Past Caring (5 page)

“I’d like to very much.” My enthusiasm was genuine. As a student, I’d never excelled at wading through arid source documents, but there had never existed the motivation to do so, never the expectation of discovering something new or fascinating as a result. Sellick had promoted this document so well I could hardly have borne not to read it. There was, however, more promotion to come yet.

“This is probably no time for considered appraisal,” Sellick said. “I hope Alec told you that you would be most welcome to remain here tonight. I would suggest that a reading of this could best be undertaken in the morning with a clear head. But never fear”—he had seen me framing a protest at this delay—“I will not leave you to lose sleep over the contents. I will tell you what I have already learnt from them. Then you will be able to judge for yourself whether mine seem appropriate conclusions.”

Sellick sat beneath a standard lamp to the right of the fireplace and leafed through the book, cradled in his lap, as he spoke.

“Strafford was the youngest of Asquith’s prótegés and easily the most handsome. He was also unattached. He was, therefore, the eligible bachelor par excellence. He had the pick of a dozen well-connected young Liberal ladies. Yet his choice fell elsewhere and—for an Edwardian Home Secretary—it fell perversely. Strafford met and came to love a young Suffragette—a captivating crea-ture, it would seem, but scarcely the ideal bride. These were sensitive times for politicians in their private lives. Lloyd George was forever courting disaster with extra-marital adventures and mere divorce had ruined more than one politician. So how could a Home Secretary whose government resisted female suffrage consider marrying a militant young proponent of that cause?”

“Difficult,” I agreed.

“But not impossible, if he was prepared to pay the price.

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27

Morally, he could not be reproached. All such a marriage would do is embarrass the government. So, being an honourable man, Strafford proposed to abandon his political career for the woman he loved, who, in turn, undertook to detach herself from the Suffragette cause and become a devoted wife. But the path of honour did not bring him salvation. His plan was unimpeach-able, yet its execution went awry in the most mysterious manner.

Strafford submitted his resignation, intending that it should immediately be followed by an announcement of his engagement.

But no such announcement could be made because, but a few hours after delivering his letter of resignation to 10 Downing Street, he was rejected in the most outright terms by his fiancée.

She renounced their engagement for reasons she refused to disclose and asked that Strafford should never attempt to see her again. He was devastated.”

“As well he might be,” I said. “Why did she do it?”

“Strafford never knew. Shattered as he was by his rejection, all he could do at the time was attempt to re-build his way of life, which he had been so busily demolishing. The day after his resignation, he called again at number 10, intending to rescind it.”

“Intending?”

“Yes, but it was not to be. The Prime Minister refused to hear of it, though not because he felt he was being trifled with, nor because he disapproved of Strafford’s now aborted marriage. He cited other reasons which he declined to specify but which he felt sure Strafford could guess. Actually, he could not. This was a second inexplicable rejection from a source which had hitherto shown him only favour. Strafford was beside himself with despair.

He brooded over it endlessly. It became the tragedy and the mystery of his life, and prompted him to compile this Memoir, many years later, when at last he could bear to commit it to paper.”

“That could be the sort of mystery we spoke about earlier.”

“I think it is, Martin—a mystery worthy of an historian such as yourself. Which is why I was delighted to hear you were to visit Alec, who spoke so highly of your abilities.”

I glanced quizzically at Alec. This was the second time I’d heard of his advance publicity for me. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, forestalling me. “But do you seriously suppose 28

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I would have spoken well of you if I’d thought it would get back to you? Leo’s betrayed my confidence.” He turned to the old man with mock outrage.

“Let us close with a smile,” said Sellick. “It is late and I must take these tired old bones to bed. Here is the Memoir, Martin”—he handed me the heavy volume—“for you to peruse at your leisure. Take my advice and leave it till morning—I’d value your opinion on it both as an historical document and as a personal testament. But then, we’d probably agree that they’re the same thing anyway. The room next to the one you always have, Alec, has been prepared for Martin. I trust I can leave you to show him up when you’re ready. Now I must bid you goodnight. Sleep well.”

With that, Sellick left us. Alec poured himself another drink and we fell to a desultory discussion about the warmth of our reception. I detected in Alec’s manner a slight sourness, though whether this arose from boredom, having heard the story before, or from some resentment that I’d monopolised Sellick’s attention, I couldn’t say. Alec himself denied the former and I dismissed the latter as an unworthy suspicion, but I was relieved when he did not demur at showing me up to my room.

Once there, I moved to the window and opened it. The shutters had been thrown back in readiness and I sniffed the cool night air wafting in across the garden behind the house. I’d hoped it might refresh me enough to turn to the Memoir that night, but Sellick had been right—it deserved a clear, wakeful head. So I confined myself to a glance at the title page in bed. One short paragraph served as prologue to the Memoir proper.

“In this volume I, Edwin George Strafford, propose to set forth the peculiar circumstances of my life and career. As a study in hubris, it may serve as a consolation for my soul and a concession to undeserving posterity.”

There followed, in quotation marks, four lines of poetry: Since as a child I used to lie

Upon the leaze and watch the sky,

Never, I own, expected I

That life would all be fair.

I took this to be some epigrammatic borrowing from a favourite poet of Strafford’s, but he was not named. It put me

P A S T C A R I N G

29

vaguely in mind of A.E. Housman; certainly it had his fatalistic air. But I was tired and these thoughts were best left for morning.

I laid the book aside and turned out the light.

