The Throwback (4 page)

‘Oh, Lockhart.’

‘Oh, Jessica.’

‘You’re so wonderful.’

‘So are you.’

‘You really do mean that?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Oh, Lockhart.’

‘Oh, Jessica.’

Under the gleaming moon and the glittering eye of Mrs Sandicott they clasped one another in their arms and Lockhart tried to think what to do next. Jessica supplied the answer.

‘Kiss me, darling.’

‘Where?’ said Lockhart.

‘Here,’ said Jessica and offered him her lips.

‘There?’ said Lockhart. ‘Are you sure?’

In the shadow of the lifeboat Mrs Sandicott stiffened. What she had just heard but couldn’t see was without doubt nauseating. Either her future son-in-law was mentally deficient or her daughter was sexually more
sophisticated, and in Mrs Sandicott’s opinion positively perverse, than she had ever dreamt. Mrs Sandicott cursed those damned nuns. Lockhart’s next remark confirmed her fears.

‘Isn’t it a bit sticky?’

‘Oh, darling, you’re so romantic,’ said Jessica, ‘you really are.’

Mrs Sandicott wasn’t. She emerged from the shadows and bore down on them. ‘That’s quite enough of that,’ she said as they staggered apart. ‘When you’re married you can do whatever you like but no daughter of mine is going to indulge in obscene acts on the boat-deck of a liner. Besides, someone might see you.’

Jessica and Lockhart stared at her in amazement. It was Jessica who spoke first.

‘When we’re married? You really did say that, Mummy?’

‘I said exactly that,’ said Mrs Sandicott. ‘Lockhart’s grandfather and I have decided that you should …’

She was interrupted by Lockhart who, with a gesture of chivalry that so endeared him to Jessica, knelt at his future mother-in-law’s feet and reached out towards her. Mrs Sandicott recoiled abruptly. Lockhart’s posture combined with Jessica’s recent suggestion was more than she could stomach.

‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she squawked and backed away. Lockhart hastened to his feet.

‘I only meant …’ he began but Mrs Sandicott didn’t want to know.

‘Never mind that now. It’s time you both went to bed,’ she said firmly. ‘We can discuss arrangements for the wedding in the morning.’

‘Oh, Mummy …’

‘And don’t call me “Mummy”,’ said Mrs Sandicott. ‘After what I’ve just heard I’m not at all sure I
am
your mother.’

She and Jessica left Lockhart standing bemused on the boat-deck. He was going to get married to the most beautiful girl in the world. For a moment he looked round for a gun to fire to announce his happiness but there was nothing. In the end he unhooked a lifebelt from the rail and hurled it high over the side into the water and gave a shout of joyful triumph. Then he too went down to his cabin oblivious of the fact that he had just alerted the bridge to the presence of ‘Man Overboard’ and that in the wake of the liner the lifebelt bobbed frantically and its warning beacon glowed.

As the engines went full astern and a boat was lowered, Lockhart sat on the edge of his bunk listening to his grandfather’s instructions. He was to marry Jessica Sandicott, he was to live in Sandicott Crescent, East Pursley, and start work at Sandicott & Partner.

‘That’s marvellous,’ he said when Mr Flawse finished, ‘I couldn’t have wished for anything better.’

‘I could,’ said Mr Flawse, struggling into his nightgown. ‘I’ve got to marry the bitch to get rid of you.’

‘The bitch?’ said Lockhart. ‘But I thought …’

‘The mother, you dunderhead,’ said Mr Flawse and
knelt on the floor. ‘O Lord, Thou knowest that I have been afflicted for ninety years by the carnal necessities of women,’ he cried. ‘Make these my final years beneficent with the peace that passes all understanding and by Thy great mercy lead me in the paths of righteousness to the father of this my bastard grandson, that I may yet flog the swine within an inch of his life. Amen.’

On this cheerful note he got into bed and left Lockhart to undress in the darkness, wondering what the carnal necessities of women were.

Next morning the Captain of the
Ludlow Castle
, who had spent half the night searching for the Man Overboard and the other half ordering the crew to check the occupants of all cabins to ascertain if anyone had indeed fallen over the side, was confronted by the apparition of Mr Flawse dressed in a morning suit and grey topper.

‘Married? You want me to marry you?’ said the Captain when Mr Flawse had made known his request.

‘I want you to conduct the ceremony,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘I have neither the desire to marry you nor you to marry me. Truth be told, I don’t want to marry the damned woman either, but needs must when the devil drives.’

The Captain eyed him uncertainly. Mr Flawse’s language, like his costume, not to mention his advanced age, argued a senility that called for the services of the ship’s doctor rather than his own.

‘Are you sure you know your own mind on this
matter?’ he asked when Mr Flawse had further explained that not only was the marriage to be between himself and Mrs Sandicott but between his grandson and Mrs Sandicott’s daughter. Mr Flawse bristled. ‘I know my own mind, sir, rather better than it would appear you know your own duty. As Master of this vessel you are empowered by law to conduct marriages and funerals. Is that not so?’

The Captain conceded that it was, with the private reservation that in Mr Flawse’s case his wedding and burial at sea were likely to follow rather too closely for comfort.

‘But wouldn’t it be better if you were to wait until we reach Cape Town?’ he asked. ‘Shipboard romances tend to be very transitory affairs in my experience.’

‘In your experience,’ said Mr Flawse, ‘I dare say they do. In mine they don’t. By the time you reach four-score years and ten any romance is in the nature of things bound to be a transitory affair.’

‘I see that,’ said the Captain. ‘And how does Mrs Sandicott feel about the matter?’

‘She wants me to make an honest woman of her. An impossible task in my opinion but so be it,’ said Mr Flawse. ‘That’s what she wants and that’s what she will get.’

Further argument merely resulted in Mr Flawse losing his temper and the Captain submitting. ‘If the old fool wants the wedding,’ he told the Purser later, ‘I’m damned
if I can stop him. For all I know he’ll institute an action under Maritime Law if I refuse.’

And so it was as the ship sailed towards the Cape of Good Hope that Lockhart Flawse and Jessica Sandicott became Mr and Mrs Flawse while Mrs Sandicott achieved her long ambition of marrying a very rich old man with but a short time to live. Mr Flawse for his part consoled himself with the thought that whatever disadvantages the ex-Mrs Sandicott might display as a wife, he had rid himself once and for all of a bastard grandson while acquiring a housekeeper who need never be paid and would never be able to give notice. As if to emphasize this latter point he refused to leave the ship while she lay in Cape Town, and it was left to Jessica and Lockhart to spend their honeymoon chastely climbing Table Mountain and admiring one another from the top. When the ship set out on the return voyage only their names and their cabins had changed. Mrs Sandicott found herself closeted with old Mr Flawse and prey to those sexual excesses which had previously been reserved for his former housekeepers and of late for his imagination. And in her old cabin Jessica and Lockhart lay in one another’s arms as ignorant of any further purpose in their marriage as their singular upbringings had left them. For another eleven days the ship sailed north and by the time the two married couples disembarked at Southampton, it could
be said that, apart from old Mr Flawse, whose excesses had taken some toll of his strength and who had to be carried down the gangway in a wheelchair, they were all entering upon a new life.

If the world of Flawse Hall on Flawse Fell close under Flawse Rigg, Northumberland, had played a large part in persuading Jessica that Lockhart was the hero she wanted to marry, the world of Sandicott Crescent, East Pursley, Surrey, had played no part in Lockhart’s choice at all. Used as he was to the open moors of the Border country where the curlews, until he shot them, cried, Sandicott Crescent, a cul-de-sac of twelve substantial houses set in substantial gardens and occupied by substantial tenants with substantial incomes, was a world apart from anything he knew. Built in the thirties as an investment by the foresighted if late Mr Sandicott, the twelve houses were bordered to the south by the Pursley Golf Course and to the north by the bird sanctuary, a stretch of gorse and birch whose proper purpose was less to preserve birdlife than to maintain the property values of Mr Sandicott’s investment. In short it was an enclave of large houses with mature gardens. Each house was as different in style and similar in comfort as the ingenuity of architects could make it. Pseudo-Tudor prevailed, with an admixture of Stockbroker Spanish Colonial, distinguished by green glazed tiles, and one British Bauhaus with a flat roof, small
square windows and the occasional porthole to add a nautical air. And everywhere trees and bushes, lawns and rockeries, rose bushes and ramblers were carefully clipped and trimmed to indicate the cultivation of their owners and the selectness of the district. All in all, Sandicott Crescent was the height of suburbia, the apex of that architectural triangle which marked the highest point of the topographical chart of middle-class ambition. The result was that the rates were enormous and the rents fixed. Mr Sandicott for all his prudence had not foreseen the Rent Act and Capital Gains Tax. Under the former there was no way of evicting tenants or increasing the rent they paid to a financially profitable sum; under the latter the sale of a house earned more for the Exchequer than it did for the owner; together the Rent Act and the tax nullified all Mr Sandicott’s provisions for his daughter’s future. Finally, and most aggravatingly of all, from Mrs Sandicott’s point of view, the inhabitants of the Crescent took plenty of excercise, ate sensible diets and generally refused to oblige her by dying.

