Coming Home (154 page)

Rupert Rycroft, ex-Major, the Royal Dragoon Guards, stepped, dot-and-carry, from the portals of Harrods, crossed to the edge of the pavement, and there paused, debating as to his next move. It was twelve-thirty, the lunch hour, and the December day was bitterly cold, with a sharp, raw wind, but mercifully it was not raining. His Westminster meeting had taken up most of the morning, and his foray into Harrods what remained of it. The rest of the day he could call his own. He thought about flagging down a taxi, driving to Paddington, and then returning by train to Cheltenham, where he had left his car in the station park. Or he could go to his Club for lunch, and
then
make his way to Paddington. Feeling peckish, he opted for the latter.

But although — or perhaps because — there seemed to be so many people out and about, office-workers and Christmas shoppers, and young men in uniform, and older men with brief-cases, all spilling up out of the Underground or hopping off loaded buses, there was a distinct dearth of taxis. If one hove into view it was invariably already occupied. Had he been spry and able, Rupert would have been happy to take a Number 22 bus to convey him down to Piccadilly. He had never been troubled by false illusions of his own grandeur. But his leg precluded the physical effort of getting himself onto a bus, and worse, getting himself off the bloody thing at the other end. So, a taxi it had to be.

He waited, a tall and personable figure, suitably outfitted in a heavy navy-blue overcoat, regimental tie, and bowler hat. He carried, not the mandatory furled umbrella, but a walking-stick which had become like a third leg to him, and without which he still had some difficulty in getting around. Stairs and steps were a particular problem. As well, in his other leather-gloved hand, was a dark-green Harrods carrier-bag. This contained a bottle of Harvey's Tio Pepe sherry, a box of cigars, and a Jacqmar silk scarf, a present for his wife. Shopping in Harrods did not, in Rupert's book, count as shopping. In other stores, he was inclined to feel a bit lost, demeaned or embarrassed, but buying things in Harrods was like spending money in a splendidly exclusive and reassuringly familiar gentleman's club, and so, enjoyable.

He was about to give up all hope when a taxi appeared at last, trundling down the other side of the street. Rupert hailed it, raising his carrier-bag like a flag, because if he raised his stick he would probably fall over. The driver spied him, did a neat U-turn, and drew alongside.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Cavalry Club, please.’

‘Righty-ho.’

Rupert stooped to open the door. Doing so, he faced the stream of oncoming pedestrians, and in that instant he forgot about getting into the cab, because his eye, and his total attention, were caught by the sight of the young man who was walking towards him. Tall — almost as tall as Rupert himself — vaguely familiar, shabbily dressed, unshaven and gaunt. Painfully thin. A lot of black hair brushing the upturned collar of his battered leather jacket, old grey flannels, and scuffed and unpolished shoes. He carried a grocery box, from which protruded a head of celery and the neck of a bottle, and his dark, deep-set eyes glanced neither to left nor right, but stared ahead, as though all that was of consequence was the direction in which he was headed.

Five seconds, no more, and he was striding past Rupert and on his way. Others closed in behind him. Hesitate and he would be gone. Just before it was too late, Rupert raised his voice and shouted after him. ‘Gus!’

He stopped dead, frozen, like a man shot. Paused, and turned. He saw Rupert standing by the taxi, and their eyes met. For a long moment nothing much happened. And then, slowly, he retraced his steps.

‘Gus. Rupert Rycroft.’

‘I know. I remember.’ Close to, his appearance was even less encouraging, and the darkly stubbled jaw made him look like a down-and-out. All Rupert knew about Gus was that he had been a prisoner of war with the Japs. Believed killed, he had, instead, survived. But he knew nothing more. ‘Did you think I was dead?’

‘No, I knew you'd made it. I married Athena Carey-Lewis, so word got through to us from Nancherrow. It's splendid to see you again. What are you doing in London?’

‘Just down for a bit.’

At this moment, the taxi-driver, getting fed up with all the argy-bargy, chipped in. ‘Do you want to take this cab, sir, or don't you?’

‘Yes,’ Rupert told him coldly, ‘I do. Hang on a moment.’ He turned back to Gus. ‘Where are you going now?’

