strafford’s fluent handwriting proudly undefiled. Then the yellow rim of the fire’s black tide crossed the crinkling paper and consumed the firm-inked script. The smut-specked smoke drifted down the garden towards the brook, stinging my eyes as it passed.

  When all the pages had gone Timothy prepared to toss the cover in after them, but I put a restraining hand on his arm. “That’s enough,” I said. “There’s no need to make a meal of it. I’ll take that.”

  “Fair enough, old man,” he replied with a twitch of his eyebrows. “Have it as a memento. I wouldn’t begrudge you that. After all the efforts you made to stop me getting a sight of it in the first place, it seems only reasonable.”

  I took the cover from him. “My efforts were nothing compared with yours to find it.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Breaking into private property – that sort of thing.”

  “Not my style, Martin. I think you must be thinking of somebody else.”

  I didn’t answer, just shut the cover and walked quickly away into the house. Suddenly, Timothy’s squalid ploys didn’t seem to matter anymore. The loss of the Postscript left me with a feeling of desolation. It was as if I was mourning Strafford for the first time. And, like Strafford, I didn’t pause once the decision had been taken. I marched out of Quarterleigh and left the Couchmans to their own devices.

  I drank the evening away at The Royal Oak and woke late at Rackenfield the following morning. The silence of the house told me Dora was out, so I slunk down to the kitchen and made some coffee. I sat sipping it, staring out at the garden in all its mundane summer charm and contemplating the end we’d made the day before with our cauterization of the couchman family wound.

  Or was it the end? It had been too easy to be believed. At the centre of my disbelief stood Sellick. His volte face had been the least expected anti-climax of all, defusing the set piece family confrontation before it could even begin to tick towards detonation. For the rest, I knew all the reasons why they would think the Postscript better burned and, indeed, why I’d agreed to support such action. It had been my selfless tribute to Strafford, my attempt to honour his final plea. Yet in its honouring I’d also betrayed him. He whose story deserved to be told had been silenced forever. I winced at the memory of it and at the taste of all I’d drunk to wash away that memory: it had done no good.

  When Dora returned, she gave me short shrift.

  “Decided to show yourself, I see … They’ve been up an’ about for hours at Quarterleigh.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “You’ll be able to go back there now. Helen an’ Ralph, they’ve taken Mrs Couchman back to London, Mr Timothy’s gone off somewheres – and, thank the Lord, that Mr Sellick’s nowhere to be seen neither. Jus’ like ol’ times.”

  “I don’t think it’ll ever be that, Dora. It’s time for me to leave Miston altogether, not go back to Quarterleigh.”

  “The mistress ’ouldn’t like that. She gave us this note for you.”

  She handed me an envelope and began clearing up around me. I took out the note and read it.

  Quarterleigh, June 17th.

  My dear Martin,

  I am taking the opportunity of some evening repose after a taxing day to write these few lines. They concern what we did today with Edwin’s Postscript as well as another matter I shall come to later.

  Believe me, I know what a wrench it must have been for you to let us burn the record of Edwin’s last thoughts. Yet what else could we do? After Henry’s death – with all its attendant circumstances – there seemed to me to be no alternative. I realize how hard it must have been for you to subscribe to the decision. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for doing so. Let us hope that Edwin – as well as Gerald and Henry – can truly now rest in peace.

  I wish I could say I was certain that was so, but an unquietness remains in my mind and time alone will tell if it is well-founded. I sincerely hope not.

  My reservations are reinforced by my grandson. Before leaving here today, he asked if he might return on Sunday with an unidentified companion to “discuss one or two points over tea”. Naturally, I pressed him for details, but he declined to be specific. I could not, in all honesty, describe Timothy as a doting grandchild. Indeed, of all those gathered here today, he is the one whom I would least have expected to wish to return so soon. So his attentions are puzzling, not to say suspicious.

  I wonder, therefore, if I might call upon your assistance once again. If you were here with me when Timothy and his mysterious companion called, I would feel much less vulnerable. Do come if you possibly can. I shall close in the hope of seeing you on Sunday, if not before.

  With love from

  Elizabeth.

  This appointment surely had to indicate some new development: but on what lines I couldn’t tell. It seemed unlikely to bring comfort to Elizabeth. I gave Dora a brief note to say I would certainly be there.

  I killed time and coped with doubt the usual way: too much drink. I’d become a familiar face at The Royal Oak, so was happy enough to prop up the bar there and await the unknown. If I’d only thought or planned to better effect, things might have turned out differently. But I didn’t change my style, even when I knew I should.

  Sunday afternoon: I woke with a start at Rackenfield after another visit to The Royal Oak. It was gone four o’clock and I should have been at Quarterleigh an hour before. I hurried round there.

  Timothy’s Porsche was in the drive. As I entered the house, I heard voices from the lounge and went straight in.

  Elizabeth looked up from her chair as I walked in. A look of relief passed across her face. Timothy was pacing the carpet in the middle of some statement. “It really does make sense …” He stopped when he saw me and scowled. “What do you want?”

  “I was invited,” I said. “I believe you invited yourself.” Our eyes locked.

