The Caxley Chronicles (38 page)

As he replaced the receiver Edward noted, with a start of surprise, how anxious he was. Robert had never been very close to him. They were eleven years and a generation apart. By temperament they were opposed, and resentment, which had no place in Edward's life, ruled his young uncle's. But this was a blow at the whole family, and Edward's reaction had been swift and instinctive. It was all very well to decide to cut loose, he admitted somewhat wryly to himself, but the old tag about blood being thicker than water held good, as this shock had proved.

He resolved to go to Caxley at the weekend to see how things were for himself. Sep was pathetically delighted with the surprise visit, and Edward was glad to find that he was taking Robert's illness so bravely.

'I should have insisted on getting medical advice earlier,' he told Edward. 'Robert is certainly having proper treatment now, and perhaps a spell away from us all will quicken his recovery.'

They talked of many things. Edward had never known him quite so forthcoming about the business. Perhaps he realised that Edward himself was now a keen and purposeful business man. It certainly amazed the younger man to realise how profitable the old-established shop and the newer restaurant were, and what a grasp his grandfather had of every small detail in running them. Since Robert's departure, trade had improved. There were now no staff troubles with Kathy and John Bush in charge, and after a long day visiting his mother and grandmother, Bertie and Kathy, Edward drove back to London very much happier in mind.

His own business affairs he found engrossing. He was now a partner in the firm, responsible chiefly for production and design. At his suggestion they had expanded their range of plastic kitchen equipment and were now experimenting with domestic refrigerators and larger deep-freeze receptacles for shops. This venture was proving amazingly successful and Edward found himself more and more absorbed and excited by the firm's development. Suddenly, after the apathy which had gripped him, he had found some purpose in life. He discovered a latent flair for design, an appreciation of line and form put to
practical use, which gave him much inward satisfaction. The costing of a project had always interested him. He was, after all, the grandson of Bender North and Sep Howard, both men of business. He enjoyed planning a new design and then juggling with its economic possibilities. It was a fusion of two ways of thought and a new challenge every time it was undertaken.

He paid one or two visits to the continent to compare methods of production. lie visited firms in Brussels and Paris who were engaged in much the same work as his own, and returned full of ideas. Jim and his father recognised that Edward was the most able of the three for this part of the business. His gaiety and charm, fast returning under the stimulus of new work, helped him to easy friendship. He had the ability to select ideas which could be adapted to their own business, and the power to explain them on his return to his partners. With Edward's drive, the firm was advancing rapidly.

In the early summer of 1947 Edward set off for a fortnight's visit to two firms in Milan. There were plumes of lilac blowing in the suburban gardens as the train rumbled towards the coast, and the girls were out and about in their pretty summer frocks. Edward approved of this 'new look' which brought back full skirts, neat waists, and gave women back the attractive curves which had been lost in the square military styles of wartime fashion. It was good to see colour and life returning to war-scarred England, to watch new houses being built, and see fresh paint brightening the old ones. There was hope again in the air, and the breezy rollicking tunes of the new musical
Oklahoma
exactly caught the spirit of the times—the looking-ahead of a great people to a future full of promise.

From Milan he made the long train journey to Venice, there
to spend the last few days meeting an Italian industrial designer who lived there, and sight-seeing. From the moment that he emerged from the station into the pellucid brilliance of Venetian sunlight, he fell under the city's spell. The quality of the light, which revealed the details of brickwork and carving, exhilarated him. To take a gondola to one's hotel, instead of a prosaic bus or taxi, was wholly delightful. If only he could stay four months instead of four days!

His hotel was an agreeable one just off St Mark's Square. He looked from his window upon a gondola station. There were twenty or more black high-prowed beauties jostling together upon the water. Their owners were busy mopping and polishing, shouting, laughing and gesticulating. Edward liked their energy, their raffish good looks and the torrents of words of which he only understood one in ten.

Picturesque though the scene was he was to find that its position had its drawbacks. The noise went on until one or two in the morning and began again about six. Luckily, Edward, healthily tired with walking about this enchanted place, did not lose much sleep.

