What a Carve Up! (2 page)

Her irrationality in this respect was already evident from a foolish misunderstanding which had arisen only a few days earlier. Bursting into her brother’s office late in the evening, she had surprised him during one of his business conversations and snatched away the scrap of paper upon which – in her version of events – he had been transcribing secret instructions over the telephone. She even went so far as to claim that Lawrence had been ‘looking guilty’ when she interrupted him, and that he had attempted to seize the piece of paper back from her by force. With pathetic obstinacy, however, she clung on to it and subsequently stored it away among her personal documents. Later, when she made her fantastic accusation against Lawrence, she threatened to bring it forward as ‘evidence’. Fortunately the excellent Dr Quince, trusted physician to the Winshaws for several decades, had by that stage made his diagnosis – the effect of which was to determine that no statements made by Tabitha thereafter would be received with anything other than the deepest scepticism. History, incidentally, seems to have vindicated the good doctor’s judgment, because when certain of Tabitha’s relics recently came into the hands of the present writer, the contended scrap of paper was found to be among them. Now yellowed with age, it turned out to contain nothing more remarkable than Lawrence’s scribbled note to the butler, asking for a light supper to be sent up to his room.

Tabitha’s condition deteriorated still further after Godfrey had left, and on the night that he flew his final mission a peculiar incident took place, both more serious and more ludicrous than any that had gone before. This grew out of another of Tabitha’s delusions, to the effect that her brother was holding secret meetings with Nazi spies in his bedroom. Time and again she claimed to have stood outside his locked bedroom door and caught the distant murmur of voices talking in clipped, authoritative German. Finally, when not even Mildred was able to take this allegation seriously, she attempted to make a desperate proof. Having pilfered the key (the only key) to Lawrence’s bedroom earlier that afternoon, she waited until such time as she was convinced that he was engaged in one of his sinister conferences, then locked the door from the outside and ran downstairs, shouting at the top of her voice that she had captured her brother in the very act of betraying his country. The butler, the maids, the kitchen staff, the chauffeur, the valet, the bootboy and all the domestics immediately came to her aid, followed closely by Mildred and Beatrice; and the entire company, now gathered in the Great Hall, was about to climb the staircase to investigate when Lawrence himself emerged, cue in hand, from the billiard room where he had been passing the hours after dinner in a few solitary frames. Needless to say, his bedroom was found empty; but this demonstration did not satisfy Tabitha, who continued to scream at her brother, accusing him of every manner of trickery and under-handedness, until finally she was restrained and carried to her room in the West Wing, where a sedative was administered by the ever-resourceful Nurse Gannet.

Such was the atmosphere at Winshaw Towers on that dreadful evening, as the deathly silence of nightfall spread itself over the venerable old seat; a silence which was to be broken at three o’clock in the morning by the ringing of the telephone, and with it the news of Godfrey’s terrible fate.

∗

No bodies were ever recovered from that wreckage; neither Godfrey nor his co-pilot was ever to be accorded the honour of a Christian burial. Two weeks later, however, a small memorial service was held at the Winshaws’ private chapel. His parents sat stone-faced and ashen throughout the proceedings. His younger brother Mortimer, his sister Olivia and her husband Walter had all travelled to Yorkshire to pay their respects: only Tabitha was absent, for as soon as she heard the news, she had thrown herself into a frenzy. Among the instruments of violence with which she had attacked Lawrence were candlesticks, golf umbrellas, butter knives, razor blades, riding crops, a loofah, a mashie, a niblick, an Afghan battle horn of considerable archaeological interest, a chamber-pot and a bazooka. The very next day, Dr Quince signed the papers which authorized her immediate confinement in a nearby asylum.

She was not to step outside the walls of this establishment for another nineteen years. During that time she rarely attempted to communicate with other members of the family, or expressed any interest in receiving them as visitors. Her mind (or what few, pitiable shreds and tatters of it remained) continued to dwell inflexibly on the circumstances surrounding her brother’s death, and she became an obsessive reader of books, journals and periodicals concerned with the conduct of the war, the history of the Royal Air Force, and all matters even remotely connected with aviation. (During this period, for instance, her name appears on the regular subscribers’ lists of such magazines as
Professional Pilot, Flypast, Jane’s Military Review
and
Cockpit Quarterly
.) And so there she remained, prudently left to the care of a trained and dedicated staff, until September 16th 1961, when she was granted a temporary release at the request of her brother Mortimer: a decision, however compassionately taken, which in itself would soon come to be regarded as unfortunate.

