Legacy (8 page)

His father’s presence in the house was still palpable. His deer-stalker on the peg behind the scullery door, the boot-puller he had made outside it, his study, his shed. It was impossible
to be in the house without recalling his passion for every detail of it, his devotion to the garden, his meticulously maintained tools, his local knowledge, his beechwood tramps with successive
spaniels. Charles often wondered what he would have thought of his son’s new occupation, had he told him. Probably there would have been no need; it had been an old friend or former colleague
of his father’s – his status always unclear – who had first mentioned the office to Charles and it was unlikely he had done so without his father’s knowledge. His father had
spent many years as a government surveyor and after his death Charles had discovered that much of his work was connected with building or altering secret establishments. He might even have known
the Castle. Charles had told his mother, though not so far his sister who, like the rest of the world, was supposed to think he was in the Foreign Office.

His mother’s hair was uniformly grey now, and her delicate, wrinkled features were suffused with an anxious goodwill that seemed to be increasing with age. During dinner on Friday
conversation was entirely about Mary’s planned wedding. Charles contributed one or two suggestions – unadopted – while keeping to himself reflections on how much of this there
would be over the next six months. Then, he supposed, there would be years of baby-fuss. Still, happy engrossment was generally a good thing and his future brother-in-law had seemed pleasant, so
far as he remembered. He was a lawyer in the same City firm as Mary.

‘Where did you say David was this weekend?’ he asked as they settled with their coffees before the beech-log fire.

Mary stared. ‘David? I haven’t mentioned David. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.’

‘James, he means,’ said their mother quickly.

David, Charles remembered, was the previous boyfriend.

‘Don’t you dare confuse them when he’s here,’ said Mary, her eyes darkening with indignation. ‘I don’t see how you could, anyway. They’re so totally
different.’

Charles was still well adrift. ‘Of course they are, I know. Can’t think why I said David.’

‘It’s about time you got another girlfriend, isn’t it? So long as she’s not like the Awful Alison. I think we should vet her first.’

‘I’m working on one but she’s married, with children.’

‘Oh no, Charles,’ said his mother.

‘Better that than have your own with the Awful Alison. Imagine.’ Mary shuddered.

He discovered later from his mother that James was ‘in the City’ and that they had met, twice, when Mary had had friends down.

‘Ah, so there were others there.’

‘A whole lot of them came down for lunch and you all went for a walk afterwards, leaving me to clear up. Except that you didn’t because you went off to see Alison.’

He remembered the weekend now. It hadn’t been Alison but another girl he’d never mentioned. He still had no memory of James.

On the Saturday he cleaned and tinkered with the Rover, then resumed his slow sorting of his father’s shed, which had gradually and unspokenly become his own. Hidden behind a hedge at the
back of the double garage, the shed smelt of wood, engine oil and musty overalls and was crammed with tools, spanners, screwdrivers, awls, hammers, vices, clamps, pumps, hoses, braces, brushes,
drills, oils, solvents, fuel cans and old batteries. Whiskey flake pipe tobacco tins contained screws, nails, nuts, jubilee clips, car lightbulbs and anything else that would fit. Many of the
carpentry tools were old enough to have value but Charles would no more have sold them than his father’s photographs. The shed was infused with his father’s presence and Charles’s
intermittent sorting – little more than a process of picking up and handling things before replacing them in a slightly different order – was part mourning and part adjustment. He felt
he was both preserving his father’s inheritance and making it his own.

In late afternoon, beneath dark unbroken cloud, he went for a run. He loved the patchwork quality of the Chilterns, with their towering beeches, hills, valleys, sudden declivities and surprising
vistas. Little Switzerland, his father used to call it, invariably adding that it was just about as expensive. He still ran in army boots, slithering in the chalky mud of logging tracks, his breath
like gouts of steam. The last part of the run was across a ploughed field back up the hill, the clinging mud weighing on his boots, his heart thumping and his legs so leaden it was impossible to
think of anything but keeping going. When he reached the top the clouds parted across the Hambleden valley and the sun briefly touched the hills. He faced the view, gulping air, hands on head to
lift his rib cage from his lungs.

