The Hopeless Life of Charlie Summers Page 8

  ‘No, what about her?’ I asked, although I knew what the answer must be.

  ‘She died in her sleep a couple of days ago. It was quite unexpected: she was not ill, as far as anyone knew.’

  ‘Oh, Harriet - I’m so sorry,’ I said. I just managed to stop myself from uttering that well-worn remark, ‘she was a good age’.

  Harriet continued, in a practical tone of voice, ‘Well, I hardly ever saw her. I can’t say that we were close. Did you know she left everything she had to the two of us?’

  Although I had always hoped there might be a pourboire for me in the will, as a token of my aunt’s former friendship with my parents, I had not expected more. The idea would take some time to digest.

  ‘I’m flying back home tomorrow morning,’ said Harriet. ‘The funeral will be in Cirencester on Friday. Can you be there?’

  Five

  I decided to invite myself to stay with Henry and Sarah the night before the funeral, and then drive on to Cirencester the following morning. I drove down from London, timing my journey to make sure I arrived in Stanton St Mary for drinks. Henry was in the hall when I arrived, waiting for me. He took my suitcase from me and set it down.

  ‘Have a drink first, and then I’ll show you your room.’

  We settled down beside the fire and over whiskies Henry, after first asking a few questions about my trip, told me all about Charlie Summers and his arrival in Stanton St Mary. It was the first I had heard of it, and Henry had to remind me who Charlie Summers was.

  ‘Do you know that man is going around telling people he is some sort of relation of mine?’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, you told me you thought I was his twin, so I’m afraid I haven’t much sympathy.’

  Henry related what he knew of Charlie’s new career as dog nutritionist in residence in Stanton St Mary.

  ‘Have you bought any of his dog food?’ I asked.

  ‘I had to. I met him outside the village shop and it seemed the only way to get away from him was to purchase a couple of bags.’

  ‘Did it do any good?’

  ‘It has some fairly powerful emetic effects,’ said Henry.

  ‘The dog has certainly lost some weight, and is the better for it. But the state of the kitchen floor the morning after we first fed him on the stuff was indescribable.’

  Sarah Newark came into the hall at that moment, followed slowly by the black Labrador, which seemed more subdued than usual. I had always been a little frightened of Sarah: of medium height and quite thin, she was good looking but on occasion she could seem a trifle severe with those of Henry’s friends with whom she came into contact. She conveyed an impression, whenever one met her, that she had expected better things of life; most people would have considered Sarah very well situated with her fifteen-bedroomed house, full-time cook-cum-housekeeper, nanny and gardener. Yet it often appeared as if she found her surroundings, her husband and the person she was talking to barely adequate. I stood up when Sarah arrived and she pecked me on the cheek.

  ‘I suppose Henry’s been telling you about our new neighbour, Mr Summers?’

  ‘Mr Summers- Stanton,, Henry corrected her.

  ‘Too dreadful for words: apparently he’s renting a tiny lean-to that used to be part of the estate piggery, in the days when pigs made money. We sold it off years ago. Now he calls it “Piggery Farmhouse”. I simply don’t know where to look when friends ask me about him. People feel we brought him to the village, but really it’s all Henry’s fault. Yours too, Eck, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  I began to feel a little sorry for Charlie Summers.

  ‘As for our poor Oogums, that man’s dog food might have killed him. I almost called in the police, but we put him back on the old food he used to have and he’s getting better.’

  After dinner Henry and I sat in the hall, drinking a glass of port, while Sarah watched television next door in the sitting room.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that investment fund you work for, Eck.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Quite a few chums seem to be putting money into these private-client hedge funds.’

  ‘Well, it’s one way of ensuring you make money whether the markets go up or down,’ I said. This was our mantra, and we were taught to repeat it in every conversation we held with potential clients. ‘This is very nice port, Henry,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  Henry told me and then returned to the subject in hand.

