He had brought to the interview a magnificent coffee-table book about Chetton Hall and its park—its history, its inhabitants and its treasures—and as they talked and drank tea Lord Portsea leafed through it, casting intelligent and appreciative glances at the volume’s lavish colour spreads.
‘Blimey,’ he said, as he surveyed a picture of the Long Gallery, ‘the guv’nor’s really landed in the soft seat, hasn’t he?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Mr Lillywaite ingratiatingly. ‘And that’s really what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Phil, somewhat perfunctorily. He had lighted on a double-page spread of the park, and he pursed his lips into a whistle. ‘Just look at that! Hampstead Heath isn’t in it!’
‘It is indeed a splendid prospect,’ agreed Mr Lillywaite, his voice becoming warmer. ‘That was taken from the Green Drawing-Room. Snowdon, you know.’
Phil furrowed his brow as if looking for a mountain, and then said: ‘Oh, Princess Margaret’s ex.’
‘That’s right. One of the finest views in England, that, in my opinion. Though of course I may be prejudiced: you do understand my interest in this matter, Lord Portsea?’
Phil chuckled at the title and went on leafing through the pages of the book.
‘You’re the guv’nor’s man of law,’ he hazarded. ‘Business manager, accountant, and all that malarkey.’
‘Well, perhaps I do partake a little of all those functions,’ said Mr Lillywaite, allowing himself a lawyerly little smile. ‘But I like to think of myself as the servant of all the family, of the family as a whole. As indeed I have been for many years. Now, in the normal course of events, what I should be advising your father, the new Lord Ellesmere, to do at this moment would be to begin the process of transferring the bulk of the estate—land, house, contents and so on—to you, as a gift. And to begin it as soon as possible.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Phil, his attention at last distracted from the book.
‘Yes. The purpose being, as I’m sure you will understand, to minimize death duties. Your father may have many years of active life ahead of him. Let us hope so. But still, he is a man of—’
‘Sixty,’ said Phil. ‘Sixty today. The family will all be down at the house. They’re going to have a bit of a knees-up tonight.’
‘Ah yes, so I believe. Sixty. So he is far from being a young man. And the longer the time that elapses between the deed of gift and his death, the less you would pay.’
‘I get you,’ said Lord Portsea. And clearly he did. The book was forgotten and he was looking at the lawyer, his brow creased in thought. ‘Seems a bit hard on the old ’uns, though, don’t it? I mean, they no sooner come into a bloody great fortune than they have to hand it over again. I don’t know what they want to do with it—holidays in the South o’ France, new Mercedes, blow-up oyster and Guinness supper for the whole street—but I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t want to give it all up, now they’ve just got their hands on it.’
‘I assure you, Lord Portsea, that the Earl and Countess would be left with ample funds—ample to encompass not merely their needs, but anything they could possibly desire along the lines you suggest. But perhaps I should explain why I would give the Earl that advice. The landed families, in this century, have seen it as their duty to maintain the family heritage—in particular to ensure the future of it in the hands of the eldest son.’
‘They see things rather differently in our neck of the woods,’ said Phil.
‘Inevitably—and quite rightly,’ said Mr Lillywaite. ‘When there is not the same question of maintaining a heritage intact.’
‘What about Trevor and Joanie?’
‘No doubt some more modest provision could be made for the younger children,’ said the lawyer. ‘Indeed, the first thing I did for the Earl when he succeeded was to draw up an emergency will along those lines, pending some more permanent arrangement.’
‘I don’t think I can quite see our Joan and her Digby being satisfied with a modest provision,’ said Phil. ‘She’ll be getting ready to rake in her share, with Digby standing by, pocket calculator at the ready.’
‘That may well be a danger,’ said Mr Lillywaite, smiling once more his thin, ingratiating smile, as if he were entering a conspiracy with Phil. ‘It frequently is with younger children. The problem here is that your father in his heart sympathizes. And if your father disperses the property by sale, there will be no argument against apportioning the family fortune in whatever manner he pleases.’
