Sadler's Birthday (3 page)

‘Good night then.'

‘Good night, Mr Sadler.'

He shut the door behind him, came out into the cold passage and then climbed the green lino stairs. On the coconut matting landing he paused, letting himself enjoy the last few paces that took him to his door.

The dream he'd had last night. He remembered it now. He hadn't had a nightmare like that for weeks, although there had been a time, not so long ago, when he'd had one almost every night. He'd been ill then, made himself ill because of those dreams, couldn't bear to let himself sleep. Mrs Moore from the village who came in to clean had found him asleep in the kitchen one morning, his head on the table and the dog whining, believing him dead. ‘Lord,' she'd said later, ‘you gave me such a turn, Sir.'

His kettle was boiling, spilling tiny beads of water, like mercury, on to the hotplate. He lifted it off and made the pot of tea. Cheap brown pot. They'd had that, hadn't they, before the Colonel died? He sat down at the table. The dog got up, shook himself and lay down again on his old mat.

‘Good boy,' said Sadler.

He didn't want to think about the dream. He always chose the memories of his mother with such nervous care, examining only those that gave him hardly any pain. The rest he would have kept hidden for ever, but once in a while they slipped like intruders into his sleep. Standing there, then, in the sunshine by the lych gate, waiting for the people to come, for all the people she'd ever seen, ever smiled on, ever touched, to come on that spring morning. Believing it only right, only natural that for her funeral the ugly little church would be filled, but waiting there and waiting and seeing no one come. Where were they? Charlie Ackroyd, the man she'd married, chauffeur to Milord, where was he that Saturday morning? ‘Oh don't be soft, Jacky,' she herself would have said, ‘of course he wouldn't come. He's been gone years now, love, and not so much as a postcard from him ever since he left.'

But Sadler had hated Charlie Ackroyd more than he'd ever hated anyone in the whole of his life. Handsome face, great mop of shiny hair, he'd met Annie Sadler when she was still just young enough to fancy. A bit thin she was and her hair never looked very nice – always untidy and wispy – but her skin was pale and clear and her grey eyes fringed with thick lashes used to look at him in quite a sexy way. But then, try as he might, he couldn't get her to bed. She kept telling him about this lover she'd had and had a child off, said she couldn't be doing with something like that all over again. And the more she pushed him away, the more Charlie Ackroyd wanted her. So he went to her room early one Sunday morning. She had the day off and was still half asleep when she opened the door, too sleepy to argue with him, forced to let him in. He sat down on a chair, didn't try to go near her in her yellow nightdress, even though he wanted to. Instead he cleared his throat like some slip of a courting lad and offered her a wedding. Annie sat down on her bed, puzzling out what was real and what just part of a dream. And Ackroyd sat there smiling, liking her confusion, noting to himself that even early on a grey morning she looked rather pretty.

Milady gave the wedding her blessing, organized a little party afterwards in the servants' hall. For a month or two both of them were happy. Annie's cheeks began to bloom and she combed her untidy hair into a little bun at the nape of her neck. Ackroyd took pleasure in her so long-neglected body, preened his male feathers. Just for a few weeks he fancied he truly loved her.

Annie wrote to Jack who was working in Scarborough, asked him to spare them a little of his time. But it was two months before he could bring himself to go. He was glad – glad for her – if she was happy. But by his silence he chose to reproach her. She wrote again. So anxious now to see him, wanting his blessing on what she'd done, knowing with sadness that his love for her had never encompassed forgiveness. And was there indeed anything to forgive? Lord, Annie said to herself, why not have myself a spot of joy – after forty-three years – without the reproaches of my son?

Slowly and carefully, Sadler prepared himself for the meeting, then wrote to Annie to say he would come. But when his train came into the station Annie was standing alone on the platform. ‘As fate would have it, Charlie couldn't be here, Jack. He had to take the car out, but he'll be meeting us later.'

