My father shakes his head. Not Charles. Not his friend. He reminds me that it was he himself who invited Gifford down to Boddington last Sunday. And it was then that the first overtures were made.
‘Think back,’ I tell him. ‘You know how Charles operates. Are you sure you weren’t responding to any prompts? Over the past few weeks, or months maybe, are you sure Charles wasn’t pointing you in a certain direction? The direction he wanted you to go?’
He reflects a moment. And what he remembers bows his shoulders. My guess, I surmise, was right.
‘Last Sunday wasn’t the beginning,’ I say. ‘It was the end of Charles’ campaign to have you open the door to Gifford.’
And then I take him through every little detail of the operation piece by piece, all the problems we’ve had this past week. I tell him what Karen Haldane found on Mannetti, and how Hugh trapped Owen Baxter. I take him right up to my final meeting with Sir Charles this afternoon. I explain that when Owen named Charles, a lot of small things seemed to click into place for me. Charles, naturally, dismissed the charge out of hand; in fact he barely acknowledged the accusation. Why should he? Who was going to take the word of a suspected murderer over that of Charles Aldridge? Plausible deniability. But then Aldridge made that call from his study. And who was the first person Charles rang after being told of Owen Baxter’s arrest? Eric Gifford.
And when I read that number on Aldridge's phone, at long last the full picture fell into place. I went to see Wolsey: not only weren’t the inspectors sent by him, he also had nothing to do with that scene at the Select Committee hearing. Charles Aldridge again. I contacted Johnstone too, he confirmed what Karen had found. And finally, at the livery hall tonight, I had my five minutes with the man himself: Gifford. The only thing I do not mention to my father now is the tie-up with Daniel’s murder. The way he looks, pole- axed by what Charles Aldridge has tried to do to us, that final piece of knowledge can wait.
When I finish, he seems shattered. His eyes are moist. ‘Raef,’ he whispers.
That’s all, just my name; but that is enough, now I know. The last vestige of doubt finally clears. Charles Aldridge, I am absolutely certain, was not acting in concert with my father. Unburdened, I go and place a hand on his shoulder.
‘We could inform the Exchange,’ he offers, shaken. ‘We could undo the agreement. Keep the bank.’
‘And lose Boddington?’
He nods.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Let it stand.’
He drops his head. It will take him a long while yet to come to terms with the betrayal by Aldridge. ‘And tonight you told Gifford you’d discovered what he'd been doing?’
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘And when I told him, he paid up.’
He considers this. ‘Penfield told me they’ve found Daniel's murderer,’ he says.
I am tempted to tell him the whole of it, but he really isn’t strong enough just now. I've done right to withhold this part of the story. Later will be quite soon enough.
‘I heard.’
He drops his head again. Beneath his breath he speaks Charles’ name.
And what comfort can I offer him? An assurance that the fierce pain of the betrayal will settle in time to a dull ache? The hope that something may yet be discovered to prove me wrong? The truth is that nothing I might say now could help him. The blow has fallen, and all he can do is endure; endure and wait for time to carry him on.
I offer to phone Mary Needham, she could meet him in St James’s. He turns his head. He says he’ll see her at Boddington tomorrow. We seem to have reached the end of things, so I bend to pick up my bag.
‘When we first heard Daniel was murdered,’ he says, ‘you thought the Department was involved, didn’t you.’
I stop, very still. I thought we could avoid this; but if we can’t, I’m not going to lie.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Because of Odin?’
I nod. Because of Odin, I say.
He regards me directly; he suspected, but now he knows. ‘Raef, you told me Daniel was going to blow the whistle on Odin.’
‘Yes.'
He hesitates. ‘Was that true?’
I feel myself sway.
‘No. No, it wasn’t.’
‘You said,’ he goes on warily, ‘you said we might have to do something about him.’
‘Yes.’
His look goes right into me. He seems to be grappling with himself, unsure of how much he wants to know.
‘If I told them down at Westminster. Whitehall,’ he says. ‘In the Ministry. . .’
Again I nod. If he’d told his colleagues the Odin deal was about to come into the open, anything might have happened. An arms contract with the hint of a Defence slush fund in the City, the award of a privatization tender to the bank which did the Odin deal; by the time the media had finished with it, senior Cabinet and Whitehall members might have ended up in court. And what might they have done to defend themselves from that? How far might they have gone?
Now I gird myself. There is one more question to be answered: why? Why did I do it? Why did I tell my father the lie?
The truth; suddenly it seems so very precious.
But the question remains unspoken. My father simply rises and comes and touches my arm. He looks ill.
'It’s over with,’ he says. Not a word of rebuke, but the sorrow in his eyes is deeper than oceans.
Reticence? Wisdom? Or perhaps, somehow, he’s pieced it together. Standing by my bag I listen to his footsteps going slowly, tiredly, down the stairs.
SATURDAY
1
B
oddington, late morning. Horseboxes are arriving down near the Stables, and I stand on the front lawn and watch them unloading. When the hound-lorry comes, the horses whinny and stamp, the hounds bark with excitement. My father, in his scarlet coat, steps from the house with the Master.
‘Can’t change your mind, Raef?’ says the Master, nodding toward the stables.
But I shake my head in reply, and we survey the scene below. Some riders are mounted, the horses turning tight circles, but most stand to one side talking with the followers. Behind us, there's the sound of hoofs on the gravelled drive as more of those hacking up from the village arrive. The Master excuses himself and heads down.
