by Tom Sharpe
As the taxi wove its way up the drive through the encroaching forest, frequently swerving round deliberately sharp and narrow corners to avoid crashing into tree trunks and overhanging branches, Wilt decided to insist that Eva and the quads should be met at the gates and driven down to the Hall by someone more accustomed to this death trap of a road. By the time they reached open parkland he was black and blue from tumbling about in the back of the taxi and determined that he would never drive this way himself. And then he saw Sandystones Hall half a mile ahead.
“Whoever called it Sandystones must have been blind,” muttered Wilt, surprised to find that the extraordinary house was not as enormous as he had expected. “More like Greypebbles.”
“You can say that again,” the driver agreed.
“Is there any sand round here?”
“Look to your left. See the nine-hole golf course? Bunkers have to have sand. Of course, they could have brought it up from the beach…I don’t believe that, though. It’s too expensive. Mind you, they’re as rich as hell. I mean, they have their own private cemetery and chapel.”
They stopped beside the drawbridge across the moat. Beyond it loomed a massively ornamented front door, though both door and moat looked ridiculously overblown against the relatively small scale of the Hall itself. Wilt got out and reached for his wallet but the taxi driver shook his head.
“They’ve got an account,” he said, and carried the suitcase across the bridge to the front door where he pulled the bell rope. Presently an extremely plump grey-haired woman dressed in black opened it.
“Mr Wilt? Do come in. I’ll show you up to your room. I’m afraid the cottage you were promised isn’t quite ready yet but I do assure you it will be by the time your family arrives. Lady Clarissa apologises for her absence but she has been suddenly called away. I’m Mrs Bale, Sir George’s secretary. I come over and act as housekeeper when either of them is away.”
“I must say I’ve never stayed in a house with a drawbridge before,” said Wilt, gazing around him at the furniture which, like the house itself, was extraordinary. Everything had clearly come from India. Even the portraits of what he presumed were family ancestors on the ornately panelled staircase wall were of people dressed in the uniforms of the Indian Army during the heyday of the Empire.
“And this is your room,” Mrs Bale told him, opening a door at the top of the stairs. “The bathroom’s through the door over there. If there’s anything you need just let me know. There’s a bell on the desk.”
But Wilt hardly heard her. He was gaping at an enormous bed which looked as though it had been designed for six overweight adults.
“All the beds in the house are that size,” said Mrs Bale, evidently reading his mind. “Very difficult for the maid to make in the morning. You have to run round them to tuck in the other side. I personally find them quite comfortable.”
She went to the door.
“If you’re hungry, the kitchen’s downstairs along the passage to your right by the back door. That’s where I eat and have my tea.”
Wilt thought to himself that from the size of her it must be quite some tea, but refrained from commenting and thanked her as she pulled the door to.
Left to himself he wondered what sort of household he’d come to, and for the umpteenth time what on earth he’d let himself in for. Then, having unpacked, he went out on to the landing and down the stairs, wandering from room to room exploring the house. Everything inside the Hall was as peculiar as the exterior had promised. Through the windows overlooking the drawbridge he could see what looked like a lake with a chapel on its far side, and to his right a walled kitchen garden with a cottage standing beside it. That presumably was where he would be staying with Eva and the quads when they arrived. In the end he wandered outside and followed the moat round to the back of the house where he was surprised to find a wide and solid metal gate set in a wall, with beyond it a cobbled yard in front of a garage big enough for several cars.
“That’s the family’s way in. You have to press the bell beside you on the right three times for the gate to open,” called a woman’s voice. Wilt looked up and saw Mrs Bale standing at the top of a flight of steps at the back of the house.
“Come in and have a cup of tea,” she invited him. He went up the steps and followed her into what seemed to be the kitchen, judging from the stove and racks of cooking equipment. But the room’s sheer size was astonishing: it was enormous in relation to the rest of the house.
“Sit yourself down,” Mrs Bale instructed him. “The corners are the best places for conversation in here otherwise one has to shout. I doubt if you’ve ever been in a stranger place – this whole house, I mean.”
