Wild Lily (15 page)

Going back to the Goldbeaters’ would undoubtedly land him back where he didn’t want to be; going to Cedric’s was impossible because he wasn’t into farming and his presence would embarrass them, he being the gaffer, the way they were used to seeing it, so who else was going to feed him and find him a bed?

It would have to be Lily for now. This worried him somewhat. He always felt anxious about exploiting Lily’s love, giving so little in return. But he had to go back there to see to his treasures, so he had no choice. Just a night, he thought – not in her bed this time, but in the barn she mentioned. Then he would try and see Tom. Perhaps Tom had a spare bed? Antony was a bit vague about Tom’s domestic background.

Not feeling quite so optimistic now that the full force of finding himself homeless had entered his consciousness, he called Ludo to heel and set off again. He made a detour to a pub to get some food – not in his own village as he didn’t want to be recognized – and in the mid-afternoon came down through the woods behind Lily’s cottage and saw the familiar lake and his old home flaunting its ridiculous battlements against a grey, wintry sky, looking as abandoned as he felt himself. Bereft, suddenly. He felt a surge of self-pity, and found it difficult to stifle what was almost a sob in his throat.

Then Ludo was barking and another dog came skedaddling round the corner of the cottage, yapping a welcome, and Squashy was shouting, ‘It’s Ludo! It’s Ludo come back!’ and there was Lily, speechless amongst the garden flowers, looking so lovely that Antony’s mouth fell open.

‘Lily!’

‘Antony, oh, Antony!’ and she flung herself at him, sobbing violently, burying her face in his chest so that his face was full of her mass of golden hair. He gasped, trying to fend her off and then, at her passion, putting his arms kindly round her and hugging her and saying sweet words to calm her down. Somebody loved him at least.

‘Oh, Antony, I thought you were gone for ever! I have been so miserable! Everything is so awful now without you. I hate it! It was so lovely before, and now everybody has gone and we’ve no money and I have to work for Mrs Carruthers and she is so beastly, and Dad is so gloomy and there’s only Squashy laughing – hark at him! Have you brought Ludo for him?’

‘Yes, I’ve stolen him. I’ve run away, Lily, and I’ve nowhere to go. I want you to help me.’

‘Yes, oh yes, Antony, I will do anything for you! Come in, come in, I’ll make you a drink. Dad’s not here, he’s ditching up at Carter’s.’

Gabriel was too old to do ditching, Antony thought with a pang. He surely must help this family, left in the lurch by his father … he would give them the Van Gogh. It did look very splendid on the only bit of wall where there was a space,
lighting up the whole room. Lily moved the Botticelli from over the range where she started to stoke up the kettle.

‘I always move it when something’s boiling, so the steam doesn’t hurt it. We do love the pictures, Ant, they make the place so pretty.’

Crikey, Antony thought, that’s saying something! A Matisse of dancing ladies bounded over the wall beside the scullery and a Dutch flower painting was squashed between the chimney breast and the cupboard where pots and pans were kept.

‘Of course we know you will take them away soon, but they like to be looked at, don’t they? Not kept under the bed.’

Antony had a nasty feeling suddenly that perhaps the pictures, like all his father’s stuff, now belonged to the authorities (whoever they were) – the same people in black cars who had commandeered and boarded up the house and confiscated the whole contents of his father’s office. If he tried to sell them, he would have some explaining to do. Didn’t dealers always ask for what they called provenance, where the picture had come from? Did they not belong to him after all? He put down this nasty thought, which had never occurred to him before, as Lily prattled on.

‘Tom will be very pleased to see you – I think Brooklands don’t want your plane, not without getting some rent or something for storing it. But you can see to that now. Don’t let Mrs Goldbeater see you though – she was ever so pleased that Aunt Maud took you away. She said she was just what you needed, a firm hand.’

‘A firm hand? Hand of death more like. She got me a job with a solicitor. So I left.’

‘What do you want to do then?’

