Tom had seen enough. Seen but not heard. He knocked loudly at the already open door and strolled on in. The man looked up.
‘Why, hello!’
‘Hello.’
‘You must be young Alan, I suppose.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I’m Tom.’
‘Oh, Tom! Well, good morning, young man.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Knox D’Arcy. Robert Knox D’Arcy.’
Tom wrinkled his forehead: the name meant nothing. On the table in front of D’Arcy, maps were spread out, maps traced in wild contours of brown and pink, maps speckled with place names that sounded like something from The Arabian Nights. Tom peered at them curiously.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Persia, Western Persia and Eastern Mesopotamia, to be exact.’ The man smiled at Tom’s blunt interrogation.
‘Why? Are you going there?’
‘No. I’m looking for something.’
‘What?’
‘Oil.’
There was a short silence.
‘What?’
‘Oil.’
Tom wrinkled his forehead again. This time his puzzlement ran deeper. ‘If you need oil, we’ve got plenty in the kitchen.’
The Walrus laughed. ‘Not that sort. The sort you put in your motor-car.’
Tom was about to point out the blindingly obvious, that the village carrier would happily deliver cans of petrol to the door, but the Walrus continued.
‘Not because I need petroleum spirit, but because I want to make some money.’
‘Money?’
The Walrus nodded. ‘Money, young man. I hope to purchase the right to look for oil in Persia. If I find it, I’ll collect it up and bring it in ships back to England. When I get it here, I’ll sell it to anyone with a motor-car – anyone with an engine, in fact.’
Tom’s eyes were as wide as soup bowls. He couldn’t have said why, but he felt he was in the presence of some vastly important truth. He sat down, staring at the maps.
‘In Persia?’ he asked. ‘There’s oil in Persia?’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘Where in Persia?’
‘Under the ground. Perhaps even one mile down.’
‘Like coal mines?’
‘Yes. A little bit like coal mines.’
‘And money? If you dig up some oil, you can make money?’
‘That’s my intention, young man.’
‘A lot? A lot of money?’
And then the Walrus did something that – just possibly – would change the course of Tom’s life for ever. He hoisted the little lad up onto the desk, then squatted down so their faces were on a level.
‘Young man, do you want to know a secret?’
Tom nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
The Walrus paused a moment. His face was sombre. ‘Oil is the future,’ he said. ‘Oil is the fuel for the new century. Cars will guzzle it. Ships will swallow it. Factories run off it. Whoever can find the oil will be rich. Not simply rich – they’ll be kings of the world.’
That evening, Tom spoke to Sir Adam.
‘Uncle, who is that new man? The friend of yours. Knox somebody.’
‘Knox D’Arcy?’ Sir Adam chuckled. ‘He told me the pair of you had had a chat. Mr D’Arcy is a friend of mine, a businessman.’
‘Does he know a lot about business?’
‘I should say so. He was an ordinary fellow, living out in Australia, when he came across two miners who told him they thought they’d found some gold.’
‘And?’
‘And they had. D’Arcy helped them make a business out of it. A very, very good one. He’s ended up one of the wealthiest men in England. One of the wealthiest men in the entire world.’
Tom’s eyes widened. ‘Uncle, he says that the best way to be rich is to look for oil. Is he right?’
Sir Adam laughed again. ‘If Mr D’Arcy says so, then Mr D’Arcy is almost certainly right.’
4
Right or wrong, D’Arcy was a betting man. Having accumulated one colossal fortune in gold, he was keen to plunge a vast chunk of it into the search for Persian oil.
But things weren’t that simple.
For one thing, no oil had ever been found in Persia. Or rather: there were numerous traces of it in the geology, but no one had ever sent down a drill and come up with oil. Not in Persia. Not in Mesopotamia. Nowhere in the entire peninsula of Arabia.
And there was a second problem. The kingdom of Persia itself. The country was a poor one, squashed between British India on the one hand, Mother Russia on the other. The two giants jostled for control. Obtaining the right to drill wasn’t simply a matter of commerce. It was a question of politics.
Hence Sir Adam.
Before settling back in England, Sir Adam had been a diplomat, rising to become the British ambassador in Tehran. He knew the Shah. He knew the country’s politics. He’d learned who mattered and who didn’t.
And that was why D’Arcy had come to Sir Adam that New Year’s Day. He had a proposition. The proposition was this: Sir Adam would help D’Arcy win an oil concession, giving D’Arcy the right to drill. In exchange, Sir Adam would earn a generous commission. Sir Adam, delighted with the adventure, agreed at once. He went to Tehran. He negotiated skilfully. He bribed the highest officials with gold, he bribed the lowest officials with paper. He even bribed the eunuch who brought the Shah his morning coffee.
Sir Adam did everything he needed to do.
And on 28 May 1901, he got what he wanted. He won the deal.
5
It was two months later. The family was at breakfast. Tom and Alan poked unhappily at their platefuls of porridge.
