Until the Colours Fade (16 page)

Magnus closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Tip a stone from your shoe; the world’s no better, but your foot’s more comfortable. My aims were modest.’

‘To ruin the best chance of marriage Catherine’s ever going to get?’

‘I didn’t want her to marry him, but I didn’t hit myself on the head to stop her.’

Disconcerted by the tone of this answer, Charles said sharply:

‘But you’ll still associate yourself with a rag like the
Indepen
dent
.
Don’t you care anything for father? For years he’s taken no sides in this town and his impartiality has gained him the respect of all.’

‘And the love of none,’ replied Magnus under his breath.

‘That’s a damned lie,’ hissed Charles.

In spite of the pain it caused him, Magnus could not help smiling.

‘I was forgetting you, Charles, I apologise.’ He rolled over onto his side gingerly, so that he could see Charles better. ‘Do you actually suppose that because father subscribes to low church missions, while he pays for the restoration of a rood screen, that either the dissenter or the Anglican thinks any better of him for his gifts to the other?’

Now that they were on the timeless ground of their age-old animosity about their spotless father, Magnus almost felt another person; the boy he had once been.

‘Does his career mean nothing to you?’

‘A great deal, Charles. It killed our mother.’

‘I saw him weep,’ whispered Charles in a shaking voice.

‘You saw me do the same. His career killed her. He should have wept,’ Magnus returned quietly. ‘If you think events in this town are likely to influence their lordships at the Admiralty, I suggest you’re mistaken.’

‘Perhaps, but you wouldn’t care either way. Don’t tell me you give a tinker’s curse for triennial parliaments or the secret ballot, whatever you may have said to Catherine. You couldn’t gain enough notoriety in the army, so you sold out to play at the
radical
demagogue for a while. More honourable paths of
advancement
were too slow, I suppose.’ He stopped, furious that he had
lost his temper and made himself appear callous. The only point in talking to Magnus would have been to persuade him to get Catherine to reconsider, but that had never been even a remote possibility. ‘I’d like to sympathise with you? Magnus.’

‘Do so then, Charles. You have my permission.’

‘How can I when you tell me nothing?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be going when father gets home.’

Magnus lay back exhausted; his nightshirt was soaked with sweat and his head hurt him.

‘Will we ever stop behaving like children?’ sighed Charles, as he walked towards the door, remembering with sudden
clarity
his mother’s mocking voice: ‘If only you could laugh, Charles … really laugh like Magnus does. You’re always so serious, so taciturn.’ Leaving the room, Charles saw himself a pale and awkward boy of twelve being helped up onto the box of the post coach at the start of his first journey to
Portsmouth
. While he had been fighting his way from gunroom to wardroom, from volunteer to midshipman and mate, Magnus had been at home with his mother and sister: taking drives, going on picnics, singing, barely troubled by his succession of tutors. Going down the stairs, another memory: a misty March morning and Magnus weeping, weeping as though he would never stop, their father’s letter in his hand:
Freetown,
Sierra
Leone
…
Mother
died
this
morning
just
before
six
o’clock
….
The
quinine
never
took
effect,
but
she
felt
no
pain
….’ Mother’s boy and father’s boy. Charles’s anger had spent itself. But still feeling unable to face Catherine, he went to the Billiard Room and rang for brandy and water.

Helen, he thought, running a hand absently over the smooth green baize of the table, if only … but like so many other
possibilities
in his life, that one too now seemed irrevocably lost.

Lord Goodchild felt weary, depressed and a little drunk. For the past hour he had been drinking claret and arguing with Francis St Clare, in the chief magistrate’s offices in the court house. St Clare’s pink face was tinged with grey and his eyelids were puffy with tiredness. During the night there had been a desperate riot at the workhouse, where every window and stick of furniture had been smashed, and hundreds of loaves of bread distributed among the mob. The total number of injured was not yet
accurately
known, but three men had undoubtedly been shot dead: a soldier and two rioters. With the election only two days away, the situation could hardly have been worse.

