Tyme's End (23 page)

‘To –?' Her expression changed.

‘I'll be quick,' I said. ‘I don't have much.'

‘I thought you meant to see me off. Not to –'

I started to collect my belongings, dragged my shabby little suitcase out from under the bed and piled things into it higgledy-piggledy. Edie watched me, her mouth slightly open. My hands were shaking, but I kept moving. I was behaving abominably; no matter how much my mother missed me, she wouldn't want me to forget my manners or offend Jack.

Edie said, ‘I'll wait for you downstairs.' She left the room, and I dragged open drawers, scooped my belongings into my arms, flung them into the suitcase. I knew that if I gave myself time to think I should change my mind. For the first time I was glad that I'd brought so little with me. In a few moments I had closed the case and was making my way down the stairs and outside. The sunlight hit me like a wall.

Edie was standing with Anthony and Jack, her weekend case in her hand, halfway through a sentence. She said, ‘I shan't need them urgently, so have them sent whenever is convenient.' Then she glanced round.

Jack raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you going somewhere, Gardner?'

‘I – Jack, I'm so sorry, I have to go home. My mother –'

‘Does she miss you too much, ducky?' Anthony said.

‘She's had an accident. It's not serious, but she's hurt her ankle and can't walk. I'd rather not go, but there you are.'

Jack was giving me a steady look, but all he said was, ‘Well, under the circumstances, of course you must go. Will you make your connection to Peltenshall?'

‘I should do, thanks.' I couldn't meet his eyes; I wanted to drop my suitcase on the grass and blurt out that I was lying and in any case I'd changed my mind. ‘You've been most hospitable. Thank you.'

Anthony said, ‘I'll get the motor car out when I leave later. Perhaps you'd like to stay until then?'

‘No, thank you. I don't have much luggage. Edie and I will walk to the station together.'

‘Very well,' Jack said. ‘I'm sorry you have to go, of course, but it can't be helped. I shan't forgive you if you forget to write to me, though.'

I cleared my throat, and then had to clear it again. ‘I won't.'

‘Good man. Well . . .' He glanced at Anthony and a look passed between them, too quick to read. Then his eyes dropped to Anthony's camera, and he said smoothly, ‘I'll send on a copy of the photographs if you want. You were in a couple, weren't you, the other day?'

‘I'd like that. Thanks.'

We stood awkwardly, looking at each other, until Edie said, ‘Well, buck up or you'll miss your connection.' She kissed Jack's cheek, nodded at Anthony, and stood waiting for me a few feet away.

I shook hands with them both. Jack's handshake was cool and brief, but he said, ‘I meant what I said, by the way,' before he turned back to Anthony, already grinning at something Anthony had murmured to him.

I said, ‘Goodbye, Jack,' and followed Edie up the drive and out of the gates, leaving Tyme's End behind me.

.

We walked in silence. We were almost at the station by the time Edie said, ‘What did he mean?'

‘What?'

‘Jack,' she said, looking up dreamily at the sky, as though she would hardly notice if I answered. ‘What did he tell you?'

‘Oh.' I shifted my suitcase into the other hand. The handle was sticky with sweat. I glanced at Edie, wondering if I was at liberty to tell her. Surely Jack would have told me to keep it under my hat if he hadn't wanted . . . ? But I said, ‘Nothing, really.'

There was a silence. We turned the corner, made our way through the ticket office, bought our tickets and went through on to the sunlit platform; but when I caught Edie's eye she was frowning, as if she was still waiting for an answer to her question.

We sat down on the bench and I lit cigarettes for us both. I felt odd inside, as though I had swallowed a mouthful of ice. I said, ‘I hope you don't mind if I catch a later train, so that I don't have to change at Tunbridge Wells West.'

‘Of course not,' she said, taking the cigarette without looking at me. Then she seemed to register what I'd done and looked at me with a half-smile. ‘What happened to the boy who didn't smoke?'

‘Gone for ever.'

‘Jack's doing,' she said.

There was a pause. There were only a few minutes left before her train. The air was full of birdsong, as it had been the day I arrived.