‘So that’s what Dad’s out to do, is it?’
‘Your father has decided to—I quote him—“sell out and get out”. In which case, as I say, considerations of maintaining the family heritage in the hands of the eldest hardly apply any longer. Now, you can see, I’m sure, Lord Portsea, that in this matter I am the servant of your father (unless I decline to serve him in such a desecration of all I have striven to maintain, which may indeed be the case). But I am also, as I tried to convey to him, the servant of the family as a whole. I feel it my duty to warn you, therefore, that your own interests and those of your children could be very gravely damaged if the Earl were to continue in his present determination.’
Phil’s face wore a look of unusual seriousness, and he got up and walked around the bare little room, finally landing up by the window. He looked out over the lawns of what once had been Daintree Manor, towards the other huts and the trees down by the stream. At last he turned round and looked once more at Mr Lillywaite.
‘Meaning, in plain language,’ he said, ‘that in the normal course of events I might have expected the bulk of the loot to come straight to me.’
‘Quite.’
‘And after me, to Gareth.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘And that what Dad wants is to realize the cash, then split it into three or something, and—’
‘I suspect that would be his instinct. He strikes me as a very fair man. And after all, if it is basically a question of mere money, why not? But the survival of our great families, as families, in the homes of their ancestors, has not been achieved by fairness. Quite the contrary.’
Phil sat down again and took up the book.
‘And what you’d like to see is me and Dixie settling down—at Chetton, I mean—when I get out, which is only three weeks or so away, and setting ourselves up as Lord and Lady of the Manor?’
‘Exactly. But my meaning is basically, Lord Portsea, that you would in fact run the family business, if I may so express it. I believe that even Her Majesty the Queen refers to her duties in those terms.’
‘No kidding?’
‘And the Spender family, I must remind you, has immense family interests. Even after the death duties that the present Earl must inevitably pay, a very great deal will remain. It might, I think, be necessary to open the house to the public . . .’
‘I might enjoy that,’ said Phil, with a chuckle.
‘It would be a full-time occupation, for you and for your wife. But an immensely rewarding one. And you would be bringing your son up in the house that would one day be his.’
Phil sat forward in his hard wooden chair, his shoulders hunched in thought.
‘The Press’d have a field day,’ he said at last. ‘Out of jug and into the stately pile.’
‘The Press, as yet, have not got on to the story,’ said Mr Lillywaite. ‘And the Press can be dealt with by saying nothing whatever to them.’
‘We must read different papers,’ said Phil, still hunched forward in thought. ‘Not that I’d mind the publicity. Bit of a giggle, really. What I don’t like is this business of going against the guv’nor. I mean, if he wants to sell, that’s his business, isn’t it?’
‘I have the impression,’ said Mr Lillywaite, also in his turn leaning forward with an air of urgent sincerity—the more urgent because he was subtly adapting the truth, ‘that what the Earl and Countess really want is to get away from Chetton and to go back home to . . . er . . . Clapham. Quite understandable, too.
Laudable. They don’t feel easy. They conceive that this would be the speediest means of accomplishing that end. But it might be achieved quite as readily by what I am proposing. They would go back home with a tidy income to keep them comfortable, but not so great a one as to embarrass them, or to subject them to harrassment. The important thing is, how best to approach them. I feel that if the matter were put to them—by you, for example—in the right manner . . .’
‘If I put the pressure on, you mean?’
Mr Lillywaite pursed his lips with distaste.
‘I have the impression that both your parents are very fond of you. We need only talk about pressure—emotional pressure, if you will—as a last resort.’
‘There’s one thing you’ve forgotten,’ said Phil, finally straightening up. ‘Dixie. Really it all depends on Dixie.’
Lord Portsea fumbled in his pocket and brought out a large coloured photograph.
