James Hilton: Collected Novels (51 page)

“Yes, sir. I always had to when Mr. Rainier used to come down—it’s got to be a sort of habit, I suppose.”

“Queer how one always associates big things with little things. I get the whole picture of my childhood from the smell of toasted printer’s ink.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ate his ham and eggs, scanning the inside news page. Trouble in Europe—the usual Balkan mix-up. Trouble in Ireland, and that was usual too—British officers assassinated. Not much of a paper after the holiday—never was. The usual chatty leader about Christmas, full of Latin quotations and schoolmasterly facetiousness—dear old
Times.
A long letter from somebody advocating simplified spelling—God, were they still at that? Now that the war was over, it seemed both reassuring and somehow disappointing that England had picked up so many old threads and was weaving them into the same pattern.

Then Chetwynd, eldest of the brothers, began the procession.

“Hello, old chap, how are you?”

(What a thing to say! But still, what else?)

(Miss Ponsonby, his old governess, had once adjured him: When people say “How are you?” the correct answer is “How are
you?”
If you tell them how you are, you show yourself a person of inferior breeding. … “But suppose, Miss Ponsonby,” he had once asked, “you really
want
to know how somebody else is, mustn’t they ever tell you?”)

However he answered: “Hello, Chet. How are
you?”

“Want you to meet my wife, Lydia. … Lydia … this is Charlie.”

An oversized good-looking woman with small, rather hostile eyes.

And then Julia, plumper than when he had seen her last, but still the same leathery scarecrow—red-complexioned, full of stiff outdoor heartiness.

“Hel
lo
, Charles! Sheldon told us
all
about it, and it’s just too wonderful. I can’t
tell
you how—”

But then as he kissed her, the fire went out like damp match and they neither of what to say to each other. He and Chet almost collided in their eagerness to serve her with food; Chet beat him to it; he slipped back into his chair.

“Kidneys, Julia?”

“Only scrambled eggs, please, Chet.”

“Not even a little piece of bacon?”

“No, really, Chet.”

“Any news of Father this morning?”

“I saw one of the nurses as I came down—she said he’d had a fairly good night and was about the same.”

“Oh good. … Quite sure about the bacon, Julia?”

“Quite sure.”

“Charles, what about you while I’m here? You don’t seem to have much on your plate.”

“Nothing more for me, thanks.”

“Well, must be my turn then, and I don’t mind admitting I’m hungry. Thrilling events always take me that way. … Too bad Father’s ill—we’d have had a party or something to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry he’s ill, but not for that reason, I assure you.”

“No? Well …” Chet came to the table with his plate, having deliberately delayed at the sideboard till he heard the voices of others approaching. Now he looked up as if in surprise. “Morning, George. … Morning, Bridget. …”

George, a nervous smile on his plump moustached face; Bridget, the youngest of the family, sweet and shy, always ready to smile if you looked at her or she thought you were likely to look at her. George’s wife Vera, and Julia’s husband … an introduction necessary here—“Charles, this is Dick Fontwell”—“Ahdedoo, ahdedoo”—a tall, long-nosed fellow who threw all his embarrassment into a fierce handshake.

Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only mitigated by ramparts of newspaper and unwritten permission to be as morose as one wished. But this morning they all felt that such normal behavior must be reversed—everybody had to talk and go on talking. Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with the additional drawback of having had less sleep. During the interchange of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper, Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.

He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience: “Er … I really do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as it must be to you—I suppose loss of memory’s like that—but what I
do
want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I’m a perfectly normal person so far as everyday things are concerned—I’m not ill, you don’t have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special consideration. … So just carry on here as usual—I’m anxious not to cause any additional upset at a moment when we’re all of us bound to be upset anyhow.”

He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it had been wise to say anything at all. Then Bridget leaned over and touched his hand.

“That’s all right, Charles.”

Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table: “Quite understand, old chap. We’re all more pleased than we can say, God bless. Of course with the old man being ill we can’t exactly kill the fatted calf, but—but—”

“I’ll consider it killed,” he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with more coffee. They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.

Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal earlier, along with Dr. Astley. Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take care of the rest. He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family were children. Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.

They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor’s suggestion began walking in the garden. Five minutes were occupied by a seesaw of congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and acknowledgments. Charles became more and more silent as these proceeded, eventually leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead broke by exclaiming: “Don’t be afraid I’m going to ask you questions—none of my business, anyhow. Sheldon told me all that you told him—it’s a very peculiar case, and I know very little about such things. There are some who claim to, and if you wished to consult—”

“At the moment, no.”

“Well, I don’t blame you—get settled down first, not a bad idea. All the same, though, if ever you want—”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’d rather you tell me something about my father.”

“I was coming to that. I’m afraid he’s quite ill.”

They walked on a little way in silence; then Sanderstead continued: “I’m sure the first thing you wished to do on coming back to us in this—er—remarkable way was to see him, and for that reason I’m grateful to you for deferring the matter at my request.”

Charles did not think there was any particular cause for gratitude. He said: “Tell me frankly how things are.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. In a man of his age, and suffering from his complaint, complete recovery can’t exactly be counted on—but we can all hope for some partial improvement that will enable him to—to—face a situation which will undoubtedly give him a great deal of pleasure once the initial shock has been—er—overcome.”

Charles was beginning to feel irritated. “You don’t have to break things gently with
me,
Sanderstead. What you’re hinting at, I take it, is that my father shouldn’t learn of my existence till he’s a good deal better than he is at present.”