He didn’t feel he was running for or from anything now, but still he kept doing it. Physical exhaustion was gratifying; it took him out of himself, out of everything. Nevertheless, he had
given himself a purpose in running that day, and had failed. He had meant to decide during the run whether to ring Rebecca and suggest an early dinner on Sunday evening. The thought had been
hovering throughout the drive from the Castle the day before. He didn’t have her home number but the office switchboard would connect him. Dinner on Sunday gave focus to the weekend and was
more relaxed, less a declaration of intent, than dinner on Saturday.

But he had not decided. He suspected it was contemplation of the event rather than the event itself that he enjoyed. He wanted something to look forward to but, otherwise, why was he taking
Rebecca to dinner? The others, if they found out about it, would assume he was making a play for her, as might she. And as he might, indeed. Or might not. He decided to decide during his bath,
while watching the glow of sun ebb from the room. He next decided to decide with a cup of tea in his hand, telling himself he did not actually have to decide until his hand was on the phone. While
making the tea he reflected that he would normally have described himself as decisive.

His mother came into the kitchen. ‘Oh, Charles, I forgot to tell you. Someone from your office rang when you were out. They want you to ring back.’

‘Who?’

‘I wrote it down. Where did I put it? It’s not by the phone. I think I thought I’d better hide it.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Here it is, by the Marmite. I knew Marmite would remind me, you see, because you were bound to want some. A man called Hugo March. Here’s his number. He didn’t say what it was
about and I didn’t ask. He sounded very important – well, at least, he sounded like that. You know what I mean. You don’t come across many Hugos nowadays.’

The study extension was more private. He shut the door. ‘Hallo?’ Anna’s voice had a slight catch in it as she pronounced the ‘h’. ‘Hugo’s out, doing his
duty with the girls. He won’t be long.’ There was a slight pause. ‘It’s nice to speak to you again.’ He asked how her midweek dinner party had gone. ‘You must
come one week,’ she said, ‘if you’re not too busy. Though I’m sure you’ve got many more exciting things to do.’

‘I’d love to.’ He felt now that he had been decisively right not to ring Rebecca.

Hugo returned while they were talking. ‘Fancy a run?’ he asked.

‘I’ve just had one.’

‘Have another at six thirty tomorrow morning in the park. We’ve just learned from Chef that Lover Boy is going for one. Ideal chance for you to bump him with no one else
about.’ ‘Chef’ was the name given to the telephone intercept material. ‘We need to have a chat first about what you’re going to say and so on. No chance you could come
round here tonight, I s’pose?’

‘Fine.’

His mother was resigned to work taking priority over dinner. He promised he would be back that night or the next day.

Hugo’s house was a substantial chunk of Wandsworth Edwardiana, three-storeyed, high-ceilinged, with a neglected front garden and stained-glass door. The hall was cluttered with
children’s toys and shoes. Hugo twice tripped on a large doll while ushering Charles in. ‘Anna, for goodness’ sake!’ he called. ‘She’s upstairs putting the
children to bed. Be down soon. Drink?’

They drank dry white wine while discussing what Charles should do. Lover Boy’s usual route was a slow jog in a wide circle, nothing too taxing. Charles would intercept him and feign
surprised recognition. It would be a success if he could get him to exchange addresses and telephone numbers, a bonus if they actually arranged to meet again. That was unlikely, on first encounter,
and Charles shouldn’t push even on Lover Boy’s address if he sensed reluctance. They could always contrive another encounter.

‘It goes without saying you mustn’t hint at his girlfriend or anything. This must appear a completely fortuitous and unthreatening encounter, nothing he need feel uneasy about
reporting to the embassy security officer, because he will report, if he’s got any sense. They’ll suspect provocation, of course, because that’s their job, and anyway
they’re like that, and the other way round in Moscow it would be, of course. Well, it is here, of course, this time, but normally it wouldn’t be, if you see what I mean. Anyway, what we
must hope is that they’ll let it run long enough for us to show him that you know what he’s up to. Then you can talk on different terms, if he wants. Or not. Nothing lost if he
doesn’t and no need for Foreign Office clearance at this stage since we’re not making a pitch or doing anything that could result in a protest.’

After making an appropriate number of protests, and Anna an appropriate number of disclaimers about the meal, Charles stayed for dinner. It was spaghetti bolognese.

‘We have proper lunches at weekends,’ said Hugo, ‘so it’s always something like spag bog in the evening. Did you do much First World War in the army?’

