Random Harvest (10 page)

“Kidneys, Julia?”

“Only scrambled eggs, please, Chet.”

“Not even a little piece of bacon?”

“No, really, Chet.”

“Any news of Father this morning?”

“I saw one of the nurses as I came down—she said he’d had a fairly good night and was about the same.”

“Oh, good. . . .  Quite sure about the bacon, Julia?”

“Quite sure.”

“Charles, what about you while I’m here?  You don’t seem to have much on your plate.”

“Nothing more for me, thanks.”

“Well, must be my turn then, and I don’t mind admitting I’m hungry.  Thrilling events always take me that way. . . .  Too bad Father’s ill—we’d have had a party or something to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry he’s ill, but not for that reason, I assure you.”

“No?  Well . . .”  Chet came to the table with his plate, having deliberately delayed at the sideboard till he heard the voices of others approaching.  Now he looked up as if in surprise.  “Morning, George. . . .  Morning, Bridget. . . .”

George, a nervous smile on his plump moustached face; Bridget, the youngest of the family, sweet and shy, always ready to smile if you looked at her or she thought you were likely to look at her.  George’s wife Vera, and Julia’s husband . . . an introduction necessary here—“Charles, this is Dick Fontwell”—“Ahdedoo, ahdedoo”—a tall, long-nosed fellow who threw all his embarrassment into a fierce handshake.

Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only mitigated by ramparts of newspapers and unwritten permission to be as morose as one wished.  But this morning they all felt that such normal behaviour must be reversed—everybody had to talk and go on talking.  Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with the additional drawback of having had less sleep.  During the interchange of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper, Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.

He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience:  “Er . . . I really do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as it must be to you—I suppose loss of memory’s like that—but what I DO want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I’m a perfectly normal person so far as everyday things are concerned—I’m not ill, you don’t have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special consideration. . . .  So just carry on here as usual—I’m anxious not to cause any additional upset at a moment when we’re all of us bound to be upset anyhow.”

He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it had been wise to say anything at all.  Then Bridget leaned over and touched his hand.

“That’s all right, Charles.”

Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table:  “Quite

understand, old chap.  We’re all more pleased than we can say, God

bless.  Of course with the old man being ill we can’t exactly kill

the fatted calf, but—but—“

“I’ll consider it killed,” he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with more coffee.  They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.

Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal earlier, along with Dr. Astley.  Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take care of the rest.  He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family were children.  Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.

They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor’s suggestion began

walking in the garden.  Five minutes were occupied by a see-saw

of congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and

acknowledgments.  Charles became more and more silent as these

proceeded, eventually leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead

broke by exclaiming:  “Don’t be afraid I’m going to ask you

questions—none of my business, anyhow.  Sheldon told me all that

you told him—it’s a very peculiar case, and I know very little

about such things.  There are some who claim to, and if you wished

to consult—“

“At the moment, no.”

“Well, I don’t blame you—get settled down first, not a bad idea.

All the same, though, if ever you want—“

“That’s very kind of you, but I’d rather you tell me something about my father.”

“I was coming to that.  I’m afraid he’s quite ill.”

They walked on a little way in silence; then Sanderstead continued:

“I’m sure the first thing you wished to do on coming back to us in this—er—remarkable way was to see him, and for that reason I’m grateful to you for deferring the matter at my request.”

Charles did not think there was any particular cause for gratitude.

He said:  “Tell me frankly how things are.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.  In a man of his age, and suffering from his complaint, complete recovery can’t exactly be counted on—but we can all hope for some partial improvement that will enable him to—to—face a situation which will undoubtedly give him a great deal of pleasure once the initial shock has been— er—overcome.”

Charles was beginning to feel irritated.  “You don’t have to break things gently with ME, Sanderstead.  What you’re hinting at, I take it, is that my father shouldn’t learn of my existence till he’s a good deal better than he is at present.”

“Well—er—perhaps—“

“To save you the trouble of arguing the point, I may as well tell you I entirely agree and I’m willing to wait as long as you think fit.”

“I don’t know how to express my appreciation—“

“You don’t have to.  Naturally I’d like to see my father, but if you say he’s not well enough, that settles it.  After all this time I daresay we can both wait a bit longer.”

They did not talk much after that.  Charles was aware he had rumpled the doctor’s feelings by not living up to the conventional pattern of a dutiful son; but he began to feel increasingly that he could not live up to any conventional pattern, still less could he be “himself,” whatever that was; all he could do was to cover his inner numbness with a façade of slightly cynical objectivity.  It was the only attitude that didn’t seem a complete misfit.

A further problem arose later in the morning, but Sheldon broached it, and somehow he found it easier to talk to HIM.

“Dr. Sanderstead tells me you’ve agreed to his suggestion that for

the time being—“

“Yes, I agreed.”

“I’m afraid that opens up another matter, sir.  Now that the servants know—which of course is inevitable—I don’t see how we can prevent the story from leaking out.”

“I don’t suppose you can, nor do I see why you should.  I’m not breaking any local by-laws by being alive, am I?”

“It isn’t that, Mr. Charles, but your father sometimes asks to see a paper, and I’m afraid that once the story gets around it’ll attract quite a considerable amount of attention.”

“Headlines, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn’t like that for my own sake, let alone my father’s.”

“It would doubtless be very unpleasant.  A young man from the Daily Post was on the telephone just now.”

“ALREADY?  Well, if they think they’re going to make a national hero of me, they’re damn well mistaken.  I won’t see ANYBODY.”

“I’m afraid that might not help, sir.  It’s their job to get the news and they usually manage it somehow or other.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“I was thinking that if somebody were to explain the matter personally on the telephone, giving the facts and using Mr.

Rainier’s state of health as ground for the request—“

“You mean get in touch with all the editors?”

“No, not the editors, sir—the owners.  You see, Mr. Rainier has a

large newspaper interest himself, and that makes for a certain—“

“Owns a paper, does he?  I never knew that.”

“It was acquired since your time, sir.  The Evening Record.”

“Well, if you think it’ll do any good, let’s try.  Who do you think should do the talking—George or Chet?  Better Chet, I’d say.”

“Well, yes, Mr. Chetwynd would perhaps explain it more convincingly

than Mr. George.  But what I really had in mind—“

“Yes?”

“Lord Borrell has stayed here several times, sir—bringing his

valet, a very intelligent man named Jackson.  So I thought perhaps

if I were to telephone Jackson—“

An hour later Chet came up to Charles with a beaming smile.

“Everything fixed, old boy.  Sheldon wangled it through Borrell of the International Press—there won’t be a word anywhere.  Censorship at source.  Borrell was puzzled at first, but eventually he said he’d pass the word round.  All of which saves me a job, God bless.”

So the story, which became one for curious gossip throughout the local countryside as well as in many a London club, was never hinted at by Fleet Street.  The only real difficulty was with the editor of the Stourton and District Advertiser, a man of independent mind who did not see why he should not offer as news an item of local interest that was undoubtedly true and did not libel anybody.  A personal visit by Chetwynd to the landlord of the premises in which the Advertiser housed its printing plant was necessary before the whole matter could be satisfactorily cleared up.

Charles spent the morning in a wearying and, he knew, rather foolish attempt to play down the congratulations.  Every servant who had known him from earlier days sought him out to say a few halting, but demonstrably sincere words.  It rather surprised as well as pleased him to realize that he had been remembered so well; but the continual smiling and handshaking became a bore.  There were new faces too, recent additions to the Stourton staff, whom he caught staring at him round corners and from doorways.  They all knew his story by now and wished to see the hero of it; the whole thing was doubtless more exciting than a novel because more personal in their lives, something to save up for relatives when they wrote the weekly letter or took their next day off.

Once, on his way through the house, he passed the room on the first floor where his father lay ill.  It was closed, of course, but the door of an adjoining room was open, and through it he could see two young nurses chatting volubly over cups of tea.  They stared as he went by, and from that he knew that they too had heard and were excited over the news.

When he appeared at lunch, he found Sanderstead and Truslove in the midst of what was evidently a sharp argument.  Truslove was the family solicitor, a sallow sharp-faced man in his late fifties.  During the little hiatus of deferential how-d’ye-dos and handshaking, the doctor and the lawyer continued to glare at each other as if eager to make an end of the truce.  It came as soon as Charles said:  “Don’t let me interrupt your talk.”

“What I was saying, Mr. Charles,” resumed Truslove, eager for an ally, “is that the problem has a legal as well as a medical side.  Naturally one would prefer to spare your father any kind of shock, but can we be certain that he himself would wish to be spared—when the alternatives are what they are?”

“All I can say,” Sanderstead growled, “is that in his present state a shock might kill him.”

“But we have Mr. Charles to think about,” urged Truslove; which made Charles interject:  “Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t bother about ME.”

“Very natural of you to say that, Mr. Charles, but as a lawyer I’m bound to take a somewhat stricter viewpoint.  There’s the question of the WILL.”  He spoke the word reverentially, allowing it to sink in before continuing:  “None of us should forget that we’re dealing with an estate of very considerable value.  We should bear in mind what would be your father’s wishes if he were to know that you were so—so happily restored to us.”

“We should also bear in mind that he’s a very sick man,” retorted Sanderstead.

“Precisely—and all the more reason that his desire, which I am

sure would be to make certain adjustment necessary for the fair and

equal division—“

Charles drummed his fingers on the table.  “I get your point, Truslove, but I’m really not interested in that side of it.”

“But it’s my duty, Mr. Charles—my duty to your father and to the

family quite as much as to you.  If I feel morally sure that a

client of mine—“

Sanderstead interrupted:  “If changing his will is what you’re thinking about, he could no more do that than address a board meeting!  And that’s apart from the question of shock!”

“Isn’t it possible that a shock caused by good news might give him sudden strength—just enough to do what he would feel at once to be necessary?”

“Thanks for the interesting theory, Truslove.  When you want any advice about law, just come to ME.”

Charles intervened with a slightly acid smile.  “I don’t know why you two should quarrel.  You may be right, either of you—but suppose I claim the casting vote?  I don’t want to see my father if there’s any chance the shock might be bad for him, and I don’t give a damn whether I’m in or out of his will. . . .  Now are you both satisfied?”

But of course they were not, and throughout lunch, which was a heavy affair with nobody quite knowing what to talk about, he was aware that the two men were engrossed in meditations of further argument.

During the afternoon he tried for a little quiet in the library, but Chet found him there and seemed anxious to express HIS point of view.  “You see, old chap, I can understand how Truslove feels.  Legally you’re—well, I won’t say DEAD exactly—but not normally alive.  He’s bound to look at things from that angle.  What I mean is, if anything were to happen to the old man—let’s hope it won’t, but you never can tell—you wouldn’t get a look in.  Now that’s not fair to you, especially as there’s plenty for everybody, God bless.