We That Are Left

by Clare Clark

  He burned the letter but he could not burn the image of it, branded in his brain. The words returned to him randomly, shards of glass piercing his attempts at self-possession. Each time Jessica or Phyllis referred to Sir Aubrey as Father he felt the shock of it. Father. A single word like a kick in the gut.

  ‘What is it about scientists and fire?’ Jessica laughed one evening as he bent down to put a spill of paper in the flames. ‘Uncle Henry was always lighting those things too,’ and he dropped the paper on the rug and stared stupidly as Jessica stamped it out with her foot.

  No one was hurt . . .

  There would be worse fathers to have than Aubrey Melville.

  He knew there was something wrong with him. A normal man would have excised those feelings the moment he read the letter, gouged out the love and the longing like a cancer, and stitched it back up with whatever it was that brothers and sisters felt for each other, affection and exasperation and a half-baked sense of belonging. Not Oscar. His tumour only metastasised, seeding itself frenziedly in his liver, his kidneys, his stomach, his bones. His whole body ached for her. It made him feel dizzy, nauseous. And yet sometimes, when she passed close to him, brushing the backs of his fingers with hers, the brutality of his repugnance stopped his throat. He wanted to kiss her, to crush his mouth against his, and at the same time to pound her with his fists, to take her white throat between his hands and squeeze.

  He was sane enough to be frightened that he might be going mad.

  The next day was Sunday. Phyllis left for London after breakfast. Oscar had dreaded her absence but it was easier with her gone. He thought of Kit and the other men she had nursed during the War who cried out in the ward at night, begging in their narcotic dreams to have their mangled limbs cut off all over again. The pain of an amputation was cleaner, the wound cauterised. When Phyllis was gone he and Jessica walked together down to the park. They talked about Ellinghurst and she showed him the ancient oak tree in which, as a child, she had pretended to set sail for America. Afterwards they drank tea together in the morning room and he read the newspaper while she turned the pages of a magazine. From time to time he looked up and she smiled and he smiled back, without speaking. He could love Jessica like a sister whether she was his sister or not.

  After lunch, she took him to the library. She wanted to show him some of the photographs Sir Aubrey had collected for his book. The library was crowded with tables, each one stacked with books. An upended chest was spread with plans and blueprints and photographs of the tower. Jessica touched one with the tip of her finger.

  ‘Our first kiss,’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’

  Oscar tried to laugh. He did not want to remember.

  ‘It was the only thing about that whole terrible day that was pure and simple and good. I told you you’d always love me, do you remember? Because I was your first.’ She bit her lip, glancing up at him. ‘I was pretty pleased with myself back then.’

  Oscar shrugged uneasily. ‘Look at that,’ he said, bending over the blueprints. ‘These must the original drawings. For the tower. See here, you can see the elevator your great-grandfather designed for it, where the staircase is now.’

  ‘Oscar—’

  ‘But, see, by the second plan it’s gone and you have the spiral staircase instead. Your father said that even his grandfather was not as confident of unreinforced concrete as all that.’

  ‘Oscar, listen to me. I know after all I’ve said to you you probably think . . . that is, I never imagined . . .’ She screwed up her face, shaking her head. ‘Oh God. I don’t suppose you could kiss me and put us both out of our misery?’ She smiled helplessly at Oscar who, flustered, took a step backwards and knocked the table behind him, tipping one of its folding legs underneath it in a curtsey. Papers scattered across the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry. Here, let me . . .’ He squatted, fumbling for the papers, but she was not listening because the door was open and Mrs Johns was standing there, one hand at her throat, and suddenly Jessica was running, her feet echoing along the stone flags of the corridor, and he was running behind her, taking the stairs three at a time.

  The third stroke was sudden and severe. The doctor was sent for but Sir Aubrey never recovered consciousness. Jessica held his hand as his breath slowed. Afterwards she said that she thought she had seen it, the moment when the life left his body, that it shimmered above him like one of those mirages that grease the air on a hot summer’s day.

  ‘His spirit, I suppose,’ she said and she put her hands over her face and Oscar put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her and she reached out for it blindly, clasping it tight.