Wilt agreed. He hadn’t.
“I think you ought to be warned that Sir George is a weird old devil too,” she went on as she handed Wilt his tea. “He used to be called Smith or something equally ordinary. From what my late husband told me, he wasn’t a real Gadsley at all, let alone a Sir. Apparently the line died out when old Sir Gadsley, the real Sir Gadsley that is caught a bad case of mumps, so that was that. His sister had married a Mr Smith and their eldest boy inherited Sandystones and the Estate. They do say he has no right to the title at all, though I wouldn’t like to comment. In fact, if I’m honest, there are some who say that old Sir Aubrey – the last real Gadsley – didn’t even get mumps.” She paused to draw breath. “Now I don’t hold with gossip, but I have heard it said that he was a bit…you know…funny.”
“Funny?” asked Wilt, who didn’t have a clue what the woman was rabbiting on about.
“Yes. Funny. You know, batted for the other side. In any case, I don’t hold with gossip but the upshot of it all is that Lady Clarissa is no lady, if you see what I mean.”
“I found her to be completely respectable when I met her,” said Wilt hastily, just in case either of the Gadsleys was within earshot of this embarrassing series of revelations.
“No, no. I mean she isn’t a Lady with a capital L. Even if Sir George were a baronet, she wouldn’t be called Lady Clarissa, she’d be Lady Gadsley. But she’s not. She thinks she is but it’s about as real as one of those titles you can buy on the internet. Or so I’m told. I never have, of course…although my late husband did once get a plot of land on the moon as a birthday present. Fat lot of use that was!”
Wilt felt as though he had landed on Mars, never mind the moon. This was becoming increasingly surreal. It looked and sounded as though everyone at the Hall was completely batty.
“You were talking about Sir George,” he said, trying to steer the conversation back on course.
“Oh, him. Well, he’s been a magistrate for years now, though the way he carries on you wouldn’t know it sometimes. In fact, I find it’s best not to disagree with him else he stomps around, shouting the odds.”
Wilt made a mental note of this advice.
“Thanks for telling me. What’s Lady Clarissa like?”
“Drinks. Come to that, they both do. And…Well, you’ll soon find out for yourself. As I understand it you’ve come to get her son Edward through some exam. I can’t say I envy you. Strange boy, that one. Skulks around the place, throwing stones and the like…In the old days he’d probably have been put in one of those homes, you know, for children who had a bit missing. Two bob short of a shilling, if you get my meaning…Anyway he went out first thing this morning and none of us have seen hide nor hair of him since.”
On this dour note she got up and trekked to a very large stove where she poured some more water into a catering-size teapot.
“Another cup?” she asked.
Wilt nodded and thanked her. A bit missing? Good God, the boy really was an idiot.
“You don’t think he’s – well, bright enough?”
“I don’t know what he is. What I do know is that Sir George loathes him. In any case, the boy’s not his real son, only his step-son, so maybe that’s why they don’t hit it off…”
“Oh, well, it certainly doesn’t s
ound like a very happy household,” said Wilt with a sigh. “I’m surprised you stay on here.”
“Have to because my husband was killed in a car accident…just like Lady Clarissa’s first one was, although it was a different level crossing, of course…and Sir George needed a secretary so I applied. I need to work and the pay is good so I stay on and just keep myself to myself. As I said, I don’t hold with gossip.”
“Absolutely not. Of course not,” said Wilt hurriedly. “Well, all I can say is that you’ve been remarkably helpful, giving me all this information. I really appreciate what you’ve done. Thank you very much.”
“Not at all. It’s just that I have seen so many people walk innocently into this rat trap…actually, no, I think madhouse is a better description…that I thought you ought know what you are up against. They’re not a normal couple – she married him for his money – and as for her ladyship’s son, if you manage to teach him anything at all…” Here she stopped abruptly. Edward was evidently not a topic she cared to dwell on. Wilt tactfully changed the subject.