  ‘The trouble is, one always seems to need more money. I own a bit of land, of course, but I’m not exactly awash with cash. Sarah likes her hot holidays and a reasonable standard of living. Then there’s the children’s education to think of; the worst of that expense is yet to come. And one’s income isn’t what it might be. I mean, I have a small investment portfolio and we still own a few cottages that provide us with a decent rent. But this place,’ said Henry, gesturing at the hall around us, encompassing in the sweep of his hand all the red-brick elevations, and oak staircases, libraries and billiard rooms, ‘this places eats its head off. The rest of the estate is mostly grazing land, and that’s never going to make me rich. You know what lamb prices are like nowadays.’

  I didn’t, but I gave a sympathetic grimace.

  ‘I mean, there seems to be so much money about these days. You get people from London, coming down here and buying up old estates like this one, who barely know how to use a knife and fork. I met a couple the other day, Jasper and Suki, they call themselves.’

  Henry shook his head, as if he could hardly credit anyone would give their children such names. ‘Jasper told me he worked in financial public relations. He drives a brand new Porsche Cayenne with the number plate JAS 1 and his wife has a Range Rover with the number plate SUK 1.’

  Henry shook his head again.

  ‘Financial public relations! I mean, for God’s sake, what is happening to the world? Who are these people coming to live here? Where does their money come from? Suki buys eventing horses by the dozen, and Jasper is putting in a second swimming pool at the farm they bought, so that the children can play in their pool without disturbing the grown-ups when they want a swim.’

  Henry drained his port, as if he needed every drop to have any chance of restoring his mental equilibrium. Perhaps he did.

  ‘Everybody’s rolling in money, these days,’ he commented. ‘It’s only people as slow witted as I obviously am who haven’t geared up, as I believe you call it, and put their assets to work.’

  I made some neutral remark, implying neither faith in Henry’s financial judgement nor the opposite, and waited for him to continue.

  ‘The point is, it seems like a good idea to invest in one of your funds now, to help pay for the children’s education later on. And it isn’t just that. Sarah likes to do things properly, as she calls it, and I’m never quite sure how we manage. But where I would raise the cash to invest with, I don’t know. Have some more port?’

  I stretched out my glass and Henry refreshed its contents.

  ‘Well, as you say, you’ve got land, and this house. We could help you take some equity out of that, you know. Land is very good collateral, especially in this part of the world.’ We talked some more about the hundreds of different ways of making money that seemed to be available to the astute investor, and then Sarah came back into the hall and the conversation drifted towards children and horses.

  *

  The next morning I drove down to Cirencester to attend my aunt’s funeral and parked in a car park on the edge of the town centre. Harriet was waiting for me in the porch of the church, and greeted me with a kiss. Once again she was in mourning, but the effect this time was to make her look subdued rather than tragic. We walked together into the Cirencester church, which was grander than some cathedrals, a testament to the vanished wealth of wool merchants from the days when sheep were still the thing to invest in. The funeral was sparsely attended and the service was interrupted from time to time by the distant sound of tourists coming in to gaze at the interior
of the church. The mourners barely filled a couple of pews in one corner. Aunt Dorothy had few living relations apart from the two of us, and none of the others was there, confined to home by age and frailty, as in the case of Harriet’s mother, or simply not sufficiently motivated to attend. Perhaps news of the will bequeathing everything to Harriet and me had discouraged a more general enthusiasm for the reliquaries of a reclusive maiden aunt. There were a few neighbours; an elderly solicitor, Mr Gilkes, who had looked after Dorothy’s affairs; and of course the two of us. Mr Gilkes came up and shook our hand when the service was over, and offered us a glass of sherry back at his office. When we declined, he tottered off, leaving Harriet and me alone.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to have lunch,’ I suggested. Harriet agreed.

  ‘I’ve had enough of funerals,’ she said. ‘A glass of wine and something to eat is just what I need.’

