by Jilly Cooper
Nowhere for Arthur and Tiny to graze now, thought Lysander, gazing at the silvery-green stretches of playing field.
‘Oh no!’ He gave a whimper. The stables where he and his mother had kept their horses had already been flattened to make way for the new music school towards which, Mrs Colman, his father’s secretary, had helped raise £300,000.
‘You coming in?’ he asked Ferdie.
Ferdie shook his head: ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’
Although Ferdie had got straight As in four A levels, and David Hawkley had privately admitted he would be the first old boy to make a million, David had never forgiven his son’s best friend for flogging booze, cigarettes and condoms on the black market to other boys.
‘I’ll leave Jack with you then,’ said Lysander. ‘Simonides always gives him a nervous breakdown, imitating his bark. Christ, I hope Dad’s in a good mood.’
David Hawkley ran one of the best schools in the country. Nicknamed ‘Hatchet’ by the boys for the sharpness of his tongue, he was as brilliant a teacher as administrator, but tended ruthlessly to suppress the romantic intuition which had made him the finest classical scholar of his generation. Extremely good-looking, pale, patrician, tight-lipped, like the first Duke of Wellington, with black Regency curls brushed flat and streaked with grey, he gave an impression of banked fires under colossal control — as though the battles of the Peninsula and Waterloo were being fought internally against despair and the powers of darkness.
Inflexible by nature, he had been particularly tough with his youngest son because Pippa, his late wife, had adored the boy so much. And Lysander was so agonizingly like Pippa with his wide-apart, blue-green eyes, which always opened wider when he was thinking what to say, the thick glossy brown hair falling over his forehead, and the sweet sleepy smile that totally transformed his face. Like Pippa he had the same air of helplessness, of not being responsible for his actions, of retreating into a dream world and laughing at all the wrong moments.
Lysander was so different from David’s older sons, Alexander and Hector, who, like their father, had got firsts at Cambridge, and were now doing brilliantly in the BBC and the Foreign Office. Both had made suitable marriages, and, unlike their father, hugged their children, cooked Sunday lunch, knew the difference between puff and shortcrust pastry, and changed nappies without any loss of masculinity. Like their father, however, they had endless discussions on what to do for and about Lysander.
Awaiting his son that morning, David Hawkley was in a particularly savage mood. Normally in January, he would have been basking in the glow of getting half the sixth form into Oxbridge. But such was the bias against public schools that this year only ten boys had scraped in and none of them with scholarships, resulting in endless recriminatory telephone calls from parents. Having been up most of the night, ruthlessly marking down Mocks papers, he didn’t think next year’s lot would fare any better.
His mood was even worse because a fox had killed his beloved parrot, Simonides, that morning. Simonides had barked at dogs, chattered away in Greek and Latin, and shouted ‘Fuck Off’, probably taught to him by Lysander, at parents who wouldn’t leave. He had also perched on David’s shoulders as he worked, hopped on to his bed, snuggling into his neck at dawn and been his only solace since Pippa died.
David was also livid because stories of Lysander’s Palm Beach exploits were plastered all over The Scorpion, which had been slyly left around by the boys — even on his pew in chapel.
Worst of all, Lysander in his vagueness had put the two letters he’d laboriously written in Palm Beach in the wrong envelopes. Thus instead of receiving a cheery note saying his son was getting on well and would visit him next month, David opened the letter Lysander had written to his highly dubious girlfriend, Dolly. This not only told her of the disgusting things Lysander was intending to do to her sexually when they met up again, but also how he would probably be forced to tap his battleaxe of a father and that he was sure his father in turn was keen on his secretary, ‘Mustard’, and what a dog she was.
David Hawkley was almost more outraged by the deterioration in Lysander’s spelling and grammar. But he was not prepared to hand the letter back with Sps in the margin, nor tell his son that the word ‘lick’ did not have two Ks, and that swuzzont-nerve certainly wasn’t spelt like that, nor ask what the hell was ‘growler guzzling’.
Icy with rage, David watched his youngest son getting out of a flash car, driven by that fat, deeply unsuitable friend, who should surely have been at work in some office. He then wandered up the path, wincing at the cacophony of the eleven-thirty bell, and stopped to stroke Hesiod, the school cat, who’d been shut out yet again by Mrs Colman, who didn’t approve of pets in the office.
