Days Without Number (7 page)

'Well, it's not--'

'The full story? No, it isn't, is it? About Tantris we know nothing, except that he has money and an interest in antique stained glass. Miss Hartley the ecclesiastical art historian theorizes that the Doom Window of St Neot lies hidden somewhere in this house. Tantris wants me out so that his minions can tap and scan and probe every square inch of wall and floor and ceiling in search of something that will tell them where to start in with the drills and pickaxes. To get me out, he proposes to pay me about fifty per cent more than the house is worth and to bribe you five with the cost of putting me up in conscience-salving comfort at Gorton Lodge. Since I won't get the chance to spend my savings because I'll die of sheer bloody boredom within a twelvemonth, that'll leave you to share the loot between you, which I expect you've already calculated could be substantially more than half a million pounds if you negotiate hard enough with the fabled Tantris of the bottomless pockets.'

'You're painting this in the worst possible light, Dad,' Irene protested.

T'm being accurate, my girl, that's all. The time has come to be, I rather think.'

'We're genuinely concerned about you.'

'You had a fall recently,' put in Anna.

'How considerate of me.'

'What if Pru hadn't found you?'

'It had just happened when she arrived, for God's sake. I'd have got back up without her help perfectly easily.'

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That's not what she said.1

'She's nearly as old as I am and about one twentieth as intelligent. You can't seriously give her version of events any credence.'

'You're not getting any younger, Dad,' said Andrew. 'Sooner or later you'll have to think about moving to more practical accommodation.'

'Perhaps I'd prefer that to be later.'

'So might we,' said Irene, 'if this offer hadn't been made. But it has been. We can't ignore it.'

'I'd like to know why not.'

'There's surely a compelling reason that has nothing to do with money,' said Nick, sensing his chance had come.

'And what might that be?' His father's gaze focused on him narrowly.

'The glass. The Doom Window. You said myth can be as powerful as reality. But this is both, isn't it? A historical mystery. An artistic treasure. An archaeological quest. This should be meat and drink to you, Dad. You should be eager to lead the search, not trying to obstruct it. I don't understand. I can't believe sentiment is clouding your academic judgement. You'd condemn that in anyone else, wouldn't you?'

Michael stuck out his lower lip and glowered at Nick for half a minute of suspended silence, then growled, 'Not in these circumstances.'

'What makes them so different?'

'Judgement is the key to it, boy. I don't happen to think tearing this house apart - the house your mother died in - on the say-so of a dubiously qualified chit of a girl--'

'Oh God, Dad,' Anna interrupted. This isn't about being upstaged by a woman, is it?'

'Is there something amiss with Ms Hartley's qualifications?' Basil mildly enquired.

They're not on a par with mine, since you ask. Not remotely.'

The Bawden letter is the link between Trennor and the St Neot glass,' said Nick. 'Ms Hartley explained that quite

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clearly. Are you questioning her interpretation of the evidence?'

'You've seen the evidence, have you, boy?'

'Well, no, but--'

'Exactly. You've accepted her word for it. You all have, because it suited you to do so. Trust nothing except primary sources in this game. And not always those. That's my motto.'

T'm sure Ms Hartley would be delighted to show you the letter.'

'Maybe so. But why hasn't it come to light before? That's what I'd like to know.'

'Ask her.'

'I have. Unnoticed until she cast her eye over the archive it was part of. That was her answer.'

'But you don't believe her.'

Michael looked down, his confidence ebbing marginally. T'm not saying that.'

Irene sighed. 'Then what are you saying, Dad?'

The question seemed to give the old man pause for considerable thought. He picked up his pipe, then put it down again, then said, T'm saying I'm the only unbiased judge of what's best to do.'

'We're biased,' said Anna, 'but you're not?'

'I can put my bias to one side, Anna.'

'And we can't?'

'Apparently not.'

'That's . . . ridiculous. And arrogant to boot.'

'Arrogant? Depends on your point of view. And if you want to think me ridiculous, fine. I've reached an age where that's more or less taken as read anyway.'

'WhatT Anna sunk her head in her hands.

'I won't be selling Trennor to a faceless millionaire to facilitate a wild glass chase or to rescue any of you from the financial consequences of your own fecklessness and there's an end to it.'