‘He said he was going to leave Tyme's End to me,' I said, suddenly wanting to laugh. ‘He said he'd been to his lawyer this morning to change his will.'

Edie turned to look at me sharply, but she knew immediately what I was talking about. ‘He said
what
?'

‘It's extraordinary, isn't it?' I said. ‘I can hardly believe it myself.'

‘Hardly? You mean you
do
believe it?'

‘I don't think he was joking,' I said. ‘I know what he's like when he's making fun. He was . . . different. Serious.'

‘He can't possibly have been.
Tyme's End?
For God's sake, he's hardly known you three months.'

I said, stung, ‘That's what I said.'

She gave a mirthless little giggle. ‘Did he say he was in love with you?'

‘No, of course he –'

But she ignored me. ‘It's a rather cruel joke, that's all. How perfectly beastly of him. He must have thought that you'd get thoroughly overexcited.'

I closed my eyes. I said, slowly, ‘I really, truly don't think he
was
joking.'

She twisted round to look at me. Then she leapt to her feet, dragging her hair away from her face with one hand. She stared at me for a long time. ‘My God,' she said, at last. ‘You scheming little fiend.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You vile, manipulative worm. My God, to think that all this time I thought
you
needed protection from
him
.'

‘I didn't – Edie, I had no idea he was even considering it – and I told him I couldn't accept it –'

‘Of course,' she said, spinning on her heel to glare at the opposite platform. ‘Oh, of
course
. You won't accept it. Not even when you've had to work so hard for it – making him think you adored him, stringing us all along, playing the innocent to perfection. Honestly, I despise you. I suppose you think you have a right to it?'

‘Edie, I don't understand – I swear I didn't –'

‘You must have thought me a perfect idiot to try and warn you off when you knew precisely what you were doing.'

I swallowed. There was an edge to her anger that I didn't understand. I said, ‘Edie . . . he hasn't disinherited you, in my favour, has he?'

She swung round, raising her hand, so that for a moment I thought she was going to slap me across the face. I flinched and she stepped backwards, but the fury was still in her voice when she said, ‘How dare you, you gold-digging little sodomite? I am a decent, principled human being. I wouldn't stoop to –'

There was silence. She pressed her lips together, as if she didn't trust herself to finish the sentence.

I said, ‘
What
did you call me?'

She shook her head. Then she picked up her case, strode to the other end of the platform and stood with her back to me, her hair blowing in the breeze, staring towards the curve in the railway line where the train would come into sight.

I thought, although I couldn't be certain, that she started to cry. I watched her shoulders shake. Then, as if in sympathy, I bent my head and covered my face with my hands; but it wasn't tears that welled up, but relieved, childish, irresistible laughter.

.

The train came. I watched Edie get on; she raised her hand in a gesture that might have been a wave, but she didn't look back.

I sat still. My train came and went.

After a while I pulled Fraser's letter out of my pocket and spread it on the bench, stroking the creases out with the flat of my hand.
Martin is evil
. . . The words seemed only pitiable now. I couldn't understand how I had been so stupid, so blind; but it was a relief. So Jack was one of those, and that was all. I had imagined something mysterious, unspeakable, infinitely worse.

The
fou rire
that had attacked me spilled over again. I felt tears running down my face, and little flecks of water landed on Fraser's writing, blurring the letters. I didn't dare to look round; no doubt I was attracting some attention, and no one could be blamed for thinking I was drunk. I bit my lip and tried to pull myself together.

Perhaps, one day, the world will learn what he is
. . .

Fraser was blackmailing him.

The thought quelled my laughter instantly. What a fool I'd been, not to guess – but it explained so much. I had been right to distrust him when I first met him. No doubt that was why his letter had been so circumlocutory: he was anxious not to jeopardise his negotiations with Jack. Good God, how low, how damnable.

But I couldn't quite take it seriously; the relief was still too strong. The whole affair was distasteful, of course, and dangerous for Jack; but I felt as if I had struggled out of a nightmare into broad daylight. I leant back on the bench with my hands behind my head, stretching. A woman on the opposite platform caught my eye and I winked at her; it was bad form, but I didn't care.

