Chapter 8 - You start Monday

 

Green loaded his luggage into his car strapping the larger items to the open boot. There was just one last lunch with the Tens Club, then with all his goodbyes said he left that life behind him. He accelerated out of the college, through the town and within minutes was in the open countryside. He did not look behind him at the beautiful vistas, indeed he could not bring himself to do this. What had gone, was gone, his dread was what was to come.

After several miles the numbness he had felt since being told of his expulsion turned to emotion. It overtook and engulfed him, the tears running down his face. He tried to stifle them with his hand, but it was no good. Ahead lay a wild flower meadow, he turned the car into it rolling down to a stop under a large willow tree overhanging the stream.

The car felt claustrophobic to him, pulling the car blanket from the back seat, he left its confines and spread his blanket under that nurturing tree. The tears returned, it was not the shame of being sent down, or the knowledge that his father was waiting for him that caused his anxiety. It was solely for the fact that he had never tried to perform any injustice and his punishment seemed particularly harsh, it seemed that the world was persecuting him.

With his last reserves he felt the uncontrollable urge to sleep before he might continue his journey, he was both physically and mentally drained. Taking off his jacket, he rolled it up and placed it under his head, lying beneath that majestic tree and through half open eyes watched the sun being cast by the slow movement of the willow as its mighty bows rustled and gestured slightly in the summer breeze. Thoughts rushed through his brain, both new and old, he thought of Gulliver’s travel and drifted off to sleep “as I slept I dreamt a dream”.

It was an unusual feeling, he awoke feeling refreshed. It was now late in the afternoon, knowing that he must be on his way soon, if he was to reach the family estate before dark. He hesitated twice from getting up, the tree afforded him protection and he did not want to leave its maternal embrace. The sick feeling in his stomach had subsided to hollowness, an emptiness he pulled his jacket on and picking up the blanket threw it into the back of the car.

He stopped and hesitated with one foot on the running board and lent both his arms on the door, it was no use thinking about it any more, best just go back and face the inquisition. With that he pulled himself like a leaden weight into the car, adjusted the magneto and fired the electric starter. It burst into life, it at least would be pleased to go home, at least there someone loved it. If only his father could pay the same attention the chauffeur did to the family cars.

The day light had dimmed as the headlamps began to pick up the walls that surrounded the estate. The land to both sides of the wall belonged to his father, fields and farms as far as the eye could see. But, it was behind that wall which was his father’s domain. To the front of him lay the cinder road which led from the main road to the entrance of the estate, a great sandstone carved gateway greeting you. The car swung through and proceeded, to the right was the village that belonged to the estate, with it houses and family church. The road stretched out in front, picked up by the weak headlights of the car. He drove down into the valley, the house would soon be before him, looming up out of the darkness. He pulled into one of the side courtyards which once had housed the family’s coaches, these days it served as the garage, he made his way to a side door to gain access. As he laid his hand on the door it swung open, his fathers valet Fredrickson stood to one side to allow him entry.

'Good evening mi Lord,' his Midlands accent crackling through.

'Ah Fredrickson, I have a few things in the car, that need carrying up, is my father in?' The valet confirmed.

'Your father and the family are at dinner, they have guests, your father left instructions that you were to wait in his library, cook will send in a cold tray.'

He glanced at his wristwatch, they wouldn't be finish dinner for at least two hours, maybe longer depending on the company present.

'Who are his dinner guests?'

'I believe it is some gentlemen your father knows from the war office.'

'Oh dear - poor mother, she'll feel as if she's been conscripted, well at least I will have time to wash up.'

'I'll bring some hot water up for you directly sir.'

'I'll use the back staircase if you don't mind?' Fredrickson, did not answer there was no need; Alex knew, that his scandal would already be public knowledge amongst the servants, it would allow him to avoid all in the house for the present.

'Please Let cook know, I’ll come down to the kitchen.' He found the atmosphere in his fathers study oppressive, it had been that way since he was a child, it was a place where he had seldom been welcome. It spoke of his fathers position, the family and duty, the walls were adorned with those members of the family who had given heroic service and several were the martyrs of the family. You could trace them as far back as Agincourt and beyond, in fact to any war.

He bathed while Fredrickson laid out and brushed a suit from his wardrobe, it was a country suit, designed presumably to make him scratch, robust and made by a local country tailor.

He shouted through, 'I have a nice summer suit in pale blue. Perhaps I could wear that? It's in my luggage' During the course of his bathing Fredrickson had worked in the measured pace that valets have, each item that touched his hands he viewed and committed to memory.

In his Lordships case he knew every item in those wardrobes, what needed cleaning, mending, adjusting and how each item would complement another. Having dressed his Lordship for several years, Fredrickson had the measure of the man and his taste, he could hear him now referring to young men in similar suits.

