Later the police would try to create a reconstruction of the incident, laying out things just as they had been on that unforgettable day, forcing people to re-enact their moves to the minute and the metre, positioning and timing their movements as in an over rehearsed play. They hoped that this piece of memorised theatre, along with the rest of their investigations, would give them an indication as to what really happened, who was to blame, if there were some obscure and hidden motive, who could be eliminated from their suspicions. But it was never going to be easy. Some apparently significant evidence turned out later to be no more than a red herring, and other valuable clues were missed in a deluge of minor detail. To really understand what took place that day they would need to spend long stretches of time at Haute House, living with the protagonists, interviewing and cross-examining them over and over again. That would not be possible, that belonged to the realm of the third conditional. So they would have to reach their conclusions like all of us, by picking through the information at hand.
How much information needs to be collected? How far back in time do we have to go to find the answers that help us understand a tragedy? Reasonable questions, but a police investigation cannot waste time on such philosophical niceties, it must be practical. They decided to start from when Harvey Paulson first became part of life at Haute House.
First impressions count, especially to the astute. A shrewd person with experience and an eye for detail is able to pigeon-hole a new acquaintance within minutes. A scan is run and the results analysed. Carefully interpreted, this data should define social class, as relayed through clothing and accessories, as well as any number of clues about that person’s habits. Do they practice sport, overeat, ever visit the dentist? A deeper scan seeks out more subtle traits. Are they submissive, arrogant, challenging? Taken one step further, many people will dress and present themselves in a studied manner to deliberately create the desired impression. That way they are telling their audience not necessarily who they are, but more who they would like to be, who they are prepared to be. Which was why Pet had made Ambrose wear his Sunday best for the interview with Stein and Mrs Haute that hot August day. Nobody would really believe they felt comfortable dressed that way, Petunia in a frock she had worn to a wedding, Ambrose in a suit fit for other seasons, but at least they would give the impression of being willing to make the effort, to show respect, to behave themselves and try to blend in. Mr. Stein had been amused, Mrs. Haute had been pleased. If Ambrose had gone in his jeans and his favourite cartoon character T-shirt who knows what would have become of them?
Today it was her turn. Andrea would soon turn up with her new man, Harvey Paulson, who she had been dating for the last few months, and Pet would have the opportunity to size him up. There were mixed feelings in the household about this new affair of Andrea’s. Most agreed that after almost three years of grieving the fact that she had decided to start a new relationship was positive, a healthy sign that suggested that she had finally laid Sydney, and consequently Mrs. Haute, to rest. She needed to snap out of her lethargy, of her doting on little Sydney Jr,, because she was still young and attractive and had her whole life ahead of her. And what a life! As mother of the only heir to Haute House she would hold the reins of the estate until the young man’s coming of age. The late Mrs. Haute had left everything to her only grandson, to be inherited once the boy became a man, at eighteen. She would have preferred twenty one, but her lawyer had persuaded her to move with the times. In the meantime, the economic affairs would be run by a group of advisors named specifically for the task by Alice Haute just before her death. Andrea was to receive a generous annual income and use of both Haute House and the villa at Kenton Beach for the rest of her days. So without having to worry her pretty little head about a thing, she was to lead a life of luxury and leisure for which she had been perfectly prepared.
The problem was she was now all alone. True, she had her son, a carbon copy of the father he had never seen, but the boy was still in nappies and more of a burden than company. Andrea was not a natural mother, did not possess a very strong maternal instinct, and expected her child to be brought up with the help of others, saving for herself the beautiful moments of giggles and cuddles, whilst delegating the more tedious tasks to the staff, which basically meant Pet. So she had too much time to ponder on her bad luck, on her loss, on her unsought though fabulous inheritance. What she needed, her friends and relatives all agreed, was an adventure. And by all accounts that moment had arrived in the form of Harvey Paulson.
But who was this Harvey? Could he hope to match Sydney’s magnificent memory? Would Sydney Jr. take to him? Was it wise to invite him here, to the House, so soon? The staff felt protective towards Andrea, wanted to save her from any kind of deception, to keep her safe from fortune hunters and unscrupulous Casanovas. Not so much for her; she was a relative newcomer to the place, and although was well liked, she had not been in their lives long enough to be loved. She was to be pitied though, for she had suffered so much. Their real concern was for Sydney Jr., the fatherless, fair-headed toddler who ran riot throughout the mansion totally oblivious to the blows and machinations of his inherited world. Would this Harvey Paulson treat him well, be a good father to the boy? They were about to find out.
Ambrose would be present on Harvey’s arrival too, but he would have to leave the appraisals to his sister; he was useless at that kind of thing. It was a knack he had never learnt, and he was not even truly convinced of the science behind it all. It seemed to him that mistakes had been made on more than one occasion. Hadn’t they found the Wiggins to be charming? Hadn’t Pet even said that she found Mr. Golden Nugget Cummings to be a perfect gentleman? And he remembered that you should never judge a book by its cover. His parents had told him that. And his teachers. In fact just about everybody knew that, even if they chose to ignore it. But she assured him that she knew better, so he supposed she probably did, she usually did. He half wondered for a moment about why people would talk about judging covers and so on, but never pay the slightest bit of attention to it. Maybe there was something he was missing. He let it drop. The best thing to do was to start with a friendly greeting, and then wait for a report later on in the day when his sister had decided that she’d seen enough to reach a reasonable conclusion.
‘He’ll be here for lunch. I’ve put your clean clothes on your bed, so when you’ve finished with the bins, have a quick shower and get dressed, alright? Be ready by twelve at the latest. Alright? Twelve o’clock. At the latest. They’re on your bed. Ah, and change your boots, too, don’t forget, ok?’
Pet invariably spoke to Ambrose as if she were his mother, it was something she had always done, an attitude she had subconsciously taken towards him even long before their mother had died. Ambrose didn’t mind; he was used to it. Anyway, she was his big sister and she knew best.