I woke quite suddenly, stirred by some sound from the garden. I rose and stumbled to the window, squinting out at the glaring light of a perfect Madeiran day. Below, I could see at work the aged gardener who’d woken me. Checking my watch, I was dismayed to see that it was already past nine o’clock. So I bathed and dressed hurriedly and headed downstairs, taking the Memoir with me.

In the drawing room, the french windows stood open and, on the verandah, I found Sellick sitting by a breakfast table, sipping coffee, with a sheaf of papers on his lap. He smiled a greeting.

“Good morning, Martin. I trust you slept well?”

“Thank you, yes. Perhaps too well.”

“Certainly not. You are, after all, on holiday. Sit down, relax.

Tomás can fix you some breakfast in no time.”

“Nothing for me, thanks. But some of that coffee would go down well.”

Sellick poured me some from the pot. “You’ve missed Alec, I fear. He’ll be back some time this afternoon. I felt sure that I could keep you occupied until his return—or, rather, that Mr.

Strafford could.” He leant forward and patted the Memoir where it lay on the table. “Have you made a start?”

“Not in earnest. I thought you were right about tackling it this morning. I’ve only glanced at the title page, which doesn’t suggest it’s a happy chronicle.”

“One could not, in all honesty, call Strafford a happy man, as you will see. But I’m glad you haven’t started reading the Memoir yet, Martin, because before you do—bearing in mind what I told you about it last night—I have a proposition to put which might interest you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Now, don’t feel that I’m prying into your affairs, but I understand from Alec that you’re not presently in any form of employment.”

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“That’s true.” Again, here was evidence of Alec making free with his knowledge of my affairs. It was a development I didn’t care for.

“Taking that into consideration, along with your undoubted abilities as an historian, I may be able to offer you an engagement both financially lucrative and intellectually stimulating.”

“You’re offering me a job?” I was frankly incredulous.

“In short, I am. I have told you what I have learnt of the Strafford mystery, that the Memoir does nothing to dispel it, only increase it. There is no more to be discovered here. I feel the answer must lie in England. I am too old and too busy to go in search of it. Besides, I would not know where to begin what is essentially an exercise in historical research. But time and youth are on your side and I can supply the money. How would you like the task of finding out who—or what—betrayed Strafford in 1910?”

My incredulity was surpassed by my enthusiasm. A voice inside me said “Grab this offer—before it’s taken back.” The research task sounded interesting in its own right and the money that went with it could solve all my problems. But I didn’t want to seem over-eager. Only that, not suspicion, stayed my hand.

“It sounds fascinating—and very generous.”

“Not at all. I would finance you to find out what I want to know. If, coincidentally, you want to know it too, so much the better. But don’t give me your answer now—take a look at the Memoir first, then see how you feel.”

“Okay—you can’t say fairer than that.”

“Good. I’m glad you agree. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. You would be most welcome to lunch with me later.”

“Thanks. See you later, then.”

Sellick made off with his papers, Tomás came and cleared the table and then I was left alone on the verandah with the Memoir.

The sloping garden was shimmering in a heat haze as I settled back in my chair and began to read. It was time to let Strafford have his say.

1876‒1900

I was not born under a benighted star. I need protest no fault or
handicap in the circumstances or the manner of my upbringing.

I entered this life on 20 April 1876 at Barrowteign , my father’s
house in Devon. He was delighted to have a second son to brighten
his old age, though I believe my mother had hoped for a daughter.

Barrowteign was a joy to be a child in—such a large, rambling
house so filled with the memorabilia of my father’s military career,
such firm yet loving parents and necessarily indulgent servants,
such extensive grounds of forest and moor for my boisterous yet
protective brother Robert (six years my senior) to instruct me in ,
that I could not, for all the world, contrive a better place for a boy to
learn his first of life.

My father was born in the same year as Queen Victoria and
spent the middle third of his life defending her overseas possessions,
notably India, where his conspicuous contribution to putting down
the Mutiny won him his colonelcy. As a result, he was oft-times
away from his beloved Barrowteign , that grand stone house that his
father, old “Brewer” Strafford from Credition , built as a monument
to his own undoubted industry. It was, my father often told me, a
disappointment to the founder of our family fortunes—whose start
in life was, after all, hard and long work on that cloying red soil by
the river Yeo—that his son should disdain the brewery office and
take instead the King’s Shilling. But, as his son’s military career
prospered in foreign parts, it may have bolstered his reputation in
the locality and I like to think that he basked in a certain reflected
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glory when my father’s distinguished conduct in the Crimea and in
India became known.

My grandfather died in 1867 and it was only this that
prompted my father to retire from the army and return home.

When he did so, he at once disposed of an active interest in the brewing business and, with hardly less speed, married the daughter of a
local doctor—my mother, who was then only 23 and found herself
quite bowled over by the handsome colonel of nearly fifty who, if
the truth were told, was much more nervous than she about the
whole affair, having imagined during his years abroad that he
would remain a bachelor to the end of his days, and being more
used to commanding men than courting ladies. The match, however,
was a blissfully happy one.

I passed my carefree childhood at Barrowteign in perfect contentment, my father reliving the battles of his youth in play as
surely only an old soldier can , my mother reminding me of the
bloodshed which my father had also seen and chosen not to mention ,
my brother leading forays out onto the adjacent moorland, where
we waged our own mock battles amongst the tors and bracken.

These were confined to holidays when he went away to school—

Marlborough, when he was eleven. I followed him at the same age.

Childers, that Classics master whom many Marlburians will
remember with awe, selected me as a promising pupil and ensured
that my promise, such as it may have been , was fulfilled. My father
thought it a signal honour and my mother a just reward that I won
a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1894.