“I went to see Balderson last week, saw his son. He was dressed in one of those modern suits they are wearing now, all cut into the hips. Do you know, If I hadn't known, I would have sworn he was a girl, the boy looked like a pansy”. He held the suit up. Yes, this suit was not pale blue, as much as powder blue and with Alexander's figure and mannerisms, he would make Balderson's son look like Apollo! It would be best not to antagonise his father while he was at home, there would be plenty of time if he wished to wear it. After all, he normally would only see his father once every six months. More importantly Fredrickson, new his father would judge him for allowing the boy to wear it.

'I believe you are to meet your father’s guests this evening sir. If I might make so bold, I believe they would not understand the exuberance of a young gentlemen's apparel.' Alexander walked to the door and looked at Fredrickson. His father had a plot, he knew it, men from the war office here, dear God, well at least he wouldn't be joining the army. But, a job as some miserable under-secretary in a ministry. Oh how ghastly, well at least he would be able to take a cheap flat in London to escape them. The thought became more appealing, his modest income would allow for perhaps a more bohemian lifestyle, yes, that was a thought!

'I think you’re right perhaps it could do with a press.'

'Indeed sir, now if you would excuse me I will return to my duties, I believe Mr Hall will be assigning you one of the footmen to valet for you during your stay.'

'Thank you Fredrickson,' he hurried to dress, everything was laid out for him, he slipped a shirt on and then pulled on the trousers, the braces were already fixed to the buttons, so he slipped the straps over his shoulder. How he had managed to lose some weight was beyond belief, but he had steered away from the stodgy English food of the university. He jumped into his stout brogues, kicking them on as if they were clogs, the tie was next followed by the jacket. Now standing in front of his long cheval mirror he placed his hands in his customary pose to examine his attire. He immediately dropped his hand from his hip, his father had commented several times on that pose in the past “an inch lower and you'll be mistaken for one of those Nancy boys.”

His attire was plain enough for the country he couldn't be any more bumpkin like, it was the closest he would achieve to the gentleman farmer look. However, his loss of those few pounds made the trousers look too large especially around the waist. Crossing to the chest of drawers, he took out a belt to match the shoes and pulled it in tight, pushing the excess material of the waistband to the side with his finger. The desired image reached, he made his way down the main staircase into the oak panelled hall, the sounds of the dinner party could be heard through the doors, it was a strange quirk that the house had been designed not to allow entry, into anything other than the first sanctums round the large hallway.

By the staircase was a small door disguised into the panel work of the hall, this gave access to the lower stairs and servants corridors. It was one of those areas which enabled members of the household staff to appear and disappear as if by magic. Next to this, a large leather arm chair with a hooded cover stood, its purpose was to house a guardian, one of the footmen, whose job it would be to wait till the small hours to either meet his Lordship or members of the family returning late, or equally to fetch the outdoor wear for those members of a dinner party who stayed until even the dregs had been drunk.

Nothing really had changed, he could hear his father’s voice through the dining room doors, it was a powerful voice carried by its own weight of importance. He felt uncomfortable at the sound of it and turned away. There would be time later to talk to him.

He placed his hand on the panelled door. He hadn't used this door since he was a child and stole away to see cook when he was upset. He would sit at her table and after he had shed his burden, there would always be some warm treat for him. He had then been sent away to a series of boarding schools and the person who picked him up from school at the end of each term, was the chauffeur. Even his old nanny seemed more like family than his own, and cookie was always there when he returned, he had loved that warm kitchen, he always felt secure in its embrace.

He now pushed the door open and ventured along the distempered service passage, which ran through the course of the house, to an intersection which, he followed to the courtyard around which were clustered: the ice room, dairy, laundry plus several other rooms for the general well being of the house and finally the kitchen. The kitchens detached proximity to the house had been a constant source of anxiety to every cook over the centuries, but not to the third lord whose preference it was, to have all domestic duties removed as far from him as possible.

He walked the last few yards over the courtyard and opened the door to the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Cook had her back turned to him.

'I'm not bothered, not one jot what they want. The next course will be there when it’s right and that means on time and you may tell Mr Hall that from me!'

'Oh that's excellent news. Father will be so happy, he does like everything to be neatly done.' She whipped round, her face full of disbelief and jubilation at the same time.

'Oh Master Alexander, you're home, and you've come to see your old cookie.' He went round the large scrubbed table that occupied the centre of the kitchen, smiling at her, she grabbed him and hugged him, pushing him away equally as quickly.

'Oh Master Alexander, I’ll get your lovely clothes all covered in flour, and look at me I must have been peeling the onions.'

'Oh don't worry cookie, Old Fredrickson said that you were preparing a cold tray to be sent up to father's library. If you don't mind I would rather eat down here with you?'

