The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to regain my shattered equilibrium.

  ‘Up you get then. I’m so sorry about this.’ Rory put his arm under mine and heaved me up. My leg slipped on the mud and I felt truly humiliated and foolish. ‘Come over here. There’s a log we can sit on. I’m so sorry.’ He led me gently by the arm and I sat down gratefully next to him as he produced a hip flask from his jacket pocket. He unscrewed the top and, offering it to me, said, ‘I’m not sure there’s anything left in there, but whatever there is, you’re welcome to it. Do you feel okay?’

  I nodded but, in truth, I felt quite sick and dizzy.

  ‘You’re probably feeling a bit woozy, but it will pass.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Rory looked up, squinting. ‘About two hundred yards away, running in circles and Inca is chasing Scooter who, I freely admit, looks like a sideboard when he runs.’

  I laughed and felt a bit better for it.

  ‘I’d better walk you home,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I replied, but I was still feeling a bit odd.

  ‘No, it’s no trouble and I can continue along the Oxfordshire Way from yours. It’ll take me directly home.’ I didn’t have the strength to fight and I needed him to catch Inca too. As it was, they both came bounding towards us at that moment, and Rory had them on the lead in seconds.

  He took them both in one hand and lent me his arm. It felt strong, muscular and reassuring, and I was grateful for it. He was much taller than me and so it felt odd walking with him as he coped with the two excited dogs, and I had to pull away.

  As we passed the doctor’s surgery, Rory asked if I needed to go in, but I was fine.

  It took ten minutes to reach my house and by then, I was feeling much better. We talked only a little, mostly he was trying to navigate with Scooter and Inca pulling in two different directions.

  ‘You’ll have a coffee won’t you?’ I asked. It was the least I could do.

  ‘I’d love one, but sit down I’ll make it.’ He made me take a seat at the table whilst he found the coffee and filled the kettle. Scooter was lying on the kitchen doormat, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and opposite him, Inca was curled up in her basket by the Aga, fast asleep.

  The book project was all over the place on the table, chairs and sideboard. ‘It looks like you’ve been busy,’ he said as he found a space for my cup.

  ‘It’s a book I’m editing for the local history group. I’ve made my way through half of it,’ I told him.

  Rory took a seat next to me. In front of him was a picture of a young man in an apron, standing outside a butcher’s shop, sides of pork, pheasant and ducks hanging above his head.

  ‘See that carved stone bull’s head?’ Rory pointed to the apex of the shop’s roof. ‘The shop’s gone but the bull’s head is still there. It’s now part of a retirement complex.’

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting. I’ve never noticed it and I drive past there all the time.’ We were leaning in, our heads close together and I could smell the outdoors on him, the pure scent of a fresh spring day. Without trying to be obvious, I pulled back a little, and he did too. At that second, something caught my eye. ‘Don’t look now, but Scooter is crawling across the kitchen on his elbows.’

  ‘Scooter!’ Rory reprimanded his dog without looking at him, and the black shape stood up, turned around, and went back to the mat. ‘He scoots,’ Rory explained. ‘He was supposed to be a Jasper, but he had this commando move off to a tee since he was a pup, he thinks it makes him invisible.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I am so sorry about what he did to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, honestly, I’ll be fine. It’s more embarrassing when you’re old and you fall over, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re not old,’ he said and reached forward. I thought he was going to touch my cheek, but instead he pulled a stringy piece of grass out of my hair.

  ‘I owe you for this,’ he said, a curl in his lips. ‘You could sue me, you know.’

  ‘I could, but instead, may I ask you about Lapston Manor?’

  ‘Yes, of course, goodness that lets me off lightly!’

  ‘I’ve got to put together a couple of pages about its history, but what I’ve been given is pretty sketchy.’

  ‘Well, if I can help you sure, but I don’t know all that much.’

  ‘It says it was built on the site of a building mentioned in the Doomsday Book.’

  ‘Yes it was, it dates from 709, but I have no idea why it was such an accurate dating. It was a Saxon settlement. The manor had a half moat which has long gone and explains why the lower part is so boggy, I suspect.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘It was rebuilt and finished in sixteen hundred and three. The owner a Sir Corin Lockyear wanted his Queen, Elizabeth the first, to see it completed but she inconveniently died the same year.’

  ‘That wasn’t good timing then.’

  ‘No, and he died three years after that, so the poor man, having taken twenty odd years to build his dream home, pegs it before the paint dries.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Anyway, the Stantons inherited it and actually ran it into the ground; they lived in Hertfordshire and couldn’t have cared less about it. The staff gradually drifted away and it fell into disrepair then it was knocked down. In the mid-eighteenth century, the Aarons bought the site and they built the new house with the intention of using it as a hunting lodge because it was so close to the Wychwood Forest. It was one of them who put the stained-glass window in the dining room.’

  ‘From France?’

  ‘I think so. It certainly had some French bits and bobs all over the place. The Amshersts then bought it. They were wealthy from business concerns here and there. I’m not sure but I was told it was investments and stuff. They sold it to the Catholic Church who ran it as a children’s home.’