‘Our wedding photograph. Look at it. I can’t see Dixie fitting into the Stately Home bit, can you? Not that I would either, mind—not naturally. But I’m easy and people accept me, and I sort of fade into the wallpaper. Dixie’s not like that. Dixie doesn’t tone in. She sort of stands out. And she’s got a mind of her own. You wouldn’t have met her yet, but you can see it in this snap. I don’t mind who knows it: Dixie’s always worn the trousers in our household.’
‘I have in fact had the honour of meeting Lady Portsea,’ murmured Mr Lillywaite. ‘I met her briefly when she arrived at Chetton with . . . er . . . with your friend.’
‘Chokey?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Lillywaite, delicately not mentioning the other occupant of the car, of whom Phil seemed unaware. ‘And in fact I had a long talk with Lady Portsea only this morning, when she paid a visit to my office.’
‘Dixie did?’
‘Yes, indeed. And I may say that Lady Portsea’s views are by no means what you seem to anticipate.’
Phil let out a great laugh.
‘Don’t tell me, I can guess! Dixie fancies herself in the role of Lady Muck!’
‘Lady Portsea, quite naturally, wants what is best for you, for herself, and for the children,’ said Mr Lillywaite reprovingly, for though Dixie had inevitably grated on his every sensibility, nevertheless the one thing he really understood was self-interest. ‘I would not respect her as I do if she had taken any other view. She was very struck by the case I put before her.’
‘That puts a different light on it,’ said Phil. ‘What Dixie wants, Dixie generally gets.’
Mr Lillywaite had to repress a smile of immense satisfaction.
‘I think the best thing,’ he said, collecting together his papers, but leaving the book with Phil, ‘would be for your wife to pay you a visit.’
‘Oh, she’s just been. And Dixie was never one for gaol visiting. We’re rationed here, you know, same as any ordinary gaol.’
‘The Governor is most cooperative,’ said Mr Lillywaite, with a little smile of self-congratulation. ‘I think you will find there is no problem, and this is certainly a matter that husband and wife ought to discuss together.’
He was in the act of snapping shut the clasp on his briefcase when he happened to gaze down again at the wedding photograph on the table. A group at the Registry Office: Dixie in a shocking pink satin trouser suit of unpleasant shininess, draped in yards of billowing gauze, an expression on her face of great determination and strength of purpose; Phil, by her side, stalwart, mildly embarrassed, complaisant. Really, it could hardly be better.
Suddenly Mr Lillywaite’s body stiffened.
‘Er . . . who are the charming children?’ he asked.
‘That’s Gareth,’ said Lord Portsea, ‘and that’s little Karen.’
Mr Lillywaite swallowed.
‘You mean that at the time of your marriage . . . You mean, to speak plainly, that they are illegitimate?’
‘Go on!’ said Phil scornfully. ‘What a word to use! Nobody worries about that sort of thing these days.’
‘I assure you that Garter King of Arms does.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home? The point is, they’re mine. That I do know. I wish I was as sure about the other two.’
‘But, Lord Portsea, this is a matter of the gravest importance. Who, then, is your eldest legitimate son?’
Lord Portsea gazed ahead of himself in thought.
‘My oldest legitimate son . . . well, that would be . . .’ He snapped his fingers and creased his brow, ‘That would be—thingummy.’
Mr Lillywaite waited.
‘Surely, Lord Portsea, you know the names of your own children?’
‘ ’Course I do. But this is different. I was married before, see. Wasn’t much more than twenty. I was at sea, merchant navy, and I jumped ship in Canada and shacked up with this bird. Bulgarian, she was. Her family got sort of displaced at the end of the war. And we got spliced when she was pregnant. What was his name? . . . Raicho. That’s it: Raicho.’
Mr Lillywaite laid his head on the table and wept.
• • •
When at last Mr Lillywaite went to have his talk with the Governor he had still not entirely recovered his composure. Nor had he digested the information he had just received. Was this the death-blow to his newly-revived hopes? Or, used properly, could it help him? Lady Portsea had not struck him as essentially the maternal type. Need this weaken her resolve? Were not her ambitions for herself entirely, rather than for herself and her children? In any case, need the full implications be spelled out for her yet? Mr Lillywaite rather thought he saw his way around the difficulties. But what should be done about the next heir?