'Mind... Mind, of course I don't mind, now you just sit there at the end of the table, and you'll have a meal, better than that going to his Lordships guests.' Her voice was elated.

'But you mind though you don't get under my feet.' she gestured some kitchen implement at him. She always had one to hand when making one of her kitchen speeches.

'Don't worry, I won't cookie.' She set about her tasks with renewed vigour.

'Sarah, Sarah' she shouted where is that stupid girl.'

'I'm here Mrs Nime'

'Well come in here when I call you, what the devil are you doing?' Sarah was now standing at the door, with a sheepish look on her face.

'Well come in girl, I don't know what's come over you today but, you're going to feel the sharp end of my tongue if you don't buck your ideas up. And me, with his Lordships dinner party and his young Lordship here.' Sarah, now entered the kitchen a pale creature with her hair pushed into a bun over it she wore a white dust cover with lace frill, and the regulation uniform of white piny and heavy grey dress. Her accent was Irish and either went from a rapid high paced shrill, or to a whining nearly crying voice, which she always had when being informed of a discrepancy in her duties.

'But Mrs Nime, I was told if ever I saw one of the family; that I should not be seen.'

'That may be my girl, but in my kitchen, you'll do what I tell you and no one else,' she looked at Alexander.

'You know if it wasn't for her Ladyship giving that girl a chance I don't know where she would be, I shudder to think what would become of a simple girl like her, if your mother her Ladyship was not so good.' He looked at the poor girl,

'Yes my mother’s benevolence is without dispute unlimited'. The kitchen was now became a hive of activity, with maids and footmen ferrying the dishes backwards and forwards. Each dish having a final inspection under the critical eye of Mrs Nime, before being taken to the main house, with ample final instructions on its layout on the table. A veritable feast was prepared for Alexander, though he only picked at it, to the great distress of cookie.

'Why you've lost weight Master Alexander, don't worry, cookie will soon get some meat back on those bones.' She talked to him as if nothing had changed, the world had stood still for her, he just smiled at her, she was in her element; pandemonium was all around her, she would rise above it, he watched her and was reminded of an old mother hen, clucking around.

'You know it was the same each time they changed your school, I told your mother.' In case he had forgotten who she was she confirmed it.

'Her Ladyship, I said to her, I remember it as clear as day the first time you came back from Eton. It was just the same, you had lost so much weight, well I told her, that boy shouldn't be sent from pillar to post, he's a sensitive lad.' She drew breath while assailing some sauce mixture with a whisk, just stopping sufficiently long to point the whisk at him.

'I said to Mr Hall, I've put ham bones with more meat on them in the soup.' She had to stop to draw breath, before continuing the onslaught, her hands at the same time finalising the dishes with a hawk like view on each.

Her talk after a point in time became a background drone to him, this and the heat of the kitchen were comfortable to him and he drifted off in to a doze, the same feeling of security he had as a child returned. An hour passed, until he was disturbed by cookie.

'They'll be finishing shortly it's time you went up to his Lordship’s Library.' He looked at her face, it was showing more signs of apprehension than his, he took her hand and kissed it, pastry and flour it did not matter.

'Thank you for a beautiful dinner, I’ll pop in and see you again cookie.' She pulled it away and wiped the smudges of flour from his cheek with her cloth.

'Now, you just make sure you do, and remember his Lordship is only thinking of your well-being.' Sauntering back along the corridor, he thought of what she had said. Being below-stairs, she really did not know his father. His father’s pre-occupation was entirely of his own establishment position.

Tracing back his steps, he emerged back into the hallway, crossing the hallway, his instinct was to look up and catch site of himself as a child, looking through the oak balustrade at one of the society events his parents would host each year. It was his father’s proclivity for these events, which had enabled him to move from minor, to now a major political figure and moreover the visitors to this house saw him as one of the political kingpins. What was termed a king-maker in those days. His father was a political iceberg, whose hidden depths far outweigh, those people see on the surface. Across this hallway from his hidden nook above, he had seen the past great, and future great, come to pay homage and the men dining with his father tonight, what purpose this? Whatever intrigue, was being plotted in that room, it would ultimately benefit his father.

A cold shudder passed down his spine at this thought. Knowing whoever his father was grooming in that room, would lead to a decision on his future. Even the suit he was wearing this evening, had been selected, knowing it would be suitable for meeting his father.

He looked at his hand on the library door handle, as if it was detached from his body, it swung the door open. The light from the hall crept into the room, illuminating his father's ornate rococo desk, the light gleaming on the gilt work. He viewed it much as a condemned man views the scene of his execution, once that final door is opened. No guards to force Alexander through these last few steps though, instead his own motor functions led him those last few yards. He sat in front of his father’s desk and waited much like a man visiting his doctor, self-conscious his slender hands resting on the hard cloth of his country trousers, he felt the perspiration on his palms and took out his hankie to wipe his palms, his father's words ringing in his thoughts.

