The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  ‘I think we shall dine at The Highway,’ he said brightly and changed the subject. ‘From all reports they have a very talented new chef who knows his way around a ration card.’

  I glanced at Cécile. Did I detect unease in her? I couldn’t tell.

  Alice became quite subdued but it wasn’t my concern. I was focused entirely on Cécile and asked her to tell me about the gardens of Versailles, somewhere I had planned to visit for many years. At length, she told us about the king and his intriguing hobbies and pastimes.

  ‘In the middle of the seventeenth century, Louis, the Sun King, had a menagerie of ferocious beasts at Vincennes,’ she told us. ‘There were lions, tigers, and leopards all kept in cages around an amphitheatre where the king could entertain visitors with their battles. One ambassador, I forget which one, saw a fight to the death between a royal tiger and an elephant.’

  ‘Oh my.’ Alice pulled a face. ‘That all sounds ghastly.’

  The idea of keeping wild animals in small cages did nothing for me, but Versailles and the menagerie Cécile was describing so eloquently sounded quite remarkable. I wondered how our own very drear and dark Buckingham Palace might compare to such splendour.

  Cécile addressed Alice with a calm, unwavering voice. ‘It is no more ghastly I think than you in England getting on a horse, in a red jacket, to chase the deer or fox.’ She sipped her water then looking across to George, she said, ‘Do you not think so, George?’

  ‘What? No, my dear, I should imagine it was to the taste of the people at the time.’

  ‘As was the guillotine to the rabble on the Place de la Concorde, I have no doubt,’ said Alice, a little fiercely.

  ‘That was something that needed to be done,’ Cécile said, a chill in her voice. ‘It is a poor country that is not freed from the shackles of an hereditary ruling family.’

  ‘Our royal family is very important to us. The King and Queen have been stalwarts during these trying times,’ Alice replied. ‘And they do not rule us.’

  ‘I think we are on dangerous territory, ladies. We must agree to disagree,’ said George with a polite cough. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with that.’

  It was only I who caught the look that Alice threw at Cécile and it was at once apparent that the façade of their friendship was suffering from a hairline crack.

  I was sitting on the bench on the lower lawn some time later. The rushing flow of the water as it tumbled through rocks then swirled into the deepest fastest flowing part of the river was some fifty feet away, but still audible. Cécile was walking along the stony path that wound up from the calm square of the river that was sectioned off to form a bathing pool. I saw her coming long before she had seen me, and when she waved, I noticed that she picked up her pace.

  She was wearing a greenish pencil skirt and a simple white blouse. They skimmed her body, making her look taller and even more elegant. I didn’t stand as she approached and it gave her the option to walk past me with a nod should she so wish, but she didn’t pass by. Instead, she took a seat next to me on the bench without a word and that is how we stayed for a short time.

  ‘Carrick,’ she said eventually, her voice quite soft. ‘I feel that my presence here is causing something of a rift. I may be wrong but I do not wish to cause any upset. If I am in the way and causing any… difficulties then I will go at once.’

  The thought was suddenly unbearable. ‘Oh no, Madame, please do not think that way. If we have been unreasonable or unkind I must apologise most profusely.’ I met her eyes, and hers, hazel flecked with brightest green, met mine.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I assure you. I have been unwell and I think Alice, if that is to whom you are referring, is still grieving and has confused feelings. I can assure you that I am quite recovered.’ I touched her hand to reassure her, her skin was soft, pale like oyster silk.

  She didn’t look away, indeed she held my gaze, giving me a stirring of hope. ‘Then we will say no more of it,’ she said, her voice still soft. I was drinking her in, the hand beneath my touch, the eyes, and the round fullness of her lips. I leaned in but she looked away and returned the hand to her lap. ‘Please, tell me of Henri.’

  I looked across the lawns, the lowest terrace falling away into a bank of lilies, their heads teetering towards going over. Below them, the great willows dangled their leafy fingers into the water, verdant after the summer’s heat. For a moment, I saw him coming up from the pool; he was lean and long-limbed, his brown hair was cut short and turned black with damp from swimming. He had a unique easy gait as he came marching up the slope, his old cricket jumper rolled under his arm. He wore his tennis shirt a pale green and his slacks were cream. I saw him then as if he were right there before us, as if I might introduce him to Cécile for the very first time. He would have kissed her hand no doubt and made us laugh with some witticism or other.

  ‘Henry was remarkable,’ I told her. ‘He was a truly remarkable person. For all that George is muscle and brawn, Henry was lean and athletic. It was like comparing a St. Bernard to a Wolfhound.’ I was not too sure whether she understood my analogy. Did they have such dogs in Paris? I had my doubts, but I also had her attention.

  ‘You knew him,’ I continued. ‘He was like no other man you could meet.’

  She nodded. ‘That is true.’

  ‘He was equally at home with bat or ball, played winger in rugby, and was on the school team from the first year. George and I could never emulate him. Henry became head boy, whilst we never quite made the grade.’

  ‘Grade? Pardon me, you are going too fast for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we were not as good as him, pas aussi doué.’ She followed my meaning. ‘He was one of those few who are good at all things: maths; languages; sport but not, I am relieved to say, in art, thank goodness.’