She hadn’t mentioned anything to him, but Ambrose could see that Pet was not entirely convinced about the lunchtime visit. She was not her usual chirpy self, was a bit serious, and frowned as she turned away. More than once she studied the sky, watching the passing clouds closely and shaking her head. Signs, he supposed, signs only Pet could interpret. Was there anything in it? Was it like crossing your fingers, and black cats and the like? Or could his sister judge the world by its cover? Either way he trusted her, knew he could always rely on her better judgement. Hadn’t she been the one who had got them the jobs in the first place?
Though it had to be admitted that the Haute House that Harvey was about to discover bore little resemblance now to the family home that had taken them on so many years back. Those were the days when Sydney was in his prime and Mrs. Alice Haute ruled the roost with cool glamour, with studied charm, so very old fashioned despite her modern ways. If poor, dead Sydney had judged books by their covers he certainly hadn’t shown it. From the very first day he had been both polite and amiable, showing a genuine interest without the vaguest trace of mockery. He had called Petunia Pet, and Ambrose Bro, because he realised that they would appreciate it, would understand that he was being affectionate, not rude. When Mr. Stein bawled at Ambrose, he would wink conspiratorially and say things like ‘don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Stein!’ (Mr. Stein would not expect to be called ‘Joe’ whilst in his official role). One day he helped Pet clear away the breakfast things, chatting about this and that and laughing at her cheeky comments. Never once did he mention her weight, or her smoking habit, or her dental hygiene. And there was the time he took off his jacket and pushed the old Volkswagen right up the drive and round the back to the garages. He didn’t even call for Ambrose to give him a hand, just did it all on his own, one hand on the wheel, the other pushing hard, his feet digging into the gravel, until he had it where he wanted it. When Mr. Stein had complained and tried to blame Ambrose for being lazy and inconsiderate, Sydney had just laughed and patted Ambrose on the back. ‘Exercise is good for you’ he had said, and thrown a smile at both of them.
Then Andrea had come along, and had been accepted immediately by both family and staff. If Sydney was the perfect, well-educated son, then Andrea would be his perfect match. She too was well-educated and polite, was comfortable with wealth and its exigencies, knew how to behave and belong. The presence of cooks and cleaners did not disturb her in any way; she had been groomed for a life of leisure and knew her part. So she was approachable though respected, which was the ideal balance that Alice Haute had been looking for in a daughter-in-law. She also had a pleasant, unruffled character which made cohabitation a remarkably non-traumatic affair.
Then life had turned capricious. Sydney, the envy of the county, was hurled into a tree at speed and killed instantly. Mrs. Alice Haute died as a result of that accident, too. And Andrea was left to fend for herself and her new born son surrounded by the belongings and memories of the dead.
Andrea had not wanted a reception party. She imagined the servants, the staff, lined up on the steps of the entrance waiting for the carriage to arrive, butlers and maids all dressed in full uniform, humble and grateful, as in days of yore or in historical films. No, she was a woman of her times, modern and relaxed, so there would be no standing on ceremony. She would simply turn up at an unspecified time and have a light lunch in her rooms with her new acquaintance. She had no intention of introducing Harvey to them as if he were an official suitor; it was her business, not theirs. So the staff decided to work out their own choreography; all of them would appear naturally whilst carrying out their daily tasks, and by pure chance manage to be in the right place at the right time. Nobody wanted to miss the opportunity to get a good long look at this Harvey Paulson who seemed to be making such an impression on Andrea. Because it had escaped no-one’s attention that just recently Andrea had become, if not happier, then at least less depressed. She smiled more often, played more with Sydney Jr. and took more care of her hair and clothes. For those reasons alone Harvey was to be received without animosity; they would give him a fair chance to prove his worth. Not that they would ever have a say in the matter or be consulted in any way. They were paid to supply service, not to act as a kind of proxy family. But maybe if Andrea noticed their enthusiasm, or caution, or aversion, she would think twice before taking any decision she may later regret. They all liked to think they had some kind of influence over what took place at Haute House, though since Sydney’s and his mother’s deaths their powers of persuasion had dwindled. Andrea was now in charge, a relative newcomer, and for the past two years she had lived in virtual reclusion, occupying only half a wing of the ground floor, as if the rest of the house belonged to those who cleaned and maintained it. The real decisions were made off premises by the advisors appointed in their day by Alice Haute. Nonetheless they saw it as their duty; Harvey would be assessed, and the results would be written all over their faces.
‘It was at 12.09 on Thursday the seventeenth of March. I’ll never forget.’
Pet had a prodigious memory. She could tell you exactly when Sydney had died, when Mrs. Haute had passed away. She knew the wedding dates and birthdays and even the saint’s days of almost everyone she had ever met. So there was no doubt about it – Harvey had arrived that day at 12.09.
As an accessory a car can be a very potent calling card. A lot is said about a person who turns up in a Porsche, or a two-seater of any kind. First and foremost it means No Kids. Alternatively a large sedan car, in sombre dark grey, powerful yet discreet, denotes responsibility and decency. An orange Beetle with racing stripes tells another story. So they waited expectantly to find out what type of vehicle Harvey drove. Brendan would be first to spot it, as he had positioned himself near the main gates. He watched anxiously as possible candidates approached, only to drive past. He saw an Audi, white and sleek, dither as if unsure which way to turn, but as it crawled past he noticed the woman driver was well into her sixties. A four by four Toyota? No, that was Joe Higgins’ car. A black Ford van he thought was unlikely, but worth tracking nonetheless. It parked a little further up the street. Nobody got out, at least not while he was watching.
Eventually a taxi pulled up at the gates, and a short, stout young man with dark hair and casual clothes alighted. He opened the back door for Andrea, then paid the taxi, which pulled away noiselessly. He was no fool this Harvey, he would keep them guessing.
They entered the grounds through a side gate and walked up the drive to the main door. They did not hold hands, they did not talk. Andrea, clad entirely in denim, led the way with her lazy, loping gait, while Harvey, keen and alert in khaki and navy blue, took in the sight. Brendan, who had taken the opportunity to wish them good day, slipped off to find the rest.
When the couple entered the house, they were met by Mr. Stein and Señora Luz, who just happened to be going over a few unspecific minor arrangements. They were duly introduced to the guest. On the way to Andrea’s quarters they almost literally bumped into Petunia, who was carrying some plastic bags on her way to the kitchen. Andrea nodded, Harvey smiled politely, and they were gone. Not much of an encounter, but she had seen enough. She watched as they disappeared into Andrea’s rooms.