It was Mrs Colman who had drawn David’s attention to The Scorpion first thing that morning.
‘I never read that beastly rag, but my Mrs Mop brought it in. I’m so sorry, David,’ — never ‘David’ except when they were alone.
Now orgasmic with disapproval, Mrs Colman was ushering Lysander into the study. Handsome, big nosed, high complexioned and hearty, she got quite skittish when Alexander or Hector visited their father: ‘Mr Hawkley, Mr Hector Hawkley to see you.’ But Lysander was too hauntingly like his mother, of whom Mrs Colman had been inordinately jealous.
Lysander noticed that ‘Mustard’ was very glammed up in cherry-red lambswool with matching colour on what could be seen of her pursed lips. Catching a discreet waft of Chanel № 5, he afforded her equal coolness.
‘Hi, Dad.’ He dumped the carrier bag on his father’s vast green-leather desk beside the neatly stacked Mocks papers. ‘The Swoop’s for Simonides.’
Timeo Danaos, thought David, peering into the bag. Unable to trust his voice not to quiver, he didn’t tell Lysander about Simonides, and merely said: ‘Thank you. You’d better sit down.’
For a man outwardly as bleak as the day, his study was an unexpectedly charming and welcoming room. Most of the wallspace was covered with books, well worn and thumbed in faded crimsons, blues, dark greens and browns, mostly in the original Greek and Latin, with their gold lettering glinting in the flames that glowed from the apple logs in the grate. Within reach were Aristotle’s Ethics and the seven volumes of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall. And because David Hawkley was not a vain man, tucked away on a top shelf were his own much-admired translations of Plato, Ovid and Euripides. He had been translating Catullus when Pippa died and had done no work on it since.
On the remaining walls were some good English water-colours, exquisite French engravings of Aesop’s fables, a photograph of the Headmasters’ Conference last year in Aberdeen, and yet another far more faded photograph of himself winning his blue at Cambridge, breast against the tape, dark head thrown back.
Over the fireplace was the Poussin of rioting nymphs and shepherds left to him by Aunt Amy, who had also left twenty thousand pounds to Lysander rather than his elder brothers because she felt the boy needed a helping hand. Lysander, to his father’s fury, had instantly blued the lot on a steeplechaser called King Arthur, who had promptly gone lame and not run since.
Unlike Elmer Winterton, David Hawkley believed in longevity, so the holes in the carpet were mostly covered by good rugs. The springs had completely gone in the ancient sofa upholstered in a dark green Liberty print to match the wallpaper. Mrs Colman kept urging him to replace the sofa with something modern, and relaxing, but David didn’t want parents to linger, particularly the beautiful, divorced or separated mothers — God, there were enough of them — who came to talk about their sons and ended up talking about themselves, their eyes pleading for a chance to find comfort in comforting him.
And now Lysander was sprawled on the same low sofa, huddled in Ferdie’s long, dark blue overcoat, re-adjusting his long legs, yet as seductive in his drooping passivity as Narcissus or Balder the Beautiful. But, modest like his father, he always seemed unaware of his miraculous looks.
David didn’t offer Lysander a glass of the med
ium-dry sherry he kept for parents, although he could have done with one himself, because he didn’t want any conviviality to creep in.
Lysander, who always had difficulty meeting his father’s cold, penetrating grey eyes, noticed he was wearing a new Hawkes tie, and that his black scholar’s gown, now green with age, was no longer full of holes where it had kept catching on door handles. His mother had only used needles to remove rose thorns, so the invisible stitches must be Mustard’s work, as was the posy of mauve and blue freesias on his father’s desk, whose sweet, delicate scent fought with the blasts of lunchtime curry drifting from the school kitchens.
There was a long, awkward pause. Lysander tried not to yawn. Noticing how the lines had deepened round his father’s mouth and how the dark rings beneath his eyes nearly joined his arched black brows, as though he was wearing glasses, Lysander felt a wave of compassion.
‘How are you, Dad?’
‘Coping,’ snapped David.