Death visited Winshaw Towers again that night.

2

Sitting at the bay window of their bedroom, looking out over the East Terrace and the bleak sprawl of the moors which rolled towards the horizon, Rebecca felt Mortimer’s hand rest gently against her shoulder.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.

‘I know.’

He squeezed her and went over to the mirror, where he made small adjustments to his tie and cummerbund.

‘It’s really very nice of Lawrence. In fact they’re all being very nice. I’ve never known my family be so nice to each other.’

It was Mortimer’s fiftieth birthday and to honour the occasion Lawrence had organized a small but lavish dinner, to which the entire family – even the outcast Tabitha – was invited. It would be the first time that Rebecca, thirteen years her husband’s junior and still possessed of a childlike, rather vulnerable beauty, had met them all at one sitting.

‘They’re not monsters, you know. Not really.’ Mortimer rotated his left cuff-link through fifteen degrees, squinting at the angle critically. ‘I mean, you like Mildred, don’t you?’

‘But she’s not really family.’ Rebecca continued to stare out of the window. ‘Poor Milly. It’s such a shame she never remarried. I’m afraid Mark’s turned into an awful handful.’

‘He’s just got in with a boisterous set, that’s all. Happened to me when I was at school. Oxford’ll soon knock that out of him.’

Rebecca turned her head: an impatient gesture.

‘You’re always making excuses for them. I know they all hate me. They’ve never forgiven us for not inviting them to the wedding.’

‘Well that was my decision, not yours. I didn’t want them all there, gawping at you.’

‘Well there you are: it’s quite obvious that you don’t like them yourself, and there must be a rea–’

There was a discreet knock on the door, and the butler’s gaunt, solemn figure took a few deferential steps into the room.

‘Drinks are now being served, sir. In the ante-drawing room.’

‘Thank you, Pyles.’ He had turned on his heels and was about to leave when Mortimer detained him. ‘Oh, Pyles?’

‘Sir?’

‘If you could just look in and check on the children. We left them in the nursery. They were with Nurse Gannet, but you know how she … dozes, sometimes.’

‘Very good, sir.’ He paused and added, before withdrawing: ‘And may I offer you, sir, on behalf of all the staff, our warmest congratulations, and many happy returns of the day.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

‘Our pleasure, sir.’

He made a silent exit. Mortimer walked over to the window and stood behind his wife, whose gaze remained fixed on the pitiless landscape.

‘Well, we’d better be getting downstairs.’

Rebecca did not move.

‘The kids’ll be fine. He’ll keep an eye on them. He’s an absolute brick, really.’

‘I hope they don’t break anything. Their games always seem so violent, and then we’d never hear the end of it from Lawrence.’

‘It’s Roddy who’s the little devil. He goads Hilary on. She’s a sweet little thing.’

‘They’re both as bad as each other.’

Mortimer began stroking her neck. He could feel her nervousness.

‘Darling, you’re shivering.’

‘I don’t know what it is.’ He sat beside her and impulsively she nestled against his shoulder, like a bird seeking refuge. ‘I’m all of a flutter. I can hardly bear to face them.’

‘If it’s Tabitha you’re worried about –’

‘Not just Tabitha –’

‘– then you’ve nothing to be afraid of. She’s changed completely in the last couple of years. She and Lawrence even talked for a little while this afternoon. I honestly think she’s forgotten that whole business about Godfrey: she doesn’t even remember who he was. She’s been writing these nice letters to Lawrence from the – from the home, and he’s said the whole thing’s forgiven and forgotten as far as he’s concerned, so I don’t think there’ll be any trouble from that quarter tonight. The doctors say she’s more or less back to normal.’