  They cabled for Phyllis to come home, and Eleanor. Jessica supposed she should send word to Mrs Maxwell Brooke too but she did not. The undertaker came to lay the body out. Dr Wilcox went away and came back. Doris brought tea. Amidst all the busyness of death Jessica sat in the drawing room, her arms wrapped around herself and her shoulders hunched as though she was afraid that the roof would fall in on top of her.

  ‘I should telephone Cousin Evelyn,’ she said to Oscar. When she began to cry he took his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed it to her nose.

  ‘Do you want me to do it?’ he asked.

  ‘It should be one of us. I’ll ask Mr Rawlinson. He’ll be here in the morning.’ Mr Rawlinson was the Melville family lawyer.

  ‘You don’t think they should know today?’

  ‘What difference will that make?’ Jessica said bitterly. ‘It’s Sunday. Land agents don’t work on Sundays.’

  There were no late trains from London on Sundays. Phyllis caught the milk train the next morning. Pritchard collected her from the station. When Mrs Johns opened the door Phyllis hugged her quickly, tightly. Jessica was standing beside the table. Phyllis kissed Mrs Johns’ cheek, and held out her hands to her sister. They looked at each other, then clasped one another close. They were both crying. Jessica had put on a black dress but Phyllis wore her scarlet coat. It was the only splash of colour in the room. Under his dark suit Oscar’s chest prickled, tiny bubbles rising and bursting between his ribs. Sir Aubrey was dead and Oscar was no one’s son, not any more. He was just Oscar.

  He kissed Phyllis on the cheek. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. Her skin was blotched with tears. She went upstairs with Jessica. Oscar did not go with them. It was not his place. Soon afterwards Mr Rawlinson arrived. He brought a clerk with him.

  ‘Shall I let Miss Melville and Miss Jessica know you are here?’ Mrs Johns asked but Mr Rawlinson shook his head.

  ‘We’ll wait,’ he said, jingling the change in his pockets. Mrs Johns showed them into the morning room. Oscar remained in the Great Hall, unsure of where to be or what he should be doing. He stood, then sat, then walked to the bottom of the stairs and back to the fireplace. His self-consciousness was stronger than his sadness, he thought, and the realisation shamed him. His mother was right. Sir Aubrey had always been very kind.

  When Phyllis and Jessica came back downstairs they were red-eyed but composed. Phyllis glanced back at Oscar as she followed Jessica to the morning room and he touched his fingertips to his lips. Jessica hesitated.

  ‘What about Oscar?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t he be there too?’

  Oscar shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. This is a family matter.’

  ‘Please. We want you there. Don’t we, Phyll? We need someone to get us out if Mr Rawlinson goes on and on.’

  Mr Rawlinson was less enthusiastic. ‘I must be candid, Miss Melville,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to speak to you and your sister privately.’

  ‘Oscar is one of us,’ Jessica said. ‘Anything you have to say you can say with him present.’

  The lawyer’s frown deepened. He turned to Phyllis. ‘You are aware, Miss Melville, that your father made recent alterations to the terms of his will?’

  ‘How recent?’ Phyllis asked.

  ‘Some two or so weeks ago. After his first seizure but before the second.’


  ‘Did you know that, Jess?’

  Jessica shook her head.

  ‘He didn’t speak to either of you about these . . . adjustments?’ Mr Rawlinson asked.

  ‘Not to me,’ Jessica said. Phyllis shook her head.

  ‘I see. Mr Greenwood, I wonder if I might ask you step out of the room for a few minutes while I speak privately with Sir Aubrey’s daughters.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Phyllis said. ‘Whatever it is you have to tell us, having Oscar here isn’t going to change it.’

  The clerk looked sideways at Mr Rawlinson. The lawyer sucked in his cheeks.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. He opened his briefcase and took out a folder. ‘On December 9, 1919, your father signed a new will and testament in the presence of two witnesses who deemed him to be in sound mind. In this will he stipulated the payment of an annuity to be agreed with the will’s executors and commensurate with the convertible assets of the estate to both of you, his daughters, to cease upon the occasion of your marriages. A similar arrangement has been made for Lady Melville. The Ellinghurst estate, however, he bequeathed in its entirety to Mr Greenwood.’