I lit a cigarette, went to put the lighter back in my pocket and paused, turning it over and over in my hand. It was Jack's; he must have forgotten to ask for it back and I'd appropriated it absent-mindedly. It was silver, and my fingers left smears on it.

I picked up Fraser's letter and read it one more time. It seemed as familiar as something I'd studied at school, but the words had lost their sting. I knew now that they couldn't touch me.
Evil
my foot.

I held the page by one corner and set fire to the bottom edge. The woman on the other platform glanced at me again, and I smiled at her. The flames rippled up the paper, consuming it, until I had to drop the last few inches on the platform. I waited until they'd blackened and curled up, and the fire died. Then I ground the ashes into a black smear with my heel, and made my way back through the ticket office, while another train came and went behind me.

.

.

V

.

.

I walked back along the High Street, my heart as light as my suitcase. I saw Anthony drive past in his motor car, looking like Mr Toad in his goggles and cap, but I drew back into the shade and he went past without catching sight of me. Now that Anthony had left, Jack would be alone at Tyme's End; but I dawdled, strolling along at my leisure, because there was no urgency. I wasn't sure how I was going to explain my lie earlier: I thought Jack would understand, but my stomach shrank a little when I racked my brain for what, precisely, I might say.

In any case, I was enjoying the walk. I felt a schoolboyish pleasure in being alone and, as it were, out of bounds; paradoxically, because I knew I was going back to Tyme's End, I could revel in these last minutes of freedom. I started to whistle, but I was smiling too broadly to keep in tune.

I passed the public house; the sign swung above my head, creaking, and I glanced up at it as I went past. The Cloven Hoof. I was tempted to go in for a drink, but the name reminded me of something. I paused, staring at the sign, trying to remember. It was familiar, and not simply because I had walked past it.

I heard the door of the public house open, and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, stale beer and stagnant warmth – the usual human fug – and a thin man hurried out, keeping his gaze on the ground. It was Fraser. I took an instinctive step back, ducking my head. I remembered, abruptly, that he had taken a room here: that was why I had remembered the name of the inn. When he had gone by, I raised my head again and watched him. He was wearing a coat despite the heat, and the seams glinted palely in the sun. His thin, colourless hair was plastered to his scalp with hair cream or sweat. He was hurrying, his shoulders hunched, like a man bent on an unpleasant errand. I despised him.

And he was going towards Tyme's End.

I waited until I was sure I could keep my temper. Then I set off after him. He walked like an old man, stiffly and slowly, so it was an effort not to gain ground, but I gritted my teeth and kept in time with his steps.

The walk seemed to take an eternity, but finally we went through the gates of Tyme's End. He went down the drive but I stood still, concealed by the trees, until I guessed that he'd had time to knock and be admitted. Then, gingerly, I emerged from my hiding place and made my way towards the house, keeping out of sight. I wasn't sure why I was taking such elaborate precautions, but somehow it seemed important that neither Fraser nor Jack should know I was there. I watched the drawing-room windows, making sure that the room was empty, and then abandoned caution and crossed the grass to the front door. Sometimes Jack left it open, in the heat, but it was shut. I guessed that they would be in the study, so I made my way round the other side of the house, to the back lawn. The croquet balls were clustered around the central peg; it looked as though Anthony had won against himself, after all. I eased the back door open and stood in the sitting room, listening.

I could hear voices, although they were a few rooms away and the words were indistinct. I walked softly through the dining room and stood in the hall, at the bottom of the stairs. They were in the study, and the door was ajar; now I could hear them perfectly. There was a sliver of daylight spilling into the hall, so that I could even see their shadows when they moved.

Jack said, ‘Now, let's get down to business, shall we? Remind me of the figure you had in mind.'

‘Ten thousand,' Fraser said, his voice tentative, as though it were a question.

‘Ten thousand. That's rather a lot of money, James.'

‘But you have it.'

‘Certainly I have it. Whether I shall choose to give it to you is another matter.'