Meanwhile a glass of sherry in the Governor’s flat brought warmth to body, even if it brought no clarity to his thoughts.
‘I couldn’t be more happy for Phil,’ said the Governor, who was the very model of a modern prison governor. The two of them sat on either side of the gas fire, as different as chalk from cheese. ‘Splendid chap, didn’t you find?’
‘Er, yes. Most endearing. I can see he must be popular here. What was his offence?’
The Governor shrugged.
‘Nicking goods off a lorry. Pretty much a matter of course in his environment. They don’t regard it as stealing, you know. That’s why sending him to gaol was so ridiculous.’
‘I should have thought,’ said Mr Lillywaite acidly, ‘that people who do not regard “nicking things from lorries” as stealing need to be sent to gaol to teach them that it is.’
The Governor smiled pityingly. Really, solicitors! What ludicrous survivals most of them were!
‘If only we had a proper programme of community work,’ he said. ‘That’s what I would have recommended if I had been asked. Papering some old biddy’s room for her . . .’
‘Yes. He would be good with old ladies.’
‘Restoring some historic building that’s been let fall into ruins.’
‘I did sense, once or twice, some glimmerings of a sense of the past.’
‘Anything like that would be more appropriate. And he would have been of some use, instead of wasting away behind bars.’
‘I got no sense of his having wasted away,’ said Mr Lillywaite, sipping his sherry reflectively. ‘I wonder a little, you know, about his future . . .’
‘Whether he’ll go back to crime, you mean? Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that. Phil won’t nick things if he doesn’t have to.’
If there is such a verb as to tetch, Mr Lillywaite tetched.
‘Have to? I refuse to believe that any able-bodied man is forced into crime these days.’
‘You misunderstand me. If he were in comfortable circumstances, not demanding too much effort to maintain himself in them, then Phil simply couldn’t be bothered to turn back to crime. Too much trouble and too much risk. I think, you know, that for Phil crime was the simplest way of living an easy life.’
‘Not,’ said Mr Lillywaite, ‘any great testimonial to his honesty. But still . . .’
‘After
all, with his coming into this title and so on, he will be rich, won’t he? Or at any rate comfortably off?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Lillywaite. ‘If things turn out as I hope, he definitely will be comfortably off.’
CHAPTER 5
THE BLENHEIM WING
Chetton Hall had a long history of birthday celebrations: heirs, in particular, had been celebrated on their comings-of-age with elaborate and protracted festivities involving servants, tenants and estate workers, day-long orgies or home-brewed ale and sirloins of beef, with endless speeches that combined tipsiness and servility in about equal measure. No such marathon jollifications could be put on for the present Earl’s sixtieth birthday celebrations: where, for a start, were the servants?
But the festivities did begin early in the morning, and last pretty much throughout the day. Long before Mr Lillywaite had gone to Daintree to interview Phil, the Countess had undertaken what over the years had become a tradition in the Spender family: on this one morning of the year she brought her husband a cup of tea in bed. It was to the Countess’s credit that she did not protest at the amount of extra work her gesture involved her in this year. At least, she did not protest to the Earl. She did, under her breath, swear about the height of the cupboards in the kitchen, the fact that the table was yards away from the stove, the ancient nature of the gas stove, which popped alarmingly at the first approach of a match. She muttered, too, at the spectacle of Michele, who drifted into the kitchen in a filmy robe and fetched two glasses of milk from the fridge; but before the Countess could think of anything really cutting to say Michele had drifted out again, looking like nothing so much as an advertisement for dairy produce. When the Countess finally took the two cups of tea on a tray down the long corridors, into the Great Entrance Hall, up the staircase, through the passage behind the Long Gallery and into the State Bedroom, she collapsed beside the Earl in the great bed with a virtuous sense that her part in the festivities was now concluded.
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