Tall Poppies (16 page)

He'd always regarded and respected his father from afar. The major had never been the sort of man Richard could get close to because he'd been his mother's son more than his father's. He realized now that the pair had been estranged long before his mother's accident.

His father turned. ‘No, I don't suppose it is a nice day, really. Rosemary rang to tell me she's going off to America with some film chappie. I should never have married her. It will cost me a pretty penny to get out of it, I suppose.'

‘Why did you marry her?'

He shrugged. ‘When your mother died I had no excuse not to. A man needs a woman.'

‘But you had a relationship with her long before mother died.'

‘Yes, well  . . . Your mother was an invalid.' He cleared his throat.

‘Rosie wasn't like the others. She did things – things no respectable woman would even imagine doing. Damn it, Richard, surely I don't have to explain to you. She was exciting, and I always did like the chase.'

‘I don't want to know. You were weak, you've always been weak where women are concerned.'

He gave a faint smile. ‘It's true that I was able to attract women easily  . . . apart from my wife, who didn't seem to need me once she'd provided the Sinclair estate with an heir.' He shrugged. ‘But why not take advantage of women, when they are one of the great pleasures in life? They seem to enjoy a man who knows what he wants and who can gently coerce them into wanting the same. I imagine you know all that without us needing a father and son
tête-à-tête
at this stage in your life.'

Coerced was an odd sort of word to use. Richard had never considered that his mother might have been an indifferent wife. But then, one didn't usually regard one's parents in a sexual context. But he admitted that by being reluctant, his mother might have contributed to the situation. ‘Have there been any women who didn't enjoy being coerced?'

His father looked uneasy, and his eyes didn't seem able to settle on anything, least of all Richard. ‘I'm not sure where you're taking this conversation, my boy.'

‘Oh, I don't think you'd have to stretch your imagination too far back, do you?'

Henry grimaced. ‘Did the girl tattle on to you about it? I paid her to keep quiet about it, the silly creature. How was I to know she was inexperienced? She should have said.'

‘Ah  . . . so you remember that about her.'

He shrugged. ‘If I were you I'd get rid of her.'

‘You're not me, and Livia hasn't said a word, because she wouldn't have wanted to upset me. What happened?'

His father shrugged. ‘I'd been drinking heavily  . . . Rosemary's phone call, you know. The girl was clearing the table, a pretty little thing. Nice hips, I thought. A girl like that would be snug. I tried to kiss her. She objected, but it was too late for me. She struggled and we fell on the floor  . . . I'm not sure what happened then. I think I got the business over and done with quickly, then passed out. Didn't wake up until that man of yours practically dragged me upstairs to my bed by the scruff of my neck.'

‘Beamish told me.'

‘When I spoke to the girl the next day she said nothing had happened. I gave her a cheque for the fright I gave her, you understand. You say she didn't complain, so how the hell did you learn of it?'

‘The cheque was found ripped to pieces and thrown into the ashes of the drawing room fire.'

‘There you are then, that proves I'm innocent of any hanky-panky. Don't worry your head about it, Richard, it won't happen again. Odd, I always thought her to be a nice girl  . . . but she's the same as all the other women, accepts money for favours. It's no good complaining about it after she's accepted payment, is it?'

Richard's blood began to boil and his throat constricted so he could hardly speak. ‘No  . . . it won't happen again. Not to my staff. Not in my home.'

‘I say, old boy, was I treading on your turf there? Sorry, and all that. I understood you were past that sort of thing.'

‘Be quiet, Father.' And for the first time in a long time, Richard began to stutter. ‘I have s  . . . something to say to you.'

His father gazed at him, surprised by his tone.

‘Pack your f  . . . fucking bags and get out. Go back to London and sort out that woman of yours if you want to keep her. Follow her to America if you need to.'

‘I say, old chap, there's no need for that sort of language. I'm your father, after all.'

‘There is every need. Livia Carr is a decent young woman, who I happen to have a great deal of affection and respect for. I won't have you mauling her whenever you feel the need. Get out. Go back to your tart and stay there.'