  We managed to find a table at a nearby wine bar and I procured a bottle of white. The place was busy and noisy and the chill that had come from sitting in the church listening to the funeral rites gradually wore off. When we had both ordered our lunch, I asked Harriet, ‘How long are you staying in England?’

  ‘Not long this time. I want to go and see my mother this afternoon. She isn’t steady enough on her feet to come out much, and had to miss the funeral. It was a pity because she was fond of Dorothy.’

  ‘I suppose it will take months before the will is probated,’ I said. ‘Will the money make a difference to you?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly how much there is,’ said Harriet. ‘And then there’s that gloomy house Aunt Dorothy lived in. I suppose that will have to be sold. It must be worth something. And all her furniture needs to be dealt with. Do you want it, Eck? Mahogany dining-room tables don’t work well in the South of France.’

  For a while the conversation dwelt on the mechanics of inheritance. Then Harriet asked, ‘Will the money make a difference to you, Eck?’

  ‘It might. Depends what I’m left with after tax.’

  ‘Would you give up your job?’

  ‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. I’d probably put the money into one of our funds.’

  Harriet sipped her wine. ‘It’s so strange to think of you as a stockbroker, Eck. It’s the last thing I’d have imagined you would end up doing. You are a stockbroker, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s that sort of idea,’ I said. ‘What would you have imagined me doing?’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might become a farmer. You’re an outdoors sort, aren’t you? Do you really enjoy working in London?’

  ‘Well, it’s a living,’ I said defensively. ‘In fact, it’s a better living than anything else I could think of.’

  In fact, at that moment I was thinking that this was the first time Harriet had really expressed any interest in me, or what I did. It seemed an encouraging sign.

  ‘What about you, Harriet?’ I asked. ‘Will you give up working if you can afford to?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s something to do.’

  ‘You used to have a high-flying job in London, didn’t you? What is it you do now: help expats choose the colour of their bathroom fittings, and bribe French planning officials?’

  Harriet laughed. It was the first time I had heard her do that in years. The laughter lit up her whole face, and made her look younger, quite different from the sombre-looking girl I had become used to.

  ‘I did have a high-flying job, as you call it. I’m not sure I miss it much now. Perhaps I’ve found my real vocation: pottering about, helping people to choose their bathroom fittings.’

  The food arrived. I returned to the matter close to my heart.

  ‘Seriously, are you going to live in France for the rest of your life?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Harriet. ‘The weather’s better, and the food’s better, and the work isn’t too hard unless I get a tricky client.’

  ‘What about your friends here?’ I asked. Harriet put down her knife and fork.

  ‘I don’t really have many friends here nowadays. I’ve lost touch with a lot of people.’

  ‘There’s me,’ I pointed out.

  Harriet was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Of course there’s you, Eck.’

  My mobile rang. I swore to myself, pulled it from my pocket and looked at the screen. It was Bilbo. He wouldn’t be pleased if I didn’t take the call: standing instructions were that, if Bilbo rang, you spoke to him. I answered but before he could say anything, I said, ‘I’m with someone in a restaurant in Cirencester.’

  Bilbo was unimpressed by the news.

  ‘My dear boy, I’m devastated to think that I might be inconveniencing you in any way. But I want you to look in at the office this afternoon. Something has come up.’

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘It might not be until around five,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be any later,’ said Bilbo. ‘I have an engagement this evening. So have you.’

  ‘I’ve got to go back to London,’ I said to Harriet, shutting my phone.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Straight after lunch.’

  ‘Oh, Eck, how disappointing. We won’t have any time to talk.’

  ‘I could come back here last thing tonight, or early tomorrow. Won’t you be around then?’

  ‘No, I’m flying to Nice in the morning,’ Harriet replied. ‘I’m in the middle of a couple of big jobs.’

  I reached across the table and put my hand on hers. It wasn’t a calculated move.

  ‘When do you think we will meet again?’