‘What do I
want
? What I want, and what I will get, are probably very different. What I
want
is a nice job in flying, preferably out of Brooklands, a pilot for someone, or taking somebody somewhere, like a taxi, or teaching someone the first things about flying. I don’t know enough really, I’ve got to get the paperwork, I suppose. I’m not much good as a mechanic, unfortunately, so that’s off. I’m not much good at anything really, when I come to think about it. But if it’s just
want
– I want to jump out with a parachute, like you did.’

‘Oh, Ant, that was so wonderful. When I’m sad I think about it. I shall always think about it, till the day I die.’

‘Well, perhaps if things go right we will do it together. Me for the first time, and you again. Hire a plane, and jump together. That would be terrific.’

He was talking rubbish, he knew. Where was the money coming from if he didn’t get a job, if he couldn’t sell his treasure … But the knick-knacks in silver and the jewellery – surely he could dispose of them without questions being asked? Say his grandmother left the pieces to him. His mind rambled on as Lily made him a cup of tea, her confidences having set up so many questions which stupidly he hadn’t given a thought to, setting off so blithely with Ludo on the lead. And Ludo too … he could hardly take him to Brooklands with him, and a big dog was difficult to keep if he left him with Squashy.

‘Do you get by, for food, I mean? Are you earning enough? And the rent for the cottage?’

‘No one’s asked us for any rent since your father went, which is handy, but we’re all afraid they’re going to sell off the cottages along with Lockwood when they get round to it. Then only God knows what we shall do. We get rabbits to eat, and Mrs Butterworth is very kind and sends Cedric over with a pie sometimes and a bag of potatoes, and of course now there’s plenty of fruit and blackberries and Dad’s got cabbages and stuff, so it’s not bad. It’ll be worse after Christmas, of course, but then it always was.’

She spoke so prosaically, like a hardened housewife, which Antony sadly supposed she was, at only the age of … what? Fourteen?

‘How old are you, Lily?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Blimey.’

She was still a child really, yet so hardened by responsibility. He supposed he was the opposite, still a child through being unburdened by responsibility. Until now. No one had taught him to take care of himself, and he realized it had been really childish not to have thought ahead about the realities of leaving Aunt Maud.

‘Well, I shall be around hopefully, not far away,’ he said. ‘I swear I shall never go back to Aunt Maud. I’ve got to make my own way. Even if it can’t be at Brooklands.’

‘How, Antony?’

There was no answer to that. ‘Don’t ask.’

He drank his tea. Squashy was romping about outside with the dogs, Ludo skittering about like a puppy, barking with joy. Antony had never seen him so happy.

‘I’ve got to go and see Tom, about the aeroplane, Lily. And now I must collect Helena’s things too, to sell. I need the money. You can keep the pictures for a bit. I’ll be near here if I go to Brooklands, so I shall come back and see you quite often.’

‘Yes, you must come back. I love you so. I’ve missed you terribly.’

‘Yes, but you always knew I had to go away some time.’

‘Yes, of course, but I can’t help myself. Will you leave Ludo? It makes Squashy so happy, look at him!’

‘Yes, of course.’

That was one problem solved. He had never thought ahead about arriving at Brooklands with Ludo. He had never thought ahead about anything really.

He collected the pillowcase full of Helena’s treasures, which was still fortunately under Lily’s bed, and departed before Gabriel came home. He didn’t want to face Gabriel, although the old man usually said nothing. But Antony could always sense the disapproval. He felt bad about old Gabriel. He had to give them some of the money when he sold some of the stuff, he decided.

But the wodge his father had given him was shrinking fast.

He crossed the lake and went up the erstwhile lawns to the house. Everything now was forlorn and broken, overgrown, abandoned. He could not believe how quickly the place had
fallen into disrepair. What a grim place it was, glowering over the dusking lake. The air was cold now, the nights drawing in, and Antony started wondering where on earth he was going to sleep. And he was fast getting hungry again and could not help thinking of the large, tasty suppers he had got used to at his aunt’s. He prayed Tom might help him: they had always been quite good friends in the past.

But when he knocked on the door of Tom’s cottage behind the garage he did not get a friendly welcome.

‘God, mate, where’ve you been all this time? Come to pay your debts, I hope. I’m getting dunned for money from Brooklands – rent for the storage, bill from the pilot, threats of bailiffs coming in, you name it. You really landed me in it. What do you think I do for money? I’m the same as all the other bastards your bloody father dropped in the bin. Your name’s not good around here, I can tell you.’