Ambrose was still getting dressed. He had found an old pair of sunglasses in a kitchen drawer and was trying to decide if he should wear them or not. He liked to think that they were rather stylish, and made him look attractive, but it was hard to know for sure. More than once Pet had ridiculed his dress sense, swearing he had no taste. Which is why she chose his wardrobe, even his accessories. She even took it upon herself to help him choose what tattoo he should have, and where it should go. His hairdresser was a friend of hers and styled Ambrose as Pet saw fit, moving with the fashion that most impressed her at the time. So he rarely wore anything that his sister hadn’t bought for him or previously approved. Every so often he would try to put his foot down and insist on a certain cap, or a pair of shorts, but Pet could always cajole him out of his obstinacy. Still, the sunglasses he thought she might just agree to.
Pet rushed into the room.
‘He’s here. I’ve just seen him downstairs. What are you doing?’
Ambrose struck a pose and winked, unaware that she could not see his eyes through the dark lenses of his shades.
‘For Pete’s sake take them off. Where did you get them? You look ridiculous. Come on, we have to go down and see if we can spot them again. She’s bound to show him round at one point.’
Ambrose slipped the sunglasses into his pocket and followed his sister obediently.
The staff took up positions and continued their surveillance. Brendan would keep an eye on the small terrace in case the sun came out and they should decide to take a stroll through the grounds via the French windows. Stein and Luz would alternate along the main corridor. Pet and Ambrose would hover round the games room area which was connected to Andrea’s rooms by a not very often used side door. Still, better be on the safe side. The moment the couple appeared, the staff would accidently place themselves in a position from where they could get a better view of the young pretender.
Harvey realized this and was on his best behaviour. He knew how to hold himself on such occasions, knew how to charm and delight. His aim was for all those who met him to think that he was ‘nice’. His parents and his upbringing had given him all the advice necessary to succeed in society, even if he did choose to ignore it some of the time, and today those lessons would be put into practice. So he feigned interest, was courteous, made an effort to smile, pretended to be shy and a little out of place in such magnificent surroundings. Therefore he was grateful to the staff for their consideration. That day Harvey Paulson was a perfect gentleman.
He eventually met Ambrose in the hall as he was about to leave. He noticed that the man seemed to be more than a little embarrassed, unsure whether to grin or remain straight-faced. Ambrose, (was that his name? his real name?) shuffled his feet, and his mouth hung open at intervals. He looked as if he were about to go to Sunday school, and kept toying with something in his pocket all the time. He thought: the man’s a fool. But Harvey nonetheless smiled and bowed his head, said that he was pleased to make his acquaintance, and sauntered off to the main gates where his taxi awaited him. Pet had witnessed the whole scene.
She had also been present when young Sydney had been brought down from his afternoon nap to meet his future step-father. This Harvey character had gone through the motions, but he wasn’t fooling her; she had all the information she needed.
That had been the most difficult encounter for Harvey. Sydney Jr. was like a miniature, cherubic version of Sydney Haute, deceased, thereby reminding Harvey that this was still very much the home of the Haute family. The outsider, the newcomer, the upstart even, was Harvey Paulson. This little boy, with his unsought inheritance, was inadvertently underlining the fact that, for the time being, Harvey was no more than a visitor. Not even the widow held the keys to the treasure; it all resided in that small child. Which, added to the fact that Harvey had never had any time for children, made petting the boy an act of determination, of self-sacrifice. Not only was Sydney Jr. a noisy, uncontrollable, whining nuisance, he was another man’s offspring, a competitor for Andrea’s affection, and an obstacle placed between himself and control of the Haute fortune. Not the best credentials for establishing a relationship. Still, appearances were everything, especially on first encounters, so Harvey had done what anyone would have done. He ruffled the boy’s hair, asked his age (two fingers for an answer), and gave him a bag of sweets. That was enough for one day; he left Andrea in charge after that.
In the taxi on his way back to town Harvey decided his fate; he would make Andrea his wife and take charge of affairs at Haute House.
Over supper in the kitchen, the TV on for background noise, the topic of conversation was Harvey. They discussed his looks, his attitude, his background, his chances, his intentions. The general opinion was that he seemed to be a ‘nice enough’ man. Well-dressed but not over-dressed. Correct but not too distant, nor too informal. That he came from a decent family went without saying, his manner and bearing could testify to that. A bit short, maybe. That was Joe Stein, though he himself was not exactly tall. When Andrea put on her high heels she’d be a good bit taller. They nodded; height could be a problem. Unless he wore platform boots, suggested Ambrose. They all laughed except Pet, who had so far held her tongue.
‘Well, you’d better get used to him, ‘cos he’s here to stay.’
‘The lady has spoken,’
jibed Mr. Stein.
‘Not your type, Pet?’
Inquired Brendan, winking at Ambrose.
‘I don’t like him, not one little bit. There’s something shifty about him, something, I don’t know, something not right. He gives me the creeps.’
‘I don’t think we should leap to conclusions, we hardly know the man,’
said Luz, almost as a rebuke.
‘He seemed nice enough to me,’
added Joe Stein.
Pet fell silent. Ambrose looked at each of them in turn, and understood nothing. They couldn’t all be right about Harvey, but who to trust? He very much respected Joe Stein. Here was a man who could do almost anything, from fixing a car to rebooting a computer, a man of letters and figures, a man with a cool head and a keen eye. And Luz was no fool, with her photographic memory and an internal clock that worked to the minute. Brendan Senior was his friend, he was old and wise, and he had clearly stated earlier in the conversation that the new man had come across as alright. So that meant Pet was the only one who did not agree, had seen something the others hadn’t. But she did have that power, he knew. Apart from the Wiggins she had nearly always been right. He was unsure how she managed it, there were candles and numbers and weather patterns involved, and it was all too mysterious for him to grasp. But she really did have hunches, and they really did work most of the time, so what was the verdict? Was Harvey ok, harmless enough, a chap to be trusted? Or was he to be feared? Was it best to tread carefully in his presence? Or would it all come to nothing anyway? A brief passion with no future? And why couldn’t they ever agree to anything? Why did they all talk and talk and never reach a joint conclusion? Why did it all have to be so damned difficult? Maybe he should try another joke, like the one about the platform shoes. He shot a glance at his sister who was picking at her potatoes sullenly. Maybe not, he decided.