Then a footman came in with the mail. Normally, the mail would have been taken to Sir Adam’s study to wait for him there, but today Sir Adam was off to town and he couldn’t wait. He read a couple of letters in silence. Tom and Alan fidgeted with their porridge. Guy – who was no longer forced to eat the stuff – made a big show of filling his plate with kippers and scrambled eggs, as a way of annoying Tom. Pamela, who normally breakfasted in bed, came down to take a cup of tea and see her husband off. A little conversation moved in stops and starts. The wind outside creaked a shutter.
Then Sir Adam broke the silence.
‘Hello! Fancy that!’ He flung the letter down. ‘Very handsome of D’Arcy! Very handsome indeed!’
He was begging to be asked the news and Pamela was first to ask it.
‘D’Arcy, dear? What has he … ?’
‘The concession. He’s split off a chunk for us.’ He picked up the letter again. ‘“Delighted with your excellent work … blah, blah … Very happy to make you a small present … Gift … Drilling rights south of a line drawn from Bandar-e Deylam across to Persepolis.” Great heavens!’
But, surprised as Sir Adam might be, his surprise was as nothing compared to Tom’s. Tom was sitting bolt upright, white-lipped, open-eyed.
‘You mean to say we can drill there? By ourselves? We don’t have to ask anyone?’
Sir Adam laughed. ‘Yes, Tom. We have the drilling rights. We don’t have to ask anyone.’
‘Everywhere south of Persepolis? Anywhere we want?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The mountains,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the mountains.’
And he was right. Since his meeting with D’Arcy – and even more so since Sir Adam’s own involvement in Persian oil – Tom had become an oil obsessive and a Persia fanatic. He knew as much about the geography, climate, geology, tribes and politics of Persia as he’d been able to learn from Sir Adam’s library.
‘That’s right. The mountains of the Zagros. The wild country around Shiraz and the Rukna valley. Heavy work to look for oil there, I should think.’
Tom shook his head with an angry little flick. ‘There isn’t much chance of it there. The best places are further north.’
‘Well, you can’t expect the fellow to hand over his crown jewels. After all –
’
‘But some.’
‘What?’
‘There is some chance. I didn’t say there wasn’t any chance.’
Sir Adam laughed at the youngster’s intensity. ‘Lord, Tommy! D’Arcy’s pocket is as deep as any, I believe, and I don’t think he’s ready for the expense of drilling there. I shouldn’t think that we –’
‘Can I have it then?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The silence at the table grew suddenly cavernous. The family of five might as well have been breakfasting alone beneath the dome of St Paul’s.
‘Can I have it? The concession? If you don’t want it.’
Sir Adam smiled. Perhaps he’d been hoping to encourage Tom to drop the directness of his demand. Perhaps he’d been hoping to soothe away the sudden sense of danger that had for some reason arisen. In any case, he smiled.
It was the wrong thing to do. Something flared in Tom’s blue eyes. He pointed at Guy.
‘He gets the house and all the land. Alan gets – I don’t know – money? A farm or something?’
Tom was just about to turn eight and he was piecing together the facts from half-heard servants’ gossip. But he was more right than wrong.
Sir Adam looked stern. ‘Alan will get some money. And yes, there’s a little estate for him outside Marlborough. There’ll be some income from that.’
‘And? What about me? What do I get?’
Sir Adam licked his lips. Tom’s directness often came across as insolence. What was more, it was detestably ill-bred for anyone to talk this bluntly over breakfast – let alone a boy of eight. But, just as he was ready to speak a sharp rebuke, Pamela interrupted.
‘Well?’
She barely whispered the word. She did little more than shape her lips and breathe it. But Sir Adam heard it all right. He exchanged glances with his wife. The issue that Tom had raised was one that the two of them had often enough spoken about in private. Pamela wanted Tom’s share of the estate to be every bit the equal of Alan’s. Sir Adam, on the other hand, knew that his assets weren’t unlimited. Every penny he gave to Tom would have to be cut out of Alan’s or Guy’s inheritance. As he saw it, there was the issue of justice towards his sons. In his heart, he was unable to feel that his adopted son had the same rights as the children of his own flesh and blood.
‘Well?’ said Pamela again. ‘Or are you intending to drill there?’
Tom stared, as though the most important thing in the world had walked into the room and might be lost for ever if his concentration flickered even for a second.
‘Tommy, you wish to be an oilman, do you?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘It’s no easy business.’
‘No, Uncle.’
‘It’s not enough to have a patch of land to drill on, you know. You need money and men and machines and –’
‘I know, Uncle. I know.’
Sir Adam gulped down his tea and stood up. He rumpled Tom’s hair. ‘An oilman, eh?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Well, good for you, Tommy. You’ve a fine piece of land to begin with.’
6
Tom had his concession.
Not legally, of course – the boy was only eight, after all – but his all the same. For the first time in his life, he felt he had something equivalent to what Guy had, to what Alan had, to what Sir Adam had.
And not just equivalent. Better.
Because, young as he was, Tom had understood something from the very start. He couldn’t have put his understanding into words, but he understood it all the same. And he was right.
Because oil isn’t just oil, the way cabbages are only cabbages, or steel is only steel. Oil is more than a liquid. It’s more than another commodity. Oil isn’t precious, the way gold is, because it sparkles nicely and looks pretty on a lady’s neck.
