by Angela Arney
‘Shut up, William. For God’s sake.’
Sick at heart Nicholas was tempted to walk away there and then. Only the fact that Bruno was riding Hercules, one of the Shire horses, and was right behind them, made him go on. God, why couldn’t life be simple? Why is it my family has to be saddled with someone like my brother? He glanced at the now silent William. He was scowling and his limp was more pronounced than ever. Poor sod. But the twinge of pity quickly faded as William slashed viciously at the ferns bordering the woodland path with his new walking stick. The black expression and the vicious lashing only served to add to Nicholas’s dislike, for he reminded him of his father. The black moods were the same. He remembered how his mother had suffered for years. Now that his father was dead and she should have had some peace, she was afflicted by William’s warped personality and was suffering again. Why don’t we talk about it, he wondered. We are hypocrites, both of us. But how many people are there who have the courage not to be? How many people in the world possess the courage to face unpleasant truths squarely? On reflection, Nicholas decided hypocrisy was probably a form of salvation. It served as a tenuous link with sanity.
They reached the cottage. ‘Do you want me to stay, sir?’
Bruno did not trust William. He had never forgotten the night of Eleanora’s birth. There had been murder in William’s eyes that night, and it had not been put there by alcohol, whatever Donald Ramsay might say to the contrary. Bruno was no fool; he’d seen enough of life to know that alcohol unleased emotions already there. It didn’t create them. But, like everyone else, he kept his opinions to himself; in his case it was because he had been told to by Lady Margaret. And although the thought of disobeying her never entered his head, he was far from happy about it. Now he watched William and waited.
‘No thanks, Bruno. Ride on and see if they’ve started coppicing Boyatt Wood.’
Kicking his heels into the flanks of Hercules, Bruno rode off. The heavy Shire clumped down the path, and disappeared from view.
‘Tell them to leave the sodding place as it is. I like it overgrown,’ William shouted after him.
‘It needs to be coppiced. You know that. You’re just being bloody-minded.’
Nicholas unlocked the door of the cottage and led the way in. Everything inside was neatly set out – all Liana’s work of course. When she did something she was fanatical about every small detail. The maps on the walls showed the various forestation schemes, and gave proposed dates for felling, pruning and replanting.
William did not reply to Nicholas’s comment about the coppicing. He just followed him in and stared moodily at the different charts but remained silent. Nicholas felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. What is it about William this morning that bothers me so much? Why am I feeling like this? Am I getting neurotic, too? God, why on earth did I let Liana talk me into trying to persuade him to work? We should have left him alone. William’s taunt about screwing had left an uncomfortable echo.
Suddenly William broke the silence. ‘The time has come,’ he said quietly.
Nicholas let his breath out in relief. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Thank God he was going to be reasonable after all.
‘The orders are very clear.’
Orders! What was he talking about? ‘There are no orders as such, William. The whole idea is that you are free to run the Woodland Unit as you like. I thought I’d made that clear.’
William looked puzzled for a moment then a blank expression slid across, completely shuttering his face. ‘I have my orders and I must obey. The trees are very insistent. Yes, very insistent. I must obey or they will shout. I don’t want them shouting at me.’ He rubbed his forehead briefly as if in pain. ‘It hurts my head when they shout.’
Nicholas swallowed. It hurts my head when they shout! Trees shout? What the hell was he talking about? Suddenly the magnitude of William’s remark struck him forcibly as he realized its awful significance. He stared at his brother, compelled against his will to recognize the fact that William was far, far more removed from normality than he or his mother had ever dreamed. William was living in another world, a separate world, where the trees spoke to him. The ever-present fear he and his mother had suppressed for so long now surfaced with all the force of an erupting volcano gushing over him in devastating waves and Nicholas was forced to acknowledge that his brother was mad, utterly mad . . .
Suddenly he remembered having read somewhere that it was essential not to show fear or scorn when someone really flipped their lid. I must humour him, he thought, trying not to panic. I must keep calm, think clearly, and at all costs I must humour him.