‘Either way, it’ll do her the world of good; it’ll take her mind off everything and… do her the world of good.’
Mr. Stein’s words were to be taken as final. It was not Pet’s place now to contradict him, so she let it go and bent with the conversational wind.
She was right about one thing – Harvey had come to stay. He had discovered that Andrea pined to be treated like a princess, to be showered in gifts and unexpected treats, to be adored and admired. So he sent roses, dozens of them, by private courier. It was not cheap, but it was easy and effective. At the swipe of a credit card he had her enthralled, delighted that the old world clichéd charm of being surrounded by red rose buds should at last be hers. Because Harvey had soon realized that he needed to fill the gaps that Sydney had failed to attend to, and being romantic was definitely the fastest route to goal. Personally he considered it to be sickly sweet, pathetic, infantile, puerile, and something that he hoped she would eventually grow out of. He had once dated a girl whose room was a display of soft toys and dolls, many of them still in their plastic coverings to keep the dust off them, not the most erotic setting. But for the time being playing the game was what Andrea required of him, what distanced him from his predecessor. Sydney had made her laugh, had overawed her, had managed to turn her to jelly in his presence. She had fallen in love with him to such a degree that, looking back, it now appeared as if their love had been a lop-sided affair. She had been infatuated by his persona, inebriated by his carefree nonchalance and joie de vie, had all but worshipped the man. She did not want that to happen again. If she were to start afresh, she wanted to be pampered, if she were to love again, she wanted to be loved back, if she were to let Harvey into her life, he would have to be both the perfect gentleman and an ardent fan of everything that was Andrea. He could begin by sending roses.
So it was that Harvey Paulson became a fixture at the Haute household, arriving at all hours, invariably bearing gifts, courteous and attentive. His attentions were obsessively turned on Andrea, and she was so overwhelmed by this show of devotion and affection that she did not realize that Harvey was never any more than correct towards young Sydney. He only has eyes for his love, she assumed, and thought no more of it. She was being swept off her feet and enjoying every moment of it. After so much suffering, after such a long winter, she believed she was entitled to a little happiness.
But Pet had noticed it, how Harvey kept the child at bay with sweets, how he could not bring himself to cuddle the boy, or pick him up and carry him in his arms. He patted him on the head and then waited for someone to intervene, to lead him off to his toys, or upstairs for a siesta, or to the kitchen for his lunch. If Sydney started to pester Harvey, to pull at his trousers, or insist on showing him some twig or soft toy, Harvey would smile his paternal smile, and move behind Andrea, holding her by the waist, impatient to be alone with the object of his desire, begging her understanding. It worked, of course, and Andrea would fob the boy off with some excuse or other and disappear into her rooms with her impulsive lover.
Pet also observed, a little despairingly, how the rest of the staff, Ambrose included, were all gradually falling under Harvey’s smooth talking spell. Because Harvey was a charmer, a real charmer, a born charmer. He knew exactly what to say to whom, in what tone, with what facial expression, and with what subtle yet detectable body language to match. It was as if he had taken a master’s degree in Social Grace, and had learnt how to make people believe that the mask faithfully represented the man. So he joked with Brendan, and helped him dispose of the grass cuttings and pruned branches, putting his back into the work as a real man does, uncomplainingly, without expecting either thanks or recompense. Mr. Stein he treated with huge respect, acknowledging the man’s worth, his history, his wisdom, and above all, his rank. He pretended to be speechless when confronted with Luz’s superior efficiency, he had no words to express his admiration for her diligence and professionalism. Ambrose was easy. He knew that he demanded nothing more than the odd greeting, the occasional ‘well done’. It had not taken him more than a second to calibrate Ambrose’s mental agility, so he knew there would never be any question of rivalry or competition. Ambrose was a push over, a marginal character who posed no problem.
He thought much the same of Petunia, too, never going beyond a polite ‘good day’ and the praise of a specific meal. She was, he concluded almost instantly, her brother’s sister. Overweight, with terrible teeth, an odour of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne about her, she was jolly enough though not particularly articulate, and as thick as a brick. A secondary member of the household staff. He politely ignored her or avoided her as much as he could.
Still, he knew he needed them on his side for the time being, so he played his part as he had learnt to do throughout his life. That does not mean that it was all deviously mapped out by Harvey in advance. There was no master plan to follow; it all came naturally, instinctively. He aspired to what every human aspires: more. He felt that he had been born superior, that he was the one-eyed man in the world of the blind, and it was his destiny, his duty almost, to accept that and act accordingly. Life had anointed him with an excellent standard of living, a healthy body, a fine education, and a sharp mind. He had no say in the matter, there could be no question of blame, we cannot be held guilty for being born, it was merely a matter of circumstance. So he automatically appraised the situation and worked out what would be the best path to follow with natural ease, always remembering that the ultimate goal was personal benefit. This was survival of the fastest. He had been gifted with the tools necessary to triumph, and he would do so, because it was his responsibility to do so. Not everyone in life can be a winner, not everyone has what it takes to succeed. But Harvey Paulson was convinced that he had been chosen at birth to stand out amongst men, to rise above the average mass of humanity, not only to survive, but to thrive. So controlling the situation, foreseeing events, responding tactfully and tactically he saw as second nature, as part of his innate ability to manipulate his world and his fellow men. There was no morality involved, no desire to do evil, only a life to be lead using the tools at hand. That he had been blessed with the finest instruments available was nothing more than chance. He would not let the opportunity escape him.
