Giles turned away, not wishing to embarrass the boy.
“And once you’ve done that, what next?” asked Harry, when he saw his oldest friend close to tears.
“A double century, Sir Harry,” said Freddie without hesitation.
“It won’t be difficult to work out what you’ll want the following year, once you’ve achieved that,” said Grace.
Everyone laughed.
“Now it’s your turn, Karin,” said Emma.
“I’ve decided to run the London Marathon, and to raise money for immigrants who want to go to university.”
“How far is a marathon?” asked Samantha.
“Just over twenty-six miles.”
“Rather you than me. But put me down for five pounds a mile.”
“That’s very generous, Sam,” said Karin.
“Me too,” said Sebastian.
“And me,” added Giles.
“Thank you, but no thank you,” said Karin, taking a notebook from her pocket. “I already had Samantha down for five pounds a mile, and the rest of you will be expected to give the same proportion of your income.”
“Help,” said Sebastian.
“I’ll be coming to you last,” said Karin, smiling at Seb before consulting her list. “Grace is down for twenty-five pounds a mile, Emma and Harry fifty pounds each, and Giles one hundred. And Sebastian, as you’re chairman of the bank, I’ve got you down for a thousand pounds a mile. That adds up to—” she once again consulted her notebook—“thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and eighty pounds.”
“Can I put in a plea on behalf of an immigrant art student from the new world, who isn’t at all sure who her parents are, and has unfortunately lost her scholarship?” Everyone laughed. “And what’s more, Freddie, Jake, and I would each like to give ten pounds a mile.”
“But that would cost you seven hundred and eighty pounds,” said her father. “So I have to ask, how do you intend to pay?”
“The bank will be requiring a portrait of its chairman to hang in the boardroom,” said Jessica. “Guess who they’re about to commission, and what her fee will be?”
Harry smiled, delighted that his granddaughter had regained her irreverent streak, along with her acerbic sense of humor.
“Do I have any say in this?” asked Seb.
“Certainly not,” said Jessica. “Otherwise what’s the point of being a father?”
“Bravo, Karin,” said Grace, “we all applaud you.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Seb. “There will be a sub-clause attached to the contract. Not a penny will be paid if Karin fails to finish.”
“Fair enough,” said Karin, “and my thanks to you all.”
“Who’s left?” asked Emma.
Everyone turned their attention to Harry, who couldn’t resist making them all wait for a few more moments.
“Once upon a time there was a remarkable old lady, who, just before she died, wrote a letter to her son suggesting that perhaps the time had come for him to write that novel he had so often told her about.” He paused. “Well, Mother,” he said, looking toward the heavens, “that time has come. I no longer have any excuse not to fulfill your wish, as I’ve just completed the final book in the William Warwick series.”
“Unless of course your wicked publisher,” suggested Emma, warming to the theme, “were to offer his susceptible author an even larger advance that he found impossible to resist.”
“I’m happy to tell you that won’t be possible,” said Harry.
“How come?” asked Seb.
“I’ve just sent the final draft to Aaron Guinzburg, and he’s about to discover that I’ve killed off William Warwick.”
Everyone was stunned into silence, except Giles, who said, “That didn’t stop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle bringing Sherlock Holmes back to life after his loyal readers thought Moriarty had thrown him off a clifftop.”
“The same thought did cross my mind,” said Harry, “so I ended the book with William Warwick’s funeral, and his wife and children standing by the graveside watching his coffin being lowered into the ground. As far as I can recall, only one person has ever risen from the dead.”
That silenced even Giles.
“Are you able to tell us anything about the next novel?” asked Karin, who, like everyone else, was hearing about the death of William Warwick for the first time.
Once again Harry waited until he had everyone’s attention, even Jake’s.
“It will be set in one of the Russian satellites, probably Ukraine. The first chapter will open in a suburb of Kiev, where a family, mother, father, and child, will be having supper together.”
“A boy or a girl?” asked Jessica.
“Boy.”
“Age?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Fifteen, possibly sixteen. All I know for certain is that the family are celebrating the boy’s birthday, and during the meal, not exactly a feast, the reader will learn about the problems they face living under an oppressive regime when the father, a trade union leader, is considered to be a troublemaker, a dissident, someone who dares to challenge the state’s authority.”
“If he’d been born in this country,” said Giles, “he would have been the leader of the opposition.”
“But in his own country,” continued Harry, “he’s treated like an outlaw, a common criminal.”
“What happens next?” asked Jessica.
“The boy is about to open his only present, when an army truck comes to a screeching halt outside the house, and a dozen soldiers break down the door, drag the father out onto the street, and shoot him in front of his wife and child.”
“You kill the hero in the first chapter?” said Emma in disbelief.
“This is going to be a story about the child,” said Grace, “not the father.”
“And the mother,” said Harry, “because she’s an intelligent, resourceful woman, who’s already worked out that if they don’t escape from the country, it won’t be long before her rebellious son will seek revenge, and inevitably end up suffering the same fate as his father.”
