The Code

by Nick Thripp

  *

  Tilston Grange in Suffolk, a cream-coloured Palladian mansion with tall pediments, airy porticos and acres of parkland, looked like the opulent setting for a Merchant and Ivory adaptation of a Jane Austen novel. The clean symmetry of its marble interior matched that of its exterior, and I was pleased to hear Rachel’s gratified murmurings as we entered the hall. The mouldings featured masks and shells and its wall paintings portrayed scenes from The Odyssey, the one closest to the desk depicting Penelope weaving to put off her suitors.

  With the memory of Rachel’s words echoing in my ears, I’d spared no expense and had booked the best suite. A chilled bottle of Dom Perignon awaited us.

  ‘I want you to promise one thing,’ I said, as I held the cork and gently twisted the bottle. ‘You won’t think about or talk about work until we leave on Sunday evening.’

  Rachel looked strangely uncertain.

  ‘There are two things I have to tell you first.’

  I froze, the cork half out of the bottle.

  ‘The first is that John Beart has made me a very attractive offer to join his organisation as CEO.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I turned him down. Can’t say I wasn’t tempted. He was very flattering about what I could bring to his company. He said there was real chemistry between us.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Well, I’m warming to him. I always knew he had a rare talent. It was that manner of his, his air of superiority that put me off. I think I misjudged him. Now he strikes me as a sincere person. In fact, the dinner was great fun.’

  ‘You had dinner with him?’

  ‘Yes, he took me to this delightful little Italian place just off the Fulham Road. I must take you there. You’d really like it. It’s not at all what you would call poncey, and the food’s divine.’

  My mood darkened as I imagined them sitting side by side, chatting easily as they twirled spaghetti round their forks and sipped Chianti. I knew I couldn’t afford to ruin the weekend, so, with a supreme effort of self-control, I merely nodded.

  ‘Then why didn’t you accept?’

  ‘That brings me to the second thing. I’d just been offered and accepted the role of CEO by SD. I couldn’t let them down.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said, trying to process the information. I was relieved Rachel wouldn’t be working for Beart. As for her new role, she could hardly be any busier, so it couldn’t have much impact on me. Perhaps she might be able to delegate more and we could get our relationship back on the rails. ‘So, we’ve got a great reason to celebrate.’

  ‘Thanks for taking it so well. I thought you might worry we’d see even less of each other.’

  ‘If it’s what you want, you must do it.’ The words sounded hollow, though I don’t think Rachel noticed, because she came to me, put her arms around me and kissed me on the lips, our first full-blooded kiss in months. I barely noticed the cork unleashing itself from the bottle and the spurt of champagne that followed.

  When we went to dinner, arm in arm, I was suffused with a deep sense of post-coital satisfaction. It was as though Rachel’s passion, held like water behind a dam, had finally burst through as an exhilarating cascade of sexual gratification. Now Rachel glowed in her backless black satin dress, and I was sure everyone would smell her pheromones wafting tantalisingly around the dining-room.

  I’d booked a table in the corner, shielded from the view of other diners by the spreading fronds of a potted palm eight inches taller than the waiter. The food was beautifully prepared and, to my delight, the portions substantial.

  Even though I was eating fish, I ordered a bottle of Brouilly from the famous Pisse Vieille vineyard, challenging Rachel to tell me what aromas she could detect. She cupped the glass in her hand for a few moments, swilled it around, inspected it and raised it to her nostrils.

  ‘Blueberries’, she said, ‘or possibly cherries.’ She inhaled again. ‘Perhaps a hint of raspberries and currants.’

  ‘Sounds like a whole fruit stall. You’ve only left out the bananas.’

  I lifted my glass to my nose, closed my eyes and puckered my eyebrows, as though in deep thought.

  ‘Mmm, ye-es, I get the che-e-rries,’ I sniffed the bouquet again theatrically. ‘Perhaps with a hint of an old woman’s ne-ether garments.’

  ‘To you, lowering the tone has become an art form, hasn’t it?’ Rachel’s look was reproving.

  ‘We complement each other,’ I replied. ‘Yin and Yang, Norman and Saxon, Dalglish and Rush.’

  Rachel stared at me blankly. She’d never taken much interest in football.

  ‘So, what are we going to do?’ I asked. ‘Do we still have a future together?’

  ‘Do you want us to?’ she said, her eyebrows raised slightly and eyes wide open.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, stretching out my hand and placing it lightly on her forearm. ‘Do you?’

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing down at the embroidered white table-cloth.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Her unblinking eyes met mine and she smiled.

  I could feel tears welling-up. I looked at Rachel’s face, calm and collected as ever and thought, ‘I mustn’t be the one to blub. Only women cry.’

  ‘We have to sort out our living arrangements,’ I said, hoarsely, gazing over her shoulder at one of the palm’s fronds and noticing, for the first time, that it had started to turn yellow, probably through over-watering.

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel said.

  I dragged my eyes away from the mistreated palm and fixed them on Rachel. She was looking exquisite.

  ‘We can’t plan to stay together and then live apart indefinitely. It won’t work.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ Rachel said. ‘I might be able to spend weekends and Monday nights in Surrey and live in the flat the rest of the time.’

