A Perfectly Good Man (44 page)
Barnaby bravely echoed her reasoning in the playground at school and even in the classroom occasionally – his primary school having been chosen for its freethinking philosophy and lack of church affiliation – but he knew he could never convince as she could and suspected it was down to his weakness at maths. When he was stuck on his nine times table for weeks even after Prof pointed out the way every number in it added up to nine and how one numeral went up a stage while the other went down one, he saw how the difference in him was confirmed for them. Prof said he was a changeling because he had no aptitude for science and was given to dreams and pondering. When he protested to Alice, ‘But I’m only eight! I might change!’ she pointed out that she could do mental arithmetic for fun before she could read and was doing basic algebra by his age.
‘But that’s all right,’ she said kindly. ‘You can be a theorist when you grow up. We can’t all be practical. The world will always need men of vision too.’
The gong sounded, which meant he was already late. He sprinted along the length of the rill, across a courtyard at the house’s rear where the fig tree’s late fruit had fallen on the flagstones and gathered drunken wasps around it, and into the little lavatory at one end of the dining room corridor where he quickly pissed, washed his hands and tidied his hair with a wet nailbrush that was a bit soapy.
‘Welcome, wanderer,’ Uncle James called out. They were already seated at the round dining table, even Mr Ewart, who must have slipped in by the other route while Barnaby was daydreaming. ‘Sit by me and tell me everything.’
This was by way of a joke, since Barnaby was always peculiarly tongue-tied with Uncle James. He liked him, though, his immaculate clothes and florid, ruined face and the way he asked questions whereas Prof made statements.
He sat in the tapestried dining chair left vacant between James and the Buttercluck and did as the Buttercluck indicated, smothering his lap in a big, white napkin.
‘Have you been swimming?’ she asked, turning her horrified stare on him.
‘I wet my hair just now to tidy it,’ he said, which wasn’t a lie, and remembered to fill her water glass before he filled his own. Mr Ewart caught his eye and winked quickly. ‘Why are your roses still flowering, Uncle James?’ Barnaby asked. ‘When ours have all stopped?’
‘I deadhead every day from June till October,’ James told him. ‘And have no useful occupation.’
Uncle James was a very good cook and grew all his own vegetables. Every time something was praised, from the little cheese mousses to the cold tarragon chicken to the pudding he called mulberry tumble, the Buttercluck said, ‘You must give me the recipe,’ in a way that sounded less and less pleasant and James answered her, ‘Of course I will,’ and somehow you knew he wouldn’t. The grown-ups drank, of course, even Alice, since she was seventeen, which made them noisier and funnier than usual and even Barnaby was given a tiny antique glass of champagne so they could all toast James’s birthday.
By the time they had left the table and crossed the hall to the drawing room for coffee, whatever tensions Barnaby had sensed when they arrived had evaporated. Mr Ewart was telling Alice stories that were making her smile and blush and Mrs Clutterbuck actually sat very close to Prof on a sofa, which was something she never did, at least not when Barnaby and Alice were present, and was actually giggling.
But then Uncle James tapped his spoon on his coffee cup for silence. ‘Sorry to break in on the jollity,’ he said, ‘but there’s news I have to share with you and this is as good a time as any.’
‘James, are you sure …?’ Prof began, with a pointed glance at Barnaby but James went on.
‘Oh absolutely. This is something the young things should hear too and directly from me.’ It was strange. He never normally seemed the older brother because he was jollier than Prof and what the Buttercluck called
frivolous
, but now he seemed much the oldest and most serious person in the room. ‘This is, I’m afraid, the last time I can gather you all here for lunch,’ he said. ‘As you probably all know, I’ve not been well. What you probably didn’t know is that I’ve had increasing problems with money and the debts have got out of control. In the end I had no option but to sell up.’
The Buttercluck drew in her breath so sharply Barnaby could hear it from the other end of the Persian rug between them.