‘You don't have a choice.'

‘Oh, on the contrary. It's purely a question of generosity. Are you, I ask myself, a deserving case? Or will you blue it all on drink?'

‘Stop it!' Fraser's voice rose and cracked. ‘Stop laughing at me!'

‘Oh, Lord . . .' I heard footsteps, and a shadow crossed the band of sunlight. Jack said, with a strange kind of tenderness, ‘What else am I to do with you, Jimmy? You're a poor fish. You're of no great concern to anyone. Even your vices are mean and petty-minded. You might have money one day, if I give it to you, but you'll never amount to anything.'

‘If it hadn't been for you I would have been –'

‘What? Mediocre? Perhaps. Never anything more.'

There was a noise as if Fraser had stumbled away. ‘This is all very well,' he said, a little breathless, ‘but you're in my power. Don't forget that.'

‘Oh,' Jack said. ‘Yes, you're right. So, ten thousand . . .'

‘Ten thousand five hundred,' Fraser said, his voice hitting a high note. ‘I don't like being insulted.'

‘I apologise,' Jack murmured. ‘You must appreciate that my position is not without its . . . frustrations.'

There was a silence. The shadows crossed and re-crossed the light, and there was a scraping noise as the chair was drawn out from the desk, then the scratch of a nib on paper. Jack said quietly, ‘And once you have this, you'll leave me alone and keep your mouth shut?' His voice shook a little and I clenched my fists.

‘Probably.'

‘Suppose I gave you another thousand? Would you give me your word of honour then?'

Fraser gave a gulp of laughter. ‘My word of honour?'

‘Yes, I suppose it wouldn't mean very much. Well, I suppose there's nothing I can do about that. Except – beg.' He paused. ‘Would you like me to beg, Jimmy?'

‘You can if you want.'

The chair creaked as Jack got up, and I heard him cross the room to where I imagined Fraser was standing. There was a crackle, so soft I could hardly hear it, like paper passing from hand to hand. The silence went on and on; I strained my ears, but there was no movement, not even a floorboard creaking.

At last Fraser said, ‘What's this?'

‘Your cheque,' Jack said. There was a note in his voice that I couldn't identify. ‘Your ten thousand, five hundred pounds. What's the matter? Did I misspell your name?'

‘But –' Fraser seemed to choke on his own breath. ‘What's this?'

‘Oh, I say, I am sorry,' Jack said. ‘Come to think of it, I might inadvertently have misspelled my own name. Did I?'

Silence. I leant forward and closed my eyes, as if that would help me hear.

‘It happens to me more and more as I get older,' Jack went on. ‘I'll mean to write “H. J. Martin” and suddenly find myself writing “go to hell”.' He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what a priest would make of that.'

There was another pause. Then Fraser said, in a brittle, painful voice, ‘Are you sure about this?'

‘Quite sure.'

‘I shall go to the police, you know. I wasn't bluffing. All this – you'll lose everything. I shall ruin you.'

‘You think so, do you?' He laughed: a soft, pleased laugh, as though he had made a good croquet shot. ‘You don't have a leg to stand on. Your word against mine, James. Imagine – who would be believed? Me, or you? Need I spell it out?
I
will ruin
you
, Fraser. Don't push me to do it. You know what I'm capable of.'

‘I'd be telling them the truth.'

‘That's entirely irrelevant. Now, I think we've discussed this for long enough, don't you?'

‘But why did you –' Fraser was almost crying out. I wanted to enjoy his misery but it was pitiful, not amusing. ‘Why did you agree, and tell me to come back, and – you could have told me before. You knew I was right – you knew I
could
tell the police, that they'd believe me –'

‘No.'

‘Then – I don't believe you –
why
–?'

‘I wanted you to hope. I find that hope is the most painful emotion that man is capable of. I wanted you to suffer. And you have, haven't you?'

‘You –' His voice faltered; it sounded as though he had put his hands over his face. ‘You are – evil.
Evil
.'

‘Oh, but you knew that already, James.' A pause. ‘And you're not exactly a paragon of virtue, are you? Blackmail is a very ugly word.'