Then a pigeon landed on the window-sill and for a blissful second, David thought it was Simonides. Then, as reality reasserted itself, he channelled his misery into a furious attack on Lysander for sending the wrong letter.
‘How dare you refer to Mrs Colman in those offensive terms,’ he said finally, ‘after all she’s done for the school? Quite by chance, recognizing your illiterate scrawl, I opened the letter. Imagine the hurt it would have caused Mrs Colman if she’d seen it.’
Crossing the room, he threw the vile document on the fire, putting a log on top to bury it.
‘What the hell have you got to say for yourself? And take off that ridiculous baseball cap.’
Flushing like a girl, Lysander opened his eyes wide and launched into a flurry of apology.
‘I’m really, really sorry, Dad, I honestly am. Basically it’s very expensive living in London, and I honestly didn’t mean to upset you and Mustard… I mean Mrs Colman, but basically my car’s been nicked and I’d no idea Arthur’s vet’s bills were going to be so high, and I honestly promise to do better, and basically my attitude towards money is—’ He got to his feet to let in the school cat who was mewing piteously on the window-ledge.
‘Sit down,’ thundered his father.
‘But it’s freezing. Hesiod always came in when Mum—’ Then, seeing his father’s face, he sat down. He desperately needed some money. ‘As I was saying, basically my attitude—’
‘That’s enough,’ David interrupted him. ‘You have used the words basically and honestly about twenty times in the last five minutes. There is absolutely nothing honest about your promises to do better, nor basic about your attitude to money. You roll up here, plainly hungover to the teeth. You bring disrepute on the family getting your exploits plastered all over the papers. I hoped you would have learnt that no gentleman ever discusses the women with whom he’s been to bed.’
With a shudder, Lysander wondered if his father had bonked Mustard yet. The fumes of curry were really awful. He hoped the bursar had ordered a consignment of three-ply bog-paper to deal with it. Poor Hesiod was still mewing.
‘What is worse,’ went on his father, ‘is that in order to secure that job in the City — which I gather Roddy Ballenstein has already withdrawn — can’t say I blame him — I have been forced to admit the stupidest boy I have ever come across.’
‘Stupider than me?’ said Lysander in amazement.
‘It is not funny!’
‘I’m really sorry, Dad.’ Lysander noticed with a stab of pain that his father had removed his mother’s photograph from the mantelpiece. Probably Mustard’s doing. Dragging his mind back to the present he heard his father saying:
‘I realize from your letter that you only came down to tap me. Well, I’m not helping you. You’ve got to learn to stand on your own feet. I suggest you send that horse on which you’re always squandering money to the knackers, and get yourself a decent job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a governors’ meeting.’
Lysander went quietly outside, but when he saw a gloating Mustard peering round the net curtains, something snapped. Raising two fingers at her, he scooped up Hesiod, who was now weaving and mewing round his feet, and bolting down the garden path, shoved the cat into Ferdie’s car and jumped in after it.
In the ensuing pandemonium with Jack nearly getting his eyes clawed out as he tried to swallow Hesiod whole and Lysander trying to separate them and Mustard running down the drive in her medium high heels, crying, ‘Stop thief’, Hesiod started shitting with terror and was forcibly ejected by Ferdie outside the Science Lab.
‘I expect they’ll start experimenting on him as soon as they’ve cut his vocal chords,’ said Ferdie as he stormed down the drive.
Then, seeing Lysander’s stricken face, ‘I’m only winding you up. Quite resourceful of Jacko though, trying to eat that mog. Obviously knows he’s going to have to fend for himself from now on.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘Hatchet didn’t cough up.’
‘He didn’t.’ Lysander rubbed his bloody, lacerated hands on his jeans. ‘Can I borrow another fiver? I must put some flowers on Mum’s grave.’
Unclothed as yet by any lichen or the grime of age, Pippa Hawkley’s headstone looked poignantly white and defenceless beside all the other gravestones lurching higgledy-piggledy in Fleetley Village churchyard.
Almost as white and defenceless as her son, thought Ferdie, as he watched Lysander chuck out some dead chrysanthemums which had blown over and refill their vase with four bunches of snowdrops.
