Maxwell’s Reunion (3 page)

‘Max, I thought you ran the school.’

Maxwell eased himself upright with the deadly uncoiling motion of a rattler. He lifted his hat brim and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Yes, you’ll probably need that,’ he said.

‘Need what?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

‘That razor wit. The Magnificent Seven don’t take prisoners, if I remember rightly. Oh, and by the way.’ He slithered down again, his rattle still, his fangs retracted. ‘Watch out for Ash – David Asheton, serial groper. That man could lech for England. I remember one Cranton weekend in particular …’

Jacquie shrugged. ‘He’s probably had the op by now.’

‘Doesn’t slow you down.’ Maxwell flounced, and the two of them laughed together in the warmth of her car, in the warmth of her smile, driving north.

The Graveney once belonged to the Wilkinsons, descendants of that Iron Madman who’d got the army contract for cannon and insisted on being buried in an iron coffin. His descendants still made swords for officers and garden shears and lawnmower blades for hoi polloi, but they’d moved out of the Graveney years ago. It was grander than Maxwell remembered it, a sweeping nineteenth-century facade with Doric this and Corinthian that, to show how attuned English manufacturers were in their day were to their classical heritage. It was all but dark as Jacquie’s Ka crunched on the gravel and purred to a halt outside the main door. Lights twinkled from the chandeliers in the ballroom.

‘What?’ Maxwell looked around. ‘No flunky?’ His knees ached from the confinement of the journey.

Jacquie got out.

‘May I take your bags, sir?’ The flunky didn’t look too pleased with Maxwell’s question. He’d been blessed with twenty-twenty hearing.

‘Too kind.’ Maxwell beamed and the guests made for the door.

‘Do you know.’ Maxwell dithered at the entrance. ‘I once spent nearly eight minutes in a revolving door somewhere in Birmingham. It’s really true, your life does flash before you.’

‘So you want me to lead?’ she asked.

Maxwell nodded. ‘Just like a Policeman’s Excuse Me,’ he said.

The foyer was dripping with expensive leather and plush carpets. Half of Sherwood Forest appeared to be growing out of the floor.

‘God, Max,’ Jacquie whispered.

‘It’ll do,’ the Great Man muttered, wishing he’d gone for that threshold pay rise now.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ a pretty blonde called from the reception desk.

‘Indeed.’ Maxwell beamed. ‘Peter Maxwell, here for a knees-up.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The girl smiled back. ‘One of Mr Muir’s party. Would you like to sign the book?’

‘Love to,’ and he took her pen.

‘Mrs Maxwell?’ The girl looked at Jacquie.

‘No,’ she told her. ‘Miss Carpenter.’

‘Will that be a double room, sir?’ the girl asked.

‘No,’ said Jacquie, perhaps more quickly than she’d intended. ‘Two singles, please.’

The girl’s eyes flickered for the first time. ‘Would that be adjacent?’ she asked.

Maxwell leaned on the counter and rested his head on his hand, looking quizzically at Jacquie. ‘Please.’ She laughed and kicked him hard on the shin.

‘Actually,’ said Maxwell, straight faced, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I’d like them side by side.’

‘There’s a complimentary bottle of champagne in your room, sir,’ the girl said, ignoring the remark and handing him a key. ‘Second floor, just past the bear. Compliments of Mr Muir. He has asked that all his party meet him in the Baculus Suite at seven for sherry. Will that be all right?’

‘I’m sure the sherry will be delightful,’ Maxwell said. ‘As for the reception, I’ll let you know. Does the hotel have a policy on bread-roll fights?’ But Jacquie was already leading him away.

‘Christ, she didn’t say it was a real bear.’ Jacquie didn’t like walking past it. It was seven feet high on its hind legs, all glass eyes and attitude. Even the moths left it alone.

‘The bear and baculus.’ Maxwell was still fidgeting with his bow tie. ‘That’s a ragged staff to you, Policewoman. The crest of the Earls of Warwick. You’re in Shakespeare country now, dear heart.
Non Sans Droit
, that sort of thing.’

Jacquie looked adorable in her pale blue evening gown, her red-gold hair swept up and her eyes sparkling along with the chandeliers. Maxwell hadn’t worn black tie for years. She saw his face light up as they reached the half-landing that was the entrance to the Baculus Suite.

‘Stenhouse Muir!’ he roared.

A man in full Highland rig swirled to face the pair. He had a mane of auburn-grey hair and a beard that flashed silver.

‘Maxie!’ The men collided mid-carpet with much back-slapping and hugging. Maxwell grabbed Muir’s hand and they strathspeyed the length of the room, guests scuttling aside to let them pass. Muir let out a whoop as they reached the cocktails, twirled round and strathspeyed back again.