They were words uttered in anger. His children knew that. He probably knew so himself. But since he had always

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maintained that a man should stand by his words as well as his principles, he was unlikely to withdraw the remarks. They were on the record. And they told a truth that comforted no-one. He believed they had mismanaged their lives and thereby forfeited the right to prevent him mismanaging his own.

A silence had fallen. Basil's clearance of his throat broke it, but Andrew was first to speak. 'An end of it? Yeah, Dad, it certainly sounds like it to me.' He stood up. 'Reckon I'll be on my way. Before I say something I might regret.'

'If you think I'll regret a single--'

'No, Dad, I don't. Regrets, you haven't had a few, right? In fact, not one. Vous ne regrettez rien. That's wonderful. That's a real achievement.'

'Andrew,' said Irene, 'don't go like--'

But he was already making for the door. 'Let him go if he wants to,' said Michael, shaking his head in apparent denial of responsibility for his son's reaction.

'It's his birthday, Dad,' said Anna. 'Can't you lighten up just a little?'

'I remember his real birthday, my girl. The day he was born. Fifty years ago almost to the hour. I remember the hopes I had for him. And for the brothers and sisters we planned he would have. Those hopes haven't been fulfilled, let me tell you, not nearly. So, don't ask me to ... "lighten up".'

Andrew was in the kitchen by now. So was Irene. The others could hear her trying to dissuade him from leaving. Nick knew she was wasting her time. Andrew was almost as stubborn as their father. Irene had never quite grasped that simple truth. He could remember her pleading with Andrew to come out of his bedroom and rejoin the family in the living room at their house in Oxford after some row with the old man. The memory was a collation of innumerable similar incidents, in which Irene was always the mediator and always in vain. Nothing had changed. And nothing, he realized now, was going to.

Basil caught his eye and gave a despairing grimace, sowing

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the suspicion in Nick's mind that Basil for one had anticipated this turn of events in every grisly detail. Including Anna's loss of temper, which was gathering momentum at that moment.

'Your hopes, Dad. Yes, we've heard a lot about them and how far short of them we've fallen. Do you ever wonder why we've disappointed you? Do you ever consider that it could have something to do with your own narrow-minded, mean spirited approach to life?'

'Don't be absurd.'

'Have you any idea how hard it's been for Andrew recently, scraping by at Carwether?'

'Farming was his choice, not mine.'

'So what? I'm not asking you to give him careers advice. I'm asking you to sympathize with him. To understand. But you can't, can you? Or won't. You refuse to understand any of us.'

'I understand you only too well.'

'Yeah? Well, that works both ways. Don't think I haven't rumbled you.'

'As a matter of fact, my girl, I--'

The back door slammed so hard that the china in the cabinet next to the fireplace tinkled like a wind-chime. Then Irene came back into the room. 'He's gone,' she said with a sigh. 'There was no talking him out of it.'

'There was no talking him out of any of the many follies he's embarked on in his time,' said Michael, quite neutrally, almost analytically. 'It's not in his nature to take advice.'

'Any more than it's in yours,' snapped Anna.

'On the contrary. I heed the advice of those qualified to give it. I always have. It's how I made my way in the world. It's how I made a success of my life. Whereas . . .' He smiled at them. 'Well, we demonstrate our own cases.'

This is hopeless,' said Irene, her expression underlining the point. She looked like someone who had carefully and lengthily planned a course of action, only to see her plan disintegrate as soon as she embarked upon it. Which was, of

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course, exactly what had happened. 'I think I'd like to go home. Nick?'

He shrugged. 'Fine by me.'

'Withdraw and regroup,' said Michael. 'Yes. Quite the best tactic, in the circumstances. Retreat to a place of safety and prepare an alternative approach. It won't work, of course.' His smile broadened into a beam of contentment at what he clearly regarded as their rout. 'But don't let me stop you trying.'