They spent the afternoon wandering round the town. Sadler began to enjoy himself, walking round arm in arm, just the two of them. Then they went to a café where Charlie had said he'd come and Sadler ordered two teas and they waited. For more than an hour they sat drinking tea, with Annie's eyes always on the door. Then at last Sadler saw them light up and Charlie Ackroyd came in, so smart in his chauffeur's uniform, but with never so much as an apology and hardly a glance at Sadler. For Sadler was of no consequence to Charlie Ackroyd. Charlie Ackroyd didn't care twopence what Jack Sadler thought of him. Child of Annie's youth, he belonged to the past and only reluctantly did Charlie acknowledge his continuing right to exist. So Sadler went back to Scarborough and within a year Charlie Ackroyd had gone. Tired of his Annie with her thin legs and her flyaway hair. Gone because he couldn't stand the stillness in her eye. Gone to better things.

Better things! Sadler stirred his tea. He was too early for the milkman and he'd given the last drop to the dog last night. Well, he'd have to drink the tea without milk; it wouldn't be the first time. And the strong tea would make him feel better. The odd pains that crept into him in his sleep would go away once he got a warm drink inside him. And the dream? He'd forget the dream.

He rubbed his eyes. For as long as he could remember, he'd woken up early in the mornings. Habit, he supposed. A lifetime in service, up and dressed and ready with the breakfast before the master had cleaned his teeth. But now that he was old he wished he could have slept late in the mornings. So much less time to pass if you could put off waking up for an hour or two.

The Colonel, of course, with his army background, was a stickler for punctuality. ‘One thing I shall make clear to you, Sadler,' he said on his second day, ‘we do like things on time.'

‘Naturally, Sir.'

‘A house, you see, is not unlike a headquarters. Everybody does the job appointed to them at the right time and in the right place and then it all works.'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘Do you understand what I mean?'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘That's it then. Jolly good.'

Of course he was too old to do the job now, his hand much too unsteady. But some mornings, sitting there, just him and the dog, he longed for the great empty house to come alive again, to hear a lawn-mower out there in the sunshine, to say a word or two to the paper boy who delivered the Colonel's
Times
and Madam's
Daily Mail
, to listen to Vera, sour-faced as she made the morning coffee, complaining about something or other. It would have been nice to have had one of those conversations with Madam when he took her breakfast up. She had been so nice to him over the years, had grown, if not fond of him, at least concerned that his life wasn't too drab.

‘You are happy with us, Sadler, aren't you?'

‘I'm very content, Mrs Bassett.'

‘You would tell me, wouldn't you, if you weren't happy with the job?'

‘As I say Madam, I . . .'

‘Oh I know what you
say
. It's what you feel that's important, isn't it?'

‘I've never been one for staying in a position that didn't suit.'

‘Well, heavens, Sadler, we didn't want you leaving! That wasn't what I meant at all. No. All I meant was if there's ever any little thing you feel isn't quite right – you know the kind of things I mean – I'd like you to think you could come and talk to me about it. You would, wouldn't you?'

‘Oh I daresay I would, if it couldn't be put right without troubling you.'

‘You see, we value you enormously, the Colonel and I.'

‘It's nice to hear that, Madam. It's nice to know that one is giving satisfaction.'

What a pompous jackass I used to be, thought Sadler. All that dictionary language! Butlers nowadays – if there are any butlers – don't mince their words like that, surely. And yet at thirty-nine when he came to the house he'd rather enjoyed being so correct. He'd been practising for years, hadn't he? Had it dinned into him by the staff he'd worked under ever since, at Milord's house, where his mother had started as chamber-maid, he'd run errands for Mr Knightley, the butler Milord had kept at the time. But he'd lost it long ago. Don't believe I could talk like that now if I tried, he thought. Wouldn't want to. Bloody silly way to carry on – like that woman in Coronation Street who runs the pub, common as mustard, as the Colonel used to say, but so la-de-da it makes your flesh creep.

Funny though how he'd enjoyed those conversations. Used to be proud of the way he could talk so respectfully. It goes down well with the Privileged Classes, Knightley had said to his mother, and it did. The years came and went and the Colonel and his Madge got so used to the sound of that gentle, careful voice it became like a tranquillizer to them, one they couldn't do without.