‘What do the trees say?’ he asked gently as if it were the most normal conversation in the world.
‘They say kill.’
Nicholas shivered. How cold the day was. His lips were dry, and he stumbled over the words but knew he had to keep talking. ‘Kill? Whom must you kill?’ But he already knew the answer.
‘You,’ said William simply.
William was very, very still; so still, it was the air about him that seemed to move. His eyes, normally so pale, were dark, the irises dilated until they were black holes in his face. Nicholas stared, not daring to move. He watched William slowly unscrew the top of his walking stick and unsheath a vicious-looking sword. Outside sunlight filtered translucent green through the canopy of broad-leaved trees. Wood pigeons crooned throaty chuckles and the air was thick with the hum of insects. The commonplace little things of a July morning in the forest threw into greater contrast the slow drama unfolding inside the cottage.
This is our own fault, thought Nicholas, his mind detached now. We have all ignored him. We clung to the façade we built for him, fooling ourselves and pretending it was real. But the pretence is ended for ever now. Nicholas watched the façade crumbling away before his horrified eyes to reveal the demonic force which had always been there.
I’ve got to get out of here. But even as he thought of escape, William raised the sword so that its tip was resting just below Nicholas’s left nipple. It was very sharp. Nicholas remained motionless. The moment for escape had passed; any movement now might make things worse. He was bleeding. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his chest, soaking the thin cotton of his shirt. William pushed the point in further, and Nicholas caught his breath in pain.
Later Nicholas was never sure whether he heard or felt the vibration of Hercules’ solid hoofs as Bruno came back up the path returning from Boyatt Wood. William appeared to hear nothing. Hercules stopped outside the cottage. Bruno, still on his back, had a clear view in through the open door and sized up the situation in seconds. It seemed as if the big Shire also knew something was wrong, for he stood quite still. Not a hoof moved, not a brass on the leather halter jangled as Bruno slid off his back and crept towards the open cottage door. On his way he picked a heavy junk of firewood.
Nicholas knew he must keep talking to William. Somehow he had to distract his attention, anything to delay the final thrust of the needle sharp point. ‘Why do the trees tell you to kill me?’
‘They don’t like you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ve always harmed me.’
‘How have I harmed you, William? I don’t understand.’
‘By being born. I should be the only son. Mother will love me when you are gone.’
‘Are you sure?’
William jabbed the sword deeper and Nicholas gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain.
‘Of course.’ He was scornful now. ‘The trees never lie to me; they are my friends. Not like people. They say . . .’ The walls of the cottage shook as the heavy weight of William’s body hit the floor.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
William sprawled unconscious on the floor, felled by a karate chop to the back of the neck with the junk still held by Bruno.
‘Yes.’ Hanging on to the desk for support, Nicholas found it difficult to speak. He could not stop trembling.
‘
I’d better ring for Doctor Ramsay.’ Bruno knelt down and felt for William’s pulse. Still beating strongly; he hadn’t killed him, thank God.
Nicholas looked at William. God, why did he look so young and vulnerable? It made him want to cry. William’s golden hair glinted in the sunlight slanting in through the door. His handsome face was calm now in unconsciousness and his mouth set in a gentle, sad expression. Piteous. That was the only thing Nicholas could think of, piteous. And we have all failed him. He had never felt so weary or dispirited in all his life.
‘Yes, you’d better ring for Donald Ramsay,’ he said. ‘He will know what to do.’
*
No-one seemed particularly perturbed or surprised when William vanished. Nicholas said his brother had decided to leave Broadacres and had gone to live instead with distant relatives in Scotland.
Not mourning his loss, Mary Pragnell sniffed with satisfaction as she broadcast the news across the counter of the home farm shop, now housed in a permanent building with its own car park on the main road leading from the estate. ‘Mary’s’, as it was known locally, was the centre of gossip. The estate workers and villagers all called in for purchases and news at least once a week.
‘Good riddance to he,’ she said time and time again as she shovelled the glut of fat Broadacres peas into her customers’ brown paper bags.