Antony saw his hope for rest and food and consolation evaporate sadly in the dusk. He had not truly given a thought to paying back Tom what he must have spent.

‘I’m going to Brooklands tomorrow. I’ll square it with them.’

‘Thank God for that. Make sure you do so.’

And with that he shut the door in Antony’s face.

Antony was shattered. Tom had been a larky friend the last time he had been with him. If it had not been for Lily’s devotion his homecoming was not proving a very good idea. Going back to Simon’s house would land him in the Aunt Maud situation, not to be contemplated, going back to Lily’s and
facing Gabriel just as bad. He could not face going into the village for food, where no doubt he would meet a lot of the people in the same frame of mind as Tom. The Butterworths at the farm had no love for him; he had always treated them like servants, and even Cedric as a hanger-on, not in the same bracket as Simon and John.

He spent the night, hungry, asleep on the back seat of the Rolls-Royce which still resided, unused, in the garage of Lockwood Hall.

Antony awoke in the morning freezing cold, starving hungry and deeply fed up. Outside it was drizzling with rain. There was no one about. He sat for a bit, listening to his empty stomach rumbling sadly and had to fight off the inclination to return to Hampstead Heath. It was impossible. So was asking Tom for help, or anyone else for that matter. Things could only be better at Brooklands, for they could not be any worse than where he was now. At least his plane would be there and he could fly away somewhere if the worst came to the worst.

There was a bicycle in the garage and he decided to use that to get to Brooklands. He could not remember whose it was. Tom’s probably. Too bad. He loaded his gear on the carrier and tied it on firmly with some old string lying on the floor and pushed it out into the rain. At least the pedalling might warm him up, and somewhere along the way he would find somewhere to buy breakfast.

This proved correct, so when he arrived at Brooklands he was, if wet, in a slightly more optimistic frame of mind. He
found nothing had changed much, save the place was getting smarter with its growing popularity as a car racing venue. The motor racing now overshadowed the aviation, the aeroplanes and their motley conglomeration of sheds being shoved together at the end of the vast concrete ellipse that comprised the race track. Watching these races, with their ever-present shadow of imminent and ghastly death overhanging them, was now a huge spectator sport and apparently the place was crowded with spectators on race days. Luckily today was not one of those.

Antony presumed he ought to get the money thing sorted first, but he wanted to assure himself that his plane was actually there and safe and that it was worth paying for before he parted with any cash. He asked the nearest men he met about where the office was and where his plane might be, and when they found out that he was the son of the famous traitor and murderer Claude Sylvester he found himself getting as much attention, or more than, he really wanted.

Amazingly, it was his way in to being offered cups of tea, cheese sandwiches, a seat in a work shed and a fair share of admiration. Not many air trips had been made with a gun in the pilot’s back: he was a one-off, a local hero. They wanted to know all about the murder, how much blood, how the escape was contrived, where was his father now? When he had satisfied them with the answers to most of the questions, he plied them with questions of his own and discovered that there were very few jobs going – just a possibility if he could fly and owned a plane. There was nowhere to sleep, nowhere to get a
meal unless you were a rich member of the racing club, and no jobs at all for someone who couldn’t use tools and knew nothing about engines. Nothing, really, that he hadn’t guessed already, but there was goodwill, which was something he was beginning to cherish. He decided he would turn some of Helena’s knick-knacks into money, pay his debts, check in for a bed and breakfast close by and hope for the best.

Nothing in his life so far had been as hard as what he faced now. If he hadn’t had a goal: to get a job in flying, he supposed he would never have found the strength to go through all the drudgery of a hanger-on’s life at Brooklands.