  From the armchair opposite Elizabeth there came the sound of a cup being replaced in a saucer. I swung round. It was Eve, uncrossing her legs elegantly and leaning forward to put the cup and saucer back on the coffee table. “Hello Martin,” she said.

  I looked at Elizabeth. “Why are they here?”

  “They have explained themselves very clearly, Martin. I only wish you’d been here when they arrived.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Timothy stepped towards me. “Too much at lunchtime, old man?” I ignored him.

  “I intended no rebuke,” Elizabeth continued. “I only meant that I would have valued your company and advice.”

  “You’re the only one who would,” Timothy put in.

  “Now that I am here – what’s happened?”

  “They’ve put a proposition to me,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I should say an ultimatum.” I sat in the chair beside her and scanned their faces – Timothy’s vainly unmoved, Eve’s studiously uncommunicative – while she spoke. “They wish me to cooperate in the writing of Miss Randall’s book: a study of suffragism with an autobiographical contribution from me, suitably edited. Miss Randall will supply the historical insight and the literary polish. I will supply her with the perfect example she is seeking of an aristocratic corruption of Suffragette values. Is that not so, my dear?” She’d spoken calmly, but I could see her arm trembling where it rested beside me.

  Eve carefully avoided my eye as she spoke. “I happen to believe that interpretation. The Strafford case is a perfect – and a valid – example. He weakened your resolve, just as Lloyd George perverted Christabel Pankhurst’s motives to facilitate a sordid political manoeuvre.”

  “It is also the kind of sensational theme likely to make your name,” Elizabeth said. “Pray do not pretend you have some other interest in it.”

  “But you won’t do it,” I said to her.

  Elizabeth put her hand over mine. “Not of my own volition, Martin. But Miss Randall has me at a disadvantage. She and Timothy have t
he ear of Mr Sellick.”

  “So what? Now the Postscript’s gone …”

  “Tell him, Timothy,” Elizabeth said.

  “All right, though involving him helps nobody. We’re all over a barrel, you see, Martin. Leo isn’t a vindictive man, but he doesn’t propose to go back to Madeira empty-handed. He’s sponsoring Eve’s research and its publication on the understanding that it’ll feature some setting straight of the record where my grandfather is concerned. You should be pleased. Strafford won’t come out of it badly.”

  “And it’ll be the truth,” Eve put in. “The truth about how Sir Gerald Couchman exploited his marriage under a false name to serve Lloyd George in his deception of the Suffragettes and his destruction of Strafford: an exposure of the true nature of Edwardian political life with Lady Couchman as a first-hand witness.”

  “In the process,” said Elizabeth, “Gerald and our marriage will be subjected to public ridicule, my family’s name will be dragged through the mud and what little pride and privacy I retain will be lost forever.”

  “Then why not just tell them to go to hell?”

  She looked sharply at Timothy. “For one thing, Martin, I think they’re already there. And Timothy will explain the other reason.”

  “It’s what I said, old man. We’re over a barrel. Unless we agree to Leo’s terms, he will give evidence at the inquest on Wednesday to the effect that he met my father in London a week ago and accused him of murdering Strafford in 1951 and that Papa was so racked by guilt and fear of exposure that he killed himself the following night – along with the other driver. In other words, the whole shooting match.”

  “Is it true?”

  “The meeting? Of course it is. Staff at the Carlton Club could confirm it took place. For the rest, I’m afraid Papa’s actions speak for themselves. If you were called, could you deny what he told you about his part in this other Strafford’s death?”

  “No, but …”

  “Exactly. But Leo is prepared to say nothing – and you’ll do the same. That way, Papa won’t be involved. The only member of the family affected will be Grandfather.”

  “And you’re happy to let that happen?”

  “No choice, old man. I’ve had to take charge of the company now. It’s continuing prosperity must be my first consideration. Its share price has plummeted and there are ugly rumours circulating. There was a run on even before Papa died, prompted by Leo selling a substantial proxy holding. If we cooperate, he’ll buy them back and we’ll recover. If not, the scandal following the inquest will finish us.”

  “Only I don’t believe that’s all there is to it‚” said Elizabeth. “I think Mr Sellick has made this worth your while.”

  Timothy looked impatient. “As I said, Grandmother, I have to salvage what I can for the family. I don’t expect you to like Leo’s terms. I don’t like them myself. But I do expect you to understand.”

  I looked at Eve. “What has the historian to say?”

  Her eyes had a distant, superior sparkle. Only good taste seemed to prevent her smiling. “Nothing. A family quarrel isn’t my affair. Setting history straight is. Lady Couchman has my personal guarantee that nothing she tells me will be distorted. The account will be scrupulously accurate.”

  “But damning?”

  “As I said: accurate.”

  “With all this concern for history, why did Sellick let the Postscript be burned?”

  Timothy smiled. “Because he’s not an unreasonable man. The Postscript isn’t essential to what he wants to achieve.”

  “And it’s superfluous to an understanding of the period in question,” said Eve.

  I turned to Elizabeth. “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. Mr Sellick has generously allocated me time to think. He will call here at noon on Tuesday, the day before the inquest, for my decision.”