  There was a silence. Oscar could not breathe. It was as though someone had punched all the air from his lungs.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Phyllis said very quietly. ‘Why would he do that?’ Beside her Jessica covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘There are conditions,’ Mr Rawlinson said. ‘Mr Greenwood’s inheritance is conditional upon his assumption of the Melville name and coat of arms by Royal Licence. Should he agree to do so, his heirs will henceforth become heirs to the estate. An additional clause further stipulates that both you and Jessica must be permitted to reside here at Ellinghurst for as long as you remain unmarried. It is your home. Sir Aubrey was very clear on that point.’

  Jessica’s leg was trembling. She pressed down on her knee to steady it.

  ‘Are there any others?’ she asked. ‘Any other clauses?’

  Mr Rawlinson shook his head. ‘Mr Greenwood will not, of course, inherit the baronetcy. That passes by law to Evelyn Melville, Sir Aubrey’s legal heir.’

  ‘Why Oscar?’ Phyllis demanded. ‘Why him?’

  ‘I understand that, as his wife’s only godson and close friend of the family, Sir Aubrey considered Oscar his heir by proxy. He was adamant that Ellinghurst should pass only to someone as devoted to the house as he had been, someone who would do everything in his power to preserve it and the Melville legacy. He did not believe that his cousin would honour that obligation.’

  ‘And what if Oscar doesn’t want it?’ Phyllis said. ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Father obviously assumed that he’d agree, that he’d give up his name and everything else to keep this place limping on, but what if he won’t? What if that’s not what he wants?’

  Mr Rawlinson folded his hands. ‘If the terms of the will are not met the estate reverts to Sir Evelyn.’

  ‘And gets sold,’ Jessica added.

  ‘That’s not Oscar’s problem,’ Phyllis said. ‘How could Father do this to him, try to saddle him with this . . . this albatross? He’s not even a member of this family! Why didn’t he leave it to that nurse of his? To Jim Pugh and his bloody dog?’

  ‘The dog died.’

  ‘Shut up, Jess, for God’s sake—’

  ‘No, you shut up,’ Jessica cried. ‘Father wanted Oscar in this family, don’t you see? He wanted—’ She broke off, biting her lip.

  ‘What?’ Phyllis challenged. ‘To stifle Oscar’s potential just as he stifled his own?’

  Jessica glared at her. ‘He wanted him to have Ellinghurst. He knew Oscar wouldn’t let him down.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, not directly, not in those words, but he tried to. Even when he could hardly speak he tried to.’

  ‘And you never thought to mention it to me?’

  ‘Why should I have? It didn’t have anything to do with you.’

  Oscar closed his eyes.

  ‘Mr Greenwood,’ Mr Rawlinson said coldly, ‘are you unwell?’

  Oscar did not answer. There was too much noise in his head. Sir Aubrey had known. The only certainty is that we can never be certain. But Sir Aubrey had been certain, certain enough to leave Ellinghurst to Oscar—Ellinghurst, which he loved as much as he loved his own daughters. More, perhaps. He had known, and he had known that Oscar knew too, that he could never betray the trust that Sir Aubrey had placed in him. Oscar Melville. Names meant nothing, Oscar knew that as well as anyone, but Oscar Melville was who he was. The name sang in his head like a struck glass. Sir Aubrey had been right, Oscar did know. He had known all along.

  Someone put a hand on his elbow. He flinched, pulling his arm away.

  ‘Steady there,’ Jessica said. ‘Sit down. It’s the shock. It’s . . . it’s a surprise for everyone.’ When he bent his knees his legs gave way beneath him, dropping him into the chair. His distress made her feel very tender towards him.

  ‘Don’t listen to Phyllis,’ she said softly. ‘It doesn’t matter what she thinks. Father was right. Ellinghurst will be safe with you.’