  ‘If you like, I could follow the complementary pattern, now I’ve finished the renovation work.’

  Rachel’s warm hand enclosed mine gently.

  The rest of the weekend passed as quickly as the countryside through the window of a bullet train. All too soon, it was Sunday evening. We kissed affectionately and Rachel took a cab back to her flat. It must have cost a fortune.

  *

  As soon as I put my key in the lock, I sensed something was wrong.

  Then the smell hit me and I nearly retched. In the hall, curled up like thick black sea cucumbers, lay a pile of faeces. I staggered from room to room. Every cupboard had been emptied and its contents strewn around. The dining table and chairs lay broken and the three-piece suite had been slashed, its stuffing spilling out like entrails. Worst was the red daubing on the dining-room wall:

  ‘YOU’RE NEXT!!’

  Despite my hand shaking uncontrollably, I noted down what had been taken: my grandmother’s silver urn, a couple of pairs of cufflinks, a television set, my best suit, some prints and maps, a portrait by a minor Victorian artist, a few other odds and ends. Lots had been left which could have been sold illegally quite easily. I called the police. They were useless, saying if I wanted to buy the stuff back, I should go down to the Brighton Lanes over the next couple of weekends.

  ‘What about the threat in red paint?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably a prank. Your house was most likely done over by drugged up teenagers looking to finance their next high.’

  Though it only took a few weeks to clean up and redecorate, the house felt desecrated.

  Understandably, Rachel was worried about living there, even though I had a new door and window locks fitted and installed a burglar alarm, because she said the house’s seclusion, such an attraction in the bright sunlight of day, became threatening at night. All the progress we’d made at Tilston Grange seemed to have dissipated. While I went to stay at her apartment two or three nights a week, her new role proved just as time-co
nsuming as her old, and I’d be vaguely conscious of her crawling into bed after midnight and dragging herself up at five every morning. I might as well have been a pillow for all the attention I received.

  After a few dispiriting weeks, I moved back to Surrey full-time, intent on exorcising the ghosts left by our intruders. I gave a drinks party for our neighbours and, even though nothing explicit was said, sensed their surprise when I admitted that my wife was living in London. Although most of my neighbours were considerably older, one was married to a much younger wife, Amelia, who followed me into the kitchen when I went to replenish the snacks.

  ‘It must get lonely rattling around in a great big house all on your own.’ She took a packet of salted cashew nuts from my hand, tore it open with her teeth and poured the contents into a bowl.

  ‘Suppose so,’ I replied. ‘My job’s pretty demanding, so I’m not here much. How about you? Are you working?’

  ‘I used to be a primary school teacher. Now I just look after him.’ She nodded in the direction of the other room. ‘And the children and the house.’

  ‘I thought you said they were at boarding school.’ I searched the fridge for more olives and pulled out an empty jar I must have absentmindedly put back.

  ‘They’re here in the holidays, except when they go to activity camps.’

  I arranged some cheese straws carefully on a plate.

  ‘Do you play squash?’ Amelia asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Bit energetic; I do stretch to a round of golf. Do you play?’

  ‘Old man’s game. I prefer racquet sports.’

  Amelia walked into the drawing-room in front of me, and a subtle vapour trail of perfume teased my nostrils as she glided across the hall. Although she was physically attractive, the last thing I wanted was an extra marital relationship when my own marriage was struggling to survive.

  At eight thirty, as though prompted by a message only I couldn’t hear, my guests rose, thanked me for my hospitality and departed. As she walked past me I was conscious of Amelia’s gentle touch on my arm.

  *

  I enrolled in the East Tattingfold Society and the local history group, and found all the other members to be at least twenty years older. I joined the golf club and spent mind-numbing evenings in the clubhouse being regaled with tales of yore by the biggest bores I’d ever encountered. Nothing seemed to break life’s all-embracing monotony.

  Work was no more interesting, despite my career being on an upward trajectory. Burrows had retired and Braithwaite decided that, with resources already stretched, I no longer needed supervision. Beart Enterprises was growing fast, both organically and through takeovers. The income to my firm increased massively and we hired more staff.

  Braithwaite patted me on the shoulder one Friday evening as we coincided in the lobby.

  ‘Well done, my boy. We couldn’t have expanded like this if you hadn’t brought us Beart. He’s a goldmine and having him on our books has done us no harm in the eyes of potential clients.’

  *

  It was about then I received a call from my mother.

  ‘Your father has had a heart attack. He’s in Abbotsford Hospital. A lot of damage. They’re not sure he’s going to make it. He’s asking for you.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

  ‘I’m fine. Your brother’s here.’

  Taking the first train, I arrived at my father’s bedside to find my mother and Philip and his wife, Angela. My mother stood up and hugged me. Philip gave me a curt nod and Angela smiled.

  ‘Long time no see, Phil,’ I said quietly. ‘Surprised to see you here.’

  He leant towards me and whispered.

  ‘Want to make sure it isn’t a false alarm.’

  My father’s face was ashen and his eyes filmy. Numerous tubes went into and out of him, while wires on his chest were linked up to a bank of flashing and beeping computer screens. His breathing was irregular and every now and then he would give a slight cough.