“Well—er—perhaps—”

“To save you the trouble of arguing the point, I may as well tell you I entirely agree and I’m willing to wait as long as you think fit.”

“I don’t know how to express my appreciation—”

“You don’t have to. Naturally I’d like to see my father, but if you say he’s not well enough, that settles it. After all this time I daresay we can both wait a bit longer.”

They did not talk much after that. Charles was aware he had rumpled the doctor’s feelings by not living up to the conventional pattern of a dutiful son; but he began to feel increasingly that he could not live up to any conventional pattern, still less could he be “himself,” whatever that was; all he could do was to cover his inner numbness with a façade of slightly cynical objectivity. It was the only attitude that didn’t seem a complete misfit.

A further problem arose later in the morning, but Sheldon broached it, and somehow he found it easier to talk to
him.

“Dr. Sanderstead tells me you’ve agreed to his suggestion that for the time being—”

“Yes, I agreed.”

“I’m afraid that opens up another matter, sir. Now that the servants know—which of course is inevitable—I don’t see how we can prevent the story from leaking out.”

“I don’t suppose you can, nor do I see why you should. I’m not breaking any local bylaws by being alive, am I?”

“It isn’t that, Mr. Charles, but your father sometimes asks to see a paper, and I’m afraid that once the story gets around it’ll attract quite a considerable amount of attention.”

“Headlines, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn’t like that for my own sake, let alone my father’s.”

“It would doubtless be very unpleasant. A young man from the
Daily Post
was on the telephone just now.”

“Already?
Well, if they think they’re going to make a national hero of me, they’re damn well mistaken. I won’t see
anybody.”

“I’m afraid that might not help, sir. It’s their job to get the news and they usually manage it somehow or other.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“I was thinking that if somebody were to explain the matter personally on the telephone, giving the facts and using Mr. Rainier’s state of health as ground for the request—”

“You mean get in touch with all the editors?”

“No, not the editors, sir—the owners. You see Mr. Rainier has a large newspaper interest himself, and that makes for a certain—”

“Owns a paper, does he? I never knew that.”

“It was acquired since your time, sir. The
Evening Record.”

“Well, if you think it’ll do any good, let’s try. Who do you think should do the talking—George or Chet? Better Chet, I’d say.”

“Well yes, Mr. Chetwynd would perhaps explain it more convincingly than Mr. George. But what I really had in mind—”

“Yes?”

“Lord Borrell has stayed here several times, sir—bringing his valet, a very intelligent man named Jackson. So I thought perhaps if I were to telephone Jackson—”

An hour laser Chet came up to Charles with a beaming smile.

“Everything fixed, old boy. Sheldon wangled it through Borrell of the International Press—there won’t be a word anywhere. Censorship at source. Borrell was puzzled at first, but eventually he said he’d pass the word round. All of which saves me a job, God bless.”

So the story, which became one for curious gossip throughout the local countryside as well as in many a London club, was never hinted at by Fleet Street. The only real difficulty was with the editor of the
Stourton and District Advertiser,
a man of independent mind who did not see why he should not offer as news an item of local interest that was undoubtedly true and did not libel anybody. A personal visit by Chetwynd to the landlord of the premises in which the
Advertiser
housed its printing plant was necessary before the whole matter could be satisfactorily cleared up.

Charles spent the morning in a wearying and, he knew, rather foolish attempt to play down the congratulations. Every servant who had known him from earlier days sought him out to say a few halting, but demonstrably sincere words. It rather surprised as well as pleased him to realize that he had been remembered so well; but the continual smiling and handshaking became a bore. There were new faces too, recent additions to the Stourton staff, whom he caught staring at him round corners and from doorways. They all knew his story by now and wished to see the hero of it; the whole thing was doubtless more exciting than a novel because more personal in their lives, something to save up for relatives when they wrote the weekly letter or took their next day off.

Once, on his way through the house, he passed the room on the first floor where his father lay ill. It was closed, of course, but the door of an adjoining room was open, and through it he could see two young nurses chatting volubly over cups of tea. They stared as he went by, and from that he knew that they too had heard and were excited over the news.

When he appeared at lunch, he found Sanderstead and Truslove in the midst of what was evidently a sharp argument. Truslove was the family solicitor, a sallow sharp-faced man in his late fifties. During the little hiatus of deferential how-d’ye-dos and handshaking, the doctor and the lawyer continued to glare at each other as if eager to make an end of the truce. It came as soon as Charles said: “Don’t let me interrupt your talk.”

“What I was saying, Mr. Charles,” resumed Truslove, eager for an ally, “is that the problem has a legal as well as a medical side. Naturally one would prefer to spare your father any kind of shock, but can we be certain that he himself would wish to be spared—when the alternatives are what they are?”

“All I can say,” Sanderstead growled, “is that in his present state a shock might kill him.”

“But we have Mr. Charles to think about,” urged Truslove; which made Charles interject: “Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t bother about
me.”

“Very natural of you to say that, Mr. Charles, but as a lawyer I’m bound to take a somewhat stricter viewpoint. There’s the question of the
Will.”
He spoke the word reverentially, allowing it to sink in before continuing: “None of us should forget that we’re dealing with an estate of very considerable value. We should bear in mind what would be your father’s wishes if he were to know that you were so—so happily restored to us.”

“We should also bear in mind that he’s a very sick man,” retorted Sanderstead.