‘Look, Richard  . . . I can understand your anger. I'll apologize to the girl.'

‘You won't go near her again  . . . not while I have a b  . . . breath left in my b  . . . bloody useless body. I don't want to see you again.'

‘Don't be silly, Richard. You need me to look after you.'

‘I don't need you at all. I have Beamish and Livia. For Christ's sake, stop being a bloody nuisance, and leave me to d  . . . die in peace.'

Richard reached for the bell on the table, but his arm jerked and everything went crashing to the floor. It sounded like a shell exploding and he cowered in the chair, his chest tight, so he found it hard to breathe. He didn't want to die, not now. His breath came harshly as he was surrounded by stinking yellow mist, the stuff that had caused the damage to him.

Beamish came in. He swept him up in his arms and laid him on the bed. Richard's men came, the ones left behind in France. They crowded around the bed, wearing their gas masks. Their eyes behind the glass eyepieces were anonymous as well as accusing.

‘I'm s  . . . sorry,' he murmured, his body beginning to shake and his hands plucking at the eiderdown.

His father hovered behind Beamish, watching wide-eyed as Beamish prepared an injection and administered it. As Richard's muscles relaxed one by one his breathing became easier. He began to float.

‘I'm all right  . . . leave me now  . . . get the men to safety, Sergeant.'

‘They're safe, Sir, and so are you.' Beamish removed Richard's shoes and tucked the eiderdown over him. ‘You rest now, Sir. You'll be all right in a little while.'

‘He wants me to go back to London,' his father said.

Beamish had a fierce look on his face. ‘He can't afford to be upset, so it would be for the best.'

‘Who will manage his affairs?'

‘Captain Sangster is quite good at managing them himself, he always has been. But the Sinclair trust lawyers have his power-of-attorney, so you needn't worry that he'll be taken advantage of. Do you need any help packing, Major?'

‘Perhaps it would be better for him if I did go back to London. Richard seems to be distraught. I had no idea he jumped at the sight of his own shadow. This sort of thing shouldn't be pandered to. He needs to learn that the war is over, and to straighten his spine and be a man. But then, he always was his mother's son.'

Beamish's voice was deceptively mild. ‘He needs to be a man, does he? Let me tell you this  . . . a better man you couldn't wish to find.'

‘Don't be impertinent. As for you, Beamish, I don't know what you thought you saw the other night, but it would have been better if you'd kept it to yourself, then this wouldn't have happened.'

‘And better for you if you'd kept your dick inside your trousers, Major. Well, let me just say this to you, and with the respect it deserves. You're a desk soldier who doesn't know how to salute without knocking his cap off. You don't know the first thing about war, or about the loyalty shared between soldiers-at-arms. You just enjoy a kiss-arse relationship propping up the bar and grunting with the rest of the desk officers.'

‘I think that's enough insubordination from you, Beamish. Were you still enlisted I'd have you up on a charge.'

Richard grinned widely. The sergeant didn't usually say much, but when he did it was a corker of a speech. He opened his eyes to exchange a smile with his men, to find they were no longer there.

Beamish was in full flood. ‘No doubt you would. You know, you're a poor excuse for a man, Major. If Captain Sangster told you to make yourself scarce, then be quick about it. As for Miss Carr, if you as much as look at her sideways again, I'll knock your soddin' head off your bleedin' shoulders, officer or not, and kick it all the way to Land's End.'

Thank you, Beamish, Richard thought, and he began to chuckle.

An hour later a knock came at the door and his father cleared his throat before whispering against the panel, ‘I'm off then, Richard  . . . we'll let bygones be bygones, shall we? Keep in touch.'

‘Goodbye, Father. Get yourself sorted out.' Despite everything, the man was his father and Richard couldn't shame him by disowning him altogether.

‘I will. I promise.' Henry's feet trod heavily down the stairs, and Richard's door rattled when the front door closed behind him.

When the car drove away, Beamish said, ‘I forgot to fill the tank with petrol. I hope he checks the gauge when he gets to Bournemouth.'