Oil makes the world go round. Even in the opening decade of the twentieth century, its massive power was becoming visible. Cars ran off it. Ships burned it. Factories needed it. On land and sea, the world went oil-crazy. Navies were converted to burn oil. Armies packed their shells full of high explosive made with oil by-products. And every day chemists found new uses for it; speed records were being shattered with it; men dreamed of powered flight with it.
But even that wasn’t the reason why oil mattered.
The reason was this. Man doesn’t make oil; God does. If you’ve got a big enough field and a big enough bank account, you can build yourself an auto factory. Don’t like cars? Then get a bigger field and build yourself an airplane factory. Or start an airline. Build a store. Open a bank.
Oil isn’t like that. Not anyone can start up in the oil business. To start in oil, you’ve got to have some land that sits over an oilfield. No matter how rich you are, if you don’t own the drilling rights, you don’t have squat. And that’s the reason.
Oil isn’t just fuel, though it’s the best fuel in the world.
Oil isn’t just money, though it’s the closest damn thing to money that exists.
Oil is power, because everyone wants it and there’s only so much to go round.
‘Talibus orabat dictis arasque tenebat,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘cum sic orsa loqui vates.’
He walked around the schoolroom at Whitcombe House tapping out the rhythm of the Latin with his hands. Tom and Alan sat with their schoolbooks lying closed in front of them. They would have looked out of the windows, except that the schoolroom windows were pitched deliberately high, revealing nothing except a wide, bare square of sky. Tom yawned.
‘Sate sanguine divum, Tros Anchisiade, facilis descensus Averno,’ continued the schoolmaster. ‘Creeley, translate for me, if you please.’
Tom said nothing. He didn’t move to open his books.
‘Creeley, if you please.’
Silence.
The schoolmaster frowned. ‘Montague, then. Translate for me, if you would.’
Alan too sat like a stone, staring down at his desk. Unlike Tom, who actually enjoyed these moments, Alan found them difficult – difficult, but in this case essential.
‘Am I to understand that neither of you has prepared today’s lesson? Creeley? Montague?’
Then Tom spoke. ‘Please, sir, we would prefer to study Persian.’
Six minutes later, the two boys were standing in front of Sir Adam. A cane lay on the table in front of them. The cane was yellow and knobbled all the way along its length. It wasn’t an implement they’d seen used very much, but that didn’t mean it mightn’t be now. Tom and Alan stared at it unhappily.
‘You won’t learn your Latin?’ said Sir Adam.
Tom shook his head, slightly but definitely.
Alan echoed his twin’s gesture, but added, ‘We don’t mind learning Latin, Father, but we think it would be better to learn something useful as well.’
‘Persian? That’s your idea of useful, is it?’
The two boys exchanged glances. So close was their communication, they hardly had to speak to understand each other. It was a fact of life that the adults of the family needed to get used to. Alan nodded slightly to Tom, as though to confirm some invisible agreement.
‘It’s for the oil, you see,’ said Alan reasonably. ‘We’re going to need to speak the language.’
Sir Adam held his hand over his mouth. The two boys looked back at each other, then at the bamboo cane.
‘If you boys want to learn Persian, I suppose that might be arranged,’ said Sir Adam. ‘What I don’t like is the fact that you didn’t prepare your Latin lesson. That’s no way to win an argument.’
‘Oh, but we did,’ said Alan.
‘You did? That’s not what –’
‘Of course we did, Father,’ Alan interrupted, supplying a quick translation from the morning’s lesson. ‘We only said we didn’t because we didn’t think anyone would take notice of us otherwise.’
Sir Adam frowned. ‘You could have asked. If you had –’
‘I did ask,’ said Tom, interrupting. ‘Tw
ice. Two weeks ago at breakfast. Again last week.’ He spoke with a kind of flat stubbornness; not exactly asking for trouble, but quite ready for it if it came. ‘You kept saying maybe.’
‘Very well, then. Persian it is. I shall give you the first few lessons myself, until I can find a schoolmaster to take over.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
It was Alan who spoke, but with the two boys it hardly mattered which of them said the words: each always spoke for them both.
‘Good. Then it’s back to your Latin. At least, I assume so. Unless you have any other ideas I should know about?’
His tone was sarcastic, but sarcasm has a habit of bouncing off eight-year-olds. The two boys exchanged glances again. This time, it was Tom’s turn to speak.
‘Thank you, Uncle, yes. We think it’s high time we learned some geology.’
Tom’s face looked perfectly innocent, but Sir Adam knew that the look concealed a will of steel. The older man was exasperated, but proud. Proud and fond. He rumpled the two boys’ heads.
‘Geology too, eh, Tommy? Very well then, geology too.’
7
For two long years, the drillers drilled.
1902 and 1903 passed away. Knox D’Arcy, by now a family friend, kept Sir Adam closely informed about his progress out in Persia. Sir Adam told Alan and Tom. Conditions were almost intolerable. Heat, dust, insects, equipment failures and disease were turning the search for oil into a nightmare. Costs spiralled wildly upwards. Even a man as rich as D’Arcy began to worry about the impact on his purse.
The Sons of Adam Page 2