Manservant

by Harwood, Michael

  “Come on, my boy—get some breakfast down you. You don’t look like you’ve had a decent meal in days. I’ve seen more meat on the butcher’s dog,” she said, shooting my mother a look that could turn the milk sour. She fussed over me endlessly, which delighted me and infuriated my mother.

  “Valerie, leave the boy alone—he’ll be unbearable when we get home if you carry on like this,” my mother said, snatching a couple of rashers of bacon off my plate.

  “You can’t blame me for wanting to make up for lost time, can you, Carole?”

  The two women were now staring at each other over the kitchen table, and it was clear that they were both biting their tongues.

  “Tony, you can stay here with your granny whilst me and Uncle Alan pop into Glasgow to run a few errands—you’ll be okay, won’t you love?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Granny said before I had a chance to speak. “We’ll have a nice time getting to know each other, won’t we, love?” She slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close.

  “Yeah, do whatever you like—we won’t be long.”

  Grown-ups have a habit of thinking that they are being discreet around children when most of the time they are being anything but. It was just such an attempt at discretion that morning that made certain I sat up and took notice of what was going on.

  Granny retrieved a large brown envelope from the dresser drawer and removed some official-looking documents from it. She signed the last page in a slow and unsteady hand that made me think she either didn’t want to or that she wasn’t used to signing things. My mother stood over her whilst she did it, and no sooner had Granny lifted the pen from the page, my mother snatched it up and stuffed it back into the envelope.

  “It’s for the best,” she said, quickly shoving the envelope into her handbag. “He’d have wanted it to go to his only kid. Come on, Alan; we need to get going.”

  That afternoon Granny did everything in her power to keep me entertained. She taught me how to play gin rummy and pontoon, but as lovely as it was to spend time with her, I kept one eye on the hands of the kitchen clock, marking the hours my mother was away.

  Eventually they rolled in after Granny had put me to bed. Even at that age I knew when my mother was drunk, so it came as no surprise to hear them arguing. I heard Granny raising her voice, and at one point I even heard the usually quiet Alan chip in, but I couldn’t make out any details so I must have drifted off to sleep.

  My memories of leaving Scotland are hazy, but I do remember my granny begging my mother to stay longer. I can only assume it was so that Granny could spend time with me, as there was definitely no love lost between the two women.

  We boarded the sleeper train late the following night, and I clearly remember waving to my granny as she stood sobbing on the train platform and my mother’s pulling me back into the carriage by the seat of my pants. I couldn’t quite work out why Granny was so upset, but looking back I think she probably knew it would be the last time we’d ever see each other.

  My mother never spoke about that trip again. Growing up it never struck me as at all strange. Many stranger things happened in my childhood to relegate meeting my granny to a dim and distant memory, but as I got older I started to pick over the details and wonder why on earth my mother would have bothered to go all that way for the briefest family reunion on record.

  She had hinted all my life that she had never really known who my real father was, but long after I had left home and was preparing for my first foreign holiday, I was forced to contact her to see if she had my birth certificate so that I could apply for a passport.

  To my utter amazement it turned out she had kept my birth certificate safe all those years, but refused point-blank to post it to me so that I’d have no choice but to pay her a visit. I half expected her to have lost it by the time I got there or for it to be buried forever beneath one of the huge piles of discarded magazines in her squalid little flat.

  Even then our relationship had broken down sufficiently to make a visit to see her something I approached with absolute dread. So when I saw an old battered shoe box on the coffee table with Anthony’s Stuff written on it in my mother’s distinctive scrawl, I felt a huge surge of relief that I wouldn’t have to spend hours in her company whilst she searched for the birth certificate.

  “It’s all in there,” she said, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger at the box. “Birth certificate, your first tooth, a couple of old photos of you as a baby. I don’t know why I kept all that crap for so long, but anyway, there it is. So, why do you need your birth certificate?”

  “I’m going to Greece on holiday,” I said, instantly regretting it.

  “Ooh! Greece, is it?” she said in a ridiculously posh voice. “All right for some, I suppose. Don’t forget to bring me a present back, will you?”

  “I’ll be off then,” I said, ignoring her amateur dramatics and heading for the door.

  “Thanks for popping in, love,” she called as I closed the door behind me and tried not to break into a run.

  It wasn’t until I sat down and began to actually fill in the passport application that I studied my birth certificate in any detail. I’d never actually seen it before, so when I saw my father’s name for the very first time in black and white, I felt a lump form in my throat.

  John McCrae, Profession—Merchant Sailor

  As I stared at the yellowing document all the memories of that strange little trip to Scotland came flooding back, but before I went to place the certificate back into the box, I decided to take a look at all the other bits and pieces in there. I rummaged through the contents and amongst the faded photographs, a tiny lock of hair tied with a ribbon, and a single baby’s shoe there was a small letter addressed to me. It had been opened at some point, but certainly not, to the best of my knowledge, by me.