  I looked at the other two. “How can you do this? You call this history? I call it prostitution.”

  Eve’s eyes flashed. “You’re in no position to denounce anybody’s motives.”

  “In fact,” said Timothy, “you were prepared to let Papa buy your silence, so …”

  “It wasn’t …” I made to get up, but Elizabeth restrained me with her hand on my arm.

  “Please Martin,” she said. “Don’t give them the satisfaction of a scene. If you will, just show them out.”

  Elizabeth stayed in her chair as they moved to the door. Eve looked back at her once, but without pity. Timothy hurried out with the air of a man pleased to be on his way.

  I watched from the front door as they walked to the Porsche. Eve waited on the nearside of the car while Timothy went round to the driver’s seat.

  “Does this please you?” I said to Eve. “Does this give you some satisfaction – to hound an old lady?”

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  Timothy opened the door from inside and she lowered herself in. He leant across her to close the door. “You’re outclasses, old man,” he said. “Why not accept that?” The door slammed and the car pulled away with a crunch of gravel.

  I went back into the lounge. Elizabeth was still in the armchair, gazing into the fireplace. I couldn’t tell whether she was composed or simply stunned.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “Perfectly. I suppose I should have anticipated this. It was absurd to believe that Mr Sellick meant to leave me in peace.”

  I sat down opposite her. “I’m afraid it was. And he’s found more willing associates than I ever was.”

  She smiled. “That, my dear, is to your credit. Of my grandson, I shall not speak. As to Miss Randall, I can appreciate how bewitching men must find her. But there is a coldness about her that disturbs me. I do not understand her.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “No matter.” She sighed. “Mr Sellick will call at noon on Tuesday and I must prepare a reply for him. Odd that he should choose that day.”

  “It’s the day before the inquest.”

  “I meant the date: June 21st. He will not, I believe, have overlooked its significance.”

  “Which is?”

  “That day in 1910, Gerald met Lloyd George and Christabel Pankhurst and sold them the marriage certificate in Edwin’s name. A fateful day indeed. It would seem Mr Sellick expects another bargain to be struck on that date.”

  A point occurred to me. “It’s also Sellick’s birthday.”

  “Yes, of course. Mr Sellick’s birthday.” She looked thoughtful. “Clearly he hopes to receive a fine present from me.”

  “And will he?”

  “Why yes. I see no alternative.”

  Nor was there any. I stayed with Elizabeth the rest of the afternoon and evening but our talk took us no further forward, rather backwards, over old ground we’d trodden before: Strafford and Couchman, cause and effect, past and present. Which was better? To co-operate and have her past scoured by the prurient and the curious or to resist and have her present laid waste? One or the other. She had to choose, but her responsibilities to the living – Letty, Helen, Laura, even Timothy – effectively settled the issue. The dead would have to suffer. I spent the night at Quarterleigh, sleeplessly reviewing ways out of the inescapable. There weren’t any. Sellick had inherited his father’s ability to snare the unwary with deadly efficiency. Still, at the back of my mind, doubt niggled. Why had Sellick allowed the Postscript to be destroyed? Because, surely, there was something it he feared. But what? It was too late to find out – or was it?

  I left Quarterleigh before Elizabeth was up the following morning. If I was to equip us to deal anything like adequately with Sellick when he called, I had to move fast. I caught the first bus into Chichester.

  At the Dolphin & Anchor I was told that Alec and Leo had booked out on Saturday, saying they were going to London. The birds had flown.

  I wandered disconsolately to the cathedral and sat on a bench on the green, staring up at its slender spire. From within, I could hear the stone-dampened harmony o
f choir practice. Outside, Monday morning shoppers bustled by me, oblivious of one slumped figure on a bench.

  Then, emerging slowly from the angle of a buttress at the eastern end of the cathedral and walking slowly towards me, while gazing up at the decorated stonework, Eve reappeared in my life with an air almost of negligence, as if ours truly was a chance encounter. She tossed back her hair from the collar of a raincoat worn loosely across her shoulders over a thin summer dress and would have walked past without noticing me if I hadn’t called out – or so it seemed.

  “Sellick’s cleared out,” I said, walking towards her. She turned and looked at me from behind impenetrable dark glasses. She said nothing. I stopped about five yards from her. “He’s cleared out while you two do his dirty work.”

  “What you’re saying means nothing to me, Martin.”

  “It should. It’s an object lesson in how Sellick deals with his … employees. People like you and me. Pawns in his game.”

  “I’m nobody’s pawn.” Still the level tone, the screen of dark glasses: barriers to keep me out.

  “You must know you are. This book …”

  “Will be a genuine work of historical scholarship.”

  “It’s a complete reversal of what you originally intended. I remember you putting me down for suggesting that Christabel Pankhurst was Lloyd George’s dupe.”

  “I’ve changed my mind, Martin – about many things.”

  “Including me?”

  “No. That I can truly deny.”

  I looked at her. An expression of calculated blankness, rebuking me for even seeking an explanation. I flailed for a different approach. “Doesn’t it worry you – as an historian – that Sellick agreed to burn the Postscript?”