“So where do they escape to?” demanded Jessica.
“The mother can’t decide between America and England.”
“How do they decide?” asked Karin.
“On the toss of a coin.”
The rest of the family continued to stare at the storyteller.
“And what’s the twist?” asked Seb.
“We follow what happens to the mother and child, chapter by chapter. In chapter one, they escape to America. In chapter two, England. So you have two parallel and very different stories taking place at the same time.”
“Wow,” said Jessica. “Then what happens?”
“I wish I knew,” said Harry. “But it’s my New Year’s resolution to find out.”
29
“TEN MINUTES TO GO,” said a voice over the loudspeaker. Karin kept jogging on the spot, attempting to get into what the seasoned runners called “the zone.” She’d put in hours of training, even run a half marathon, but suddenly she felt very alone on the starting line.
“Five minutes,” said the voice of doom.
Karin checked her stopwatch, a recent gift from Giles. 0:00. Get as close to the front as you can, Freddie had told her. Why add unnecessary time or distance to the race? Karin had never considered the marathon to be a race, she just hoped to finish in under four hours. Right now, she just hoped to finish.
“One minute,” boomed the starter’s voice.
Karin was about eleven rows back, but as there were over eight thousand runners, she considered that was near enough to the front.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!” the runners all shouted in unison, before a klaxon blared ominously. Karin pressed the button on her stopwatch and set off, swept along by an enthusiastic tide of runners.
Each mile was marked with a thick blue line stretching across the road, and Karin completed the first mile in under eight minutes. As she settled into a st
eady rhythm, she became more aware of the crowds lining both sides of the course, some cheering, some clapping, while others just stared in disbelief at the mass of human flesh, of all shapes and sizes, which was passing them at different speeds.
Her mind began to drift. She thought about Giles, who’d driven her to the little village of tents earlier that morning to register, and who would now be out there somewhere standing in the cold, waiting for her to appear among the also-rans. Her thoughts turned next to her recent visit to the House of Lords to hear the health minister answering questions from the dispatch box. Emma had coped well, and in Giles’s opinion had quickly gotten into her stride. As Karin passed the halfway mark, she hoped she was also in her stride, although she accepted the winner would already be crossing the finishing line.
* * *
Giles had warned them that Karin was unlikely to complete the course in under four hours, so the family had all risen early that morning to make sure they could find a spot where she was certain to see them. The previous evening Freddie had been on his knees preparing a placard that he hoped would make Karin laugh as she staggered past them.
Once Giles had returned to Smith Square after dropping his wife off at the A–D registration tent in Greenwich Park, he led her little band of supporters to the back of the Treasury building and found a front-row place behind the barriers on Parliament Square, opposite the statue of Winston Churchill.
* * *
Karin was now approaching what was known by all marathon runners as the wall. It usually came at around seventeen to twenty miles, and she’d heard so often about the temptation to try and convince yourself that if you dropped out, no one would notice. Everyone would notice. They might not say anything, but Sebastian had made it clear that he wouldn’t be parting with a penny unless she crossed the finishing line. A deal’s a deal, he’d reminded her. But she seemed to be going slower and slower, and it didn’t help when she spotted a thirty miles per hour road sign ahead of her.
But something, possibly the fear of failure, kept her going, and she pretended not to notice when she was overtaken by a letter box, and a few minutes later by a camel. Go, go, go, she told herself. Stop, stop, stop, her legs insisted. As she passed the twenty-mile mark, the crowd cheered loudly, not for her, but for a caterpillar who strolled past her.
When Karin spotted the Tower of London in the distance, she began to believe she just might make it. She checked her watch: 3 hours 32 minutes. Could she still complete the course in under four hours?
As she turned off the Embankment and passed Big Ben, a loud, sustained cheer went up. She looked across to see Giles, Harry, and Emma waving frantically. Jessica never stopped drawing, while Freddie held up a placard that declared KEEP GOING, I THINK YOU’RE IN THIRD PLACE!
Karin somehow managed to raise an arm in acknowledgment, but by the time she turned into The Mall, she could barely place one foot in front of the other. With a quarter of a mile to go, she became aware of the packed stands on both sides of the road, the crowds cheering more loudly than ever, and a BBC television crew who were filming her while running backward faster than she was running forward.
She looked up to see the digital clock above the finishing line ticking relentlessly away. Three hours, 57 minutes, and she suddenly began to take an interest in the seconds, 31, 32, 33 … With one last herculean effort, she tried to speed up. When she finally crossed the line, she raised her arms high in the air as if she were an Olympic champion. After a few more strides, she collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Within a moment, a race official in a Red Cross smock was kneeling beside her, a bottle of water in one hand, a shiny silver cape in the other.
“Try to keep moving,” he said as he placed a medal around her neck.
Karin began walking slowly, very slowly, but her spirits were lifted when in the distance she spotted Freddie running toward her, arms outstretched, with Giles only a few paces behind.