“I suppose no one would mind if I phoned my wife, to tell her I’ve arrived and that she’s not to use the main gate when she comes? That route through the woods is horribly dangerous. What I saw of the back lane struck me as far safer.”
“The old road is meant to deter unwanted visitors. And of course you can use the phone. I’ll show you where it is.”
She led the way along a corridor. Halfway down she looked over her shoulder to check that no one was observing them before stopping beside a half-concealed door. “This is his private lavatory,” she said with a grin. “Sir George has had a telephone installed in there. He can be inside for hours sometimes – he claims it’s constipation but I’m certain he uses it for illegal purposes. To make the sliding door open you have to shine an infra-red torch at it…”
“And what’s inside?”
“Exactly what you’d expect in a lavatory…with the addition of a telephone, fax machine and computer. Oh, and it’s sound-proofed too.”
“This is the strangest house I’ve ever been in,” Wilt muttered to himself, then looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know what’s in there?”
Mrs Bale laughed quietly.
“He went to London one day and forgot to hide the torch…so I used it.”
“But how did you know what the torch was for in the first place?”
“Because I happened to be on my knees at the top of the stairs one day, fixing the carpet, and he didn’t see me above him.”
“Blimey! You don’t half take chances,” Wilt said, privately wondering how on earth she’d managed to get down on her knees in the first place, given the size of her.
“Have to in this loony bin,” she said with a snigger.
“I guess so. Well, where’s the phone I can use?”
“Outside his study. He likes to be able to hear what people are saying.”
“Thanks. I just want to tell my wife to be sure to get a taxi. I don’t want her driving through that awful wood.”
Mrs Bale nodded. “Tell her to use the second gate instead of the main one. It’s painted black and will put her on to the road to the back of the house.”
Wilt relayed all this to Eva when he got through to her mobile. “It’s the one the family use and far less dangerous,” he told her. “The alternative is for you all to come by train and I’ll ask them to provide a taxi.”
As usual Eva objected.
“Anyone would think I couldn’t drive very well,” she grumbled.
Wilt sighed. Eva always objected to taking his advice. Not that she did drive that well come to think of it.
“I’m not saying that. But I wouldn’t come down that awful track through the woods myself, and with the girls in the car it would be very unwise, to put it mildly.”
In the end she agreed and, to Wilt’s relief, changed the subject.
“Have you met Edward yet?”
“No. Apparently he’s gone off somewhere on his own. I have to say, Eva, he does sound very strange. Might even be an actual idiot. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll be able to do anything with him.”
“You’ve got to do something with him.” Eva had neglected to tell her husband about the bonus payable if Edward got through the exam, thinking it would leave her with something of a trump card to play should Wilt show any signs of not wanting to see the job through. “I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve met him.”
“God knows when that will be if he spends all day out in the woods playing silly buggers. And it does seem as though Sir George – who might not be Sir George after all, but that’s too long a story for now – really does hate him. Anyway must go as I’m not paying for this call.”
Wilt rang off and turned round – to find himself face to face with a grossly overweight man in his sixties who looked as though he was surprised to find a stranger using the telephone.
“Am I to assume you are my step-son’s tutor?” he enquired in a tone of voice Wilt associated with the one occasion he had been fined for exceeding the speed limit.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “I was just telling my wife that I had arrived safely. Mrs Bale said you wouldn’t mind. I take it you are Sir George?”
“I am indeed. What’s your name?”
“Wilt. Henry Wilt.”
“Well, that’s all right. I had been led to believe you were arriving later in the week. My wife tends to be so infernally scatterbrained that half the time she doesn’t know what day of the week it is.”
He led the way into his study and indicated a chair for Wilt to sit in while he busied himself with a decanter and glasses arranged on a silver tray.
“I always have a brandy after a morning in court,” he said. “I wonder if you’d care to join me?”
“I think I’d prefer something less strong,” said Wilt. “Perhaps a beer.”