‘All this time you were –'

‘Playing. Yes. I enjoy watching people like you squirm; I think you'll agree you had it coming. Now, really –'

There was a noise like someone stepping in a cowpat, and then a kind of choking; with a pang of disgust, I realised that Fraser was weeping. It went on for so long I wondered how Jack could bear it. Finally Fraser said, hoarsely, ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry –'

‘Get out.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry, Jack, I'm sorry, I'll go, forgive me . . .' The door jerked open and I just had time to draw back out of sight. Fraser was like a marionette whose strings had been cut; he had one hand over his face as he stumbled towards the door. Jack watched him from the doorway of the study, a quiet, satisfied look on his face. He waited until Fraser had scrabbled the door open and fallen through it, staggering and then running away like a child after a beating. Then he turned his head slowly to look at me. I met his stare, frozen, the blood mounting in my cheeks, but he only smiled. It seemed to last for ever. Then he moved to the front door, shut it, and walked into the drawing room. A few seconds later I heard the scrape of a match as he lit a cigarette.

I wanted to run away. There had been something in his gaze that had unnerved me, and not simply the fact that he hadn't been surprised to see me there. I was trembling. The sight of Fraser stumbling away like a broken man had shaken me.

The house creaked in the heat. It felt unfamiliar; it wasn't the place I had been so happy in.

Hesitantly, still carrying my suitcase, I went through the doorway into the drawing room. Jack was at the window, smoking. I sat down on the sofa and watched him. He was in shirtsleeves, and I could see his shoulder blades move as he exhaled.

He said, ‘Oliver.' He didn't look round.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn't know what to say.

‘Oliver. I knew you'd come back.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I – I shouldn't have left so suddenly. My mother –'

He laughed. There was an edge of malice in it, as if he enjoyed my discomfort, but I clenched my hands together and told myself I was imagining it. He said, ‘Gardner, honestly, you don't think I believed that nonsense about your mother? Anthony read us your letter, for God's sake. You couldn't have come up with a worse lie if you'd tried.'

‘Then –' I wished he'd turn and look at me, but he was still watching the ivy on the windowsill flutter in the breeze. ‘Then – thank you. For pretending you did. For making it easy for me.'

He shrugged. ‘I knew you'd come back. That's all.'

‘Don't you want to know why I left?'

He turned round. There was a strange expression on his face, as though his eyes were lit from inside his skull. He picked the packet of cigarettes up from the windowsill and threw it towards me. It landed on the sofa and I took one out and lit it, grateful for the diversion. When I put his lighter back in my pocket he noticed, and his mouth twitched.

He said, ‘You can tell me if you want.'

I inhaled a lungful of smoke, blew it out through my nose, and tried to remember what I had decided to say. ‘I – it's so childish, Jack, I'm sorry. It
was
my mother, partly; she's missing me terribly, and it's not as if she has anyone else –'

He shrugged my words away with one shoulder. ‘And the rest? You said
partly
.'

‘The rest was – Fraser sent me a letter. A vile, poisonous letter.'

‘Ah.'

‘I got cold feet. I should have known better. But it was –'

‘May I see it?'

‘I burnt it.'

He raised his eyebrows, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ivy behind him, but that odd, elated expression was still on his face. ‘What did it say?'

‘That you were – Jack, you don't think for a moment that I –'

‘Tell me what it said.'

‘Nothing specific. Vague accusations that you'd corrupted him, that you were dissipated, and loose-living, and –' I hesitated. ‘Evil. That was the word he used.'

‘One of his favourite epithets,' Jack said. ‘You heard him a few moments ago.'

‘Yes.' I smiled at him, and for a second we were old friends, sharing a joke. But I still didn't feel quite at my ease. I glanced down at my suitcase, wishing I hadn't been such a fool. I said, ‘And I came back because –'

‘Oh, I know why you came back.'

I glanced up at him, taken aback. ‘Do you?'

‘Of course. It's perfectly obvious.' He ground the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray, rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand.