The Wheel of Fortune (119 page)

“… all right, John, let’s leave Ricky and turn to Sasha Bland. I’ll shovel him out of the way, no difficulty there, and then I’ll arrange for the burial of all those empty champagne bottles which I hear are stacked up in the backyard of that tied cottage of his—and who paid for all
those,
I’d like to know! Christ, I bet the little bugger’s not even qualified—I bet Adam just picked him up off some muckheap, dusted him down and then spun Kester some yarn about qualifications which only a baby in nappies would believe. I think Adam was hoping to filch money through Sasha in a way which would leave Sasha taking the blame if anything went wrong. Damn it, prison’s too good for that arch-shit Adam Mowbray! If I had my way he’d be—”

“—hung, drawn and quartered. Yes, I must confess I agree with you. Now let me see, is there anyone else who should be eliminated?”

“Yes,” said Thomas at once. “Don’t forget that crippled old bugger who wanders around here looking like an advertisement for euthanasia—the one who was in love with Robert up at Oxford and had his balls blown off in the trenches—”

I spewed out the filth that was choking me. I was trembling from head to toe but I rose to my feet to take my stand.

“Not Simon,” I said. “Adam, Ricky, Sasha—yes, I know they’ll all have to go. But not Simon, not my old tutor who’s been with me since I was five. He’s sick and dependent on me and I want him to stay at Oxmoon till he dies.”

“What a lot of bloody sentimental rubbish!” said Thomas furiously. “Who signed all those checks for you? Who signed away money you didn’t have? Who stood by and did nothing to save you while you went on buggering your way into this fucking awful mess?”

I looked past Thomas to the man at the head of the table. “Uncle John,” I said. “Please—I’ll promise never to see Ricky again, I’ll promise whatever you like, but let me keep Simon. Please, please let him stay.”

Uncle John looked at me without emotion, and when I saw the emptiness in those blue eyes again I knew he had seen a way to punish me for the mistakes he couldn’t forgive.

“It must be Thomas’s decision,” he said flatly. “He’s the one who’s going to be answerable for the estate to the trustees.”

“It’s my decision and I’ve made it,” said Thomas. “The old boy goes and that’s that.”

I blundered away, knocking over my chair, and wrenched open the door. “Anna!” I shouted, and the vibration of my voice mingled with the rush of air from the opening door so that all the crystals shivered in the mighty chandelier. “Anna!” I tripped, righted myself, tripped again, sprawled across the stairs. I could no longer see, but my fingers found the banisters, and I clawed myself to my feet.

She came running, a neat little figure in dark blue, and I stumbled into her outstretched arms.

“Anna, I can’t bear it, they want to sack Simon—I can’t bear it, they’re so brutal, so cruel—my beautiful library choked with their filth—my beautiful home defiled by their mockery—they’ve stripped me of all pride and dignity and now they’re even stripping me of everyone I love—”

“Darling, I’m still here. I’ll always be here—and so will Simon.” She moved past me across the hall.

“But they say he’s got to go—they’re implacable—”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“No, Anna, no—they’ll defile you too—”

“But I can’t let this pass,” said Anna. “I can’t let them do this to you.” And she walked on towards the library.

“Anna, wait!” I shouted, but she was already entering the room, her head held high, the little silver locket I had given her long ago shining at her throat as it caught the light.

The three men all rose automatically to their feet.

“Good morning,” I heard her say composed in her low sweet voice. “Forgive me for interrupting, but who is it who wants Simon dismissed?”

I saw them all realize that the scene which had been running so smoothly for them had suddenly veered quite out of control. Uncle John went a shade whiter; Harry was still as a statue; even Thomas shifted uneasily on his feet, and when they all remained silent with embarrassment I heard myself say violently from the doorway, “It’s Thomas. He’s the one. And it’s he who has the final word.”

Anna walked up to Thomas and stood in front of him. “Please,” she said, “don’t dismiss Simon. It would be cruel. You may not wish to listen to Kester but do, I beseech you, listen to me. Please—let Simon stay.”

Uncle John covered his face briefly with his hands but still he said nothing. He was the only man who could have prevented the atrocity, but he stood by and looked the other way.

In contrast Harry was watching avidly. My agony must have been so clearly written on my face, and I knew with a terrible certainty as our glances met that he was enjoying this savage new twist to my humiliation.

But despite this, I was now full of hope, so full of hope that I no longer minded about Harry and Uncle John. I was full of hope because I didn’t see how Thomas could refuse her. Surely right must win and good must triumph—surely they couldn’t smash my idealism as well as my pride and my happiness—

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” exploded Thomas, losing his temper to wipe out his uneasiness. “What do you think this is—a Jewish holy war? And why do you bloody Jews always have to turn up where you’re not wanted and make a bloody nuisance of yourselves? For God’s sake run off and mind your own damned business!”

Horror poured into the room, filling every nook and cranny and thickening the air so that no one could move.

I wanted to kill him. I would have killed him but the horror was as thick as cement, entombing me. Violent emotions overwhelmed my battered mind, and as they surged through the open wounds to take root deep in my soul I knew Thomas had corrupted me, brutalized her, damned every one of us who had witnessed his barbarism. His action was catastrophic, smashing my world to pieces. I stood there, and as I stared at him I saw the future go spiraling downwards into the dark.

I knew I’d never forgive him but I knew too that he was merely the mouthpiece of a hatred they all shared. For one brief moment I faced them across the ruins of their hypocrisy, and as I looked upon the wasteland of the truth I saw beyond it to scenes I could not yet imagine. All I knew was that one day, when this catastrophe was no more than a faint echo in their minds, I’d still be remembering it in unforgiving detail. And one day, clever accomplished writer that I was sure to become, I’d rewrite the ending and take my revenge.

PART FIVE

Harry
1939-1952

AND LAST OF ALL, ONCE YOU
have bowed your neck beneath her yoke, you ought to bear with equanimity whatever happens on Fortune’s playground. If after freely choosing her as the mistress to rule your life you want to draw up a law to control her coming and going, you will be acting without any justification and your very impatience will only worsen a lot which you cannot alter. … If you were a farmer who entrusts his seed to the fields, you would balance the bad years against the good. So now you have committed yourself to the rule of Fortune, you must acquiesce in her ways. If you are trying to stop her wheel from turning, you of all men are the most obtuse. …

BOETHIUS

The Consolation of Philosophy

1

I

P
OOR OLD KESTER, POOR
old sod. What a mess! Very sad.

I’d always felt sorry for Kester—poor old Kester, poor old sod—because I’d found out long ago that if you pity someone you can’t be jealous of him, and I knew I couldn’t be jealous of Kester. I couldn’t be jealous of anyone. My father who was the best man in the world had always made it very clear that jealousy’s not the done thing at all.

Well, there we all were on July the thirteenth, 1939, with Europe on the brink and Oxmoon in the lurch and Kester—poor old Kester, poor old sod—quite clearly round the bend, not in touch with reality at all; a first-class example of what bloody Constance would call a neurotic misfit—and what happens? That bastard Thomas has a touch of the Hitlers and treats that nice little Anna as if she were ripe for extermination and poor old Kester, poor old sod, has hysterics.

My God, as if my father hadn’t enough problems!

However on this occasion my father had only himself to blame for the disaster because it was crystal-clear that he had deliberately let Thomas run wild. I knew that and the next moment I realized Kester knew it too because he included my father in his big melodramatic threat. Naturally he included me; the poor sod had always quivered with loathing as soon as I came within fifty paces of him, but this must have been the first occasion on which my long-suffering father had been lined up alongside me and Thomas and threatened with eternal hatred.

Poor old Kester was addicted to melodrama. He ought to have been born a woman like that bitch Aunt Ginevra. Then he would have had some excuse for behaving like a hysterical female. But on the other hand, what else can one expect from a man who’d been so coddled by his mother that he hadn’t been sent away to school? Poor old Kester, it was a shame. I felt genuinely sorry for him, I really did. Very sad.

“Remember this date!” he screamed after Anna had left the room. He sounded as if he expected us to whip out our diaries and make a note of it. “Remember July the thirteenth, 1939! One day you’re all going to look back on this scene and wish you’d never been born!”

Quite. Poor old sod, I was so embarrassed I hardly knew where to look. I was sorry enough for him to make at least a token effort to look grave, but how the hell could one take him seriously? If any man had treated my wife as Thomas had just treated Anna, I’d have knocked him down and smashed him to bloody pulp. But Kester was an artist, that was the trouble, not a man of action as I was. All he could do was have hysterics and talk crap.

Eventually, thank God, the hysterics ceased. He burst into tears, ran sobbing from the room and slammed the door. Pathetic. However before I could spend any more time mourning his lost sanity I was treated to a rare and hair-raising spectacle: my father lost his temper. It wasn’t the done thing to lose it. But it wouldn’t have been the done thing to let Thomas escape unscathed from his touch of the Hitlers. As a rule my father never used bad language, even when there were no women present; his generation was far more fussy about such vulgarity than mine and besides, unlike Uncle Edmund, who had served in the trenches, my father had never experienced a way of life in which bad language was the normal method of communication. Nevertheless my father was a born linguist, and he now decided to speak to Thomas in the only language that bastard ever understood.

Thomas sulked. When he finally got the chance to speak he was bright red. All he said was “You’ve got a fucking nerve, talking to me like that in front of your son.”

“I want my son to see that I absolutely draw the line when it comes to your fucking awful behavior. Now, do you fucking want to run the fucking estate or don’t you?”

“All right!” yelled Thomas. “For Christ’s sake, I’ve said I’ll apologize to the girl, haven’t I? My God, anyone would think I’d bloody raped her!”

All this before ten o’clock in the morning. What a life! I wondered if I could open my mouth without triggering another holocaust. I had in fact been wanting to speak for some time.

“Father … does this mean you’ll let poor old Simon stay?”

“Good God, no; I can’t possibly undercut Thomas’s authority now. If I do then Kester’s always going to be running to me in future whenever there’s a clash of wills, and Thomas’s position will soon be untenable.”

Thomas looked mollified. “Well, thank you, John. I must say—”

“Shut up. You’ve put me in an intolerable position.”

“Father, about Simon—”

“Oh yes, I’ll look after him, pay for a place in an old people’s home, do whatever’s necessary. You needn’t worry.”

I was relieved. Simon had been my tutor once as well as Kester’s. He could have treated me casually and lavished his attention on his employer’s son, but he had always been scrupulously fair. He was a good man. Not someone who deserved to be turned out into the street just because an ex-pupil had gone berserk. My God, that bloody Kester had a lot to answer for.

“Now listen to me, both of you,” said my father abruptly. “Before Fairfax and Lloyd-Thomas arrive to curtail this family conference, let me spell out exactly what we can and can’t do in this thoroughly dangerous situation. What we can’t do is antagonize Kester irrevocably. What we can and must do is to give him our unstinted support in helping him over this crisis, because if we don’t this kind of mess is going to happen over and over again.”

“You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, John,” said Thomas. “That boy’s always going to wind up in a mess.”

“Once we accept that we may as well cut our throats in the knowledge that Oxmoon will end up on the auction block in double-quick time. But I don’t accept it, and I don’t think you two should either. That boy’s got brains. He’s got determination. And in his own peculiar way he’s got courage. The truth is that he could well turn into a man of considerable consequence, but at present he’s crippled by his immaturity—we’re now paying the price, you see, for Ginevra’s thoroughly misguided decision not to send him to school to help him develop the self-confidence he so profoundly needs. If a boy, however normal, is brought up by his mother in the depths of the country with only misfits like young Mowbray for company, he’s inevitably going to be riddled with secret fears that he might be inferior to the average boy who must seem so frighteningly different to him.”

I looked at Thomas. “Poor old Kester,” I said, signaling that I had no intention of arguing. “Poor old sod. Very sad.” The words “brains,” “determination” and “courage” were still drilling holes in my consciousness.

“Well, John,” said Thomas, “if you say we have to give Kester our unstinted support, then of course I’ll obey orders, but now that he’s down and out couldn’t you insist that he turns poor old Oxmoon over to us? As I see it, that’s the only real solution to the problem.”