  She didn’t withdraw her hand, but at the same time I felt that she had frozen at my touch. I withdrew my hand and repeated, ‘When will I see you again?’

  I suppose when probate is complete: then we’ll have to decide what to do with everything. The house will have to be sold. I can’t see either of us wanting to live in it.’

  ‘But that could be months away,’ I said. Even to myself I sounded like a spoiled child and I cursed myself. This wasn’t the way to gain Harriet’s trust and affection, if that was what I was trying to do. For the last minute or so Harriet had been avoiding my gaze, staring down at her lap, but now she raised her eyes and looked directly at me.

  ‘Eck, we’ll meet again in a few weeks or maybe a few months. I can’t give you what you want, you know..’

  She said this softly, but the words were chilling.

  ‘How do you know what I want?’

  ‘You want me to think of you in the same way I thought of Bob. I don’t believe that’s ever going to be possible.’

  I stood up. The conversation was getting out of control, moving at a terrifying speed in the wrong direction.

  ‘I’d better go now, Harriet, I need to get back to London. Bob’s dead. I’m not, and neither are you. Everything is possible, if we both want it.’

  I bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Goodbye Eck,’ she said.

  ‘See you in a few weeks,’ I replied, as cheerfully as I could. I went to the counter and paid. When I looked back to wave goodbye Harriet was sitting with her head bent, not looking in my direction, as if she had not moved since I stood up to go. I walked out of the restaurant and went in search of my car, calling myself every name under the sun. What had I said all that for, then? Was that the way to win Harriet over? ‘Bob’s dead; I’m not.’ Was that smooth? Was that the most flattering comparison I could think of between myself and Harriet’s former fiancé? No, and no again. I cursed myself all the way to Swindon, and then I cursed Bilbo all the way to London.

  *

  I managed to find a parking space outside the office, went straight to Bilbo’s room and knocked on his door. He called for me to come in. He was tying a bow tie in the looking glass and had already changed into evening dress, although it was just after five. He looked at his watch as I came in.

  ‘You took your time,’ he said.

  ‘I had to get here from Cirencester. I’ve been at my aunt’s funeral.’<
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  ‘Anyway, you’re here now. I need to talk to you.’

  I sat down and said, reasonably, I thought, ‘Couldn’t we have talked on the phone?’

  ‘Silly boy,’ said Bilbo. ‘You never know who is listening in, do you?’ He finished knotting his bow tie, and then walked across to a filing cabinet on which stood a decanter of sherry and some glasses. He poured us both a glass, brought them back to the desk and then sat down. His large hands lay flat on the surface before him and as I looked at his hairy knuckles I thought for a second about sharpened tent pegs. Then Bilbo grasped his glass.

  ‘Good health,’ he said, raising his drink. I was wary. Bilbo was being nice to me, which was not necessarily a good sign.

  ‘Come on, Bilbo, you haven’t dragged me all the way from

  Gloucestershire to drink second-rate sherry with me, have you?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the sherry,’ said Bilbo. ‘It’s a lovely fresh manzanilla. My wine shipper gets it for me especially. You’re lucky to be offered anything. I felt like a glass myself, that’s all.’

  He paused and looked at me with his cold brown eyes. Bilbo always made one uncomfortable when he adopted that look, as if he were sizing you up, deciding on the best way to carve up the carcass before selecting a joint for the roasting tin.

  ‘What do you think of working for Mountwilliam Partners, Eck?’ he said finally.

  Had Bilbo made me leave Cirencester in the middle of lunch with Harriet for some kind of appraisal?

  ‘It keeps me busy,’ I said cautiously. Feeling that this might sound a bit lukewarm, I added, ‘I mean, the firm seems to be doing very well.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bilbo. ‘We’re doing well. Unfortunately, in our business, doing well is never enough. It’s like being in the top one hundred tennis players. Very nice to be able to tell your friends about it, but unless you are in the top ten it barely pays your air fares. You have to be in the top ten - better still, in the top five.’