Richard chuckled. ‘You know, Beamish, we should buy ourselves a car, something practical like Dents has got. You could teach Livia to drive it.'

‘Yes, Sir, I suppose I could, though I don't go much on women drivers in general.'

‘They were driving buses in London during the war, or so I was told.'

‘With respect, Sir, may I point out that you're not a bus company?'

‘With respect, Beamish, somebody has wound your little clockwork spring up and set you in motion, and you're talking too much today.'

Beamish grinned. ‘It must be true if you say so. Do you want me to see to the car?'

‘I'll telephone Simon Stone tomorrow and tell him to expect the account first. I don't want him to have a heart attack.'

‘How are you feeling now, Sir?'

‘The gremlins have gone, thank God.'

‘Good. How are we going to handle Miss Carr's problem?'

‘We're going to forget it ever happened, unless she decides to raise the matter with me. I hope she'll confide in me.'

‘She's a nice girl and she won't want to take it any further and worry you with it, Sir. Something like that would be too hard for her to live with.'

‘I hope not, because if it gets out it will go against her. After all, we don't really know for sure.' Even his father had been too inebriated to remember the details. ‘Whatever happened, she needs to deal with it in her own time. I don't want her to feel ashamed, and if she thinks people know about it, she will. Does Florence know?'

‘I haven't told Florence anything, except that the cheque had the wrong amount on it and Livia was told to burn it. Luckily, Florence doesn't read very well, and she didn't question it.'

Ten

It was a blustery afternoon late in March, when Dr Elliot came.

His smile broadcast the positive nature of the news he carried, before he had time to get into the house.

‘It's as I thought, a bronchial complaint. In addition, the girl is anaemic, which accounts for her pallor and most of her other symptoms. That's what fooled Denton.' Dr Elliot plunged his hands into his bag and placed two bottles of liquid on the table. ‘I've brought her an iron tonic, as well as some cough medicine.'

Esmé pulled a face when she saw it.

‘I only bring the best medicine for my best girl. It tastes like cherries,' the doctor told her. ‘It should get rid of your cough. You won't need the mask any more, so you can take it off.'

‘Can I go and tell Chad? He's in the garden.'

‘You most certainly can, but put your coat on first, then off you go.'

He turned Livia's way after Esmé went skipping off. ‘If she gets a cold in the future we must be careful it doesn't go to her chest. The trouble with being in an orphanage is that they only get the bare essentials, and they don't receive enough nourishment. It can't be helped, of course. She was lucky she didn't end up with her legs bowed from rickets. Many children do.'

‘Yes, I remember the orphanage food. It was a choice of thin oatmeal for breakfast, pea or cabbage soup and potatoes with Anything stew.'

‘Anything stew?'

She grinned. ‘The meat could have been anything. It was marginally worse than the food in the boarding school I attended before that  . . . though at least I had parents then, and they sent hampers now and again.'

‘Ah yes, I'd forgotten you'd spent a few years in the orphanage.'

‘Two years. I was sent here to work when I was sixteen.'

‘That must have been hard after your former life.'

‘The orphanage prepared me well for it. I was an expert at scrubbing floors when I left. I've discovered that it doesn't pay to dwell on what might have been, and complaining about your lot in life just makes you unhappy. You have to get on and make the best of what comes your way.'

‘You've got a good attitude towards life, Livia. I've noticed that you're looking a little tired yourself of late, though. Perhaps it's time I checked you over.'

She tried not to panic at the thought. ‘I'm fine, really. I've been worrying about Esmé. Now I won't have to.'

A careful gaze scrutinized her face. ‘Hmmm.'

‘Denton told me that when a doctor makes a humming noise, he only does it because it makes him sound like an expert, as though he knows something the patient doesn't.'

‘That could be true. All the same, I'm going to ask you to take some of that iron tonic in the other bottle. The same dose as Esmé, a teaspoon each a day until it's all gone. By that time the roses should be back in the cheeks of both of you.'