  ‘We must go and get some food,’ my brother announced. ‘Haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ He and Angela disappeared.

  My father made a noise, a cross between a groan and a cough. My mother leant over him and he whispered something.

  ‘He’s right here.’ She beckoned me over and I crouched down, my ear close to his mouth.

  ‘Proud of you,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t fuck it up like your useless brother.’

  Gazing at me through watery eyes, he stretched out his hand. He didn’t have the strength to hold it up, and it flopped onto the bed in front of me. I was on the point of placing my hand on his when I checked myself. Why should I make it easy for the old bastard? He’d never made it easy for us.

  He exhaled sharply, then shuddered twice, his body convulsing. His last breath left him and the inert calm of the dead descended on him as the bank of computers emitted a long, monotone beep and green lights flashed. My initial reaction was relief, followed by the feeling I should do something.

  ‘We’d better get someone,’ I said, looking at the door. My mother grasped my sleeve.

  ‘Leave him in peace. It’s better this way. We’ll tell them in a few minutes.’

  I sank into the chair and we sat holding hands. I looked at my mother, expecting tears. She remained erect, an impassive expression on her face. A few minutes passed.

  ‘Now you can tell them.’

  I went to get help. A young female doctor and two nurses came and tried to resuscitate him. After about five minutes’ feverish activity, they declared it too late.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said, bowing her head.

  ‘You did your best, dear,’ my mother replied. ‘No one can ask more.’

  ‘Do you want us to leave you with him for a while?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘No thanks, dear; I’ve said my farewells.’

  ‘What about your other son?’

  ‘Philip? He said his farewells, such as they were, years ago.’

  The medical team left and a couple of porters came in to wheel my father’s bed away. My mother didn’t glance at him once while he was being trundled out into the corridor.

  My mother was collecting her things together.

  ‘Are Philip and Angela staying with you tonight, Mum?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. They’ve got to get back to the children in Milton Keynes. I’ll be perfectly all right on my own. I’ve got the remains of Sunday’s leg of lamb to eat cold. Why, do you want to stay?’

  On the spur of the moment I accepted.

  That evening, my mother poured herself a large gin and tonic as she laid the cold meat and salad out on plates, and started to tell me stories of her youth, laughing loudly at her reminiscences in a way I’d never seen before. I realised how little we’d spoken when my father was around, his looming presence an oppressive thundercloud over everything that went on in the family.

  ‘What will you do now, Mum?’

  ‘I think I’ll go on holiday.’ She produced a clutch of travel brochures from her handbag. ‘I popped out to pick these up while your father was unconscious. Shall we have a look at them while we eat? I’ve always fancied going to Pompeii. Your father wouldn’t hear of it, of course.’

  She buried her head in the glossy pages, occasionally reading out details of one which caught her eye.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own, Mum?’

  ‘I’ve been on my own for years. Besides, I’m not going to stint myself. I’ll go on a guided tour with everything laid on. You never know, I might make some new friends.’

  Chapter 18

  Another reunion, 1986

  It must have been late October because it was dark when I got home. I always resented the onset of winter, the loss of the long summer evenings and the ridiculous reversion to Greenwich Mean Time to pander to those Scottish farmers.

  The trees aro
und Thorpe Barton shrouded it almost completely, cutting out the dim orange glow from the street lamp. I had still not repaired the external lights, another casualty of the break-in, so I was inching carefully across the inky porch with my key extended when I heard a soft cough in my ear. I spun round, the key clattering onto the tiles.

  ‘Didn’t mean to alarm you,’ said a confident voice I couldn’t immediately place.

  ‘Who on earth—?’

  ‘I was passing and wondered whether we could have a chat.’

  I could just make out the dark outline of Beart standing in the gloom.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here? You gave me the shock of my life, looming out of the pitch black like that.’

  I fumbled around on the floor, retrieved my keys and opened the door. Beart walked in ahead of me, uninvited.

  I switched on the hall lights.

  ‘Nice place.’ He strolled into the sitting-room, and stretched out, legs crossed, in an armchair. I eased my tie and hung my jacket up in the hall before following him.

  ‘Drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Got any scotch?’

  I took out the 10-year-old Macallan I kept for special occasions and poured him a slug. I always preferred a cup of tea when I got home, so I put the kettle on.

  ‘Where were you going when you happened to pass by?’ I shouted from the kitchen though I knew he wouldn’t answer my question. He appeared at the door, glass in hand.

  ‘I want Rachel to join me as my Chief Executive. You know the investment fund. Well I’ve got major expansion plans for it, and I need someone who’s financially savvy to run it.’ He leant against the doorpost. ‘I thought you might put in a word for me.’

  ‘I see,’ I said as we went back into the sitting-room.

  He knocked back the substantial measure I’d poured him, went over to the drinks’ cabinet and helped himself to another, twice the size.

  ‘Will you?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ I sipped my tea, feeling like a maiden aunt confronted by a niece’s ardent suitor. ‘Rachel makes her own decisions.’

  ‘When will she be back?’ He placed the half-full glass directly on my polished wooden table, inches away from the coaster.