  She glared at Phyllis but Phyllis only stared into the middle distance like one of her sphinxes, surveying the bleached emptiness of the African desert. There were voices in the Great Hall. Jessica heard the brisk tap of footsteps. Then the door to the morning room flew open.

  ‘Eleanor,’ Jessica said dazedly.

  ‘My poor darlings,’ Eleanor said, holding out her arms. ‘I came just as soon as I could.’

  When Jessica came down the next morning she found an envelope with her name on it on the breakfast table. The letter was from Oscar.

  I have to go. I am humbled and daunted by your father’s faith in me but I cannot pretend it has not come as a shock. I need some time alone to think. Please send my apologies to your mother.

  Eleanor nodded when she heard. She said that she was glad, that it saved them the awkwardness of insisting that he leave.

  ‘Except that we couldn’t. I mean, it’s his house now, isn’t it?’

  Eleanor stared at Jessica. ‘But of course it isn’t. We’ll contest.’

  ‘For what? So that the house can go to Cousin Evelyn and be sold?’

  ‘You would rather it was stolen from under your nose? That scheming little runt preyed on your father, don’t you see? He took advantage of him when he was not in his right mind.’

  ‘That’s not true. Father knew exactly—’

  ‘Aubrey would never have left Ellinghurst to . . . to a stranger. Flesh and blood, that was what mattered to your father. The Melville line.’ Suddenly her face changed. She put a hand to her mouth. There was a strange light in her eyes. ‘Oh my God. So it was her. It was her all along. God, it must have gone on for months.’

  ‘I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I knew it. I knew your father wouldn’t be able to help himself. The way she flaunted that penniless Hun, it was so crude, so clumsy, a shrewder man would never have fallen for it, but then no one could ever have accused Aubrey of shrewdness. Oh God, how he hated it, Sylvia making googly eyes at that long-haired German good-for-nothing after all those years of trailing at his heels like a spaniel, hanging on his every word. It drove him absolutely to distraction. For once in her life she had him just where she wanted him.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m making perfect sense. I was expecting you and horribly ill, you were sucking the life out of me, and he swore, he swore that there was no one else, that all of that was over, but it wasn’t true. I knew it, even then. Aubrey was a terrible liar. Sylvia Carey, on the other hand, was a master. She could have been caught flat on her back with her legs around a man’s neck and still manage to convince the world she was the blessed Virgin Mary.’

  Jessica thought of the letter in the bottom of the wardrobe. ‘For God’s sake, Eleanor,’ she spat. ‘That’s horrible.�
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  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you like to imagine your father as some kind of saint. Well, I hate to shatter your illusions but this is what happens when people die. The truth comes out. Sylvia Carey was a duplicitous bitch who worshipped the ground your father walked on and Aubrey? Aubrey only ever pleased himself.’

  ‘That’s not true. Father was a good man. An honourable man.’

  ‘Honourable? And how long did he honour the memory of his dead son, tell me that? How long before he found himself another, before he set Sylvia’s bastard up in his place?’

  Jessica gaped at her mother, queasy with anger and revulsion. ‘Have you entirely lost your mind? Oscar isn’t . . . how could you even think that?’

  ‘How could I? How could anyone think otherwise? Your father would never have dreamed of relinquishing this place to anyone but a Melville. Never in a thousand years.’

  ‘What do you know of what Father would have done? You weren’t here, Eleanor. You were never here.’

  ‘And now you know why. What was there here for me? A faithless husband? Another woman’s child flaunting himself in my boy’s place?’

  Jessica clenched her fists, furious tears prickling behind her eyes. ‘You disgust me, do you know that? You and your vicious baseless theories. Father loved Oscar. Not just because Oscar is your godson and his mother was your best friend. He loved him because Oscar is a good, good man who is almost as devoted to Ellinghurst as Father was. He trusted him. He trusted him to fight.’

  ‘Oh, Jessica, you can’t honestly believe that your father would leave Ellinghurst to Oscar Greenwood because he loves the place? Why not Pritchard? Why not Jim Pugh? This house was the only thing your father ever loved. He would have burned it to the ground before he let it pass out of the Melville line.’