‘We're so lucky,' Madge said to her husband, ‘to have Sadler. I'd trade all the servants I've ever employed for Sadler.'

And then as she grew older she kept saying: ‘You know Geoffrey we really must leave something to Sadler in our wills.' And the Colonel thought with a kind of dread how each year he dipped further and a little further into his capital and how, when the day came, unless it came soon, there'd be nothing to leave. He always said: ‘Naturally, dear, of course Sadler will be taken care of,' but somehow each time he said it he said it with less and less conviction until Madge didn't believe him any more, only wondered with some sadness where the money was slipping away. Then one morning she went to Norwich to see her solicitor who had his office in a fine old eighteenth-century house in the cathedral close, and, comfortably at ease in these surroundings, she asked him to draft her a new will. In it she stated simply that if her husband predeceased her everything she had when she died would be left to Sadler.

Madge and the Colonel had no children. Twenty-six and a virgin that day in 1900, she'd saved herself all those long years for her wedding night. They had stayed at the Savoy, such a lovely room with apricot satin bedcovers, and Madge so much in love with her lieutenant she was lying there waiting for him under the apricot before he'd taken off his trousers. He made love to her limply, thoughtlessly, the elegant room spinning round and round in his head after all that champagne at the reception. When he'd finished, as Madge lay there thinking wistfully of what her mother had told her about men being like wild beasts, he apologized.

Somehow after that, though they both tried and in spite of a real affection they found for each other, they couldn't enjoy love. For the first year they shared a bed and Madge used to ponder on how it might feel to hold a second heartbeat inside her body. But she never found out. Gratefully, thankfully, she removed herself to another room one morning and from that day decided that she wouldn't think about it again. After all, you never liked children very much, she told herself. And it was only years later when both the wars had come and gone and she began to hear the silences round her that she thought it might have been nice to talk to someone close to her, someone young enough to understand a world that now made such odd noises, someone who would explain them to her patiently without getting cross.

Anyway, there was no one. No good wishing you'd taken out a kind of insurance policy against loneliness when you hadn't. Best thing to do was give someone else the chance to be wise – for what difference could it make when the day came? And when you thought about it, there was no need to tie material possessions to love, though in her experience they always had been. Why not tie them to need? It made more sense. She wasn't so blind and old-fashioned that she couldn't see that, even if she couldn't help disagreeing with a lot of the things Mr Attlee said. But of course she knew the Colonel wouldn't understand; it wasn't really fair to expect him to. He'd always been so keen on everything staying in the family, even when she'd reminded him that they had none. No, it would have disturbed the Colonel if she'd told him her plan. To her, it was the most rational thing she'd ever done in her life and she was rather proud of it. She thought it was sad in a way that she had to keep it to herself, but there it was.

Sadler was oddly moved by the extraordinary stroke of fortune that one June morning in 1953 made him master where for years he had been servant. Sad for her, was his first thought, that she had no one else to leave it to. He'd seen enough of Mr Knightley's Privileged Classes to know that they could be deeply hurt by the glimpse of a single possession slipping through the family net and he fancied that Madge had needed some courage to put her hand to her extraordinary testament. Had she died seven hours earlier, he would have got nothing, only the thousand pounds left to him by the Colonel. For they raced for death, the Colonel and his Madge. As vast crowds began gathering in London, sleeping out, camping on little stools near the very place where Madge had married, making flags to wave, telling their children that never, never would there be such a sight again, as they massed, expectant, long-suffering, patient, determined for that flying glimpse of the new Queen riding to her Coronation in her golden coach, Madge and the Colonel waited to die.

‘Poor old things . . .' Sadler mumbled.

He didn't want to think about it, though. Not now. He often did remember it, but this morning for some reason it made him feel terribly sad. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Eight o'clock. Time moved so slowly these days. Too fast when you wanted it to stop of course, like when someone you cared to see called and then kept saying they'd have to hurry or they'd be late for something or other, but so painfully slowly when you were on your own. He sipped his tea, expecting it to be cold by now, but it wasn't, it was still almost too hot to drink.