'Why did we think it would be any different?' Irene asked rhetorically an hour later, in the back bar of the Old Ferry Inn. There were no customers to hear her words, evening opening time still being some way off. Her audience comprised Nick, Anna and Basil. They had left Trennor more or less simultaneously and proceeded in convoy to Saltash. Now they sat around the fire, staring glumly at each other and wondering where any of them went from here. 'I mean, how could we be so na�ve as to believe he'd see reason when he's never seen it in my experience so much as once in his life? How could we?'

'It is difficult not to think of one's father as one would wish him to be rather than as he truly is,' Basil mused.

'I don't like him,' said Anna, sounding surprised by the realization. 'I love him, of course. But I don't actually like him. I mean, not at all.'

'I think I'll phone Andrew,' said Irene, jumping up. 'See how he is.'

She went to the wall-mounted phone behind the bar to make the call. They watched her dial and stand with the receiver in her hand, listening to the ringing tone on the line. A minute slowly passed. Then she put the phone down.

'I wish he'd get an answering machine,' she murmured.

Perhaps he was already out searching for big cats with his nightscope and video camera, Nick thought. He would find them easier to catch than their father, that was for sure. 'We should take Dad's advice,' he said softly.

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'What!' Anna gaped at him.

'Reasoning with him won't work. He's made his mind up and there's nothing - absolutely nothing - we can do to change it. It's as simple as that. Forget Tantris's offer. Forget Gorton Lodge. And tell Elspeth Hartley it's no go. Anything else is a waste of effort.'

'That's pure defeatism,' Irene protested.

'If you like.'

'Well, I don't like.'

'We could change our minds,' said Basil. 'Urge Dad to reject the offer.'

Anna made a face. 'You mean on the basis that he'd accept it just to be contrary?'

'Quite so.'

'You are joking, aren't you?'

Basil grinned at her. 'In the circumstances, what else can one do?'

After Anna and Basil had left and Irene had opened up for the evening, Nick went for a walk round the town. Saltash on a Sunday night in January was about as lively as a graveyard. He was surrounded by thousands of people of whom he saw barely a dozen. Not that he was in search of company. He could have had that by remaining at the Old Ferry. Solitude was what he most needed after the d�b�cle that the day had been. He had had his fill of talking. And of thinking.

But thoughts nevertheless swirled in his head. Why was his father so implacably opposed to the Doom Window project? Had he deliberately antagonized them in order to avoid answering that question? And what had he been getting at when he asked why the Bawden letter had been overlooked for so long? His behaviour made no obvious sense. He had always been obstinate, but that afternoon he had gone beyond obstinacy, fomenting an exchange of insults that would sour relations with several of his children for months to come. Andrew and Anna would probably refuse to speak to him for

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the foreseeable future, and Irene would certainly keep her distance. He must have known . . .

That was it, of course. He had known. Nick could not help smiling at the old man's audacity. A family rift was just what he needed to nix the Tantris deal without having to explain his opposition to it, which he knew he would not be able to do. He had found himself in an impossible postion. And then he had found a way out of it. With a little help from his children.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Nick's departure next morning went unmarked by much in the way of a send-off. Irene was depressed and distracted by the events of the previous afternoon. She had still not spoken to Andrew and could hardly imagine when she might bring herself to speak to their father. She would bounce back, of course - Nick knew her well enough to be sure of that - but it would take a few days at least. Accordingly, he did not ask what she would tell Elspeth Hartley. She would think of something - in due course.

The morning was grey and mizzly, the Hamoaze draped in a veil of murk, orange-clad workers swarming over the damp girders of the Tamar Bridge. Nick followed the nose-to- tail commuter traffic over to the Devon shore, paid his toll, then put his foot down as soon as he hit the dual carriageway. It was time to leave. And in so many ways, he was glad of it.

Two and a half hours later he pulled into Delamere Services on the M4 to grab a coffee and stretch his legs. Before getting out of the car he checked his mobile, which he had switched off for the drive. There was a message waiting for him - from Irene.

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'Something terrible's happened, Nick. Call me as soon as you can.'

He pushed the car door open and puzzled over her words as he breathed the chill air and listened to the rush of vehicles on the motorway. Then he phoned the Old Ferry, already anticipating, even before Irene answered, what 'something terrible' might mean. He thought of Andrew and the state of mind in which he had left Trennor. He thought . . . and he wondered. Then the phone was picked up.