“Just as you like, though I fancy you’ll change your mind when you meet my step-son.”
“Not the easiest of boys?” Wilt enquired as Sir George half-filled a balloon glass from the decanter and then produced a bottle of beer, an opener plus glass for Wilt before lowering himself heavily into a large leather armchair.
“One of the most damnably difficult youths I’ve ever met. I’m not surprised my wife’s first husband chose to commit suicide. Had I known Clarissa had a ghastly son like Eddie, I would never have married her. And that’s no overstatement. Worse still, the woman bosses me about far too much for my liking.”
Wilt said nothing. If the Hall was a disconcerting place, the people living in it were just as peculiar.
“If you can get Eddie-Gawd-Help-Us into any college in Cambridge you’ll be a miracle worker. We had difficulty getting him into a minor public school, and keeping him there required what I can only call bribery.”
“Your wife said something about Porterhouse. I gather you went there?” said Wilt.
Sir George turned up his nose in horror.
“I told you she was a complete scatterbrain – I was at Peterhouse. The last thing I’d want to do is inflict the mindless creature on my old college. Not that there’s the slightest chance of getting the brute into any college. More likely to get a place in Pentonville.”
“You mean, the prison?” said Wilt, beginning to regret he hadn’t accepted the brandy after all.
“I should imagine he’ll end up there in any case. Best place for him, in fact. The public would be a lot safer by far.”
“Someone mentioned that he likes to throw things.”
“Throw things? He’s a bloody maniac, that boy. The times I’ve had to bail him out when he’s half killed some poor bugger or other…No, I’m afraid you’ve rather got your hands full with Eddie, old chap.”
By the time Sir George had finished his second brandy, while continuing his diatribe against his stepson, Wilt’s feelings had undergone a radical change. From initially appreciating the man’s problem, he had begun to feel slightly shocked by his appallin
g attitude towards his step-son. Although, from experience, he did know just how difficult boys could be. He was half tempted to share with Sir George his own experience with apprentices in the Liberal Studies classes at the now defunct Fenland College of Arts and Technology.
In his early years there Wilt had been faced every day with rooms full of blank-faced youths who saw no point in reading Candide or The Lord of the Flies, as part of their cultural hinterland and it had been Wilt’s task to try to show them how literature could equip them with life skills. Nowadays they were all called Communications students and weren’t asked to think or discuss anything, merely to sit in front of computers and, as far as he could see, practise manipulating the machines at greater and greater speed. Most of the time they played violent virtual games on them or pored over their Facebook pages, uploading vile and ridiculous photographs of one another. The quads had told him that Social Networking sites were ‘cool’, to which Wilt had retorted that he preferred it when social networking meant looking at someone’s face and not a bloody screen.
In fact, when he thought about it, Wilt felt extremely bitter about the way things had changed. Although, as annoying and badly behaved as the quads were, he hoped he wasn’t ever as vile about them as Sir George Gadsley was being about his step-son. For whatever reason, he obviously loathed the boy.
In other circumstances Wilt would have asked more questions, but he was living in the arrogant old fellow’s house and had to earn enough money from him to keep the quads at that damned school or else get hell from Eva.
All the same, he felt a bit guilty.
After a third brandy Sir George said he was going out to lunch and told Wilt that Mrs Bale would give him something to eat in the kitchen. Wilt duly noted the implication. He didn’t care. The kitchen would be fine by him. He was glad to be out of the way.
15
Lady Clarissa had had another extremely trying day. She had cancelled her plan to drive down to Ipford at the weekend when, despite her begging and pleading, Uncle Harold had adamantly refused to leave the Black Bear and move into less expensive accommodation. It meant she couldn’t possibly stay there too, not least because he’d taken over the suite she usually stayed in. Besides which the bill he was running up was astronomical and she’d rather not draw it to George’s attention right now. The wretched Colonel had been doing himself exceedingly well at the hotel. His consumption of malt whisky before lunch and during the afternoon, often followed by a second bottle in the evening, was costing a small fortune.