Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (46 page)

‘Do you remember the first time you and Deakins visited the Manor House?’

‘How could I forget? It was your twelfth birthday, and your father refused to shake hands with me.’

‘Have you ever wondered why?’

‘I think we found out the reason today,’ I said, trying not to sound too insensitive.

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Giles quietly. ‘What we found out today was the possibility that Emma might be your half-sister. I now realize the reason my father kept his affair with your mother secret for so many years was because he was far more worried you might find out you were his son.’

‘I don’t understand the difference,’ I said, staring at him.

‘Then it’s important for you to recall the only question my father asked on that occasion.’

‘He asked when my birthday was.’

‘That’s right, and when he discovered you were a few weeks older than me, he left the room without another word. And later, when we had to leave to go back to school, he didn’t come out of his study to say goodbye, even though it was my birthday. It wasn’t until today that I realized the significance of his actions.’

‘How can that minor incident still be of any significance after all these years?’ I asked.

‘Because that was the moment my father realized you might be his first born, and that when he dies it could be you, not me, who inherits the family title, the business, and all his worldly goods.’

‘But surely your father can leave his possessions to whomever he pleases, and that certainly wouldn’t be me.’

‘I wish it was that simple,’ said Giles, ‘but as my grandpa so regularly reminds me, his father, Sir Joshua Barrington, was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1877 for services to the shipping industry. In his will, he stated that all his titles, deeds and possessions were to be left to the first-born surviving son, in perpetuity.’

‘But I have no interest in claiming what clearly is not mine,’ I said, trying to reassure him.

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Giles, ‘but you may have no choice in the matter, because in the fullness of time, the law will require you to take your place as head of the Barrington family.’

Giles left me just after midnight to drive to Gloucestershire. He promised to find out if Emma was willing to see me, as we’d parted without even saying goodbye, and said he would return to Oxford the moment he had any news.

I didn’t sleep that night. So many thoughts were racing through my mind, and for a moment, just a moment, I even contemplated suicide. But I didn’t need Old Jack to remind me that that was the coward’s way out.

I didn’t leave my rooms for the next three days. I didn’t respond to gentle knocks on the door. I didn’t answer the telephone when it rang. I didn’t open the letters that were pushed under the door. It may have been inconsiderate of me not to respond to those who had only kindness in their hearts, but sometimes an abundance of sympathy can be more overwhelming than solitude.

Giles returned to Oxford on the fourth day. He didn’t need to speak for me to realize his news wasn’t going to give me succour. It turned out to be far worse than I had even anticipated. Emma and her mother had left for Mulgelrie Castle, where we had meant to be spending our honeymoon, with no relations to be allowed within ten miles. Mrs Barrington had instructed her solicitors to begin divorce proceedings, but they were unable to serve any papers on her husband as no one had seen him since he’d crept unnoticed out of the vestry. Lord Harvey and Old Jack had both resigned from the board of Barrington’s, but out of respect for Sir Walter neither had made their reasons for doing so public – not that that would stop the rumour-mongers having a field day. My mother had left Eddie’s Nightclub and taken a job as a waitress in the dining room of the Grand Hotel.

‘What about Emma?’ I said. ‘Did you ask her . . .’

‘I didn’t have a chance to speak to her,’ said Giles. ‘They’d left for Scotland before I arrived. But she’d left a letter for you on the hall table.’ I could feel my heart beating faster as he handed me an envelope bearing her familiar handwriting. ‘If you feel like a little supper later, I’ll be in my rooms.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, inadequately.

I sat in my chair by the window overlooking Cobb’s quad, not wanting to open a letter that I knew wouldn’t offer me a glimmer of hope. I finally tore open the envelope and extracted three pages written in Emma’s neat hand. Even then, it was some time before I could read her words.

The Manor House

Chew Valley

Gloucestershire

July 29th, 1939

My Darling Harry,

It’s the middle of the night, and I am sitting in my bedroom writing to the only man I will ever love.

Deep hatred for my father, whom I can never forgive, has been replaced by a sudden calm, so I must write these words before bitter recrimination returns to remind me of just how much that treacherous man has denied us both.

I only wish we’d been allowed to part as lovers, and not as strangers in a crowded room, the fates having decided we should never say the words ‘until death do us part’, although I am certain I will go to my grave only having loved one man.

I will never be satisfied with just the memory of your love, for while there is the slightest hope that Arthur Clifton was your father, be assured, my darling, that I will remain constant.

Mama is convinced that given enough time, the memory of you, like the evening sun, will fade, and then finally disappear, before heralding a new dawn. Does she not recall telling me on the day of my wedding that our love for each other was so pure, so simple and so rare, that it would unquestionably withstand the test of time, which Mama confessed she could only envy, as she had never experienced such happiness.

But until I can be your wife, my darling, I am resolved that we must remain apart, unless, and until such time, it can be shown that we can be legally bound. No other man can hope to take your place and, if necessary, I will remain single, rather than settle for some counterfeit.

