Read The Secret Generations Online
Authors: John Gardner
‘Hallo there,’ Dick called.
‘
He’s come in his motor,’ Margaret Mary laughed, as they approached.
John Railton raised an arm in greeting. Then the pain struck across his chest. Far away he heard Sara cry out, and arms went round him to stop the fall. He could not get his breath, and everything tilted, blurring round him, as they gently
lowered him to the ground.
‘
I’m sorry,’ he tried to say. ‘All right in a minute.’
James knelt beside his father, and Dick moved in close to Sara, who was on both knees cradling John
’s head in her hands.
‘
Nothing…’ The pain clawed at his chest. He wanted to say it was nothing; that in a moment it would pass; but the breath would not come.
Through the pain, he also smelled the sweetness of the air: the soft, gentle scent of the dark night closing in.
He did not hear James’ almost strangled cry, ‘Pa! Pa! Dick, get someone. Get the doctor, for God’s sake!’ And James saw Sara’s face, eyes widening as she looked down at his father, not believing what she knew.
The body was completely relaxed, the jaw slack in death, and all the blood gone from the face.
Sara began to cry, softly, half-whispering John’s name, as Andrew and Charlotte came running into the rose garden.
‘
Leave him here, in the sun, for a while: until the doctor comes, anyway.’ Sara spoke slowly, desperately trying to control herself. Then, ‘Oh my God, no! No! Not John! No! No!’
But John Railton, Member of Parliament for Central Berkshire, heard nothing; lying dead in his rose garden; struck suddenly by the heart attack he had known must come.
*
The General
’s death, a little over four years previously, had signalled change for the Railtons. John’s sudden passing brought crisis; but like minor irony built into a Greek tragedy; for there were two more deaths on that summer day which brought supreme crisis to the world at large.
They took place some one thousand miles south-east of Haversage, in the Balkans. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand, with his wife, the Grand Duchess Sophie, did not even want to be there, in the town of Sarajevo, Bosnia. He hated the area, but the Emperor had commanded that he should attend the manoeuvres in the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
First there was the small, official reception; then a short drive, in Count von Harrach’s car, to the Town Hall. On the way someone threw a bomb at the car, but it exploded under the vehicle following them. So, when they reached the Town Hall, the Archduke insisted on being taken to see the injured in hospital.
The procession drove on; but near the Appel Quay the leading cars turned in the wrong direction. Count von Harrach shouted to his driver to stop, and the Archduke looked about him, wearily. He saw the name on the building. It was a shop.
Schillers Store
. Then he saw the deep-set blue eyes, and the long hair of the young man walking boldly to the car. After that, he heard the shots.
There was very little pain, and he was more concerned about Soferl, and the noise around him. His lips felt wet, and he saw Soferl
’s face above his, and heard her voice, just for a second, saying, ‘For God’s sake! What has happened to you?’ Then, with horror, he saw her eyes glaze over as she slipped down, her face dropping between his knees.
Oh my God, he thou
ght, knowing the worst, and summoning strength to speak, ‘Soferl, Soferl, don’t die. Live for my children.’
A long way off, von Harrach
’s voice came, ‘Is your Highness in great pain?’
‘
It is nothing,’ he said, feeling little, yet knowing he could not move.
Then he repeated,
‘It is nothing,’ and said again, ‘It is nothing.’ And again and again, each time softer until the blood welled into his throat and the floating darkness crept quietly in.
The car drove very quickly to the Governor
’s residence, the
Konak
, and they were made as comfortable as possible.
The Grand Duchess Sophie died first.
A little later, she was followed by her husband, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to the Hapsburg Empire, the prospective follower in the footsteps of the great Emperor Franz Joseph.
Murdered. Sarajevo, in Bosnia. 28 June 1914.
It was the one act, among so many others, to be singled out as the great moment when history changed direction in the twentieth century. The Dark Ages were about to return. Hope was gone for millions, taken away by a bullet that severed the jugular vein and lodged in the spine.
Two weeks after the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and the coincidental death of John Railton, Giles sat in The General’s study at Redhill Manor.
John
’s funeral had taken place one week to the day after his death. Now, Giles returned to Haversage for serious discussions with Sara – for the Will had left the family in a state of crisis. Precedent had been broken.
Characteristically, John had left everything to
My dearest wife, Sara
. The will was perfectly clear and incontestable. John had looked upon her as a Railton, so it did not make any difference if she remarried. Her name could be changed at any time, which meant that the ancient lands, tenancies, houses and estates of the family had passed out of their control.
The General would have seen the irony. Giles recalled a day of wind and rain, when he was about fourteen years of age and his brother home at Haversage on leave. They had walked together up onto the Downs, The General
– a captain then – talking of the Roman legions which had passed this way. He spoke of the hard training given to Roman soldiers; then, in a sudden change of mood, had stood, rain blowing into his face, an arm describing a great half circle, as he mocked traditional parental standards. ‘One day, my boy,’ he shouted against the wind, ‘all this will be yours.’ And on the way back he had said that of course it would never belong to Giles, because he would provide strong sons to carry on the line.