At two in the morning, having read the Riot Act without
effect
, St Clare had sent to Oldham for two squadrons of the 22nd Hussars to relieve the local yeomanry and, at the same time, had despatched a courier to the general officer for the district, asking that the 17th Lancers, Goodchild’s regiment, and the 14th Queen’s Light Dragoons should receive orders to leave
Manchester
for Rigton Bridge within the next twenty-four hours.

Lord Goodchild, who three days before had persuaded his
mistress
to disregard her husband’s threats to use further meetings as evidence in divorce proceedings, had been lying naked in bed next to Mrs Carstairs’s opulent body, when his adjutant had arrived at dawn with news of St Clare’s request. Nothing short of such a catastrophe could have led Goodchild to turn his back on the prospect of a day of unhurried love-making, punctuated with restful intervals for food and wine. But he had soon been dressed and on his way to Rigton Bridge, hoping to find that panic, rather than necessity, had inspired St Clare’s decision. On
arriving
, the police commissioner’s report and the chief magistrate’s personal account of the night’s events had quickly brought him close to a reluctant acceptance of St Clare’s position. He had promised his unreserved support, if the commanding officer of the 22nd Hussars also considered it essential for more cavalry to be drafted in, and had assured St Clare that he would consult the colonel at the garrison barracks before returning to Manchester.

Shortly before he left the court house, Goodchild was shown police reports on several other incidents. The first, he was
surprised
to see, involved assault and battery against Sir James Crawford’s younger son. Out of a dozen or so attackers, five had been detained, three with head injuries. ‘The prisoners who could testify, stated independently,’ he read, ‘that they are
coal-backers
from Oldham, and were approached by a stranger in the tap-room where they are accustomed to drink after their work, and that they were offered there the sum of five guineas each for a day’s unspecified employment in Rigton Bridge. The man who paid them, also led them in the affray, but made good his escape with six others. All those detained aver that his identity is
unknown
to them….’

‘Why the devil isn’t Crawford bringing charges?’ asked
Goodchild
, finishing the report.

‘I don’t know,’ replied St Clare, ‘and frankly I’ve no time to find out. Thought you’d be interested though, my lord … Sir James being related to Lady Goodchild.’

A certain sly archness, in the way the magistrate had spoken, irritated Goodchild.

‘He’s only her godfather.’

‘Just as well he’s still at sea,’ murmured St Clare with a frown. ‘Or didn’t you know that his son bailed out the
Indepen
dent
?’

‘You think there’s a connection?’ asked Goodchild coldly.

‘It crossed my mind, my lord,’ replied St Clare with a sleek smile and a speculative glance, which Goodchild did not like. ‘I’m charging them with causing an affray and the gas company will proceed for trespass and damage to property, so the scum may still come to the top.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ returned Goodchild emphatically.

On his way to the barracks, his lordship was grim-faced. St Clare thought Braithwaite had been behind the attack on
Crawford
and had supposed that he too would have been mixed up in it. Disgusted and bitterly angry to be associated, even by
implication,
with such proceedings, Goodchild realised for the first time the full extent of his helplessness. In case there should be a crowd waiting outside the barracks intent on stoning vehicles arriving or leaving, Goodchild told his coachman to stop in the next street, and finished his journey on foot.

Turning the corner, he saw that the street was empty and the men guarding the gates were troubled only by the insults of a few ragged boys. The road was littered with slates, stones and broken bottles. Over against the parade ground wall, an overturned ‘fly’ and several splintered carts were evidence of a recently
dismantled
barricade. A few minutes later he was ushered into the Orderly Room and found the lieutenant-colonel of the 22nd slumped in a chair by the fire, the frogged tunic of his black
undress
uniform unbuttoned, and his eyes red-rimmed and heavy with fatigue. By the window, an equally weary-looking captain was dictating orders to two copying clerks. The colonel rose with an effort and frowned.

‘My lord, you are not in Manchester?’

‘I came to see for myself. I return tonight. I want an opinion … your opinion.’

The colonel sank down into his chair again and rubbed his eyes.

‘On St Clare’s request for the reserve regiments?’ Goodchild nodded. ‘The Light Dragoons should be sent but not the 17th.’

Goodchild stared at him angrily. No colonel of Hussars was going to impugn his regiment without giving good reason for it.

‘The 17th know how to do their duty, Colonel Summers.’

‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Summers, tilting back his chair and knocking over a burned-out candle stump on the small table beside him. ‘It’s my opinion – purely a personal one, you understand – that a regiment whose commanding officer
happens
to be the unpopular candidate’s proposer, won’t find much favour with the rabble of non-electors.’ He coughed and clared his throat. ‘But doubtless Lord Delamere will know better. Generals usually do.’

‘Those with responsibilities and interests in a town should be there to keep the peace in time of trouble. I shall recommend Lord Delamere to meet the chief magistrate’s request in full.’

Summers did not argue but Goodchild still felt angry, not least because he himself had dreaded his regiment being called upon for that very reason. But now, even without the 17th, there would be at least five squadrons of regular cavalry in the town on polling day and, after the night’s rioting, Goodchild did not suppose that any of them would be popular with the mob. Since Summers would probably be the senior officer present, and Goodchild feared he might turn out a fire-eater, he was
determined
to be there to try to prevent unnecessary provocation. Wanting to go, but feeling he should find out more about the riot, he asked:

‘The rioters had guns, I hear. Any idea how many?’

‘My officers found it hard to count them in the dark, my lord.’ Summers smiled wearily and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps ten, perhaps twenty.’

Goodchild recognised the hint of contempt in the man’s voice. Summers had fought through the Sikh War of ’46, and was
probably
one of those embittered professional soldiers, who had not been rich enough to purchase from regiment to regiment to speed up promotion, and therefore looked upon those who had done so as pampered part-timers who would sell out rather than face dangerous foreign service, or exchange into another regiment so they could spend more time hunting and entertaining than with their brother officers. Goodchild resented this because he had only held commissions in one other regiment before buying the colonelcy of the 17th; and, far from having shirked fighting, he keenly regretted never having had any opportunity to lead his men in battle. Nor, as his wife and son could testify, had he spent most of his time at home. Yet the knowledge that his regiment might very well already be preparing to leave Manchester, made it easy for him to dismiss the colonel’s opinion of him and devote his thoughts to more pressing matters.

Leaving the barracks, Lord Goodchild saw that the snow, which had seemed imminent for several days, had at last started to fall. Deciding against a journey by road, he told his coachman to drive to the station to meet the four o’clock for Manchester. In the First Class waiting room, he asked the station-master for pen and paper and then, while the snow fell silently on the gabled roof, capping each point and pinnacle of the ornamental
ironwork
, he wrote to Magnus Crawford expressing shock and
indignation
over his treatment and regretting that he had been unable to visit him.

When he had finished, he walked over to the window, and, wiping away the steam from the cold panes, looked out across the empty track; already the dividing gravel was level with the sleepers. He was surprised that the near certainty of his
regiment
’s involvement had not depressed him, but instead he felt quite calm. He imagined the screaming crowds in the market square and the Quadrant and shook his head. Nothing could be more remote from the stillness of the little station under the soft and steady fall of snow.

He walked out onto the platform and breathed in deeply; above him the sky itself seemed to be descending piece by piece. He felt the flakes brush his cheeks and melt on his face. When they landed on his lips, he licked them away as he had done as a child. Later he found himself thinking of the warm dark room he had left early that morning and the smooth softness of Dolly’s white thighs; recalling the unabashed way she drew his hands to
her breasts when she wanted him to make love, he felt a slight stirring – the green pleasures of adolescence relived voluptuously in the riper landscape of early middle-age. He smiled to himself, but not without pain. Dolly, Helen, Braithwaite, Humphrey … a fine mull I’ve made of things, he thought. What Helen would do, when told that he could not settle more than fifteen hundred a year on her, if they separated, he hardly dared guess.
Remembering
her fury, he wondered whether she would still keep him to his word, even if the price were to be the sale of Hanley Park.

A slight wind blew the snow flakes obliquely, making them whirl and spin. In the distance he heard the engine’s whistle, and felt somehow consoled by the long melancholy blast in an
otherwise
muffled world. The train would come and polling day just as surely, and afterwards, Helen would impose what penalty she chose for his neglect; how stupid, he thought, not to have realised before: everything had already been decided and needed only to happen. He could no more avoid it than he could the election, or the snow’s slow silent descent around him.