  ‘Why thank goodness?’

  ‘I, for my sins, am the artist in the family.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ she said looking pleasantly surprised. It gladdened my heart that I should have found something that might impress her. ‘Will you show me your artwork?’

  ‘Yes. I, if you would like to see it, I should be delighted. I have a little studio in Oxford, though I have done nothing since I was called up, naturally, and I have somewhat lost my passion for it.’

  ‘Oh you must go back to it,’ she said and I felt something inside me uplifted by her voice. She had such a gentle feminine way about her that was very much at variance with her demeanour, very hard to put into words. ‘What do you paint?’

  ‘I paint landscapes in the main, and sometimes people.’

  ‘And George?’ she asked, swerving the subject away from me sooner than I expected.

  ‘Ah, George, he is a faithful old dog, a very good man, and honest as the day is long. As I said before, Henry was such a shining light that I fear he left me, rather us, very much in the shade. Sir Reginald and Augusta loved us all very much, but there was a light in their eyes when Henry was about. I am just so very glad they did not live to hear word of his death.’

  There was a moment’s silence. We were both looking out towards the river. A faint whisper of a breeze lifted the scalloped collar of her blouse; it caught the corner of my eye.

  ‘I would have liked to have known them,’ Cécile said sadly. ‘But now I have met you and George and dear, sweet Alice.’ For some reason, I could not seem to make my thoughts align coherently. I was picturing the Amshersts, but a new life was opening up for me, a life I preferred and had always wanted. ‘She loves you very much.’

  I turned and looked at Cécile with astonishment: ‘Who?’

  ‘Alice, of course.’

  I responded immediately. ‘Alice!’ I was completely taken aback. ‘She may have done at one time, but I can assure you that she is over it. She is more of a sister to me, or a best friend.’ I must have sounded terribly indignant, but C�
�cile was unmoved and, it appeared, somewhat amused at my reaction, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘She is just a girl,’ I countered. ‘I have known her since she was a mere babe in arms.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘My taste is for sophisticated women,’ I told her crossly. ‘The war has altered us all and it forced all of us who went away to be more mature. They stuffed young men into uniforms and we grew up quickly, we had to. Now these childish things do nothing for me.’

  ‘You would call love childish?’ she retorted.

  ‘Only in the context of being loved by someone too young and gauche for me,’ I replied emphatically.

  ‘You should take love where you can find it,’ she said wisely. ‘To be loved is to be. I am certain that it is one of life’s great treasures to love and be loved.’

  I knew she was talking about Henry, for I certainly couldn’t be the object of her affections, but as she spoke, I felt a special bond between us. She was trying to establish whether or not I had someone else because she was attracted to me, of that I was certain. At that moment we shared something, it was right there above the river with the ghost of Henry watching over us and wishing us well. Yes, I believed most strongly he would wish us well.

  17

  Steve was poorly. He had phoned in sick, which was highly unusual. I sat on the side of the bed. He looked grey and drawn, and he had pulled the duvet up to his chin, yet he was shivering. I had made him a Lemsip, placing it on the bedside table next to him where he could reach it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he groaned. ‘I hate being ill, and we’ve only just had the Easter holidays.’

  ‘That was over month ago, and there is nothing you can do, my love, so just give in to it and get lots of sleep.’ I kissed him on his clammy forehead and cupped his face in my hands. ‘I’ll make you a snack, if that’s okay, then I’m popping out for an hour or two.’ He looked a bit let down and it pinched my heart. ‘I won’t be out for long, I’m just going to look at Lapston Manor.’

  ‘Who’s taking you?’

  ‘That nice chap I met out walking, the one with the big black dog.’ Steve didn’t say anything. He was always so reasonable and fair, and what did he need to be concerned about anyway?

  ‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ he said wearily, turning over and pulling the bedclothes around him.

  Half an hour later, I closed the door quietly as he slept, his head deep in his pillow. It wasn’t the flu but whatever sort of bug it was, it was certainly making him very ill.

  I stood outside our house, a little way down the road, telling myself that Rory could see me better there, and not that I was out of sight of our bedroom window.

  He was driving a pickup, a big rusty white thing. I had to climb up and onto the seat. There was no sign of Scooter and I can’t say I was disappointed.

  ‘Hi Martha,’ Rory said cheerfully. ‘I’m so glad you can still make it.’

  ‘I didn’t take your number. My husband’s poorly and I–’

  ‘Do you want to cancel?’ Rory asked, looking both concerned and terribly disappointed in equal measure.

  ‘No, no, it’s just that, Steve’s asleep now, it’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said purposefully. ‘I’m dying to see inside the house.’

  ‘Don’t be too let down when you get there though, will you? It’s very run down.’

  We drove down the High Street and up to the brow of the hill where we turned sharply left into a narrow leafy lane where a long line of plane trees stood like a guard of honour to each side.

  ‘I had no idea about this little road.’ I had always thought it led to a caravan site, but Rory explained that was in the next field along.

  I was still struggling to get my bearings when we dipped down and then up again and a large field of sheep opened up to our right.