He found himself a cheap boarding house nearby; he paid Tom’s debts with the remains of the money his father had given him, and sold some of Helena’s jewellery in London to make enough to live on for a few months. With his public school confidence he found it quite easy to mingle with the moneyed people who came to Brooklands for the racing and flying, and at weekends he worked in the restaurant as a waiter, a job which he found far more to his liking than anything Aunt Maud’s solicitor friend was offering. The conversations he overheard kept his ambitions afloat, and with young men of his own kind he even found himself drinking at the bar and discussing, as well as the amazing speeds reached on the motor circuits, the current achievements in flying: the opening up of commercial airlines to fly passengers all over Europe,
long-distance flights across the world, the racing for the Pulitzer Trophy and the Schneider Trophy in America, and even the start of an affordable fun aeroplane designed by Geoffrey de Havilland to sell cheaply to people like himself. The burgeoning of flying was all the news, and Antony found himself far from alone in his hopes to be a part of this exciting world.

But the frustration of not being a part of it crucified him. The young men he talked with mostly had jobs in the industry, some as pilots, others working in the offices of the flying firms. Antony had no desire to work in an office; to be a pilot even for a pittance for some rich young idiot was the height of his ambition. But he soon realized that many of the craving jobless like himself had far more to offer than he did. They did not have Eton accents, but they did have oily hands and could take an engine down, or discuss the intricacies of rudder design, and still they could not get a job. Unemployment was rife everywhere: even his weekend waiter’s job was envied, although it did little to pay for his living expenses. He became a familiar figure hanging around like many others. Actually owning a plane, even if he could not afford to fly it, gave him the right to hang around, at least.

Helena’s store was evaporating, and some of it seemed to have been lost, or more likely stolen, in his careless swapping of lodgings. He could not understand how quickly money vanished. He had meant to take some back to help Lily and her family over the winter, but he never did, thinking of her only at times with a sense of guilt. He told himself that if he
got a job he would honour his promise to her to take her on a parachute trip: to jump out himself was still his own crazy desire, but he could not bear to face Lily with nothing to say for himself. Her crazy love for him must surely have died by now: he rarely gave her a thought. He just longed for the winter to be over and his miserable existence to take a turn for the better with the blessed coming of spring.

Lily had always known that Antony would go away sooner or later, leave home, get a job, do something. Leave
her
. She had always known it. Since he had escaped Aunt Maud and set off for Brooklands her spirits had lifted, knowing that he was his own man again and not very far away, but as the winter progressed and she heard no word she began to think he must have found the job he had always hankered after and, literally, flown away. Nobody had had word from him, not even Simon or the Goldbeaters. If he was close, she thought, she would have known.

Cedric said, ‘He doesn’t think of anyone but himself, Lily, you know that. He doesn’t know other people have feelings.’

‘He knows the feelings I have for him.’

‘Yes, everyone knows that.’ Cedric laughed, but kindly.

Lily said, ‘He had feelings for Helena – what he did for her.’

Cedric forbore to say, ‘Yes, he drowned her’ and nodded in agreement. ‘I’m sure, sooner or later, he will fly back here to
see you.’ He wanted to cheer her up, depressed to see Lily so forlorn.

He did not believe, if Antony made his way successfully, that he would ever come back to see them. Why should he? They meant nothing to him. Simon, possibly, but Cedric knew that to Antony Lily was just a funny little girl who adored him and danced to his tune. She amused him. He used her. He took her for granted. Her devotion meant nothing to him. Cedric had little admiration for Antony, although, like everyone else, he enjoyed his company. Antony had certainly enlivened his childhood, just as he had Lily’s.

Yes, they missed him.

But Antony was no help to Lily now that times were hard. The winter was stretching the small family since there was no real income coming in. The cottage could well be taken away from them, then where could they go? Gabriel and Lily scratched for the meagre jobs the village provided and lived with the cloud of eviction hanging over their heads. Lily worked the hardest and had the two men to cook for and feed, and no Antony to weave her dreams around.

Simon was away at university. Cedric was the only one of the old gang she saw when he came down from the farm with food his mother sent: the leavings of a joint of lamb or a new-baked fruit cake. When he had the cart he would bring a bag of potatoes. He would have brought some of his sisters’ discarded clothes for Lily, but that would have been a charity too far, insulting.

Lily knitted every evening by candlelight from unravelled
wool some village ladies gave her, and made amazing jerseys. Squashy had one with a portrait of Barky on his chest, his dearest possession. She longed for the spring.

She gave up longing for Antony. Antony was for fun. Life wasn’t fun any more.