The Secret Generations (3 page)

Slowly her manner turned to disbelieving anger. ‘You can’t give up politics! How can you give up in the middle of a general election?’

He said he would probably go on for the time being,
‘Just to make sure the seat’s secure…’

‘
And
our
house!!!’

‘
It’s never been
our
house, Sara. It’s family property and I have new responsibilities. I doubt if I can combine running this place – the farm, the estate, and all else – with my life in politics.’

‘
You mean we’ll be buried down here?’

She liked Redhill Manor for visits, but often said it would be difficult to live there.

‘But, Johnny, we’ll be so far from…’

‘
From London, yes.’

Be firm, Giles had said. So John calmly told her the facts.
His
grandfather had given up a career in government service to run the Manor; and The General had retired early, from the army, to take over when his time came. ‘It’s part of one’s duty,’ John said.

‘
Then why not Charles?’

‘
Because he’s my younger brother. The General left the estate to me. It’s like a family business, Sara.’

‘
Oh, don’t. You make it sound like trade.’ She bit a lip. ‘Very well. We have to live here. But don’t be a fool and throw away your political career. After all, didn’t Asquith suggest a Cabinet post after the election?’ As she said it, Sara’s hand went to her face, palm to cheek, an act of guilt, though she knew exactly what she was doing.

‘
When?’ This was the first John knew of a Cabinet post.

‘
I’m sorry,’ Sara did not look him in the eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Please don’t tell Mr Asquith that I let it slip. Please.’ Her concern sounded genuine enough, as well it might. There was certainly truth in the story, but Sara had reasons for keeping her husband from speaking to the Prime Minister.

‘
He’s serious?’ John asked, and she nodded, saying that Asquith had talked about it for almost half an hour at a ball they had attended just before Christmas.

The news put a new complexion on matters. Could he possibly combine the two things
– run Redhill and stay on in politics?

‘
It makes a difference, doesn’t it?’ she asked softly.

He barely nodded, moving to the window, pulling back the curtains. Yes, it made a difference, but still meant that she would be mistress of the Manor. She would have to compromise.

Viewing the whole cartography of the events from the high ground of hindsight, this was probably one of the most significant moments in Sara’s life.

*

Giles Railton looked around the dinner table, only half listening to the muted prattle of John’s young wife, Sara, seated to his left.

He had little time for
the chattering Sara, for she appeared to think only of herself. That was his deduction, anyway. Odd, John marrying such a woman. Now, if it had been Charles… Well, Charles was always too much of a good thing in that way. Women, and the drink.

He caught sight of young James, at the far end of the table, with the Railton bone structure and nose, but his face closed, in a muted look. Poor young tyke, Giles reflected. First losing his mother at birth; then trying to adjust to a stepmother only a few years older than himself; now the death of his dearly-loved grandpapa. William had often remarked that young James was the one to come to him most often with his problems.

Giles’ son, Andrew, was in discreet conversation with Charles across the table, while his wife – the delicate, porcelain-like Charlotte – talked quietly to John. Charles, Giles could see, was already in his cups, the eyes becoming glazed and hooded.

Andrew
’s and Charlotte’s children – Giles’ grandchildren – sat in silence, knowing, though not believing, that their great-uncle, the family patriarch, was dead. Young Caspar, a month or so James’ senior, appeared to be lost in a world of his own; while the twins – Rupert and Ramillies – were having a fit of nervous giggles. Giles wished he could recall how it felt to be fifteen again. His other son, Malcolm, whose one obsession in life was farming, would be with them soon; as would Marie and her husband.

Suddenly, as these things happen, there, was a silence: a stopping of conversation, as though by mutual consent. Faces slowly turned towards Giles, as if expecting him to say something of importance.

For once in his life, Giles Railton was lost for words. ‘His… The General’s…’ he began, realizing the twist of emotion within him, ‘His… His last word was “Patience”,’ he paused, pulling himself together. ‘“Patience”, name of his horse. Name of the horse shot from under him at the Battle of Balaclava.
Patience
.’

It was all he could think of to say.

*

The Railtons had provided moments of great pleasure, as well as sadness, to
the people of Haversage. Countless Railtons were married and buried in the parish church; but none with the pomp, solemnity, and spectacle attending the obsequies of General Sir William Railton, where even King Edward VII was officially represented by the Lord Lieutenant; and six Staff Officers – from regiments with which The General had served – walked beside the pall bearers. The band of the 2nd Battalion Oxfordshire Light Infantry played the Dead March from Saul, as a Colour Party, and Guard of Honour, escorted the cortege down the long winding hill, through the town, to the church.

Hardly a house stood without some visible mark of respect, from flags lowered to half-mast, to black rosettes pinned onto doors. The shops were closed for the entire day, and the locals braved a bitter wind, standing silent and bare-headed, as the procession went by.

The family met at Redhill Manor after the committal, and – though its contents were already known to them – listened while old Mr King, senior partner of King, Jackson and King, of Gray’s Inn, read the will.

Giles Railton did not return to London until the next day; though his son, Andrew, left with Charles and their respective families, by the late train from Haversage Halt on the night of the funeral.

Giles particularly wanted to stay. He had business to discuss, at some length, with his daughter-in-law, Malcolm’s wife, Bridget, who would be returning to Ireland the next day. He also spoke to his daughter, Marie, and her husband, Marcel Grenot. They too would begin the return journey to France early in the morning. Both conversations were secret and full of intrigue. The General would have smiled.