Every ploy had failed. Even the idea, against Giles
’ secret nature, of bringing Malcolm back to help run the estate, fell on Sara’s deaf ears.
‘
The last thing I wish is to keep the Railton heritage from the hands of true members of the family.’ Sara looked pale from shock and grief. The meeting with Giles was not easy. ‘You’ve only just told me that you believe we’re on the brink of war. The men will be needed elsewhere, for a time anyway. It is better that I should stay here and run things. For the moment at least.’
She had even been angered by his suggestion of trouble if she chose to marry again.
‘John’s hardly cold in his grave. I find all this offensive, Uncle Giles…’
‘
Please, Sara, call me Giles, I…’
‘
No. How could I think of marriage to anyone?’
He tried to interrupt again, but she would not be stopped.
‘If, at some very distant date, I do decide to remarry, then I shall consult the family and the solicitors. As it is, I must continue here. Please, just leave me alone; let me get on with the things that matter to all of us.’
There was no point in
arguing further, so Giles, disgruntled, capitulated.
Over dinner on the second night, he studied Sara with more than usual interest. It was as though the fact of being part of this family had given the y
oung woman a new kind of resolution. Not every girl in her situation would opt for running a huge estate, which was like a vast family business.
They spoke of the family now; Giles asking after James, whom he had seen only briefly at the funeral.
‘Sad, of course, but he’s divinely happy with Margaret Mary,’ Sara smiled. ‘Not that I really understand what he’s up to. He does appear to spend a great deal of time in London, and even abroad.’
‘
Really?’ Not even Giles’ eyes gave him away. He knew exactly what James was up to. ‘Abroad, eh? Yes, I think I did hear something about his being off on a trip a few weeks ago.’
Sara had never noticed that Giles
’ eyebrows were so frosted with grey until he raised them now. ‘He spent a whole month in Germany. What would an army officer be doing at the Kiel Regatta, Giles?’
‘
Looking out for his own.’ He did not have to lie directly. James had been there as a military observer; just as some naval officers went along to watch military manoeuvres. ‘The delegation to Kiel was rather special. Mr Churchill was there…’
‘
And half the senior officers of the Royal Navy. Andrew seemed quite annoyed because he was not invited.’
‘
Andrew’s only a Commander. Hardly a senior officer. Though the whole business of Kiel is quite incomprehensible. Either Mr Churchill’s very naive, or more than usually machiavellian.’ Giles gave her a thin smile. ‘Churchill has some idea that we should pool all military and naval information with the Germans – particularly naval. The First Lord, it seems, feels that a frank exchange of information will do away with any spy mania.’
He paused to sip the excellent Pouilly Fume which Sara was serving with the trout, before adding,
‘Much good will it do now.’
‘
You honestly think it’s that serious?’
‘
Very. All trust is ebbing away. I’d never trust the Imperial German Navy with my laundry, let alone the battle order of the Grand Fleet.’
‘
Especially now that you have a grandson with the Grand Fleet.’
Sara, Giles thought, was not given to being arch, but the way she spoke of Rupert was as near as damn it.
‘Rupert,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, Andrew’s very proud that one of his sons has followed in his footsteps. Rupert’s in
Monmouth
.’
‘
Yes, I
do
know.’ She laughed again. ‘I’ve heard Andrew preening about it. Rupert’s obviously very much the family favourite now he’s in an armoured cruiser.’
Sara turned the conversation to her plans for the estate and the farm, but a section of Giles
’ mind strayed into the area of family secrets, and like a scribbled note in his head, there was a nudge of frustration over Bridget’s – his daughter-in-law’s – latest piece of intelligence.
She had reported the details of a landing of arms for the Home Rulers near Dublin. Giles duly passed it on to the military, who, in turn, told him that their people on the spot in Dublin had an informer of their own. The details were similar to those Bridget had given, but not quite the same. They
were convinced that their own man had the correct information. He would have wagered on Bridget.
Giles was to recall the thought a couple of days later when Ramillies came into his office with news that the police, and a detachment of the King
’s Own Scottish Borderers, had failed to foil the landing of arms. ‘They were landed at three a.m., near Howth,’ the lad said. It was exactly as Bridget had reported, and the military information was that the landing would be at five in the morning at Malahide. Two hours late, and a few miles out.
*
Padraig O’Connell drained his glass, grinning at his comrade, Fintan McDermott. ‘Sure we had ’em by the knackers. Confusion and consternation, Fintan. The boys were grand. Worked like true soldiers of the revolution.’
‘
And the police, with the bloody British army ended up only nineteen rifles to the good.’ Fintan spat loudly onto the bar floor. ‘The bastards go for our lads, but never a murmur when the Ulster Volunteers had their weapons handed to them on a plate, so.’
They were drinking together in a bar right on O
’Connell Street, and, almost as Fintan spoke, the sound of loud jeering came floating in from outside. Padraig nodded towards the door, ‘Something’s up. Let’s take a look, then.’