Nonetheless he was aware that the road to fortune was a rocky one, and that he had to step very carefully. The timing was not perfect. Andrea had been a widow for just three years. Internally she was still a tangle of emotions, part of her wanting to start afresh, to pick up her young life and begin to live again, whilst another side of her still wept for her loss. She could not help but see Sydney in her young son; he was like a miniature version of his dead father, a constant reminder. That on top of Alice Haute’s passing away so recently, the appointing of the administrators, the legal ins and outs that she had no interest in but that had to be attended, all of this and more meant that Harvey’s appearance had been more than a little rushed. But he had to grasp at this opportunity with both hands or Andrea would eventually be snapped up by someone else. That would not happen. This was a unique opportunity and he could not let it pass. He would find the patience necessary, push only as far as could be expected, demand only what she was capable of giving. He would wear her down, work his way into her life, waiting for the moment to pounce with an offer of marriage. At the right time, at the right place. In the meantime, caution and best behaviour.
Eighteen months later, just after Sydney Jr.’s fourth birthday, Andrea and Harvey were married in a side room of the local Town Hall. At Andrea’s insistence it was a simple affair, more like signing the deeds of a house than a marriage ceremony. They repeated the words a little embarrassedly like children, afraid they would make a silly mistake and be laughed at. They vowed what they were expected to vow, they exchanged rings, they kissed. Twenty minutes and it was all over. There was to be no banquet, no band, no honeymoon. Andrea had begged Harvey to understand her, and he had been happy to comply. He was not interested in the paraphernalia of a wedding, the guest list, the bouquets, the awkwardness of wedding presents. He just wanted the papers signed and safely in his pocket. In a way he was grateful to Sydney for having previously supplied Andrea with a fairy tale wedding day, it had saved him the time and effort, as well as the expense.
For Andrea had become Mrs. Haute in the most traditional way imaginable. The service had taken place within the grounds of Haute House, under a white canvas marquee, with beautifully laid tables, and chairs with little dresses on them to hide their ugly legs. Catering care of the Carlton Hotel chain. The forecourt was a makeshift parking lot full of glamorous vehicles that glittered like dark gems. The pool had been filled with multi-coloured balloons that popped every so often under the early summer sun. Guests in absurd gowns and uncomfortable suits walked about like extras in a film, unsure exactly what the director expected of them. There was a protocol that only a chosen few had seen, so a stately chaos reigned, which grew in intensity with the heat of the day and the amount of alcohol imbued. After the mock solemnity of the ceremony itself, a deadly serious affair that only Mrs. Alice Haute and the sickly looking vicar seemed to appreciate, there had been speeches and dances and drunks to attend to. A one man band played incessantly, filling the air with the musical equivalent of pestering wasps. The musician/D.J. was a short man nearing his fifties, with dyed hair swept back over his shiny, suntanned skin, and an unshakeable belief that any combination of notes and rhythms was a gift of the gods: they sent him into a frenzy every time. He played his organ, he swayed his hips, he held out his arms outstretched to the indifferent crowd as if saying – I give you music!
Eventually the sun had gone down and the cavalcade had disappeared through the metal gates. The caterers went about their business, the D.J. loaded his kit into his van, family and friends retired exhausted. Andrea and Sydney were now married. Till death do us part.
That day had gone down officially as the happiest day of her life. She could not possible go through it all again.
In the weeks that followed the brief marriage ceremony, Harvey moved in. And it seemed that with each van load of his belongings that arrived he was also reassembling his original personality. The pleasantries became few and far between, shorter and sharper, pinched into caricatures of courtesy. He became brusque and off-hand, and his temper began to make an appearance. It was clear from the outset that he was going to have difficulties handling the staff, the very same staff he had so recently wooed and charmed. He had no tact, no patience, no time for fools. Things were to be done properly at the first attempt, anything less was incompetence. Instructions were to be understood straight off, because they were clear and unequivocal. In his opinion Haute House should run as smoothly as his office, and the employees should be professionals, that was why they had been hired in the first place. He had no truck with the subtleties of command, couldn’t care less how the underlings felt, if they took things personally or not, if they responded to certain strategies or others. There was work to be done, and there were plenty more people out there willing to do just as a good a job under the same conditions.
He was to be called Mr. Paulson, or, as an alternative, Sir. He had wanted to suggest forms of address for Andrea, too, but soon realised that would be going too far. There was a bond between his wife and the members of the household that he could not now undo, a bond strengthened over the last few years by the unifying force of mutual loss. They would continue to call her Andrea as they had always done, just as they had called her late husband simply Sydney. The boy had now inherited that name, the suffix ‘junior’ having lost its usefulness. But Harvey would be respected, much as he imagined the late Mrs. Haute had been respected, as undoubtedly had her husband and all the other former owners of the estate. Mr. Paulson, if you please. Sir, for short.
Joe Stein, as acknowledged head of staff, bore the brunt of this change in attitude. In many ways he understood Harvey’s complaints, even shared with him certain suggestions for improvement. It was true that the house ticked over at a slow pace, with a relaxed rhythm that could at times be infuriating. It was also true that sometimes chores were left undone, that messages were not given to the right person at the right time, that mistakes were made. Mr. Stein recognised the facts, was the first to agree. However...
That was when Harvey cut him short. No howevers, no buts, no mitigating circumstances. Efficiency. Attention to detail. Concentration. Responsibility.
Yes sir.
What Mr. Stein knew but Harvey Paulson did not, is that not everybody responds to the same therapy. For some people a simple command, clearly given with no possibility of misinterpretation, was the perfect tool with which to work. Mission accomplished. To others such an order raised a whole host of related questions, posed a full range of possible knock on effects. Luz would definitely prefer to be able to clarify the consequences of the command by asking for further information. To her it was not enough to say ‘clean the windows’. She would need to know if that meant inside and out, if the curtains should be removed, if there was a certain room that should be cleaned first, if the window cleaner, read Ambrose, should drop all other chores and concentrate solely on cleaning windows, or if it should be done piecemeal. And of course there were those, Brendan for example, who did not like to be told what to do. That did not imply laziness or slovenliness. Far from it: Brendan, like his son after him, was an excellent gardener and dedicated professional. But he had to feel that the initiative came from him, had been his sovereign decision. He expected his age and his wisdom to be respected. The gardens were his domain, and nobody knew better than he did what needed doing and when. So for Brendan it was better to mention that the lawns seemed to have suffered a little from the recent weather. Ten minutes later he would be working on the grass. The chestnut trees have really grown. They would be pruned to perfection before the day was through.