  ‘I’m told bad things went on there,’ I said.

  ‘Yep, so legend has it and going on what we’ve learned of late I sort of have no doubt that they did.’

  ‘And what about the French woman who was involved?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘She inherited the house according to what I’ve read.’

  ‘No idea,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but I know someone who I think will know more, if it would help.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Norman Fry. His mother worked at the house a long time ago.’

  12

  I had not had nightmares, which surprised me. In fact I had slept surprisingly soundly and awoken late. One of the windows in my bedroom overlooked the knot garden and, from that direction, I heard the sound of talking right beneath it.

  Her voice was musical, the sound of French to the ear so different from our own dreary tongue. They were talking, him pointing to aspects of the planting that were notable, and her listening intently, telling him how much she admired the layout and design. I viewed them from just behind my curtain so that if they had looked up, as the observed so often do, I could not be seen.

  She was touching his arm, a light brushing of fingers here and perhaps an affectionate tap there. I felt something stir within me and I couldn’t put a name to it at that time, but now I know to my shame that it was jealousy. I wanted to be down there, treading the paths alongside her. I was already yearning for her touch. She looked so slight next to George. The onset of middle age had thickened his midriff, the result of too little exercise. He had given up riding because of his hip and did not even take walks in the countryside any longer. They moved onwards, still speaking French. I could only hear every other word and so I was unable to pick up on the thread of the conversation, but she was making him smile and, at one point, he laughed. I could see in that clear morning light the pale grey of his hair. How stealthily these things do creep up on one.

  She then turned
to him and they were speaking English, her gazing up into his face, he concentrated on hers. I looked away for it was like owning a jewel and having someone else breathe on it without permission.

  I had intended to venture out and join them, but I faltered at the garden door in the lounge and turned back. I retreated to the hall where I could see Lizzie Fry and Mrs Hall clearing away the breakfast things – it was well after ten o’clock.

  ‘Oh sir, we didn’t realise you were down, would you like us to leave everything?’ Mrs Hall was walking towards me, her eyes kind and understanding. She quickly reached the threshold of the dining room and looked terribly concerned for me.

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Hall. I am not at all hungry. I will wait until luncheon,’ I told her.

  ‘Are you feeling better, sir?’ She was wringing her hands in her apron in a quite agitated fashion, but I knew she did so because she cared very much. She had known me since I was eleven and had cuffed me around the ears often enough for one misdemeanour or another but, equally, she had bandaged my wounds after many a boyish tumble and sent me off again with a kind word. I replied that I was very well and would look forward to lunch. Lapston was very dear to me in so many ways.

  I was about to turn away and take my leave by the front door for a walk when I heard Alice’s voice. ‘Hello Carrick. Are you quite better?’

  She was tripping down the stairs lightly, the broad sweep of the staircase behind her, the very mountain I had been unable to climb last night. She was wearing a polo neck jumper, breeches and riding boots.

  ‘I am, thank you, Mouse. I slept well.’

  ‘I am so pleased, darling. I checked in on you before I went to bed and you were away with the fairies.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I think maybe I should take to locking my door if you are to be creeping about in the night.’ It came out with far more ugly sarcasm than I had intended and she looked suitably injured. ‘Oh come now, Alice, I am only joking. You are like a sister to me and you know it. Thank you for caring.’

  She bit her lip, something I had learned to associate with insecurity in her, and looking over her shoulder, spoke in a low voice. ‘May I talk with you?’

  I checked my watch and acted as if I had somewhere to be and could only spare her a few minutes. She ignored that and, placing her arm in mine, led me to the left of the stairs and out towards the garden room. The two cedar trees were standing splendidly on guard, the sweep of lawn beneath them immaculate, owing to the loving attention of Ogden.

  ‘Are you riding out?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I thought so, I haven’t seen Beau for ages. I suspect you won’t join me, but Jester says he’s ready when you are.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy yourself,’ I answered, avoiding the question. In times past, I would have joined her and relished her company but, all at once, my mind was elsewhere. We walked out onto the shingle path then she stopped outside the conservatory and turned to face me.

  ‘Carrick, I’m just going to be direct with you.’ She looked bold and I felt unsettled. ‘I think you should obtain help, you should see somebody.’

  ‘Alice I–’

  ‘You are not well and I feel it really should be addressed and perhaps, if you would be agreeable, I would happily accompany you.’

  There was such honesty and loving kindness in her eyes it made me feel exceptionally bad about what I said next. My mind was racing, the thoughts jumbled in my head, but one thing was clear to me: I didn’t want her advice however well it was intended.

  ‘Alice, frankly it is none of your business, please do not interfere; I will handle it in my own way, and in my own time.’

  As I turned away, I knew I had left her speechless with my rudeness, her mouth had formed an ‘O’ and with her eyes wide in surprise, she looked completely lost for words. I flicked angrily at the head of a long leggy flower in the border and its petals showered onto the path in my wake.