  As we turned round the bend, we met with a sharp corner and there they were; the gates of Lapston. Tall and splendid, they towered over us.

  Rory jumped out and unlocked the padlock on a heavy chain that held the gates together. They creaked open, heavy and unyielding, as he pushed them back, and in doing so, gave way to a long drive, its surface chipped and broken, weeds forcing themselves through every crack.

  I watched Rory as he returned to the truck – he was looking thoughtful – then he saw me and smiled. He heaved himself into the truck, using the grab handle of the door.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked and I nodded, feeling stupidly excited. ‘It gets really bumpy now so hold on to your hat.’ He was right; the pick-up went down potholes and rose up on tarmac that had breached as if it had been in an earthquake. After five hundred yards, it became flatter, less difficult to drive over, but it still jolted us around.

  ‘I need a four wheel drive to cope with my work,’ Rory said as we lunged into a very large, long pothole, the car grumbled and thrust itself forward.

  As we turned the corner, Rory stopped, and I felt an unexpected lurch of fear inside me. We were miles from anywhere and I was in a car with a man I barely knew at all. I suddenly felt oddly insecure because I hadn’t thought it through. I must have been staring straight at him, as I weighed it all up in my mind, because I realised he was urging me to turn around and look over my left shoulder.

  I followed the direction of his eyes and there it was, Lapston Manor. The sunlight was moving slowly across the expanse of green in front of us, almost as if it was coaxing us in. The grass, once I imagined an immaculate lawn, was no longer cared for and mown. Instead, it had become a wild meadow. Couch grass, docks and the skeletal remains of rough thistle had taken hold, and the new buds of unknown flowers were dotted here and there.

  The house was double-fronted with a bay window to each side of the large porch. Her windows were tall, mullioned, and there were at least ten of them, all of them symmetrical, as were the high chimneystacks that I recognised from the photograph.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

  ‘She certainly is. I’ve never seen a house quite like her, all the sills and little embellishments on the front are so minimal yet they catch the light.’ I was in wonder at the sight before me.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Rory said, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘The drive narrowed considerably and became gravel that crunched and spat under the wheels.

  We pulled up right outside the front door where we climbed down out of the pickup and stood on the wide apron of driveway. ‘Turning circle for carriages.’ Rory waved his hand in a circular motion as I stood looking around me and just at that moment, the sun broke through a cloud and the whole façade of the building was highlighted by the most theatrical afternoon light. The mullioned windows I had seen from the other side of the lawn were dead and dull hollows. The glass was long gone, half were boarded up, but the rich honeyed Cotswold stone had become warmer and more welcoming.

  Rory had a huge key in his hand and we proceeded up three wide steps to the front porch. Just inside were low stone shelves for taking off boots or for depositing packages, and above the old heavy door was a carved portico.

  ‘That’s a pediment with a carved stone tympanum. There is a similar one at Eversham House, one of the Paris purchases.’ Rory stood beside me, looking up. ‘People often wrongly call this a portico.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, suitably chastened, and made a mental note for myself. He opened the old door, and tapered shafts of sunlight poured into the hall in front of us from hundreds of different holes in the roof, like a stage set lit from above. Before us, the majestic staircase rose up and fanned out on each side to a gallery above our heads.

  To each side of us were double doors and the same again each side of the staircase at the rear of the hall. The doors at the rear were missing and so I could see the sunlight playing on the surface of the tiled floors beyond. For a second, I listened as if I might hear v
oices coming from the rooms, but there was nothing save for the creak of wood as the wind lifted the tiles above us.

  Whilst I stood taking it all in Rory was silent next to me, but he was clearly delighted to see the awe and wonder in my face. Then the sunlight was gone, snatched from us by a cloud, and the house changed in an instant. It was dark and sad, the panelled walls smashed, broken or covered with green mould. The floor, of once immaculate black and white tiles, was pock marked and chipped but mostly hidden beneath rubble and discarded litter. The whole place was damp and forgotten, and I felt deeply troubled that something once so obviously grand was now broken, desolate and left simply to rot. There was evidence of rats too, telltale droppings and chewed things like wire and plastic. It smelt of old wood, damp cement and squalor, seedy and pungent in the back of my nose.

  ‘Isn’t it sad?’ Rory sighed. ‘So much life drained out of her and forty odd years of sadness behind her.’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Dining room,’ said Rory. ‘Come and take a look, though I warn you, the hall is by far the nicest part.’

  He was right, the dining room, once a wooden panelled affair, was wrecked. The floor had been removed, the supporting joists, now exposed, were rotted and the spaces between filled with rubble. There was a wall-mounted sliding blackboard but someone had thrown a heavy object at it and it was split in two. I found myself moved because the whole atmosphere was so gloomy and depressing yet, through it all, I could see her as she once was.

  We picked our way across to the lounge where Rory had trouble opening the large doors because a bird of considerable size, a black thing with huge wings, was blocking it from the other side. It was staring up at us with round glassy eyes as Rory kicked it away. Above us there was no ceiling, just a huge gaping space that spiralled up to a chequerboard of missing roof tiles. The lounge had two aspects: one to the front and the overgrown lawn, the other at the rear where a tall casement window towered above the remains of a window seat.