“You can't trust a fellow with sweaty palms, they're up to no good.” he pushed the handkerchief into his pocket the door opened and his father entered, closing the door behind him and walked across the room. Alexander, placed his hands on the arms of the seat and rose from it, half turning.

'Hello father, you look well?' His father looked at him with his politicians face, and gestured him down with his hand. They had never shook hands in his life, or greeted each other with any sentiment. Rather than take his usual seat behind his desk, he stood with his hands gripping the back of his chair gazing past Alexander at one of the many illustrious ancestors, his gaze finally coming to rest on Alexander.

'Thank you for waiting Alexander, I wanted to have a word with you as soon as you arrived, just to put your mind at ease.' This was indeed an event, he had never had much interest shown from his parents; how long would the interest remain? He moved uneasily in his chair.

'Many young men are sent down, now my boy; we can put this behind us. Your mother and I had thought when you were younger, that one day you might follow me into the house. Several of our friends already have their sons working as their personal secretaries.' He felt his hands beginning to perspire; he was becoming distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of such close proximity to his father each day.

'Well it has been obvious for some time that, your vocation is not in this area, a man must be committed to both himself and his vocation. Some young men take more time than others to discover themselves.' The conversation had now reached a new level; his father was now looking at him directly. He felt open at this moment as if every movement he made might betray him.

'Yes father, I believe you to be right.'

'I have given the matter great thought over the last few days, you still have a name which you may be proud of. But... a reputation once lost is not easily regained. I know, most young men need a hand to direct them and sometimes when you are young, the responsibilities of position may seem many... Well my boy I have decided to help you. I must ask you to take my guidance, will you receive it.' How could he refuse, his father was as skilful at manipulation as negotiation, no one could refuse help given so willingly, but what the help was and its extent had not been explained. To ask would make him appear as a tradesman and ungrateful to say the least.

'Off course father,' his fathers address to him today was the longest he had ever had. He could not remember a time when his father had shown such a keen interest.

'Excellent, I knew you were just encountering the exuberance of youth, now I want you to come into the dining room, General Lightman and General Greer are here, they haven't seen you since you were a boy. Colonel Armstrong, from Sandhurst is here.' His father paused briefly inflating himself like a bullfrog, full of his own importance before continuing.

'Now Alexander, on hearing of your spot of difficulty, I had to think deep and hard what would be the best for you my boy.’ He looked rather disapprovingly at Alex.

‘Your Dean suggested a certain University north of the border. But…’ He shook his head for emphasis as he said it.

‘No, if my instincts are correct, then you will follow in your brother James’s footsteps.’ He confirmed the name of his brother as if they were strangers.

‘University is just a passing point for men such as we, our careers are preordained for us.' Alexander was caught completely off guard. He had no reply to any of this, and sat in silence and disbelief.

'Well my boy I have asked Colonel Armstrong from Sandhurst to call on me this evening, I had made my mind up and I am sure you will agree with me whole heartedly. He has avoided a potentially embarrassing situation for our family, by arranging for you to be admitted to Sandhurst on the next officer cadre in two weeks. I have expressed my thanks to him already and have invited him to shoot with myself and General Lightman and General Greer this weekend.' Finally as freedom slipped through his fingers, Alexander made his bid to escape.

'But father, is there an exam or medical?'

'Certainly my boy, mere formalities. Take it from me everything will be arranged, within the fortnight.' They left the study together, the only time they ever had, to join his father’s guests.

It would have been around the same time that I passed out of the Guards Depot, and was assigned to my battalion in Wellington Barracks, that Alexander began his training terms at Sandhurst.

He had the notable distinction of performing at a level which achieved no notoriety whatsoever other than being the worst in his cadre. However, a pass is still a pass and even the Company Commanders warning he received, which perhaps for a lesser mortal, would shortly after have surely met their dismissal as unsuitable, due to his father’s connection with the Commandant this was conveniently not explored further, much to the consternation of his company commander and colour sergeant at the academy.

It was, with great enthusiasm that on his passing out parade both his father and mother attended as well as his older brother in uniform. I was not there to witness the proceedings as I was already at Wellington Barracks, but he did mention it was a thoroughly enjoyable day for his father who walked round with both his sons now in uniform. Introducing them now as if an achievement had been made and fawning to most of the notables who were in attendance.

The only thing I remember of Alex's recollection of this day was the story of the Commandant who is mounted on a horse and at the end of the parade rides his mount through the grand palladium style entrance, an old custom which I have now sadly forgotten the significance of.