  As soon as I began to read, I realized it was from my granny, and was dated August 1988, just over six months after our visit. The address on the envelope was that of our old house in Cornwall, the one we were evicted from later that year. I immediately wondered how many more letters she might have written to me that I would never get to see.

  It took quite a bit of concentration to read, as the writing was tiny and old-fashioned, but in it she explained that after my father had died in a car crash she had thought she had nothing left of him. That is, until she met me. She went on to say that when we showed up, she had been shocked at first, but, once my mother had told her how broke we were, she saw a chance to provide for me just like my father would have wanted her to. She hoped that signing over my father’s death in service benefit would allow my mother to give me a better life. She inquired how I was getting on at school and asked if I might like to go and stay with her in the holidays one year.

  I must have read and reread that letter twenty times. I felt sick at the thought that my mother dragged a small child the entire length of the country to use as leverage to fleece an old woman of a small fortune left to her by her only son. But worse still, I felt like she’d robbed me of the chance to have a loving relationship with my granny forever. It was beyond cruel; it filled me with a sense of shame so deep that of all the things I’d forgiven her for over the years, that was never going to be one of them.

  I think it was around that time that I began to describe myself as a happily orphaned only child, and who could blame me?

  CHAPTER 15

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her inside before she was spotted. “How did you find me here?” She staggered over the threshold, and as soon as I let go of her, she was on the far side of the living room.

  “Wow!” she said, letting out a whistle. “My boy done good for himself.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Carole,” I said, turning her round and pointing her back toward the door. “You are not welcome here. You have to go. Now!”

  “Calm down, Tony,” she said. “I’ve just come to say a wee hello to my only child—what’s wrong with
that?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that,” I spat. “The last time I saw you, you told me you were dying of cancer—remember that?”

  “It was a false alarm.”

  “Yeah? It must have been because that was three years ago. And what happened to the five grand I gave you to see you through your final days? I’ll tell you what happened to it—you spent it on fucking sangria on the Costa del Sol with someone half your age called José.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot.”

  “Aunty Jean had the decency to tell me what you were up to. And, just so you know, she was as appalled at what you did as I am, so well done. Your only two living relatives hate you.”

  “Bit harsh,” she mumbled, pushing past me and sinking into a chair.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” I said, yanking her back onto her feet by her scrawny arm.

  “Ouch! Take it easy, Tony,” she squealed, slipping out of my grip and staggering into the bookcase, sending a silver-framed photograph of Chris and me crashing to the floor.

  “Awe, sorry love,” she said, stooping to pick up the pieces. “Is that your boyfriend?”

  “None of your fucking business,” I said, snatching the picture frame out of her hands. “Carole, you and I are done. I no longer have a mother. She died three years ago around the same time as you told me you had weeks to live and fleeced me of a small fortune.” Her rheumy eyes began to fill with tears, and I could see exactly where we were heading.

  “Does family mean nothing to you?” she said, beginning to cry.

  “As a matter of fact it means everything to me, so you’ll be pleased to know I have found myself a new one. A family I’m not actually ashamed of. A family who actually cares about me.” I placed my hands over my face, willing her to disappear or even better to have never been there in the first place. “Tell me how you found me here; I need to know.”

  “I paid your friends at the Landseer a little visit. They couldn’t wait to tell me that you had run away to the country.” She let out a laugh, and I felt my palms instantly ball into fists. “That nice Mr. Henderson told me exactly where to find you.”

  “Get out of my house before I do something we both regret.”

  “You should watch that temper of yours,” she said. “You get that from your father, you know.”

  “Don’t drag my father into this,” I said, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly standing on end. “He must have had a screw loose to get involved with you; no wonder he ran off the minute you got pregnant.”

  I hated that she made me speak to her like this, but my mother and I in the same room is like pouring petrol on a roaring fire.

  “When I saw you in the paper,” she said, tears gone just as suddenly as they had appeared, “I was so proud to see you’d been promoted to hotel manager. I mean, you must be earning a small fortune.” She was sounding almost sober now.

  “Oh! I get it,” I said, everything suddenly falling into place. “Old habits die hard, don’t they, Mother? Let me guess; you’ve run out of money again.”

  Her face was close to mine now as she unsteadily shrugged her shoulders. “Come on, if a mother can’t come to her only son for help, then what kind of world do we live in? I know you’ve got plenty,” she said, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger at my Cartier watch.

  “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?” I replied, slipping the watch off my wrist. “If that’s all you care about, just take it. Go on, take it!” I threw the watch at her, and it landed with a dense thud on the rug by her feet. Without a moment’s hesitation and with surprising agility she bent down to scoop it up.

  “You see,” she hissed, “it wasn’t that hard to do the right thing by your mother, was it?”