Joe Stein knew these things, and a lot more. He also knew he would have to agree with Mr. Paulson on everything, show no signs of dissent, and pass the word on to the rest of them if they were to keep their jobs. All this without causing a fuss or stirring up ill-feeling. They would all have to make an effort if Harvey was to be accommodated.
The upkeep of a large house in extensive grounds is a constant battle against time, weather and nature. At the first signs of neglect window frames begin to swell and buckle, stonework crumbles, ironwork dissolves into rust. Wild plants lurk on the edges of lawns and carefully tended arbours, patiently waiting for a chance to return, to reclaim the land from which they have been evicted. The maintenance of this tiny portion of civilisation against the onslaughts of the elements was a continuous struggle, and all available able bodied men and women would need to be recruited to combat those forces. It was a matter of patience and constancy, and was the way things had been run for years. Only now there was a new boss, with a new vision, who believed that if he applied his organisational skills to the estate, then the war would not only be won, it would be the war to end all wars. At least that was the impression he wanted to create.
‘Señora Luz.’
The ‘señora’ he used to maintain his distance.
‘Yes sir?’
She was professionally unruffled, on the surface.
‘I asked you for the inventory to be done at the end of every month. Have you done so?’
‘I hope to have it finished by mid next week sir.’
‘I need it by Monday.’
That was a challenge. He was deliberately pushing her to see how far she would go, how far she would bend, before snapping. As she had already explained, the inventory was done on a three-monthly basis, with a flexible time table, as it always had been. There had never been even the slightest incident. That irritated him. She seemed to be saying that if it was good enough for the late Alice Haute and all those that had come before her, it was certainly good enough for the likes of Harvey Paulson. Well, he was well aware of what had been the case in the past. That was not the case now. By Monday, if you please. Yes sir.
When Mr. Stein had tried to intervene he had fared no better. He had pointed out that the inventory was a very time consuming affair, and that if Señora Luz were to be asked to complete such a task once a month, it could only take away from her other duties such as cleaning. Harvey listened attentively then suggested, to a stunned Stein, that Luz spend less time gazing out of the window, less time telephoning her relatives, and more time doing her allotted chores. Or, better still, perhaps Stein himself should do the inventory? By Monday. Yes sir.
No idle hands. Harvey was a great believer in work for work’s sake. To his mind it was better to mop the floors once more, even if it was totally unnecessary, than to stand around gossiping. So little by little he increased their workload with mindless chores and inventions. Brendan was to justify everything he did in the gardens. As he did not live on the premises but came in on a part-time basis, he would now be required to make a note of every bush clipped, every lawn mown, every sack of dry leaves collected and disposed of. Harvey drew up a spread sheet which was to be completed at the end of each day’s work. Trees, hedges, and bushes were subdivided into three different categories: large, medium and small, with, incredibly, their relative size-time ratios already calculated. Trees and bushes in height, hedges in length. Lawns were to be estimated by the square metre, as were the flower beds. Brendan was to be allowed twenty minutes per spread sheet, and it was to be handed in to Stein at the end of each session. Harvey would then reclaim these and supposedly study them, checking to make sure Brendan was indeed as trustworthy and efficient as he was made out to be. He rarely did, that had not been the purpose. The idea was simply to make the workers know that they were being watched so that there would be no slacking, no cheating, no idleness. And that the new boss was called Harvey Paulson.
Brendan naturally hit the roof. Who does he think he is? Who does he think he’s dealing with? I’m going to tell him where he can stick his spreadsheets. But when he eventually confronted Harvey, he noticed that look in his eye, the look that said ‘go on, tell me where to stick my spreadsheets, go on, and I’ll tell you where to stick your job’. So instead he climbed down, gruffly, showing his distaste, but ready to accept the new rules if that was what the master preferred.
We are creatures of habit, and change is not something we welcome. A memorised routine is comfortable and enables us to switch over to automatic pilot, thereby liberating the mind from the boredom of actually having to think about the task in hand. Still we accept that change happens, is a part of life’s evolution, is inevitable. Adapting to the new master would be difficult, or as Joe Stein put it, challenging. But adapt they would. If they all pulled together, if they avoided silly mistakes, avoided confrontation with Mr. Paulson, if they hung close to Andrea and Sydney, then the storm would pass. Eventually the new ways would solidify into routine, and become as dearly loved and defended as their previous version.
During the week the place ticked over much as it always had, as Harvey was gone nearly all day, only returning late in the evening. Breakfast and supper was all he required, and as he was a man of fixed customs, his needs were easily attended to. Saturday was usually tolerable too, as it was used for sport, or travel, or visiting friends. But Sundays, long weekends, or seasonal holidays became increasingly indigestible.
Then he would stroll around the house and the grounds like an overseer, like an insufferable, overcritical supervisor doing his rounds. At first he had made the mistake of allowing Andrea to accompany him on these tours, but he had soon realised that she was far too soft for managerial responsibilities. She treated the staff almost as if they were a group of volunteers that should be thanked for their efforts despite the mediocre results. Encouragement rather than punishment. She greeted them all with a smile and a genuine concern for their well-being, and appeared to accept any feeble excuse as a matter of course, as if further inquiry would be considered rude, or a lack of faith in their capabilities. So before setting off on his tour of the grounds Harvey would shake her off with some excuse or other and take on the windmills on his own.