‘Fulham Road.’

‘Are you living there?’

‘For the moment. I've been lent a flat.’

‘How about lunch?’

‘With you?’

‘Who else?’

‘Thanks, but no. I'd disgrace you. Haven't even shaved…’

A refusal, but Rupert quite suddenly knew that if he let Gus out of his sight, he would never find him again. So he persisted. ‘I've all day. No appointments. Why don't we go back to your place, and you can clean up and then we'll go to a pub, or something. We can talk. Catch up on things. It's been a long time.’

But Gus still hesitated. ‘It's a pretty crummy place…’

‘No matter. No excuse.’ The time had come for action. Rupert opened the taxi door, and stood aside. ‘Come on, old boy, get in.’

So Gus did, sliding across to the far side of the seat, and setting his grocery box on the floor between his feet. Rupert followed at his slightly less agile pace, easing his leg into position, and then slamming the door shut.

‘Still the Cavalry Club, sir?’

‘No.’ He turned to Gus. ‘You'd better tell him.’

Gus gave the man his Fulham address, and the cab moved out into the thin stream of traffic. Then he said, ‘You got shot up.’

It was not a question. ‘Yes. In Germany, just months from the end of hostilities. Lost my leg. How did you know?’

‘Judith told me. In Colombo. On my way home.’

‘Judith. Of course.’

‘You're out of the Army?’

‘Yes. We're living in Gloucestershire, in a house on my father's estate.’

‘How is Athena?’

‘Same as ever.’

‘Still ravishingly beautiful?’

‘I think so.’

‘And you have a little girl, I believe?’

‘Clementina. She's five now. Athena's having another baby in the spring.’

‘Loveday used to write to me, and give me all the family news. That's how I knew. What do you do in Gloucestershire?’

‘Mug up all the things I should have known years ago…about running the estate and the farms and the forestry and the shooting. The Army, I have decided, doesn't really prepare a man for civilian life. For a little, I mulled over the idea of going to the Agricultural College in Cirencester, but I think perhaps, instead, I shall stream my meagre talents in another direction.’

‘What's that?’

‘Politics.’

‘Good God, what a thought.’ Gus was feeling in the pocket of his jacket, to produce a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit a cigarette, and Rupert saw the unsteady tremor of his hand, and the long, spatulate fingers stained brown with nicotine. ‘What put that into your head?’

‘I don't know. Yes, I do know. After I got out of hospital, I went off to see the families of some of the men in the regiment who'd been killed when I was wounded. Tank crews and such. Men I'd fought with all the way through the Western Desert and Sicily. Decent men. And their families lived in such mean and squalid surroundings. Industrial cities, back-to-back housing, smoking chimneys, everything filthy and ugly. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen for myself how the other half live. Frankly, I found it sickening. And I wanted to do something to make it better. To make this a country that people could live in with pride. It sounds a bit naïve and idealistic, but I feel strongly it's what I should be about.’

‘Good for you. If you think it will make any difference.’

‘I had a meeting this morning at the House of Commons, with the Chairman of the Conservative Party. I'd have to be accepted as the prospective candidate for some constituency or other…probably a Labour stronghold that one could never win in a million years, but all good experience. And then, in the fullness of time, and with a bit of luck, a Member of Parliament at Westminster.’

‘What does Athena think of the idea?’

‘She's behind me.’

‘I can see her, sitting on a Conservative platform and wearing a flowery hat.’

‘That won't happen for a long time yet…’

Gus stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward to speak to the driver…‘It's on the right-hand side of the road, just beyond the hospital…’

‘OK, sir.’

They had, it seemed, just about arrived. Rupert looked from the window of the cab with some interest, being unfamiliar with this part of London. His own stamping ground, which included the Ritz, the Berkeley, his club, and the large town establishments of his mother's friends, was enclosed by clearly laid-down borders on the four points of the compass: the river, Shaftesbury Avenue, Regents Park, and Harrods. Beyond was unknown country. Now, he saw evidence of much bomb damage, craters temporarily enclosed by hoardings, and empty walls where once had stood a small terrace house. Everything looked a bit ramshackle and down-at-heel. Small shops spilt their wares out onto the pavements; a greengrocery, a newsagent, a second-hand furniture store, and the eel-and-pie café, its windows damp with steam.