‘Contracts on the house sale have been exchanged and Christie’s have sent down a team to do a valuation and draw up a catalogue for a contents sale next month. Obviously I’ll hang on to a few things, and there are a few good family bits that should eventually come to Alice and Barnaby. The plan is to move somewhere warm and cheap – Ibiza appeals – less stuffy than Madeira. And Mr Ewart has kindly agreed to come with me to, er, take care of things.’ He raised his coffee cup to Mr Ewart in a kind of tribute gesture but Mr Ewart was folding and refolding a truffle wrapper and not looking.
‘You should have told me,’ Prof said. ‘I could have …’
‘You couldn’t have afforded the price I needed, and anyway, I couldn’t have stood being bailed out by my baby brother.’
‘Well I think it’s terribly sad,’ the Buttercluck said. ‘I’d always imagined Alice getting married from here. Four hundred years.’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Clutterbuck. I’m well aware how long the family has lived here and how I’m letting the side down yet again.’
‘I didn’t mean,’ she started to protest and then everyone seemed to be speaking at once.
All the horrible atmosphere that had been there when they first arrived came rushing back tenfold and all the air seemed sucked from the room. Barnaby jumped up, upsetting a coffee cup across a copy of
The Burlington Magazine
. His hands shook trying to right it and the little spotted thing whirled to the carpet where it broke neatly in two. Everyone stopped shouting.
‘That was an antique, Barny,’ Alice said softly.
‘Clumsy oaf,’ said Prof.
Mr Ewart swiftly stooped to scoop up the pieces and mop any coffee spill with his spotless handkerchief. It was like the ones with B for Barnaby Alice had given him for Christmas which he kept feeling he must save as they were for best, which meant never blowing your nose on them or mopping up coffee.
Barnaby knew he should apologize. Like everything in the house, the coffee cup had been chosen for its beauty. But all he could think to say, looking at Uncle James’s kind, ravaged face was, ‘I don’t want you to die. It’s not fair,’ which he knew was a stupid, childish thing to say, an irrational, sentimental thing. As he ran from the room, dodging footstools and startling Uncle James’s elderly whippet, he heard the Buttercluck say, ‘Too much sunshine and rich food. We should probably be going …’
Barnaby knew only that he needed to get outside, to breathe freely again and hide his shame. He went out the way he had come in and sat on the stone bench near the fig tree and the wasps. He hated making scenes or losing his temper. It was like running up a flight of stairs to find only a blank wall in the way; the only option was an ignominious return. Luckily Prof and the Buttercluck’s way of punishing such behaviour was to ignore one completely for an hour or so, which ironically was all Barnaby wanted just now. He was thinking he might creep out to the car and wait obediently on its back seat in the punishing heat when Uncle James came out to join him.
‘Come,’ he said, and held out a huge hand. He led Barnaby out of the courtyard and around the side of the house.
‘I’m so very sorry about the coffee cup,’ Barnaby managed at last. ‘Was it a special one?’
‘It was rather. It was a Caughley one that came with the house. But you know what? It couldn’t matter less. It’s only stuff. And I’ll give you a tip in life. Never collect china or glass in sets, just collect individual pieces you like. That way there are no obvious gaps to make you sad or cross when things break. Come. I want to show you something.’ He dropped Barnaby’s hand but steered him with an arm across his shoulders instead. His arm felt dense and immensely comforting.
They stopped beneath an oriel window. ‘There,’ he said. ‘My favourite rose in the entire garden.’ He gestured to a rose whose colour was somewhere between purple, red and black, if that were possible. The curling petals looked like something very expensive and soft – velvet, perhaps. ‘Souvenir du Docteur Jamain. Isn’t it lovely? Go on. Sniff it.’
The scent was as good as the colour. Barnaby felt he was seeing a rose properly for the first time. Its glossy leaves with their purply new growth, the elegantly lime-green bark with barely a thorn on it, the luxurious flowers that grew in ready-made bunches as if offering themselves to one’s hand. What possible purpose could such spendthrift beauty serve? ‘Why is it your favourite?’ he asked.
‘Oh. Apart from the colour, which is even better than Nuits de Young, it’s that it performs this well even on a north wall where it gets only indirect sun. In fact it actually seems to prefer it. It should have stopped flowering weeks ago but just look at it! Marvellous. I liked it so much I was greedy and planted two more out in the sunshine and they didn’t do nearly so well and looked all scorched and sad. Here.’ He took a small pair of secateurs from his jacket pocket and cut a perfect, half-open bud which he handed to Barnaby. ‘You can either put it in a glass on your bedside table and enjoy it as it opens and dies or you can squeeze it in a big book between two sheets of blotting paper, the way mad Victorian spinsters did. Choice is yours. Barnaby, dear, I’m sorry about the house.’
‘I don’t care about the house.’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘It’s only stuff. I care about
you
.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry about me too. I might go on for ages.’
‘But you might not.’
‘No. But I don’t mind so I don’t think you should. Don’t tell Mrs Butterfuck but we’re not alone.’
‘God, you mean?’
‘Of course. Call it what you will. I look at a flower like that, or those birds swooping over the grass. And I know everything is going to be all right. All will be well. Walk with me. We’ve hardly talked. Are you surviving?’
‘I start boarding school next week.’
‘Hurrah. Is it hurrah?’
Barnaby nodded.
‘You’ll be a bit homesick at first, even for Mrs Clutterbuck, but that soon passes. I’d say write to me but I’m a hopeless correspondent.’
‘I’ll write to Alice.’
‘A much better idea. And Barnaby?’
‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t feel you always have to be
good
. Sometimes you’re so good it hurts to watch you. Now, come along. The others will be waiting and your father will worry I’m corrupting you with my dying breath.’
Sure enough, Alice and Mr Ewart met them as they returned to the side of the house. Uncle James kissed Alice seriously on the forehead, said, ‘Dear girl,’ and hugged her so warmly Barnaby knew they would have had a private conversation earlier.
Mr Ewart discreetly handed him his pants when no one was looking. ‘Still warm from the Aga rail,’ he said kindly as Barnaby thanked him and tucked them quickly into his pocket.
Sure enough, he was ignored on the drive home, even by Alice, but that suited him. He tucked the rose stem carefully into the map pocket on the back of Prof’s seat, then pretended to be asleep while his head swam with thoughts of what stayed and what slipped away, of death and renewal. And of the distinct possibility of God, who, having been nowhere and nothing when they set out that morning, suddenly seemed to be glowing out from every surface and every idea, from the quiet magic of the nine times table to the glitter of Mr Ewart’s secret muscles in the water.
Heartfelt thanks are due to the editorial skills of my first readers: Clare Reihill, Penelope Hoare, Patrick Ness, Mark Adley, Richard Betts and Caradoc King.
I am indebted to the Manussis siblings for tweaking my Greek endearment,
to the Venerable Roger Bush, the Reverend Prebendary Dr John May and the Reverend Stephen Coles for their patient assistance with matters ecclesiastical and theological,
to Sutton Taylor for guiding me through the process of making lustreware,
to Simon Ewart for the inspiring muddy walk and the old photograph of Pendeen Manor,
to Jo Martin for the hours of legal help regarding assisted suicide and standard procedure,
to Josephine Warburton and Cyril Honey of Geevor Tin Mine Museum’s archive for letting me plunder their fascinating hours of recordings and personal testimonies,
to Jane Finemore and Simon Clews for putting me right on the geographical niceties of Melbourne addresses,
to the wry wisdom of Sarah Meyrick’s
Married to the Ministry
and Noel Streatfeild’s
A Vicarage Family
,
and, most especially, to the Reverend Alan Rowell, the
real
, and surely spotless, vicar of Pendeen and Morvah: two lovely churches I hope the reader will now wish to visit.
Patrick Gale
Penzance, October 2011
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