On the last morning he awoke with a start. He was in the grip of some inexplicable fear. He found himself bathed in perspiration and his mind was perturbed with thoughts of Robert. He tossed back the bed clothes and lay watching the trembling reflections of the sun on water flickering across the ceiling. Against this undulating background he could see the face of Robert—a sad, haunted face, infinitely moving.

Outside, the gondoliers exchanged voluble jests in the bright Italian sunshine. The waters of Venice lapped against the walls and slapped the bottoms of the gondolas rhythmically. An Italian
tenor poured forth a cascade of music from someone's wireless set.

But Edward was oblivious of his surroundings. In that instant he was hundreds of miles away in the cool early dawn of an English market square. What was happening at home?

After breakfast he felt calmer. He packed his bags and paid his bill, glad to be occupied with small everyday matters and telling himself that he had simply suffered from a nightmare. But the nagging horror stayed with him throughout the long journey to England, and as soon as he arrived he rang his Uncle Bertie for news.

'Bad, I'm afraid,' said Bertie's voice, 'as you'll see when my letter arrives. Robert was found dead in the hospital grounds. They think he had a heart attack. We'll know more later.'

'When was this?' asked Edward.

Bertie told him. He must have died, thought Edward, as he had suspected, at the moment when he himself awoke so tormentedly in the hotel bedroom.

This uncanny experience had a lasting effect upon Edward's outlook. Hitherto impatient of anything occult, he, the least psychic of men, had discovered that not all occurrences could be rationally explained. It was to make him more sympathetic in the years to come and more humble in his approach to matters unseen.

Robert's tragic death had another effect on Edward's future. Unknown to him, Sep, when his first grief had passed, crossed the market square to enter the offices of Lovejoy and Lovejoy, his solicitors. There, the will which he had drafted so long ago was drastically revised, and when Sep returned to the bakery he was well content.

***

It was about this time that Edward heard that his ex-wife Angela had had a son by Billy Sylvester, her second husband. Edward was glad to hear the news. It should make Angela a happier person. Despite the misery which she had inflicted upon him, Edward felt no resentment. He soberly faced the fact that he could not exempt himself from blame. They had never had much in common, and it was largely physical attraction which had drawn them together. Now, with the baby to think of, she would have some interest in the future. Nevertheless, Edward felt a pang when he thought about the child. He might have had a son of his own if things had worked out.

But domesticity did not play much part in his present affairs, although he enjoyed running the little flat. He took most of his meals out, and he grew increasingly fond of London. His life-long love of the theatre could now be indulged, and by a lucky chance he was able to meet a number of theatrical people.

His Aunt Mary, younger sister of Bertie and his mother Winnie, and the acknowledged beauty of the family, had a small part in a well-written light comedy which had already run for eight months and looked as though it were settled in the West End for. another two years. It was one of those inexplicable successes. No great names glittered in the cast, the play itself was not outstanding; but it was gay, the dialogue crisp, the settings and the costumes ravishing. It was just what theatre-goers seemed to want, and Aunt Mary hoped that they would continue to do so.

Edward took her out on several occasions after the show. He had always enjoyed her company, and found something exhilarating in the mixture of North commonsense, typified by his good-humoured Uncle Bertie, and the
racy sophistication which her mode of life had added to it.

Two husbands, little-mourned, lay in Aunt Mary's past. Many good friends of both sexes enlivened her present. She often brought one or more to Edward's supper parties, and he grew very fond of this animated company of friends, admiring the outward nonchalance which masked the resilience and dedication necessary to survive the ruthless competition of the stage world. They had something in common with business men, Edward decided. They needed to be long-sighted, ambitious and capable of grasping opportunity when it came. And, when times were hard, they must show the world a brave face to inspire confidence.