Then the taxi stopped, and Gus got out, stooping to retrieve his grocery box. Rupert followed. On the kerb, he began to reach into his trouser pocket for his loose change, but Gus was there before him.

‘Keep the change.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘Come on,’ said Gus. He crossed the pavement, with Rupert behind him. Between the café and a little grocery stood a narrow door, peeling dark-brown paint. Gus produced a latchkey and opened this, and led the way into a dank and airless hallway, with stairs rising up into the gloom. There was linoleum on the floor and the stairs, and a fusty smell compounded of stale cabbage, tom-cats, and uncleaned lavatories. When the door shut behind them, it was almost totally dark.

‘I told you it was crummy,’ Gus said, and started up the stairs. Rupert transferred his stick to his carrier-bag hand and gamely followed, hauling himself upwards by the banister rail.

On the turn of the stairs, a door stood open, revealing a dank bathroom, curling linoleum, and the source of the lavatory smell. Up again to the first-floor landing. The stairs continued, rising into the half-lit gloom, but they were faced by another door and Gus opened this with his key and led the way into a large high-ceilinged front room with two long windows facing out over the street.

The first thing that struck Rupert was the intense cold. There was a fireplace, but no fire, and the grate was a graveyard for dead matches and cigarette stubs. A small electric heater stood by the fender, but this was not switched on, and even if it were, it was hard to imagine that its two little bars could do much to alleviate the chill. The walls were covered with a hectically flowered wallpaper, the sort that Athena always referred to as a bee's nightmare, but this was now faded and dirty and beginning to peel at the corners. The curtains, narrow and far too short, had clearly been intended for some other room, and on the black marble mantelpiece stood a green vase filled with dusty pampas-grass. Looming sofas and chairs upholstered in worn brown moquette bore a few limp cushions, and a table, perhaps intended for dining, was piled with old newspapers, magazines, a dirty cup and saucer, and a worn attaché case, spilling what looked like old letters and bills.

Not, Rupert decided, a cheerful spot.

On the table, Gus set down his grocery box. Then he turned and faced Rupert. ‘Sorry. But I did warn you.’

It was no good prevaricating. ‘I've never seen anything so depressing in all my life.’

‘You said it yourself. How the other half live. It's not even a flat. Just rooms. I use the bathroom on the stairs, and the kitchen and the bedroom are on the other side of the landing.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I was lent it. I didn't want to go to an hotel. I wanted to be on my own. Some other person had been staying here, and left it filthy. I haven't got around to cleaning it up. Actually, I've had 'flu and been in bed for three days. That's why I haven't shaved. And I had to go out this morning, because I'd run out of food and stuff. Had to get something to eat. It's a bit tricky because I haven't got a ration card.’

‘If you don't mind my saying so, you could be better organised.’

‘It's possible. Do you want a drink? I've got a bottle of dubious whisky, but it'll have to be tap-water. Or you could have a cup of tea. Nothing much else, I'm afraid.’

‘No. Thank you. I don't want anything.’

‘Well, sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'll get changed. Give me five minutes. Here…’ He delved into his grocery box and produced a
Daily Mail. ‘
You can read this while I'm gone.’

Rupert took the newspaper, but did not read it. Once Gus had left him, he dropped it on the table, and then set down his Harrods bag alongside Gus's shopping. He crossed the room and stood at the window, looking down at the traffic of the Fulham Road through the fog of uncleaned glass.

His mind was in something of a turmoil, and he found himself thinking back, and trying to sort out all the facts that he could remember about Gus Callender and that golden summer of 1939 when they had all been together at Nancherrow. He had arrived, out of the blue, driving a dashing Lagonda, come from Scotland, a Cambridge friend of Edward's. A reserved, self-contained young man, with dark good looks and an unmistakable aura of affluence. What had he told them about himself? That he had been at school at Rugby; that his father's home was on Deeside, a country known to be rich with the immense estates of landed gentry, old nobility, and even royalty. Somewhere, there had been a lot of money. So what had happened?