I wonder if the day will dawn when I do not reach out, expecting to find you by my side, and if it will ever be possible to fall asleep without whispering your name.

I would happily sacrifice the rest of my life to spend another year like the one we have just shared together, and no law made by God or man can change that. I still pray that the day will come when we can be joined together in the sight of that same God and those same men, but until then, my darling, I will always be your loving wife in all but name,

Emma

49

W
HEN
H
ARRY FINALLY
summoned up the strength to open the countless letters that littered the floor, he came across one from Old Jack’s secretary in London.

Soho Square

London

Wednesday, August 2nd, 1939

Dear Mr Clifton,

You may not receive this letter until you’ve returned from your honeymoon in Scotland, but I wondered if Captain Tarrant stayed on in Oxford after the wedding. He didn’t return to the office on Monday morning, and he hasn’t been seen since, so I wondered if you had any idea where I might contact him.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Phyllis Watson

Old Jack had clearly forgotten to let Miss Watson know he was going down to Bristol to spend a few days with Sir Walter, to make it clear that, although he had caused the wedding to be abandoned and had resigned from the board of Barrington’s, he remained a close friend of the chairman’s. As there wasn’t a second letter from Miss Watson among his pile of unopened mail, Harry assumed that Old Jack must have returned to Soho Square and be back behind his desk.

Harry spent the morning answering every one of the letters he’d left unopened; so many kind people offering sympathy – it wasn’t their fault they reminded him of his unhappiness. Suddenly Harry decided he had to be as far away from Oxford as possible. He picked up the phone and told the operator he wanted to make a long-distance call to London. Half an hour later, she called back to tell him the number was continually engaged. Next, he tried Sir Walter at Barrington Hall, but the number just rang and rang. Frustrated by his failure to contact either of them, Harry decided to follow one of Old Jack’s maxims:
Get off your backside and do something positive.

He grabbed the suitcase he had packed for his honeymoon in Scotland, walked across to the lodge and told the porter he was going up to London and wouldn’t be returning until the first day of term. ‘Should Giles Barrington ask where I am,’ he added, ‘please tell him I’ve gone to work for Old Jack.’

‘Old Jack,’ repeated the porter, writing the name down on a slip of paper.

On the train journey to Paddington, Harry read in
The Times
about the latest communiqués that were bouncing back and forth between the Foreign Office in London and the Reich Ministry in Berlin. He was beginning to think that Mr Chamberlain was the only person who still believed in the possibility of peace in our time.
The Times
was predicting that Britain would be at war within days and that the Prime Minister couldn’t hope to survive in office if the Germans defied his ultimatum and marched into Poland.

The Thunderer went on to suggest that in that eventuality, a coalition government would have to be formed, led by the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax (a safe pair of hands), and not Winston Churchill (unpredictable and irascible). Despite the paper’s obvious distaste for Churchill, Harry didn’t believe that Britain needed a ‘safe pair of hands’ at this particular moment in history, but someone who was not frightened to bully a bully.

When Harry stepped off the train at Paddington, he was met by a wave of different coloured uniforms coming at him from every direction. He’d already decided which service he would join the moment war was declared. A morbid thought crossed his mind as he boarded a bus for Piccadilly Circus: if he was killed while serving his country, it would solve all the Barrington family’s problems – except one.

When the bus reached Piccadilly, Harry jumped off and began to weave his way through the clowns that made up the West End circus, through theatre land and on past exclusive restaurants and overpriced nightclubs, which appeared determined to ignore any suggestion of war. The queue of displaced immigrants trooping in and out of the building in Soho Square appeared even longer and more bedraggled than on Harry’s first visit. Once again, as he climbed the stairs to the third floor, several of the refugees stood aside, assuming he must be a member of staff. He hoped he would be within the hour.

When he reached the third floor, he headed straight for Miss Watson’s office. He found her filling in forms, issuing rail warrants, arranging accommodation and handing out small amounts of cash to desperate people. Her face lit up when she saw Harry. ‘Do tell me Captain Tarrant’s with you,’ were her first words.

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Harry. ‘I assumed he’d returned to London, which is why I’m here. I was wondering if you might be able to use an extra pair of hands.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ she said, ‘but the most useful thing you could do for me right now is to find Captain Tarrant. This place is bursting at the seams without him.’

‘The last I heard he was staying with Sir Walter Barrington at his home in Gloucester,’ said Harry, ‘but that was at least a fortnight ago.’

‘We haven’t set eyes on him since the day he went to Oxford for your wedding,’ said Miss Watson as she tried to comfort two more immigrants who couldn’t speak a word of English.

‘Has anyone phoned his flat to see if he’s there?’ asked Harry.

‘He doesn’t have a phone,’ said Miss Watson, ‘and I’ve hardly been to my own home for the past two weeks,’ she added, nodding in the direction of a queue that stretched as far as the eye could see.

‘Why don’t I start there, and report back to you?’

‘Would you?’ said Miss Watson as two little girls began sobbing. ‘Don’t cry, everything’s going to be all right,’ she reassured the children as she knelt and placed an arm round them.