Philippa Hawkley 1942–89, Requiescat in Pace, read Ferdie, and tears stung his eyes as he wondered how anyone so vivid and vital as his ex-headmaster’s wife could ever rest peacefully. Worried that Lysander, who was now swaying beside him, was going to black out, he urged him back into the car and turned up the heat. He ought to belt straight back to London. Yesterday’s Arabs had rung his boss and complained about being bundled into a taxi. Instead he decided to take Lysander for a drive.
7
The sun, an even later riser than Lysander, at last put in an appearance, lighting up frost-bleached fields, yellow stone walls and striping the drying road ahead with tree shadows. As the countryside grew more hilly and deeply wooded, Ferdie drove past a beautiful house on the side of the valley with smooth grey trunks of beeches like the Albert Hall organ pipes soaring behind it.
Lysander was temporarily roused out of his gloom, when Ferdie said the estate belonged to Rupert Campbell-Black, ex-world show-jumping champion and now one of the most successful owner-trainers in the country.
‘Look at those fences! God, I wish Rupert’d give me a job.’ Lysander craned his neck to gaze into the yard. ‘I could ride all his horses and he’d know how to get Arthur sound again. Sometimes I think Arthur’s enjoying retirement and doesn’t want to get sound at all. I can’t work in London any more, Ferdie, I’m having a mid-life crisis at twenty-two.’
‘I realize that,’ said Ferdie. ‘I’ve got plans for you.’
Driving on another ten miles, through tree tunnels and woods carpeted with fading beech leaves and lit by the occasional sulphur-yellow cloud of hazel catkins, they passed a tiny hamlet on the right called Paradise. Five minutes later, Ferdie crossed over into the county of Rutshire, and pulled up on the top of a steep hill.
Climbing out, almost swept away into a dance of death by the violence of the wind, they found themselves looking down into a most beautiful valley. From the top, vast trees descended the steep sides like passengers on a moving staircase. Over the trees were flung great silken waterfalls of travellers’ joy. These seemed to flow directly into a hundred little streams, which flashed like sword blades in the sunshine as they hurtled through rich brown ploughed fields or bright green water meadows into the River Fleet which ran along the bottom of the valley. Ahead, a mile downriver, a little village of pale gold Cotswold cottages gathered round an Early English church like parishioners respectfully listening to a sermon.
‘Below you,’ shouted Ferdie ov
er the wind, ‘lies Rutshire’s valley of Paradise, much larger and more ostentatious than its Gloucestershire namesake. But where everyone wants to live, and where house prices go up rather than down.
‘Here,’ — Ferdie indicated several splendid houses peeping like lions out of the woods on either side — ‘you will find the most Des-Reses in England, because of the magnificent views and the money that’s been spent on them. Rupert Campbell-Black refers to the area as Non-U-Topia because so many Nouveaux have moved in. It’s also been nicknamed the Rift Valley because so many marriages break up.’
‘So what?’ grumbled Lysander, who was cold and having to hang on to his baseball cap and to poor Jack whose ears were getting blown inside out.
‘I did a bit of research while you were unsuccessfully tapping your father,’ yelled Ferdie, who being fat, felt the cold less. ‘You know your friend Rachel? Well, this is the empire of her husband’s conductor-boss, Rannaldini. His is the biggest house up on the right. It’s called Valhalla. The garden’s sensational in summer. You can see the maze and there deep in the woods you can see a little gazebo — Rannaldini’s out-of-control tower — where he has total privacy to edit tapes, study scores and bonk ladies who approach unseen from the other side of the wood.
‘Rannaldini only spends a few weeks a year here,’ explained Ferdie, ‘because he’s always jetting round the world avoiding tax and outraged mistresses, when he’s not terrifying the London Met into submission. Rumour has it,’ he added knowingly, ‘that if things get too hot in England, Rannaldini’s got his sights on the New York or Berlin Philharmonics.’
‘I get it,’ said Lysander, shoving Jack inside his coat. ‘Rannaldini’s house might go on the market and you’d get it on your books first and make a killing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ferdie, getting back into the car. ‘It’s always worth watching this area.’
Driving down the hill he turned off at a signpost saying: PARADISE 2 MILES.