No-one aired contrary opinion. It was a sentiment shared by all who had come into contact with surly William. A few were surprised that he had decided to move so quickly but no great importance was attached to the speed of his disappearance. Only Bruno knew the truth, and loyalty kept his lips tightly sealed.
Of course Liana queried it with Nicholas. ‘Was it because he was asked to work?’
‘Yes.’
Something in his tone of voice prevented her from asking more. She sensed he was not speaking the truth, or at least, certainly not the whole truth. But on reflection, did it matter? William had gone, and that was what she had wanted. Even so, initially she was a little worried. Margaret and Nicholas seemed agitated but as time passed she noticed with relief that they both visibly relaxed; whatever had been worrying them had obviously disappeared. So she put thoughts of William from her mind, and got on with the day-to-day task of her chosen mission in life, amassing the Hamilton-Howard fortune.
*
Nicholas wrote to his sister in New Zealand for the first time in years, telling her that he was now married and had a daughter. But the real purpose of his letter, which he left to the very last, was to tell her that William no longer lived at Broadacres and was very unlikely to return. Knowing how much Anne had hated William, he was hoping that now he had gone, she and her husband might be persuaded to come to England for a visit and stay at Broadacres. Nicholas knew it would make his mother’s cup of happiness full if only she could see her daughter Anne again and meet her grandson Peter. That, and another grandchild, if only Liana would hurry up and show signs of conceiving.
By tacit agreement William’s name was never mentioned within the family circle or to outsiders, and soon it seemed to most people as if he had never been. Time even healed Nicholas’s mind, blurring the memory of that terrible day in the wood. Now he felt only a deep, compassionate pity for William, an emotion he had never been able to feel when they were together. Being apart gave a different perspective, made it easier for Nicholas to slot William into another category. He was no longer an irritant and a threat to his family’s happiness, he was his sick brother; locked away in a secure mental hospital for his own safety and that of others.
Donald Ramsay had tried, really tried desperately hard to get Nicholas and Margaret to see reason when he had been called in to help on the day William had attacked Nicholas. He had bullied, cajoled and argued but Nicholas and Margaret would not agree to William’s being sent to where Donald was convinced he should go, the Ticehurst hospital in Sussex. It was no use telling them that there he could be examined and treated by the most eminent experts in the field of mental illness – in Donald’s opinion the most expert in the country at that time. Even when faced with the irrefutable fact that William was mentally ill, their one thought had been to avoid any publicity. They were of the opinion that by admitting him to such a famous hospital, the fact would eventually reach the ears of the press.
‘I can just imagine the lurid headlines in one of the less scrupulous Sunday newspapers,’ said Nicholas grimly. ‘The answer, Donald, is no to Ticehurst.’
‘But the doctors and nurses there are discreet. All medical matters are confidential, you know that,’ said Donald.
‘So they might be, but information can leak out. No, what William needs is to be well away from curious, prying eyes, and that’s where he has to be,’ replied Nicholas.
Donald was angry. ‘For whose sake? His or yours?’
‘For all our sakes, Donald. Surely you can see that.’ Margaret was distressed but just as determined as Nicholas.
Much against Donald’s better judgement he finally gave up the argument and made arrangements for William to be admitted to an obscure mental hospital on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. It was a comfortable place set in extensive grounds, but in Donald’s opinion, the psychiatrists, although kind and well meaning, were old-fashioned and hopelessly out of touch with modern thinking. Most of the patients were poor, simple, mentally subnormal people, not difficult, violent patients like William. He was sure there was no chance of a detailed case history being built up, one which would delve deeply into William’s and the family’s past; no chance of a realistic prognosis or treatment. But it seemed that was exactly what Nicholas and Lady Margaret wanted.
‘They just haven’t the desire to find out,’ Donald told his wife crossly when he returned home.
‘I would say courage, not desire,’ said Dorothy perceptively. ‘It takes courage to look deeply into something unpleasant.’