It was in large part the knowledge that she was saddled with twelve unsaleable houses whose combined rents barely covered the cost of their maintenance that had persuaded Mrs Sandicott that Jessica had reached the age of maturity she had so assiduously delayed. If Mr Flawse had rid himself of the liability of Lockhart, Mrs Sandicott had done much the same with Jessica and without further enquiry into the extent of Mr Flawse’s fortune. It
had seemed enough that he owned five thousand acres, a Hall and had but a short life expectancy.

By the time they had disembarked she had begun to have doubts. Mr Flawse had insisted on immediately catching a train to London and thence to Newcastle and had absolutely refused to allow Mrs Flawse to collect her belongings first or to drive him north in her large Rover.

‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘I place no faith in the infernal combustion engine. I was born before it and I do not intend to die behind it.’ Mrs Flawse’s arguments had been countered by his ordering the porter to put their baggage on the train. Mr Flawse followed the baggage and Mrs Flawse followed him. Lockhart and Jessica were left to move straight into Number 12 Sandicott Crescent with the promise to have her belongings packed and sent by removal van to Flawse Hall as quickly as possible.

And so the young couple started their married but unorthodox life in a house with five bedrooms, a double garage and a workshop in which the late Mr Sandicott, who had been handy with tools, had made things. Each morning Lockhart left the house, walked to the station and caught the train to London. There in the offices of Sandicott & Partner he began his apprenticeship under Mr Treyer. From the start there were difficulties. They lay less with Lockhart’s ability to cope with figures – his limited education had left him mathematically exceedingly proficient – than in the directness of his approach to the problems of tax avoidance, or as Mr Treyer preferred to call it, Income Protection.

‘Income and Asset Protection,’ he told Lockhart, ‘has a more positive ring to it than tax avoidance. And we must be positive.’

Lockhart took his advice and combined it with the positive simplicity his grandfather had adopted towards matters of income tax. Since the old man had transacted all possible business in cash and had made a habit of hurling every letter from the Income Tax authorities into the fire without reading it while at the same time ordering Mr Bullstrode to inform the bureaucratic swine that he was losing money not making it, Lockhart’s adoption of his methods at Sandicott & Partner, while initially successful, was ultimately catastrophic. Mr Treyer had been delighted at first to find his IN tray so empty, and it was only his early arrival one morning to discover Lockhart using the toilet as an incinerator for all envelopes marked ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ that alerted him to the cause of the sudden cessation of final demands. Worse still, Mr Treyer had long used what he called his Non-Existent Letter device as a means of confusing Income Tax officials to the point where they had nervous breakdowns or demanded to be transferred to other correspondence. Mr Treyer was proud of his Non-Existent Letter technique. It consisted of supposed replies which began ‘Your letter of the 5th refers …’ when in fact no letter of the 5th had been received. The consequent exchange of increasingly acrimonious denials by tax officials and Mr Treyer’s continued assertions had been extremely beneficial to his clients if not
to the nerves of Income Tax officials. Lockhart’s arson deprived him of the ability to start letters beginning ‘Your letter of the 5th refers …’ with any confidence that one didn’t.

‘For all I know there may well have been half a dozen bloody letters of the 5th and all of them referring to some vital piece of information I know nothing about,’ he shouted at Lockhart who promptly suggested that he try the 6th instead. Mr Treyer regarded him with starting eyes.

‘Which since you burnt those too is a bloody useless suggestion,’ he bawled.

‘Well, you told me it was our business to protect our clients’ interests and to be positive,’ said Lockhart, ‘and that’s what I was doing.’

‘How the hell can we protect clients’ interests when we don’t know what they are?’ Mr Treyer demanded.