“Congratulations!” Freddie shouted, even before he’d reached her. “Three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and eleven seconds. I’m sure you’ll do better next year.”
“There isn’t going to be a next year,” said Karin with considerable feeling. “Even if Sebastian offers me a million pounds.”
LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK
1983–1986
30
VIRGINIA HAD MOVED OUT of her flat in Chelsea and into the duke’s Eaton Square townhouse the day after his chauffeur drove Clarence and Alice to Heathrow to go their separate ways; one flying east, the other west.
Although still a little apprehensive, she became more and more confident that she’d got away with it, until they traveled up to the country together to spend a long weekend at Castle Hertford.
It was while the duke was out shooting that Mr. Moxton, the estate manager, had dropped her a handwritten note requesting a private meeting with her.
“I apologize for raising the subject,” he said after Virginia had summoned him to join her in the drawing room, “but may I ask if the £185,000 the duke gave you was a gift or a loan?”
“Does it make any difference?” asked Virginia sharply.
“Only for tax purposes, my lady.”
“Which would be more convenient?” she asked, her tone softening.
“A loan,” said Moxton, who Virginia hadn’t suggested should sit, “because then there are no tax implications. If it was a gift, you would be liable for a tax bill of around one hundred thousand pounds.”
“And we wouldn’t want that,” said Virginia. “But when would I be expected to repay the loan?”
“Shall we say five years? At which time of course it could be rolled over.”
“Of course.”
“However, in the unlikely possibility that his grace should pass away before then, you would be liable to return the full amount.”
“Then I shall have to do everything in my power to make sure his grace lives for at least another five years.”
“I think that would be best for everyone, my lady,” said Moxton, not sure if he was meant to laugh. “May I also ask if there are likely to be any further loans of this kind in the future?”
“Certainly not, Moxton. This was a one-off, and I know the duke would much prefer the matter was not referred to again.”
“Of course, my lady. I will draw up the necessary loan document for you to sign and then everything will be settled.”
As the weeks had drifted by, and then the months, Virginia became more and more confident the duke wasn’t aware of what she and Moxton had agreed, but even if he was, he certainly never referred to it. When the time came to celebrate the duke’s seventy-first birthday, Virginia was ready to move on to the next stage of her plan.
* * *
If 1983 had been a leap year, the problem might have solved itself. But it wasn’t, and Virginia was unwilling to wait.
She had been living at Eaton Square with the duke for almost a year, and once the official mourning period was over, her next purpose was quite simply to become her grace, the Duchess of Hertford. There was only one obstacle in her path, namely the duke, who seemed to be quite satisfied with the present arrangement, and had never once raised the subject of marriage. That state of affairs would have to be brought to a head. But how?
Virginia considered the alternatives that were open to her. She could move out of Eaton Square and return to Chelsea, starving Perry of her company and, more important, sex, which was no longer quite as regular as it had once been, and hope that would do the trick. However, with only her two thousand pounds a month allowance from her brother to live on, Virginia feared she would give in long before he did. She could propose herself, but she didn’t care for the humiliation of being turned down. Or she could simply leave him, which didn’t bear thinking about.
When she discussed the problem over lunch with Bofie Bridgwater and Priscilla Bingham, it was Bofie who came up with a simple solution which would undoubtedly force the duke to make a decision one way or the other.
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“But it might backfire,” said Virginia, “and then I’d be back on Queer Street.”
“You could be right,” admitted Bofie. “But frankly you haven’t been left with a lot of choice, old gal, unless you’re happy to drift along until the time comes to attend the duke’s funeral as an old friend.”
“No, I assure you that isn’t part of my plan. If I were to let that happen, the Lady Camilla Hertford would come after me, all guns blazing, demanding the £185,000 loan be repaid in full. No, if I’m going to risk everything on one throw of the dice, it’s going to have to be before Christmas.”
“Why is Christmas so important?” asked Priscilla.
“Because Camilla will be flying over from New Zealand, and she’s already written to Perry warning him that if ‘that woman’ is among the houseguests, then neither she nor her husband nor Perry’s grandchildren, whom he adores, will be boarding the plane.”
“She dislikes you that much?”
“Even more than her late mother did, if that were possible. So if we’re going to do anything about it, time isn’t on my side.”
“Then I’d better make that call,” said Bofie.
* * *
“Daily Mail.”
“Could you put me through to Nigel Dempster?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Lord Bridgwater.”
“Bofie, good to hear from you,” said the next voice on the line. “What’s cooking?”
“I’ve had a call from William Hickey at The Express, Nigel. Of course, I refused to speak to them.”
“I’m grateful for that, Bofie.”
“Well, if the story has to come out, I’d much rather it was in your column.”
“Fire away.”
Dempster wrote down every word Bofie had to say, and was somewhat surprised because he’d always described Lord Bridgwater in his column as a “confirmed bachelor.” But there wasn’t any question that this exclusive was coming straight from the horse’s mouth.
This Was a Man Page 22