On the advice of the psychiatrists at the hospital, Nicholas and his mother did not visit William. Their one and only visit had precipitated an onslaught of such violence that not only William but also Lady Margaret had needed sedating. She had no wish to repeat the ordeal and was glad to have the excuse not to go.
‘Stay away until we deem his personality stabilized,’ said the psychiatrist, adding pessimistically, ‘although it is possible that he may never be cured.’
Nicholas took the advice, stifling the guilty hope that the psychiatrist was right and that William would never be well enough to return to Broadacres. Of course, he told himself, he would do anything to help his brother if it were possible. But the psychiatrists said they could do nothing, and there was no denying that life had a new dimension without him.
Liana still had moments of curiosity, not believing that William was in Scotland with relatives. But as Nicholas never mentioned him, and as her objective – the ousting of William from Broadacres – had been achieved, she kept silent. Why spoil her relationship with Nicholas, which had settled into a loving and stable pattern.
When they were together, Liana and Nicholas made love every night. There was less urgency about Liana these days. In the beginning Nicholas had sometimes felt that she was desperate to please him. He smiled at the thought. She need not have worried, she always pleased him.
Wildly, madly in love with her then as now, just holding her in his arms drove him mad with an almost uncontrollable desire.
‘Ah, Nicholas. So you are not yet tired of me?’ Liana teased him. ‘The same woman, night after night.’ She kissed him, tantalizing him with the quick, darting movements of her tongue as her hands flickered softly down his body.
‘I’ll never tire of you, darling, never,’ Nicholas gasped. Her hands were magic. ‘I want you now.’
He pulled her towards him but, laughing, Liana slipped from his grasp. ‘Too impatient, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘Anticipation is the best part.’
The velvet fingers stroking slowly between his legs were almost too much. Nicholas groaned with pleasure and increasing urgency. ‘
I can’t wait.’
‘Just a little while longer, darling.’ Liana slid across and mounted Nicholas, expertly guiding him into the warmth of her creamy centre. Bending down, her full breasts cushioned against his chest, her soft lips closed over his as the lush heat of her body enveloped him. ‘Now,’ she whispered, her voice urgent, too. ‘Now, now!’
Nicholas felt the familiar scream of exquisite pleasure explode inside him and he clung to her as if his life depended on it.
‘I love you, darling,’ he murmured sleepily much later.
Eyes closed, Liana smiled and slid the length of her silky body closer to his. They always made love until they were exhausted, then Nicholas held her tightly in his arms until morning.
It still amazed him that their love-making had never become mechanical or unemotional. Outside the bedroom Liana was a hard-headed businesswoman but inside, she was a fabulous creature made for him and him alone. Nicholas was even more in love with her than when they had first married, and Liana loved him, too. He knew she did. She never looked at another man, never gave him cause for distrust.
Yet in spite of all that, there were two small black clouds always hovering on his horizon. One was caused by the fact that Nicholas could never completely dispel a ridiculous, niggling jealousy. Although on reflection, he knew jealousy was not the exact emotion. It was a kind of mournful resentment he felt, resentment because of that part of herself he knew she always held back. She was, and always would be, an enigma to him: the beautiful, mysterious woman called Liana, his wife.
And the other cloud was the unfulfilled and growing longing for a son and heir. If only, if only she could conceive another child. For a little while, after William had been sent away to hospital, the longing had subsided and Nicholas had poured all his love on to his only child, Eleanora. She was adorable, and he spoilt her dreadfully, telling himself that there was always the possibility that the next child would not be so lovable, and then he would be hopelessly disappointed. Supposing he and Liana did have a son and he developed the way of William, always sullen and withdrawn and eventually having a breakdown. But gradually that fear subsided, and he remembered Donald’s words of reassurance long ago. Of course any son of his would be every bit as adorable as Eleanora. Little by little the desire for a son grew and grew. Every time they made love he thought of it until the longing became an obsession and again, in spite of all his good intentions not to mention it, Nicholas broke his promise to Donald Ramsay.