Outside, along the broad thoroughfare, they could see an approaching crowd
– a shouting mass of drab men, women and children capering and dancing in the middle of the street.
‘
It’s the soldiers,’ Fintan muttered as the khaki uniforms came into view between the crowd surrounding and marching with them.
Padraig nodded.
‘King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Some of the bastards that were out last night.’
His companion grinned.
‘Come on, then, let’s have some fun.’ Together they moved towards the crowd.
It was a small detachment o
f some twenty men, a sergeant and a young officer. All looked tired after their night chasing around Malahide and Howth, ten miles or so north of the city. But the men marched with set faces, only the young officer occasionally glancing at the people who milled around them, shouting: ‘British Out… Home Rule Now… Go Home Now…’
The men marched towards the bridge over the Liffey and the crowd grew. From time to time the sergeant murmured words of encouragement.
‘Steady lads. Soon be back at the Castle.’ But the chorus became louder, more violent. The sergeant could not see his young officer starting to twitch – a slight tic of the facial muscles.
Padraig and Fintan ran alongside, enjoying the spontaneous taunting.
The detachment turned into Bachelor’s Walk, a small quay running alongside the river; and, as it did so, the chanting reached a pitch: ‘Home Rule NOW… Home RULE NOW… HOME RULE NOW!!!’
The young subaltern
’s nerve finally cracked. With an unexpected command, he swung the squad about; and, before his sergeant had time to do anything, the order was given.
Too late, Padraig realized what was happening. Even he could hardly believe his eyes, as the officer heaved out his heavy Webley side arm. The troops tur
ned as one, the front rank dropping to their knees. Padraig yelled: ‘Fintan! Down! Fintan…’ thrusting out an arm to push his comrade to the pavement, as the fusillade of shots crashed out.
The bullet that killed Fintan McDermott nicked O
’Connell’s arm before splattering his friend’s throat.
The crowd turned, some screaming in panic. There were other shouts: of the wounded, of women and children caught in the hail of lead. Then the sobering order from the cool, experienced sergeant,
‘Cease fire!’
Padraig saw a woman, her shawl covered in the blood waterfalling from her mouth, and a man lying on his back, eyes wide with the wonder of so suddenly meeting his Maker. Around him, the wounded lay groaning; a boy of about twelve years crying out,
‘Mammy… Mammy,’ and the sound of the people crushing and cramming their way back towards O’Connell Street; while the troops were moved away at the double.
O
’Connell cradled Fintan’s body in his arms, the hatred washing over him, so that he shouted mindlessly, not even hearing his own voice. ‘You bastards! Bastards! Murdering bastards!’
There, on the pavement of Bachelor
’s Walk, with three people lying dead, and over thirty wounded, Padraig O’Connell made a vow. His soul would not be quiet until they were driven for all time from his country – from Ireland – which had been so cursed by English rule.
*
All Europe basked in sunshine, and for those many thousands on holiday in England there was little thought of war. The assassination of the Archduke had taken place hundreds of miles away – just another example of extravagant Balkan bloodshed.
By July, any concern was centred on the latest business in Ireland. Three dead and thirty-eight civilians wounded, in the centre of Dublin, by a section of the King
’s Own Scottish Borderers. The newspapers and public house politicians brooded, prophesying civil war across the water.
Indeed, most of the British government were on holiday, though keeping in close touch as the situation moved from bad to worse. They fought until the eleventh hour to avert the crisis, but pessimism prevailed.
For most people, when it came, war arrived like an unexpected thunderclap – sudden, and unconnected with anything that really concerned them.
Towards the end of July, James and Margaret Mary Railton arrived at Redhill Manor.
They had agreed to stay for a week, but, as the days passed, so Sara became more concerned at the way that James would hardly leave the vicinity of the house. She wanted to show off her plans for the farm and estate, but James had no inclination to move further than the rose garden. Margaret Mary had no excuses to give.
‘
We do a great deal here for the local community,’ Sara told her, as they walked across the upper meadow, ‘but I feel we could be more practical. The farm, and estate, can be made to pay handsomely. It’s no sin to make money out of one’s land.’
Margaret Mary nodded, her mind far away. Much as she liked Sara, she hardly shared James
’ stepmother’s tastes, her real interests lying in the arts: music, literature and the theatre. She was an accomplished pianist, and, as James would tell anyone, given half a chance, better read than most men of her age and class.
But, as she walked the Railton land on that hot afternoon, Margaret Mary
’s mind was a long way from Sara’s vision of a future profit-making estate and farm, or even her beloved books and music. Distractedly, she dwelt on her husband and the future. Though James tended to play the bluff, hearty soldier, she knew that underneath his military manner lay something more sensitive. His tough outer skin could be penetrated by words and the sounds of certain composers. Theirs was a relationship of sensuality on a cerebral, as well as physical, plane. Sometimes, she felt James was almost embarrassed by this, and recently his protective shell had appeared to have grown thicker.
During the drive down to Haversage he had suddenly quoted from Shelley
’s
Queen Mab
:
‘
War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight,