Past Caring (7 page)

By the summer of 1900, the war seemed virtually over. Roberts
having taken Johannesburg on May 31 and Pretoria five days later,
there appeared to remain only the mopping-up of Boer resistance. It
was this swift redemption of Buller’s earlier blunderings that presumably convinced the Conservative-Unionist government at home
that the time was ripe for a general election. It seemed to me, when
I heard of it, a simple attempt to capitalize on the victorious mood of
38

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

the people, but it is true to say that my view may have been influenced by the imminence of my candidature for Parliament, which I
had thought to be two years away and for which I was consequently
ill-prepared.

Lord Roberts showed great understanding of my difficulty and
sanctioned my immediate return home. Here Couch, for all that I
have said about his loss of nerve at Colenso, did me a not inconsiderable service. I had accepted an invitation to stay with the van der
Merwes, an influential Dutch family near Durban , as part of my
bridge-building exercise. Passing through Capetown in late
August, I met Couch by chance and mentioned that I would have to
disappoint the van der Merwes if I were to return to England in
time to make any kind of fist of the election , which seemed a pity,
this being the most overt hospitality I had been shown by the Dutch
community. Couch, granted leave at this slack time, when everyone
was merely awaiting the formal cessation of hostilities, volunteered
to take my place in Durban. In a role where charm counted for
much, I have little doubt that he did an excellent job.

So it was that I arrived home in England with but a week in
which to conduct my election campaign. As I might have known ,
my parents and brother had already mounted a highly effective one
in my absence and it was the considered opinion of Flowers, the taciturn agent whom I inherited from Sir William, that any attack
upon my party’s attitude to the war by my Conservative opponent
would be more than offset by my own record of service in South
Africa. In this he was correct. The general election of October 1900

has ever after been referred to as the “Khaki” election and if it was,
as I firmly believe, the government’s attempt to exploit their virtual
victory in South Africa, I am happy to record that it went otherwise
for them in Mid-Devon.

I shall ever recall the scene in the town hall at Okehampton in the
early hours of October 5, when the returning officer announced my
victory at the poll by a majority only a little short of that traditionally
commanded by Sir William and a throng of red-faced Devonians
toasted in cider their new young tribune. At the age of 24, I found myself a member of that most exalted of democratic institutions—the
British Parliament—with everything to look forward to.

P A S T C A R I N G

39

“Senhor Radford! Excuse the interruption: the master has asked me to tell you that luncheon is served.”

It was old Tomás speaking, rousing me from the reverie that had followed my completion of the first chapter of the Memoir.

“
Obrigado, Tomás,
” I said. Then, hesitantly, I sought to use a little more of the basic Portuguese I’d gleaned from my hand-book. “
Oude fica o almoço?
”

“In the morning room, senhor,” Tomás replied. “Please come with me.”

Taking the Memoir with me, I followed him along the verandah.

“Have you been on the island long, senhor?”

“Only a few days.”

“Then your Portuguese does you great credit.”

“Thank you for saying so. But I think your English does you greater credit.”

“No, no, senhor. I have been here forty years and Quinta do Porto Novo has always had a master who spoke English.

Therefore, it has not been difficult for me to learn your language, so excellent was my teacher.”

Who’d taught him English? If Tomás had been there forty years, it seemed he must mean Strafford.

“You worked for Senhor Strafford?”

“Yes, senhor. I had that honour.”

We’d passed through the drawing room into the hall. Tomás led me along the gallery to a large, airy room on the western side of the house, with picture windows overlooking the vineyard. At one end of the room was a grand piano and, above it on the wall, an oil painting of a savannah landscape. In the centre of the room stood a table, laid with bowls and plates for a salad lunch. There was an air of newness here, more of Sellick and less of Strafford.

I tried to draw Tomás out before he left me. “You admired Senhor Strafford?”

“Senhor Strafford was a gentleman.”

“Thank you, Tomás. That will be all.” Sellick’s voice came abruptly from behind us. Tomás nodded gravely and padded away.

40

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

There was a hint of curtness in his dismissal, dispelled at once by Sellick’s warmth and courtesy to me.

“I see you have the Memoir with you, Martin. Set it aside for a moment and help yourself to some lunch. I trust you will excuse the informality of the arrangement.”

“It looks delicious. All this is really too generous of you.”

“Not at all. I have put a business proposition to you. The least that I can do is offer some meagre hospitality whilst you consider it.”

There was, needless to say, nothing meagre about his hospitality. I took some grilled tuna from a platter and some of the rice, potato and vegetable salads that accompanied it. Sellick poured me some vinho verde and offered me a seat by the window. This had been slid half-open to a wisp of cooling breeze in the midday heat. Below, the vines stood in silent ranks. This was the siesta hour and no sound broke the peace.

I’d set the Memoir down on a coffee table between us. “Have you made much progress?” Sellick asked. “You see that I cannot contain my curiosity.”

“I’ve just finished the first chapter: Strafford’s just been elected to Parliament. It’s a fascinating read.”

“I hoped that you would find it so. Has it helped you to form a view of my earlier proposition?”

“It’s confirmed my first reaction—that I’d be delighted to accept. I feel sure it’s an opportunity I don’t deserve. But, if you’re prepared to back me, I’ll try to justify your confidence.”

“I’m most gratified to hear you say so, Martin. Let’s drink to your investigation.”

As we touched glasses to toast our agreement, I thought of Helen again, for the second time that morning: Helen, my dear ex-wife. She’d always performed that ritual when wine was served with a meal. I remembered her tight frown of annoyance whenever I drank from the glass prematurely, now with none of the impatience I’d have felt at the time. It was odd to think of her with so little venom, odder still that Strafford’s college friend, Gerald Couchman, should share her surname. For Couchman was not a common name.