He liked to take out one or two of the pretty girls occasionally. It was good to laugh again, to be amused and to amuse in turn. He began to realise how little feminine company he had enjoyed. The war, early marriage, and the restrictions put upon him whilst awaiting his divorce, had combined with his temporary inner weariness to make him solitary. But although he enjoyed their company, there was not one among them with whom he would like to spend the rest of his days. The fact that they were equally heart-whole rendered them the more attractive.

More disturbing were the attentions of one of the girls who shared the flat above his own. As time passed, they had become better acquainted. Edward had used their telephone one evening when his own was out of order. He had stayed to coffee. Some evenings later they came to have a drink. From these small beginnings, not greatly encouraged by Edward, who enjoyed his domestic privacy, came more frequent visits by the girls.

Susan was engaged to a monosyllabic mountain of muscle who played Rugby football regularly on Wednesdays and
Saturdays, and squash or badminton in between to keep himself fit for his place in the front row of the forwards. It was Elizabeth who was the more persistent of the two. She was small and dark, with an engaging cackling laugh, and Edward enjoyed her occasional company.

It was Elizabeth who called from the window, when he was gardening, offering him a drink. It was she who took in the parcels and delivered them to Edward when he returned from the office. And when he took to his bed with a short sharp bout of influenza it was Elizabeth who offered to telephone for the doctor and brought aspirins and drinks.

Edward, engrossed in his expanding business and intrigued with Aunt Mary's friends, had little idea of Elizabeth's growing affection. She was ardently stage-struck, and when she knew that Edward sometimes met people connected with the theatre, she grew pink with excitement. Edward found her touchingly young and unsophisticated. He invited her to come with him one evening to Aunt Mary's play, and to meet her afterwards.

It was a warm spring evening with London at its most seductive. A lingering sunset turned the sky to amethyst and turquoise. The costers' barrows were bright with daffodils, tulips and the first mimosa. In the brilliant shop windows, Easter brides trailed satin and lace. Hats as frothy as whipped egg-white, or as colourful as a handful of spring flowers, attracted the bemused window-gazers.

The play seemed to improve as its run lengthened, Edward thought. Aunt Mary queened it as becomingly as ever in all three acts. She was at her most sparkling afterwards at supper and brought a famous couple with her to dazzle Edward's young friend.

Later, while Edward was dancing with the actress and her husband was at the other side of the room talking with a friend, she watched Elizabeth's fond gaze follow Edward's handsome figure round the floor. He certainly was a personable young man, thought Aunt Mary, with family pride. He would have had a fine stage presence if he had cared to take up the profession.

'How well Edward fits into this sort of life,' said Elizabeth sighing. 'You can see that he loves London, and people, and a gay time.'

Aunt Mary, whose bright blue eyes missed nothing, either around her or in the human heart, seized her opportunity.

'I don't think you know Edward very well. He seems happy enough in town at the moment, but his roots are elsewhere. He doesn't know it yet himself, but Caxley will pull him back again before long. Of that I'm positive.'

'How can you say that?' protested Elizabeth. She looked affronted and hurt. 'What would Edward find in a poky little country town?'

'Everything worthwhile,' replied Aunt Mary composedly. 'He's his two Caxley grandfathers rolled into one, with a strong dash of my darling brother Bertie thrown in. That mixture is going to make a Caxley patriarch one day out of our dashing young Edward!'

'I don't believe it,' replied Elizabeth.

'Wait another ten years or so and you'll see,' promised Aunt Mary. But she felt quite certain that the pretty young thing beside her would not be prepared to wait at all. The role of country mouse would never do for her.

And that, thought Aunt Mary in her wisdom, was exactly as it should be.

W
HILE EDWARD
enjoyed the spring in London, the good people of Caxley greeted the returning warmth just as heartily. At Rose Lodge, the clumps of daffodils and pheasant-eyed narcissi which Bender had planted, so long ago, were in splendid bloom. Bertie's garden, close by the Cax, was vivid with grape hyacinths and crocuses beneath the budding trees. Even Sep's small flagged yard, behind the bakehouse, sported a white-painted tub of early red tulips, put there by Kathy's hand.