  13

  The flowers were beautiful: freesias, yellow roses, pale green chrysanths and my favourites, Alstroemeria. I buried my nose in the bouquet, it was heavenly. The little card with them said: “I’m very sorry, I am a buffoon, Love from Scooter x.”

  ‘Who are they from?’ asked Steve as he passed by me in the hall, looking over his half moon glasses.

  ‘From the dog, the one that knocked me over,’ I told him as I looked at the card again.

  ‘I should think so. It needs to be kept on a lead if you ask me, you’re lucky that you’re not badly hurt.’

  ‘Oh it’s fine. He’s a nice dog. The breed is like that apparently. Flat-coats are known as the Peter Pan amongst dogs because they never grow up.’

  ‘And don’t tell me the owner looks like Captain Hook.’ He picked up the newspaper from beside the mat and opened it, immediately losing interest in me, and the flowers.

  ‘Actually, he’s very nice,’ I said quietly into the blooms, but I knew he wasn’t listening. I watched as he settled in his armchair, slippers on, Brian Matthew playing his sixties music on Radio Two with Inca lying contentedly at her master’s feet. He was in his element: school; home; beer; occasional hill walks and Sarah’s visits. He was looking for nothing more than that, whilst I was still fighting the strangest feeling of being dumped by life. I was an unwanted element, dispensed with and trying to find herself in a stupid village project, and I had begun to have real doubts that it could ever be a book. None of them had the first idea about producing it, let alone costing it and marketing the damn thing.

  ‘Do you think it’s got legs?’ Camilla had asked in a long and tedious meeting the day before. ‘Is it interesting enough?’

  ‘In truth, it’s not going to have a wide appeal,’ I told them honestly. ‘I’m afraid our village history is not all that fascinating to a wider world.’

  ‘But what of our curs and cowards?’ Angela looked quite put out.

  ‘I’ve been through most of the chapters and they are very good–’

  ‘But?’ She cut me off.

  ‘There needs to be more substance to it. Just recounting historical facts and the dates isn’t quite enough for a coffee table book.’

  Tom looked very disappointed. ‘It’s been a lot of work,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Oh I realise that,’ I said. ‘But, you see, it needs to be written in a way that engages people.’ I was just being honest, but I could feel hackles rising around the room. ‘What I’m saying is, for example, Lapston Manor, there is a hint of a mysterious death but there is no more on the matter.’

  Angela tutted. ‘Well, you can’t make these things up, my dear. It has to be true.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied, gritting my teeth. ‘I was just wondering if you could pad it out a bit here and there, perhaps take a look into some of the pieces you’ve written and put in some more information.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Camilla curtly. ‘I hope you realise this project does comprise a large body of work, carried out over many years.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong I do understand that.’ I felt like conceding but I couldn’t put my name to something that wasn’t of a professional standard. People seeing Martha Nelson on something would expect a certain level. Or was that then? Were those days over for me? ‘Lapston Manor, for example, became a children’s convalescent home, but there is nothing about that anywhere.’

  ‘Oh it was all very secretive,’ said Camilla. ‘The children went home, or somewhere else and left the area, and the priests are long gone.’

  ‘Except for Muriel Bury’s husband,’ I replied. ‘He was in there. Could we for example, go and see her and ask her about it?’

  They looked at one another blankly, the whole prospect seeming to confound them.

  ‘I’m not sure that would be very appropriate, given her circumstances,’ said Camilla, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest. She was obviously becomi
ng annoyed and I was feeling distinctly uneasy.

  ‘Not just now,’ I said, ‘but perhaps when she feels better.’

  ‘I could talk to her daughter Debby,’ said Tom. ‘I went to school with her. She may know something and might broker the suggestion with Muriel for us.’

  ‘What a shame I didn’t think of it when Mr Bury was still alive,’ said Angela, shaking her head. ‘I saw him so often round and about and we would sometimes chat. I’m sure he would have told me a few things.’

  ‘Actually, I think not,’ Roger said. We all turned to him. ‘I got the firm impression he was terribly disturbed by it and he refused to say anything.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Okay, well perhaps that’s not a good idea,’ I said, giving in. ‘However, there are other chapters we could develop a little. I’ll look into the Lapston Manor death myself, but maybe you could all revisit those chapters that need more information.’ There were a lot of disgruntled mutterings. ‘I’ll do a list of those that could benefit from being enhanced, and circulate it.’

  ‘If you must dear, if you must,’ sighed Camilla. I knew immediately none of them were onside, they were packing away notepads and there was the chink of teacups as they tidied up and then they resolutely wished me goodbye. It was definitely a goodbye, no au revoir implied at all.

  14

  I took the bus to Burford and attended to some business at my bank. I confess I was toying with the idea of leaving for Oxford that evening, but Alice would never have forgiven me. I loathed her idea of a party because, in the first part, I found too much noise difficult and secondly, the same old faces would bore me. Besides, I actually considered it in poor taste given that we had so recently lost Henry, but Alice had vigorously argued the point that we all needed cheering up.