‘Theresa's getting Annie rugged up,’ my father says.
He arrived early this morning, but so far no mention has been made of our conversation last night. Gifford called from New York an hour ago to confirm his board’s acceptance of the price. It seems this whole thing really is over.
Mary Needham comes out with the stirrup cup, my father takes the tray.
‘Coming down?’ she asks me.
‘I’ll wait for Theresa.’
They set off down the hill, two dark trails forming behind them in the wet grass. I wander up past the walled garden to the churchyard. Margie has dressed her husband’s grave, the flowers are garishly bright against the tombstone. When I open the church door, the pigeons flutter then resettle in the belfry. It smells musty and damp, and I pause and touch the stone font. I was christened here; like my father and grandfather before me. And Annie was too. My footsteps sound loud and hollow as I walk down the aisle.
There are Carltons on both Rolls of Honour by the pulpit, and beneath my feet there’s a stone slab bearing the inscription: LORD BELMONT. HIS USURPED LANDS RETURNED TO HIM ON THE RESTORATION OF THE KING. And then our family motto: LOYAL IN ADVERSITY. Everything here, the church and the house, Boddington, it means so much more to me now than I ever thought it could. Here, without question, I belong. I sit down in the choir stalls, and thumb through the Book of Common Prayer: ‘For Those At Sea’. ‘The Churching Of Women’. Then hearing a sound, I turn to the door. Theresa. She is standing by the font.
‘I saw you come up.’ She gestures back. ‘From the house.’
‘Where’s Annie?’
‘Margie’s taken her down to see the horses.’ She comes down the aisle, studying the corbels and plaques that she’s seen a hundred times before, her gaze wandering everywhere but at me. She’s wearing jeans and wellingtons, and there’s a soft swishing noise as she walks. By the front pew, she stops. And faces me.
‘You got my letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t mean it to affect any decision about the bank, Raef.’
‘I know that.’ Turning my head, I promise her that the sale of the bank wasn’t influenced by the letter. ‘My decision,’ I say.
She looks relieved. She sits then, and we gaze past one another, neither one of us knowing how to start. We have been married more than ten years; we have shared intimate secrets; we have been as close as two people can possibly be; and yet now even the simplest words fail us. All those things I’d planned to say, all those speeches I’d rehearsed in my mind, here in her presence they seem utterly pointless. Is it the same for her? But finally I hold fast to this: I don't want to go back to where we were. Together or apart, we have to get on with our lives.
‘I spoke with Vance this morning,’ I tell her. ‘I asked him if he wanted to leave Carlton Brothers and come and help me set up another bank.’ Theresa faces me. ‘He said he’ll think about it. It won’t be like Carlton Brothers. Something much smaller. A boutique. Just Corporate Finance.’
‘Raef. No one’s trying to stop you.’
‘It’s my life, Theresa.’
‘I know that,’ she says.
Now I look at her. And then I ask her my question. ‘Does that change anything? What you wrote in the letter?’
‘I never wanted you to give it up, Raef .All I wanted was some balance. Time for Annie and me.’
‘I promise.’
‘No.’ She checks herself then. Her eyes glisten. ‘Am I complaining already?’
I shuffle awkwardly out of the choir stall, and Theresa stands as I approach.
Who in this world can claim a past that throws no shadows? We two are in the middle years of our lives now; there have been things done that cannot be put right; but when Theresa takes my arm and leans into me, I feel that for us, and for Annie, there is hope. And in this moment I think of Daniel too. What was it that he asked of his life? What strange and endless yearning did he try - so unsuccessfully - to fulfil? Not like me, the realization of my grandfather’s dreams for the bank. Not like Theresa, the desperate desire for a child. But there was something, I understand that now, a burning dissatisfaction, a craving for affection and love that brought so much pain in its wake. And for Daniel there will be no second chance. With part of the money I’ve extracted from Gifford, I’ll set up trust for Celia and their sons: though Daniel can’t be brought back, I think he would have appreciated this mercenary revenge. Wherever he’s passed to, I pray that it might help him find peace.
But for now I press my lips to Theresa’s head. I touch her cheek, and I hold her very close.
By the time we get down to the stables, the riders are mounted, the horses milling now, ready for the off. My father notices us standing with the followers, Theresa holding my arm. He smiles and touches his crop to his cap. I pluck Annie from the ground and set her on the stone wall, my arm encircling her waist. She points to the horses.
‘Granda,’ she says.
The horses’ bits jangle, they toss their heads, snorting steam into the cold morning air. And then the huntsman lifts his horn and blows: he blows long and hard, and the pure sound of an English winter goes pealing out across the valley. Theresa’s grip on my arm tightens, the hunt moves off. As the horses canter by, I look at Annie. Her mouth is open, she is spellbound by the world opening before her. And she laughs. It will never be the same, I know that. It will never be as it was. Sometimes, I suppose, I’ll forget, and for a few fleeting moments she’ll be mine again, utterly. But not always. For the rest of the time I imagine it will be just like this: though I’ll love her with all my heart, she’ll remain both mine and his. And yet somehow that no longer seems an insufferable burden. Life is strange. My daughter, my beautiful daughter, she turns and looks up at me now, her eyes shining, lit with wonder and delight. Who could deny her? I will never deny her. All too late for Daniel, I forgive.
Afterword
Other works by Grant Sutherland
can be found at
grantsutherland.net
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