‘Jacquie.’ Maxwell steadied himself as they got back to her. ‘I’ve just given you a lifetime’s opportunity to find out what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. And that’s hunting Macpherson, unless I miss my guess, you old charlatan. You’ve about as much right to wear that as Mel Gibson.’

‘Madam.’ Muir stooped to kiss Jacquie’s hand. ‘I’ll tell you before he does I’ve never been north of Berwick in my life, but all life’s a front, isn’t it? Andrew Muir.’

‘Jacquie Carpenter.’ She smiled.

‘Your daughter, Max?’ Muir asked. ‘Lovely.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ A starchy-looking woman had glided to Muir’s side. There was something vaguely Scottish about her, overlaid with Home Counties.

‘Janet.’ Muir placed a tentative hand on her arm as if he were afraid her ice would burn his fingers. ‘I’d like you to meet Peter Maxwell, old Hallardian par excellence. You’ve heard me talk of him often.’

‘Yes,’ Janet Muir said, bored already.

‘Charmed.’ Maxwell kissed her hand, taking in the expensive cluster on her middle finger.

‘This is his daughter, Jacquie.’

The women smiled at each other.

‘It’s been bloody years.’ Muir looked at Maxwell.

‘It has that.’ Maxwell laughed. ‘Any threat of a drink?’

‘Dear boy. The straws are this way. Remember that old …’ And the men disappeared into a small crowd desperately trying to mill.

‘I’m not actually his daughter,’ Jacquie confided to Janet.

‘I’m didn’t thank for a moment you were, my dear,’ the older woman said. ‘I wish I could say I wasn’t actually Andrew’s wife. Can we get a drink? I think it’s going to be one of those weekends.’

‘Peter Maxwell!’ The name was roared above the chatter.

‘It can’t be. Cret!’

‘Er …’

‘Oh, sorry … er … Anthony.’

Anthony Bingham gripped Maxwell’s hand. He loomed larger than Maxwell remembered and the hair was on its way out. The pin-stripe had gone out years ago. ‘Yes, I’m not sure “Cret” cuts much mustard in the Inner Temple.’ The judge looked at him and offered his verdict. ‘The years have not been kind.’

‘Bitch!’ Maxwell took up the champagne flute a passing tray afforded him. ‘Still place-dropping, I notice. Inner Temple, eh? Good address.’

‘You?’

‘Thirty eight, Columbine, Leighford. Know it?’

‘Leighford? South Coast somewhere, isn’t it?’

‘Somewhere.’ Maxwell nodded.

‘Anthony was just telling me, Max,’ Muir joined them, Scotch in hand, ‘how he was saying to the Lord Chancellor only the other day …’

Maxwell caught Muir’s raised eyebrow and buried his nose in his champagne flute. ‘Ash!’ He caught sight of the old lecher on the landing as he turned. David Asheton, the bastard, hadn’t changed at all. He looked as if he’d just thrown his blazer in the swimming pool. ‘Jesus!’ Maxwell faltered a little as he crossed the floor. On the bastard’s arm was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen, with long black hair and eyes to drown in. They sparkled like the gems that circled her neck and tumbled on to her breasts, loosely held in place by an exquisite white gown.

‘Maxie!’ Asheton threw his arms around the Head of Sixth Form. ‘You old fox. It’s been centuries!’ And they stood there, slapping each other’s backs like idiots.

‘Who is this ravishing creature?’ Maxwell asked. ‘If you tell me it’s Mrs Asheton, I’m going to kill you.’

‘Veronica, I’d like you to meet Peter Maxwell, historian, wit, raconteur. He used to be something of a film buff way back when.’

‘Still am, dear boy.’ Maxwell beamed. ‘Paul Getty’s always ringing up to borrow the odd vid.’ He shot a glance in Bingham’s direction. ‘Veronica,’ he kissed her hand, ‘the pleasure’s all mine.’

She purred at him.

‘The gang’s all here,’ Maxwell said, ‘or at least some of them. Jacquie.’ He waved her over. Policewoman Carpenter was between a rock and a hard place. It had taken her all of ten seconds to discover that Janet Muir was a prize bitch and she wasn’t sorry to be called away. On the other hand, she felt, as any woman would, the poor relation standing alongside Veronica.

Maxwell introduced them. ‘Jacquie Carpenter, my ol’ mucker David Asheton and … Veronica.’

Jacquie smiled and raised her glass to them. ‘Come on, Veronica,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a drink while the boys reminisce.’ And Veronica slid her hand along Asheton’s sleeve before undulating across the room in Jacquie’s wake.

‘Not Mrs Asheton the First, I assume,’ Maxwell muttered to his oppo.

‘Not Mrs Asheton at all,’ Asheton muttered back. ‘Sex on a stick, Max, I assure you. No, Mrs Asheton the First is a raddled old bitch with a drink problem. The last time I saw her she was living in Slough with a struck-off doctor. He had the same problem. Mrs Asheton the Second …’

‘I don’t have all night, Ash!’ Maxwell laughed.