Mortimer heard the hollowness of these words and hated himself for it. Only that afternoon he had seen evidence of his sister’s continued eccentricity, when he had surprised her in the course of a walk around the wildest and most far-flung reaches of the grounds. He had been emerging from the hounds’ graveyard and was about to strike out in the direction of the croquet lawn when he caught what seemed to be a glimpse of Tabitha crouched in one of the densest areas of shrubbery. As he approached, without making a sound for fear of alarming her, he was dismayed to find that she was muttering to herself. His heart sank: it seemed that he had, after all, been too optimistic about her condition, and perhaps too precipitate in suggesting that she should be allowed to attend the family party. Unable to make out anything intelligible from her broken mumbles and whispers, he had coughed politely, whereupon Tabitha gave a little scream of shock, there was a violent rustling from the bushes, and she burst out a few seconds later, nervously brushing the twigs and thorns from her clothing and almost speechless with confusion.

‘I – Morty, I had no idea, I – I was just …’

‘I didn’t mean to surprise you, Tabs. It’s just —’

‘Not at all, I was – I was out for a walk, and I saw – I thought I’d explore … Heavens, what must you think of me? I’m mortified. Morty-fied, in front of Morty …’

Her voice died, and she coughed: a high, anxious cough. To ward off a heavy silence, Mortimer said:

‘Magnificent, isn’t it? This garden. I don’t know how they keep it so well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘That jasmine. Just smell it.’

Tabitha didn’t reply. Her brother took her by the arm and walked her back towards the terrace.

He had not mentioned this incident to Rebecca.

‘It’s not just Tabitha. It’s this whole house.’ Rebecca turned towards him and for the first time that evening looked deep into his eyes. ‘If we ever came to live here, darling, I should die. I’m sure I would.’ She shuddered. ‘There’s something about this place.’

‘Why on earth should we come to live here? What a silly thing to say.’

‘Who else is going to take it over when Lawrence is gone? He’s got no sons to leave it to; and you’re his only brother, now.’

Mortimer gave an irritable laugh; it was clear he wanted the subject dropped. ‘I very much doubt if I shall outlive Lawrence. He’s got a good many more years in him yet.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Rebecca, after a while. She took a long, last look at the moors, then gathered up her pearls from the dresser and fastened them carefully. Outside the dogs were howling for their supper.

∗

Poised in the doorway leading from the Great Hall, her own small hand folded tightly in Mortimer’s, Rebecca found herself confronted by a roomful of Winshaws. There were no more than a dozen of them, but to her it seemed like a vast, numberless throng, whose braying and mewling voices merged into a single unintelligible clamour. Within seconds she and her husband had been pounced upon, separated, absorbed into the crowd, patted and touched and kissed, welcomed and congratulated, plied with drink, their news solicited, their health inquired after. Rebecca could not distinguish half of the faces; she didn’t even know who she was talking to, some of the time, and her recollection of each conversation would forever afterwards be hazy and unfocused.

For our part, meanwhile, we should seize the opportunity offered by this gathering to become more closely acquainted with four particular members of the family.

∗

Here, for one, is Thomas Winshaw: thirty-seven, unmarried, and still having to justify himself to his mother Olivia, in whose eyes all his glittering success in the financial world counts for nothing beside his continued failure to start a family of his own. Now she listens tight-lipped as he tries to put a favourable gloss on a new development in his career which clearly strikes her as more frivolous than most.

‘Mother, you can get an extremely high return from investing in films these days. You’ve only got to be involved with one really big hit, you see, and you’re sitting on an absolute fortune. Enough to compensate for a dozen failures.’

‘If you were just in it for the money you’d have my blessing, you know you would,’ says Olivia. Her Yorkshire accent is thicker than her brothers’ and sister’s, but her mouth has the same downward, humourless turn. ‘The Lord knows, you’ve shown yourself clever enough where that’s concerned. But Henry’s told me what your real motives are, so don’t try to deny it. Actresses. That’s what you’re after. You like being able to tell them you can get them a job in the pictures.’

‘You do talk nonsense sometimes, Mother. You should listen to yourself.’

‘I just don’t want any member of this family making a fool of himself, that’s all. They’re no better than whores, most of those women, and you’ll only end up catching something nasty.’