*

Dublin was shrouded in freezing fog, and Padraig O’Connell turned up the high collar of his greatcoat. There had been snow in the Wicklow Hills, so, after two days of failure, he had gone up to see a Fenian comrade near Blessington. Then the Dublin–Blessington Steam Tram had been three hours late into Dublin. Cursing to himself he hurried into Sackville Street – or O’Connell Street, as most people now called it. A tram clattered by, like some noisy wraith in the thick mist.

He strode on, past the Gresham Hotel, the Crown, and the Granville, turning left into the small bar, smoky and clamorous on this night.

Fintan McDermott – a little terrier of a man – sat in his usual place by the fire, a chair drawn up, empty, beside him.

Before joining his friend, Padraig bought himself a glass of porter at the bar.

‘Yer late, then, Paddy.’ Fintan did not even raise his head as O’Connell took his place in the vacant chair. The two men did not need to look at each other, for theirs was a life-long bond, strengthened by the same ideals. Both were intelligent men welded to seeing the long-delayed Home Rule Bill go through Parliament: helping it, if need be, with the bullet and grenade, yet alive to the dangers a new Republican Ireland would face from the Protestant communities, most active in the Northern counties. A United Republican Ireland would be hard to establish.

‘
So, I’m late,’ O’Connell agreed. ‘Late, and barren, like a woman of forty without a babby to her name, so.’

‘
Now you can tell me then.’

‘
Tell you?’

‘
What the great secret’s been. What took you out of Dublin all yesterday, and then today.’

O
’Connell shook his head slowly. ‘Just an idea.’

‘
Ideas. So what was this idea?’

‘
Well, Fintan,’ for all their closeness, O’Connell was reluctant, like a schoolboy with a secret which needed to mature before it was told. ‘I went to have a word with Bridget Kinread, so.’

‘
That’s a fair notion, Padraig, but I thought she was wed.’

‘
Isn’t that why I went to see her? Isn’t she married to an Englishman – Mister Railton? And isn’t there talk that she’s coming back for good, and that her husband is to farm in Wicklow?’

‘
And you didn’t see her?’

O
’Connell shook his head, ‘Yesterday, I just thought she was away for the day, but she’s been gone this last week – the day after New Year, on the Kingstown boat.’

‘
Across the water, so.’

‘
Her husband’s family. A death.’

Fintan bowed his head,
‘And what’s so special about Bridget Kinread, or Mrs Railton as she now is?’

For the first time that day, Padraig O
’Connell smiled. ‘Because she is now a Railton, and that’s the kind of English family we need an ear to.’

‘
Special are they?’

‘
You might say so. Very special.
Extra
special.’

Fintan McDermott nodded slowly.
‘And she’ll be back? With her husband?’

‘
They’ll be back. And I’ll be there to tell her where her duty lies. Bridget Kinread needs reminding of her country. She’ll be no bother. You’ll take another drink?’

*

On 17 January 1910, at around eleven o’clock in the morning, Charles Railton made the short journey from the Foreign Office to a small room in the War Office. For Charles the appointment was unexpected, but those few people with a detailed historical knowledge of Britain’s Intelligence and Security Services will tell you that the visit was an important milestone.

There is no existing record of Charles Railton
’s visit to the little cubbyhole which served Captain Vernon Kell, the first Chief of MO5 – later to become what it is now, MI5. But, in January 1910, the Security and Intelligence Services, as we know them today, were but babes, mewling and puking in their various cradles.

Char
les was a typical Railton: tall, over six feet, with thick light hair, a strong jawline, high forehead, a long patrician nose flaring slightly at the nostrils (‘the Railton nose’, as it is still called in certain circles), and clear blue eyes which, when necessary, could lie as easily as his tongue – and it had often been necessary, as far as ladies were concerned. Yet, untypical of the Railtons, until that morning, Charles considered himself a failure.

Adventurous by nature, Charles had been shunted into the Diplomatic Service against both his inclinations and wishes. His brother, John, his senior, had gone into politics via the Army, so Charles was sent in the direction of diplomacy, for which he had little flair. In fact, during the last few years hi
s disenchantment had become complete. His present posting, as a ministerial liaison officer between the Foreign Office and the Admiralty – a situation which he shared with five other young men – was a backwater into which he had been towed merely out of respect for his father. But now The General was dead, and on that morning of 17 January, Charles had gone back to his duties at the Foreign Office with a letter of resignation in his pocket.

His wife, the quiet dark-haired clergyman
’s daughter, Mildred, had watched him leave their small house, just off South Audley Street, on that day, with many misgivings. Since The General’s sudden death, and the news of Charles’ legacy, she had been deeply concerned fearing that, without the disciplines made by the normal demands of the Foreign Service, Charles would lapse into the ways in which he had been accustomed to live before their marriage, and even after. During that time, she knew, there had been other women – and she had wept bitterly over it – while his drinking habits worried her not a little. Then, with the birth of their only child, Mary Anne, nearly sixteen years before, Charles had changed. Also, on the previous evening, Mildred had plucked up courage to tell him she was again – after so long –pregnant: a fact which she did not exactly relish. She knew of her husband’s feelings for the dull drudgery of his work, had listened to the string of wild schemes which had been his constant song for the last two weeks, and so feared for him as well as herself, their daughter, and the unborn child.

But neither she nor Charles had taken into account The General
’s brother, Uncle Giles. Giles had seen the problem, found an answer, and set matters in motion. Hence the message that Charles was required to visit Captain Vernon Kell at the War Office, an instruction so sudden that he did not have time or opportunity to deliver the letter of resignation.