‘So be it.’ Asheton beamed. ‘Now that’s rather a little cracker you’ve got with you.’

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Maxwell warned him. ‘You’re not pinching my girl again!’

‘You bastard!’ Asheton slapped him playfully round the head. ‘I wish!’

‘I remember Cranton, ’62,’ Maxwell told him.

The smile left Asheton’s face. ‘I thought we agreed we’d never bring that up.’

‘And I won’t,’ Maxwell said. ‘Not until the
News of the World
makes me an offer I just can’t resist. Drinky?’

‘I’d kill for one,’ Asheton said. ‘My God, and “pat, he comes”.’

‘Who’s Pat?’ Maxwell asked, turning as Asheton did to the new arrival on the stairs. ‘It’s not Sir Richard Alphedge, the great actor?’

‘Ah, takes one to know one, Max!’ Alphedge’s vowels were even more rounded, his tone stentorious and cocktail-shaking. He too had lost most of his hair. He gripped Maxwell’s hand and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Gone French since we last met, Alphie?’ Maxwell asked.

‘Gone queer,’ Asheton grunted, and promptly got the same treatment. ‘Dickon, how the hell are you?’

‘Well, well.’ Alphedge beamed at them both. ‘Sad day, eh?’

‘Hmm?’ Asheton asked.

‘Halliards going under the bulldozer or whatever.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Asheton said. ‘Tragic, tragic.’

‘Oh, I’d like you to meet Cissie.’

Maxwell half expected to find a slim juvenile lead on the actor’s arm, knowing what he did about actors, but instead found a rather buxom lady in multicoloured silks.

‘Cissie.’ Maxwell kissed her hand. ‘Wait a minute …’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘I did it in that Morse episode where there’s all that kerfuffle at Lonsdale College.’

‘And we’ll sign the autographs later,’ Alphedge said, leading her away. ‘Never work with children or actresses, Maxie,’ he muttered. ‘Especially when one’s actress wife is more famous than oneself. Is there a bar?’

A gong sounded from nowhere and a rather menacing-looking maitre d’ announced that dinner was served. The Old Boys found their scattered partners and ambled towards the dining room.

‘Spotted dick, I hope,’ Alphedge shouted.

‘Haven’t you had that seen to yet?’ Asheton called back.

Jacquie’s eyes rolled skyward and Maxwell patted her arm. ‘When we get to the school song,’ he whispered, ‘just la-la-la it.’ He winked at her. ‘You’ll be all right.’

She almost stumbled at the sight that met them in the lobby. A tall man stood there, with a long Barbour coat and a broad- brimmed hat, dripping with the rain he’d brought in from the blustery night. He looked like Clint Eastwood.

‘Good God,’ Maxwell said. ‘Preacher?’

The tall man swept off his hat. ‘Peter Maxwell.’ He bowed low. When he straightened, there was a white collar at his throat.

‘Oh God.’ Maxwell hesitated. ‘You really are a preacher, then?’

‘Church of God’s Children,’ the tall man said.

‘Yes, well, we’re all God’s chillun.’ Alphedge, behind Maxwell, lapsed into his Al Jolson, waving his hands in the air.

‘Richard!’ Cissie scolded. There was something about the tall man’s eyes that told her he had no sense of humour.

‘Jacquie.’ Maxwell was looking at those eyes too. ‘I’d like you to meet John Wensley … er … the Reverend John Wensley.’ And Wensley solemnly shook her hand.

The grandfather clock they kept in the foyer for old time’s sake had long since struck one. Peter Maxwell’s left shoe lay at a rakish angle on Jacquie Carpenter’s bedroom carpet; his right snuggled against her bathroom radiator. His jacket hung nonchalantly on her chair and his body was sprawled on her bed.

‘So,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You survived the first round.’

She smiled back. ‘It could have been worse,’ she said, easing off her earrings.

‘Undeniably,’ Maxwell acknowledged. ‘Quent could have been there.’

‘Isn’t he coming?’

‘Stenhouse told me he’d replied and seemed very keen. I expect something came up on the Dow Jones or whatever and he had to turn into Gordon Gekko for the night. I dare say he’ll show up tomorrow, red braces and all.’

‘What’s the itinerary?’

‘Well, you may or may not be pleased to know that it’s an all-chaps morning. We’re going to a funeral, or a wake, or both. We’re going to say our farewells to an old school. Stenhouse has wangled the keys out of the caretaker. You wouldn’t want to be there – to see grown men cry.’

‘I’ve got hair to wash,’ she said, kicking off a shoe and letting the blood flow back to her heels.

‘Or there’s the sauna. I hear the Graveney does an excellent colonic irrigation.’