The Decision (6 page)

‘I think you’re a lucky so and so,’ said Charles. ‘Can I drive it?’

‘No you can’t, you can get in the back. Matt, you sit next to me.’

‘No, really, look – there’s my bus. Goes right past my door. Thanks anyway, cheers Chas, see you, bye Eliza, nice to meet you.’

And he ran towards the bus as it was pulling away, seized the rail, jumped onto the platform and then went upstairs, so that he could watch the Fiat as it wove its way rather uncertainly in the opposite direction. He felt much better already.

He had still not got completely over his rage at not getting a commission; and he was depressed at the thought of Charles’s departure from Warley barracks. He had become, Matt realised, a genuine friend; of course it wouldn’t last, once this extraordinary experience was over, but for now he had come to rely on his company and he was going to miss him. The three days’ leave marked their final separation. Charles was off to Mons, and the four of them, tough little Walton and Nobby Clark, the Geordie, had got very drunk the night before and sworn they’d stay in touch. Bloody likely, thought Matt, the three of them working-class lads and Chas the Posho. Basic training might pretend to make you all equal; but it was only skin-deep.

The other public school wallies, as he thought of them, were wallies indeed: ‘thick as the proverbial,’ he remarked to Nobby one night as they polished their boots. ‘I mean Chas, he’s got a brain in ’is ’ead, but those two ’aven’t. I reckon we could get the better of ’em, you and I, Nobs, if we only got half a chance.’

‘Yeah, well maybe,’ said Nobby, ‘but who’s going to give it to us, eh? I don’t see either of us being welcomed into the Stock Exchange where old Chas is going.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Matt. ‘Trick is to find a place where we’d be welcome, where we could box clever, you know? I’m not going to be a builder like me dad, I want a cushy job, in an office, with a desk.’

‘Yeah, and pigs flying past the window,’ said Nobby.

Matt did actually have an idea about what he wanted to do, although he wasn’t sure how he could accomplish it. Before he went into the army, he had worked as an office boy for six months in a big insurance company. His sharp eyes had led him to where he was sure a lot of money lay: the world of property.

Big buildings were going up all over London: the Shell building near Waterloo station, Castrol House in the Marylebone Road, Thorn House in Upper St Martin’s Lane. The company he was working for insured some of the smaller ones; Matt always read very carefully the memos he carried about from office to office, realising how much he would learn from them, and one of the girls who worked in the typing pool and who fancied him would supply – in all innocence – information on the figures she typed up all day during an evening at the pictures or in a coffee bar. She didn’t realise she was doing this; just found Matt’s interest in her work rather touching.

It was small-beer stuff, a few thousand here and there, but Matt would work out for himself how the thousands would multiply to the power of millions for the big boys behind the big buildings. And it wasn’t just the money; he felt a sense of genuine excitement as he travelled to work each morning on the bus – watching the buildings grow, watching London turn modern, as he put it, staring at the bomb sites that still scarred it, and wondering what might be growing shortly in their place. He had read in his
Daily Mirror
that something like a hundred and forty million more bricks had been cast that year than the one before, and that the money spent on new buildings had almost doubled in the past ten years. It seemed very clear to Matt that this was the industry to go into. Moreover, he sensed that it was a new, go-ahead world, and he would have a better chance to make progress in it.

When he left the army, he’d decided to get a job in one of the commercial estate agents that were multiplying almost daily; he could earn at least eight pounds a week just for starters. The sky towards which the great towers soared could be literally the limit. And Matt would have a part of it.

That was his dream, at any rate.

‘So – any news?’ Charles said as they drove towards Kensington. ‘Got a job yet?’

‘Not really,’ said Eliza. ‘I mean I’ve got one, but it’s not what I want, I’m just a secretary.’

‘So, what do you want exactly?’

‘Well, I’d like to get into the fashion business, work on a magazine maybe, but I haven’t quite got there yet.’

‘Jolly good. Well, keep me informed. I can’t say I quite understand, but—’

‘It’s very simple. I want a career, I don’t just want to get married. Well, I do one day, but I certainly don’t see getting a rich husband as the be-all and end-all, like nearly all my friends do. Even if it is what Mummy and Daddy hope for.’

‘They’re struggling a bit, aren’t they?’

‘I really think they are. And the house is a huge expense and worry, lovely as it is. Oh, look, there’s another little Fiat, look, a sister for mine.’

‘You are absolutely ridiculous,’ said Charles, laughing.

‘I know, I can’t help it. Incidentally I thought he was rather sweet, your Mr Shaw. Awfully good looking.’

‘Is he? I suppose he is. Eliza, do look out, you nearly knocked that chap off his bike. Now tell me about your flatmates. Anyone I know? And where are we going tonight? I’m ready for a bit of fun, I can tell you.’

Sarah took a deep breath; she had to broach this subject, she couldn’t leave it any longer.

‘Adrian?’

He was deep in an article in the
Telegraph
. They were having breakfast outside, on the terrace at the back of the house.

‘Interesting. They could start work on this Channel Tunnel in two years. I can’t believe it. Wonder if it’d be a good investment.’

‘Adrian, please don’t talk about investment. We can’t afford to buy as much as a premium bond at the moment. And anyway, if—’

‘If what, my love?’

She stopped somehow. She’d been about to say one of the unforgivable things, about how Adrian’s investments had invariably left them worse off; or that if he’d done a proper job throughout their marriage instead of fooling around with ridiculous schemes, they might not be in quite such a difficult situation now, or, worst of all, that her father had been right.

‘If we did have any money, we’d need to spend it on Summercourt.’

‘On what exactly? Seems fine to me.’

‘It isn’t fine, Adrian. It needs painting, the whole house, outside, every door and window, and that would cost at least five hundred pounds.’

‘Sounds a bit excessive. And not really necessary, looks all right to me.’

‘I know it looks all right at the moment,’ Sarah said, ‘the sun’s shining, the roses are all over the front door, but when it rains, when it gets wet, you can see the cracks in the paintwork. Damp is getting in, it’s really serious.’

‘Really? I’ll have a look next time.’

‘We could look at it all now, darling, actually. Like those window frames. The wood’s actually crumbling away in one of them.’

He stood up, took his glasses off, walked across to the window, peered at it for a moment, then returned to the table.

‘Honestly, darling, I don’t think it’s too bad. Lick of paint on the worst ones, that’d fix it. No need to do them all.’

‘Adrian, there is a need. Really. And there’s damp in the cornices of some of the top bedrooms, I think there’s quite a lot of water getting in. Really and truly we need a new roof, you know. Mr Travers warned us about that last time he replaced the slates, said he couldn’t patch it all up indefinitely.’

‘Now darling, think of the money he’d make, if he re-roofed the whole of Summercourt. Of course he’s going to say that.’

Sarah took a deep breath.

‘I don’t agree, Adrian. He’s a careful builder, a proper craftsman, and I would put a lot of faith in anything he had to say. And looking at those ceilings, I think the time has come.’

‘But sweetheart, we can’t afford it.’

‘Well, we could if—’

‘If what?’

‘If we sold a bit more land.’

There. She had said it. It hadn’t sounded quite as bad as when it had ground round and round in her head, in the small hours of the morning.

‘But I wouldn’t even consider it,’ he said, ‘it would be a dreadful thing to do. We’ve always agreed that we’ve kept the absolute minimum necessary to ensure the place is safe, so there’s no risk of it being spoilt.’

‘We need the money, Adrian, we really do. It only need be a few acres.’

And then it did all sound dreadfully bad, and she was horrified to find herself near to tears. He went over to her, put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘don’t cry. You know I can’t bear you to be upset. It’ll be all right, darling. You should have talked to me before, not worked yourself up into this state. Look, leave it with me, I’ll find someone to help us.’

‘But, Adrian—’

‘Now, Sarah. I mean it. It’ll be all right. Promise. I’ll talk to Bert Chapman, see what he says. He’s a bit more realistic about these things than Travers.’

Bert Chapman was what her father would have called a spiv. Adrian liked him because whenever he came in with an estimate it was lower than anyone else’s and he got jobs done more quickly, but to her the reason was plain, he botched everything, cut corners and employed people who had no real idea what they were doing.

She opened her mouth to say so, but Adrian was already moving into the next hideously predictable phase of the discussion.

‘Oh, Sarah,’ he said, his face suddenly infinitely sad. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Sorry I don’t have more in the way of funds myself. I’ve been pretty useless to you, haven’t I, in lots of ways. Never brought any money in.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

Of course, she’d known when she fell in love with him that he had no money and only a modest job in the City. Which he’d given up on his fiftieth birthday, because he was finding it so exhausting doing the journey up there every day as he got older, and a friend of his had offered him a partnership in his company, selling guns and fishing rods by mail order. But that had gone bust, taking Adrian’s investment with it. Of course he had a small pension. But he was terribly extravagant, spent a lot of money on shooting, on wine, clothes …

‘I’m not being silly,’ he said now. ‘I feel bad about it. And I hate to see you so worried.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help that.’

‘Sometimes,’ he said suddenly, ‘I think your father was right. You should never have married me. How much better you’d have been with Johnny Robertson, how many millions is he worth now?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I think you do,’ he said and his eyes were very sad. ‘I found that magazine you were reading the other day, and that list of the richest men in Britain. Let me remind you. It was twenty. Twenty million pounds. That would have sorted out any amount of painting, wouldn’t it? And Lord Harry whatever, he was on that list too, he had even more. Oh, Sarah, I’m not surprised you’re disappointed.’

‘I’m not disappointed,’ she said quickly.

He ignored this. ‘But there Charles was. So you didn’t have much choice, did you?’

‘I didn’t want a choice.’ And she hadn’t, in spite of her mother’s grief, her father’s rage at her announcement she was pregnant. She had wanted to marry Adrian. Had insisted on marrying Adrian.

She reached up and kissed him.

‘I’ve been very happy,’ she said, ‘as you know, we both have. It’s all been lovely.’

‘I hope so. Certainly it has for me.’ He picked up the paper again, clearly feeling the matter settled. ‘Anyway, darling, I’ll get Mr Chapman in early next week. Don’t worry any more.’

She would of course, but silently. These discussions just made matters worse.

As she went into the house, the phone rang.

‘Mummy?’

‘Hello, darling. How are you?’

‘Very, very well. I’ve got the most wonderful news.’

Engaged? thought Sarah, her heart leaping. To that nice Barrett boy, perhaps. That would solve an awful lot of problems, he was so rich and so … so suitable in every way. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘I’ve got the most amazing and brilliant job. I’m so excited. It’s everything I hoped for, in fashion, not just secretarial – oh, Mummy, I’m so happy …’

‘That’s absolutely marvellous, darling,’ said Sarah, forcing her voice into enthusiasm. ‘I’m so glad. Tell me all about it.’

Her heart lifted in spite of herself as she listened. It did sound wonderful. And Eliza was only eighteen, was still a little too young to think about getting married…

‘Look! Isn’t it lovely?’

They all looked obediently at the square-cut sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, glittering in its appointed place, the fourth finger of the left hand, specially manicured for the occasion.

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘How terribly exciting. Congratulations!’

‘Marvellous!’

‘Thank you. I’m so happy! I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day. Thank goodness it’s Friday, we’re going down to the country tonight, to talk plans with Mummy and Daddy.’