Hugo viewed military service as primarily a course of study. He was an authority on the First World War, though he preferred the term ‘enthusiast’, and while Anna cooked he showed
Charles his books. He was wearing cavalry twills, sports jacket and tie, which Charles interpreted as an expression of identity with earlier generations until Hugo mentioned that he had been to
Saturday Mass that evening.

‘It’s good for the girls,’ added Hugo, as if asked to explain. ‘Gives them the possibility of choice later. They enjoy it. They like dressing up. Anna doesn’t. Go
to church, I mean. Likes dressing up.’ He laughed abruptly, standing very close.

Dinner was in the kitchen at the back of the house, which had been two rooms. Looking for something to compliment without exposing his domestic ignorance, Charles chose the pine table.

‘Deal,’ Hugo corrected. ‘That’s what more honest, less pretentious generations called it. It means any cheap white wood, which usually happens to be pine. The whole pine
business is a wonderful example of something old dressed up as something new. Fashion, that’s all.’

‘Fashion maybe but at least it’s a cheerful one,’ said Anna. ‘Better than the earlier fashion in houses like this for painting everything brown.’

‘Not the kitchen table. That would have been plain and scrubbed daily by the lady of the house.’

‘By her scullery maid, more like.’

‘True. It would be nice to have staff again.’

‘Then you’d better get another posting.’

Hugo poured more wine. ‘Not that we’d have been eating in the kitchen. Earlier generations would not have understood our mania for the vernacular, for exposed brickwork, unpainted
wood, paying vast sums for places where animals lived and calling them mews houses and living in them ourselves and all the rest of it.’

‘We could move into the dining room if you prefer,’ said Anna.

Hugo put his hand on Charles’s arm. ‘Talking of which, there is a wonderful table in there. Bet you can’t guess what it is. Come and see.’ He stood, wiping his mouth with
his napkin.

Anna put her hand on Charles’s other arm. ‘Hugo, you can’t. He’s in the middle of his meal. Why don’t you wait till we’ve finished?’

‘Won’t take a second. Come on.’

Anna’s mouth set firmly as she looked at her husband, but she said nothing. When Charles caught her eye she raised her eyebrows and smiled her crooked, shy smile. Its crookedness made it
seem personal and beguiling, a secret shared.

The table was a handsome oval leaf with turned legs. ‘Mahogany,’ said Charles.

Hugo was delighted. ‘Very understandable mistake. Very understandable.’ He clutched Charles’s arm, blinking rapidly. ‘Experts have made it. Actually, cherry. Most
unusual, isn’t it?’ They returned to the kitchen. ‘I was right, darling. He got it wrong.’

‘Darling, you are clever.’

Charles left later than intended and drove back across the river to South Kensington. He had meant to ring Roger and warn that he would be back at the flat, since he suspected use of his room
when he was away. He heard the noise of the party as he approached the building. When he opened the flat door he found a man he didn’t know pinning a woman against the wall and urging her
that it wasn’t very far. They both held empty glasses.

‘It is far,’ she said, staring into his eyes.

The man shook his head. ‘It isn’t far.’

She nodded. ‘It is far.’

The atmosphere was thick with candle and cigarette smoke. There was music and dancing in Charles’s bedroom. His bike was in the hall, with coats over it. The tiny kitchen was crammed and
there was more music from Roger’s room along the corridor. He knew two of the people in the kitchen, David Brook and Alastair Devauden, young postgraduates from the course.

‘Where’ve you been?’ shouted David above the music. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

Roger came out of his room, smiling and sweating, drink and cigarette in one hand. He laid the other on Charles’s shoulder. ‘Sorry about this, old chap. Bit impromptu. Some people I
was at university with pitched up. Wasn’t planned. I’ll clear your room. Have a drink.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going back.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Just dropped in to get something.’ Charles was annoyed; he liked Roger but resented invasion, although he didn’t really mind driving back to his mother’s. The woman who
had been arguing by the door pushed past them both, pursued by the man. It was the sort of party he had always hated, yet, in his student days, would always have attended. Saying ‘no’
became easier with age. Now, he was more grateful that he had an alternative than concerned to show his annoyance. There was also the consoling secret of what he had to do in the morning.
‘Really, that’s all I came for.’