His favourite target was Ambrose, because Ambrose Ork was an easy prey. When Harvey had cornered Joe Stein, and started to pile up the work on him, there had been a tacit negotiation taking place. Harvey would push as far as he could, Stein would resist as far as he could. If either one of them overstepped the mark, then Joe Stein would be forced to leave, which was in neither party’s interest. Joe Stein was a necessary part of Haute House, and substituting him would be both difficult and impractical. The same applied to Señora Luz, who was virtually irreplaceable. Luckily she knew that, and in silence, but with elegant firmness, drew her lines. Mr. Paulson respected these limits, because he believed that everybody should mark their territory, should state clearly and honestly what they are prepared to accept, and what is simply nonnegotiable. Brendan too had made it clear that Haute House was not the only large house in the district willing to hire his by now legendry skills. So the inventory fell back little by little to its original three monthly routine, Brendan filled out his forms from memory in under five minutes, Stein collected them and handed them over to Harvey, who threw them in the bin. Petunia Ork managed to keep a low profile, and successfully avoided the new master by sticking to the kitchens and the nursery. She knew when he was approaching, and so slipped off. On the odd occasion that he sought her out and made it clear who was the new boss, she simply nodded and agreed to everything he suggested or demanded. Later she went about as always, heedless of his words. If that’s what he wants to hear, she told her brother. Just steer clear of him and avoid head on clashes, he just wants to be the king of the castle, that’s all, he’s no more than a bloody big kid. Just say yes, ok?
Ambrose followed her advice to the letter. He let Harvey walk all over him without the slightest trace of self defence or rebellion. He would carry out his new master’s instructions to the best of his abilities, then patiently wait around while Harvey told him how badly he had done this or that, what a fool he was, how he had better watch his step and do better in the future. Or else. As Ambrose didn’t put up even a token resistance, Mr. Paulson could not help but be cruel. Here was a man who would obey his every command and take any abuse without so much as a murmur of complaint. In short, an idiot. And idiots get what they deserve.
In Ambrose’s presence Harvey became malicious and psychologically sadistic. He had the illogical sensation that Ambrose deliberately chose to be slow off the mark just to annoy people like Harvey. His weakness was infuriating, and the further Ambrose withdrew, the further Harvey advanced, hunting him down, persecuting him. The more Ambrose ceded, the more Harvey demanded of him, as if his superiority grew proportionately to Ambrose’s inferiority. Mr. Paulson was the cutting edge of evolution, a creature designed for competence and success. Mr. Ork was a throwback, a failed specimen, and therefore totally superfluous to any notion of progress. So he would send him on mindless errands, setting him tasks that were absurd and designed only to ridicule, to underline Ambrose’s lack of criteria, his pitiful submission. He would wait until Ambrose had finished for the day before ordering him to clean out the rubbish bins. He would catch him just about to leave the premises on his day off, and make him clean up all the dog shit he could find in the grounds, supplying him with a stick and a plastic bag. One day he made him strip the storeroom of its contents and fittings, only to change his mind and say that he now wanted everything back to its original form. He appeared to be intent on driving Ambrose to his limit, to the breaking point where the man would eventually have to say no, enough is enough, I can go no further.
It was the very same Harvey who was so respectful towards his parents and peers, so socially adept and correct, who now took secret pleasure in torturing Ambrose, in making him writhe. He was like a domineering father, who beats his wife and terrorises his children because he can, but who stands in awe of a uniform, a rule book, the scent of wealth. And Ambrose was like that man’s wife or child, unable to resist, unsure even if it was his place to resist. Mr. Paulson was the boss. Joe Stein and Pet had warned him to avoid confrontation. So he just got on with whatever he had to do, limiting himself to private complaints, or out of earshot grumbles, and the consolation of being able to rant to his heart’s content to his sister and the rest of the staff.
It was something they all took part in, a purging they all enjoyed. Their insults and interjections were interchangeable, only varying in the amount of swear words employed. The overwhelming verdict was that Harvey had tricked his way into Andrea’s heart and into their world, leading them to believe he was ‘nice enough’ when really he was a scheming, megalomaniacal bastard.
‘Thinks he’s the fucking Lord of the Manor!’
‘I hate the way he follows me about.’
‘What I can’t understand is how she doesn’t notice what he’s really like. How can she be so blind?’
‘She does, she does, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe there’s another side to her that we don’t know.’
‘He gives me the fucking creeps. There’s something in his eye...’
‘Poor kid, that’s what I say. Poor little kid.’
‘And he’s got it in for Bro.’
‘He’s got it in for the lot of us.’
‘Why oh why did she have to go and marry a bastard like that?’
‘Give me Sydney any day, he was a gentleman.’
‘She’d turn in her grave.’
‘He’ll be the end of us. ‘
‘Fucking bastard.’
It was then very hard for Pet not to say ‘I told you so’. But even if she had they would probably have forgotten her words by now and swear that she had never warned them at all. So she just joined in with the general abuse.
Andrea watched as Harvey strutted about the place on his day off. His attitude amused her. He was so incapable of separating work from leisure, tried so hard to run the place as if it were a busy city office, would spend ages following the staff around to make sure they completed their allotted tasks well and on time. But it was like driving into a brick wall. Nothing he said or did seemed to make the slightest difference, and she assumed that one day he would realise that and relax a little. In the meantime she was grateful for his interest in the running of the place; it was a weight off her mind.
Anyway it was nothing compared to her real concern. Harvey and little Sydney did not appear to hit it off. At first that had been natural enough; they were strangers. Still she had hoped that over the months a bond would grow between them, something approaching a father and son relationship, albeit it in a watered down fashion. But so far neither of them had made any progress whatsoever. The little boy, understanding in his own way that he was not welcome in Harvey’s presence, simply acted as if his step-father did not exist. Which the astute Harvey then used to his favour, claiming that the child totally ignored him. That Harvey was responsible for the stand-off was blatantly apparent, but he took refuge in his man’s world, in his professional career, in his lack of experience in child rearing. He begged Andrea for comprehension, and received it. These things can’t be forced. Time would put everything in its place, he argued, so more time, please. There was little she could do, so she acceded. As long as he promised to make an effort, when he could, if he could. Anything would do. A small toy every so often, a walk in the grounds, maybe read a book together. Or watch T.V. Harvey would see what he could do. They left it at that.