  “You disgust me,” I said, exhausted by the sudden intrusion of the past into the present. “You really do, so just take the watch and leave. You should get more than enough money to drink yourself into oblivion—so be my guest.”

  “You are a good boy, Anthony.”

  “Just go.”

  Just then a car sounded its horn outside, and she immediately headed for the door.

  “Keep in touch, Tony,” she said as she left.

  “Don’t. Call. Me. Tony,” I hissed as the door slammed shut.

  A few seconds later I tentatively peered out of the living room window just in time to see her climbing into a waiting car. If I hadn’t known better, I could have sworn there was a spring in her step. I watched as she leaned over and kissed the driver passionately on the mouth before holding up the watch for him to see the fruits of her labor. Even from where I was I could see how smug they both looked.

  As the car finally disappeared from view I began to laugh. Just a chuckle at first, but in a matter of seconds I was almost hysterical, clutching my sides and tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “Oh! Carole, you are going to have the shock of your life when you try to sell that watch,” I said, looking at my bare wrist.

  I fell back onto the sofa, trying to catch my breath. The Cartier watch she had walked away with was about as genuine as her motherly concern for me. A total fake bought for twenty pounds from Chinese Bob in the Landseer staff canteen. The irony of it all would have been poetic had it not been just so damned tragic.

  I returned to the castle after lunch and got stuck with yet more polishing. I’ve always found the repetitive nature of cleaning highly therapeutic, and after my mother’s visit I was certainly in need of a bit of therapy. In fact I became so engrossed in buffing the brass banisters in the Marble Hall that I didn’t hear Lord Shanderson enter the room.

  “Jolly good work, Gowers,” he said, making me jump. “You have a lovely shine on that.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied, turning to face him.

  He was dressed more casually than usual in jeans and a Barbour jacket. His hair was messed up slightly from wearing a cap, and his cheeks were flushed. He also had a distinctly mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Been anywhere nice today, m’lord?” I asked.

  “Indeed I have, Gowers. I decided I needed some sea air so I drove down to Brighton and did a spot of shopping,” he said, his face breaking into a broad smile.

  He was holding a plain, black plastic bag that he began to swing by his side, drawing my attention to it.

  “In fact, if I can tempt you to a game of billiards after dinner, I will show you my purchases.”

  “Very well, sir,” I said, returning the smile. “As you wish.”

  When I served dinner later that evening I was relieved that the atmosphere between Lord Shanderson and me felt perfectly normal.

  Neither of us said much over and above that which was strictly necessary during service. I asked if he would like more wine. He answered no. I inquired if he would like second helpings of Vera’s steak and kidney pudding, and he responded with a resounding yes. Lord Shanderson and I were clearly in agreement that there was a time and a place for everything, so the absence of any discussion about what had occurred in the last thirty-six hours seemed to suit us both.

  “We can have a drink together over billiards,” he said, refusing his customary Cognac at the end of dinner.

  “I hope you are not planning on getting me drunk again,” I said as I cleared his plate.

  “Knowing what you know now, I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you?” He winked and placed his hand fleetingly on top on mine.

  I felt a familiar charge of electricity crackle between us.

  “I’ll get cleared up and meet you in the games room,” I said, slowly removing my hand from beneath his.

  I cleared the dining room and washed the plates with lightning speed, suddenly desperate to be alone with him again. This time, when I got to the games room, I didn’t bother to knock.

  “That was quick,” he said, looking up when I walked in.

  He was leaning on the billiards table, drink in hand and another one poured for me at his side. Just as before the room was sparsely lit, bu
t he was standing in a pool of light coming from above. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt slightly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. He looked so handsome I had to restrain myself from launching myself at him right there and then.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the glass from his outstretched hand.

  I inhaled the rich aroma rising from the glass before taking a sip.

  “This is different than before,” I said.

  “Well spotted, Anthony. You have an excellent palate. I thought you deserved only the finest, so I dug out one of my father’s best from the cellar.” He held up an ancient-looking bottle covered in dust.

  I took it from him and carefully wiped some of the dirt from the label so I could see what I was drinking.

  “Bloody hell, Drum, this must be worth a fortune!” I said as I saw the year and make. “This is a 1957 Bowmore Islay—we had two of these in the cellar at the hotel, but I don’t recall anyone’s ever shelling out to buy one!”

  “Yes, the year I was born,” he said nonchalantly. “My father bought cases and cases of wine and whisky that year. It was a good vintage apparently.”

  “I’m honored.”

  I took another sip of the heady liquor before placing it carefully down on the side of the table and moving closer to him. I took the glass from his hand and placed it next to mine before pushing him back against the table.

  “First roses and then this,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. “I can see I’m going to have to work hard for my keep.”

  I pressed my body against his and held his head in my hands as I kissed him passionately. After a while I tore my mouth away from his and worked down to the crook of his neck. As I nibbled and sucked his whole body tensed, his back arched, and he moaned softly into my ear.