“You look pensive, Martin.”

P A S T C A R I N G

41

“The Memoir’s given me a lot to think about. To be honest, I can’t wait to get back to it.”

“I understand and will not delay you. But before you do, you might be interested in seeing Strafford’s study. You’ll remember I referred to it last night.”

“That would be very interesting.”

“Straight after lunch then.”

When we’d finished our meal, Sellick led me back to the hall and up the stairs to a large room on the southern side of the house. When he opened the shutters, light flooded onto a scene that took me straight back to Strafford. Sellick explained that he never used the room himself and had left it as it was when he arrived. The view from the window was of the garden and, beyond that, the sea. Motes of dust floated in the sunlight and the tick of an old longcase clock by the door added to the impression of another time and place. In front of the window was a large mahogany leather-topped desk and, in front of that, a leather-seated, wheelback swivel chair.

This, clearly, was the desk where Sellick had originally found the Memoir. Either side of the inkstand were the framed photographs that must have drawn Strafford’s eye every time he sat there. On the left was a studied portrait of a couple, the man elderly, with a walrus moustache but a ramrod back, the woman middle aged and elegant—surely Strafford’s parents.

On the right was a less formal portrait of a young lady. She wore a high-necked dress, fastened with a brooch. Her dark hair was drawn up high and evenly from her face, with just a few strands hanging by her cheeks. Her eyes were large, dark and intent and her lips, slightly parted, seemed just about to smile. To me, she was a stranger—or so I thought. To Strafford, she must have meant, at some time, almost everything. That certainty charged not only her look but the very placing of her photograph.

Strafford could have sat there and seen those eyes and, beyond, the ocean, both so deep and distant, every day of his life on Madeira. But only his Memoir could tell me what the frozen past of this room never would: what he felt when he looked at the confident, confiding tilt of her chin, fixed in time by the camera, or gazed out across the placid infinity of the ocean.

42

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“It’s as if Strafford had just left the room,” I said at last.

“Isn’t it?” said Sellick. “I feared it might seem morbid to leave it like this, but with so much space to spare, why not? It’s easy to imagine him sitting at that desk.”

“I just have. Presumably, one of these pictures is of his parents. What about the other one?”

“There’s really only one person it can be.”

“His fiancée?”

“That’s right: Elizabeth Latimer. My enquiries have revealed that she is still alive in England, under her married name of Couchman . . . You look surprised, Martin.”

“The name . . . Then she . . .”

“Married Gerald Couchman. That’s right. But I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t give so much away like this. Still, you must have wondered why Strafford made such a point of that friendship.”

I had, and this explained it. But it wasn’t the irony of Strafford losing his fiancée to his discredited former friend that dismayed me, though I was happy for Sellick to think that it was.

It was the echo in my own past that his words caused. No longer was there just a coincidence of surnames. Seven years before, at my own wedding, I’d met the redoubtable Elizabeth Couchman, Helen’s grandmother, then a hale old widow of eighty, and still, it appeared, alive and well. It was the achievement of her generation of Couchmans that made my marriage the social coup my family thought it was and which, in the end, helped to unmake it.

Now, in Strafford’s study on Madeira, I encountered my ex-wife’s grandmother as the beautiful young Edwardian lady she once was and the woman who won—and broke—the heart of a famous man.

After dismay came caution. It was still possible—just—that this wasn’t the person I thought. But if it was, how would Sellick react to my connection with a family that was to form part of my investigations? Not well, my instincts told me. And they went further: don’t risk this golden opportunity, don’t tell him. So I didn’t.

“It makes it all the sadder,” I said. “That and the atmosphere of this room.”

“Yes,” said Sellick. “There are so many echoes.”

For a moment, I was alarmed. Had he found me out? No. How

P A S T C A R I N G

43

could he? There were echoes enough of Strafford’s past without him needing to guess at those of mine—weren’t there?

“I know what you mean.” The truth was, I hoped I knew what he meant. “In fact, the Memoir seems so much more real here—more immediate—that I’d like to stay to read it, if that’s all right.”

“By all means, Martin. Stay as long as you like. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. I hope, though, that you’ll join me for an aperitif before dinner. Alec’s sure to be back by then.”

“Thanks. I’d like to.”

Sellick left then, closing the door behind him. I sat at the desk and looked out across the garden and the valley towards the sea, then back at the picture of that face and those eyes, imagining Strafford doing the same. I opened the Memoir and looked at his firm, assured handwriting, betraying nothing, no sign, no quaver, that might tell me the message those eyes held for him. There was only one way to find out. Eagerly, I resumed my reading.

1900‒1909

P arliament was due to assemble in early December 1900. By
then , I had recovered somewhat from the euphoria of election
night and had taken rooms in Pimlico, so as to be handily placed for
Westminster. Sir William had kindly arranged my introduction to
some of the leading figures of the party and my brother had quietly
assured me of such financial support as might be necessary in the
straitened circumstances of a fledgling M.P.

I had supposed that, in the Parliamentary Liberal Party, I
would rejoice in the company of enlightened, like-minded men
steering a straight course for the betterment of their country. I soon
discovered that such a rosy view could not be sustained when I actually joined their ranks. I knew, of course, that the war had created a
division of opinion. What I did not know, but sought rapidly to as-similate, was that on virtually no point was there universal agreement, that many of the disagreements had more to do with personal
enmities than issues of principle and that possibly the only uniting
factor was an interest by individuals in cultivating a political career. Such and swift was the disenchantment of the new M.P. for
Mid-Devon.