In reality Harvey was making an effort. He was striving to come across as the willing but inept step-father when the truth was that he could not bear the child. Not at all. In fact he was beginning to hate him. As far as he could see the boy had no saving graces. He was the very image of his dead father, blonde and beautiful, bright and cheerful. Maybe if he had not resembled the late Sydney Haute so much Harvey could have forgiven him his lineage and taken him a little more to heart. As it was he saw the child as a rival, a constant reminder of things past, a permanent source of jealousy. Because Andrea was not a divorcee, she was a widow. Under normal circumstances she would still have been married to the man she loved, and would have formed a perfectly happy family, with Sydney Jr. as its centrepiece. Her truncated love for her deceased husband now found an unnatural outlet in her son. She adored him. Which meant that the poor boy was pampered and spoilt. Which meant that he was becoming capricious and wilful. Which made Harvey hate him all the more. The kid threw tantrums, respected no-one and nothing, screamed until he had his way. In fact he was starting to become the unbearable child Harvey himself had once been. Little by little Sydney Haute was being turned into a mini dictator. And they expected Harvey to read to him, to hug him, to kiss him goodnight!
As if that was not enough, the whole estate had been left to this obnoxious child, to be inherited on his coming of age. Andrea had been well catered for, it was true, but the real wealth had been placed in the hands of outsiders for the next fourteen years or so. Harvey had acquired certain rights and privileges by marrying Andrea, but the fact remained that Sydney Jr. was the real master of the House. The stone in Harvey’s shoe. But as all this was unmentionable, Harvey kept it to his chest, preferring simply to be absent as much as possible like so many busy professional parents. Let Andrea and that fat Petunia woman take care of the boy, he had better things to do.
Like hounding Ambrose.
Harvey was fascinated by Ambrose. For an intelligent person it is not easy to understand why others learn so slowly, find it so hard to retain basic information. New facts were burnt into Harvey’s brain cells with a branding iron. With Ambrose it was like trying to scratch your name on a bathroom tile, an exercise in stubborn repetition. Eventually, after a thousand attempts, he would grasp the concept, as his father had shown by drilling into him the skills required in electrical wiring, but it was a painfully slow process. Over the years Ambrose had learnt how to carry out a great number of useful jobs, but each time he needed to be taught with patience, his efforts encouraged, his mistakes forgiven and duly corrected. Harvey had no time for that, and lost his temper at the first signs of ineptitude. He told him to strip the paint off the boiler house door, ‘use the blow torch if necessary’. Ambrose burnt not only the doorframe but also his overalls. Harvey docked it out of his wages. Changing sash cords is a job for professionals, but Ambrose was being paid to maintain the premises, so he would just have to learn how to do it. At his first attempt he was bawled out by a furious Harvey. The cost of the reparation was again taken from his monthly salary.
‘What can you do, Ambrose? Apart from annoy me?’
He had wanted to say basic electrics, plumbing, painting, fixing roof tiles and guttering, most builders work and so on, but wisely chose not to reply.
Incredibly to Harvey, it seemed that this learning deficit, this apparent lack of a working memory, also meant that Ambrose rarely bore a grudge. Despite the abuse and the foul manners Harvey displayed whilst in his presence, Ambrose invariably met his boss with a cheery ‘good morning, sir’. Not once had he complained to Harvey’s face, not once had he refused to see through even the most menial task, not once had he tried to make himself invisible at weekends as Harvey knew the others did. Was it that Ambrose had a faulty memory? Was that why he could not learn things properly? Was that the reason why he still behaved towards Harvey with deep respect, as if Harvey were his amiable benefactor? Questions that Harvey was unable to answer.
Looking back it is difficult to tell exactly when Harvey realised that Ambrose could be used to his advantage. Given the available information it is impossible to deduce whether Harvey’s actions were based on instinct or cunning, if the decisions he took were made subconsciously or if they were part of a carefully calculated plan. In hindsight it is a debate between those who claim that what happened is due to the nature of the beast, and those who prefer the conspiracy theory. Either way most would agree that the letter to Ambrose from Harvey’s lawyer was a pivotal point in the tragedy.
Ambrose didn’t receive mail, so it was a huge surprise to everybody when the postman explained that there was a certified letter for Ambrose Ork, and that he would have to sign for it. Joe Stein found him in the back yard sorting out the new recycling bins.
‘A letter for you, Bro, a certified letter. You have to go and sign for it. At the front. ‘
Ambrose looked at him quizzically.
‘Well go on, he’s waiting for you.’
‘For me?’
‘No, for the king of Persia. Put that down and go and get the letter. It’s for you.’
Ambrose felt special then, as if it were his birthday or something. A letter, a certified letter, for him! Who could it be, what could it be? It had to be something special or it would not arrive by certified post. He scurried off as fast as he could so as not to keep the postman waiting.
As soon as the deliverer had left, and in the presence of Joe Stein and sister Pet, he carefully opened the letter, which did not look as if it contained a pleasant surprise. It was from a firm of lawyers in the city, addressed to Mr. Ambrose Ork, and written on very serious and pompous headed paper. Pet and Stein shared nervous glances. Ambrose read it, but he was not really reading it at all. He did not understand most of the language used, or at least not in that way. It was long-winded and deliberately clumsy, as if they were playing a game, hiding the real meaning of the message from him for some strange reason. It certainly did not appear to be friendly, anyway. He handed it to Pet, who had a similar reaction. Mumbo jumbo it sounded to her, though very much in the line of the eviction papers they had been served way back when. It was not to be trusted, so she handed it over to Joe Stein, who knew all about such things. Mr. Stein read it through slowly, more than once. Then he asked both of them to follow him to his office.
There they sat again, once more back in Stein’s office, though this time they were not sweating due to the heat. Mr. Stein shook his head, and when he spoke it was almost in a whisper.
‘This,’
he flicked at the embossed sheet of paper with his fingernails as if it were something despicable,
‘is an official warning, sent to you, Bro, from the boss, Mr. H. Paulson, via these lawyers, acting on his behalf so to speak. Basically it is a complaint. They, he, complains about your work, the quality of your work, your capabilities and so on. It lists a number of incidents... the window repair job......the doorframe...... some wiring in the store room.......with details of costs. It states that you are taking on jobs for which you are not qualified, with special reference to..... just a minute....... hmm electrical installations....and..... blah, blah......You’ll have to watch your step from now on, Bro, he’s got it in for you all right.’
Pet held Stein’s gaze.
‘Did you know anything about this? ‘
It was an accusation that Mr. Stein did not take very well.
‘Of course not! This has taken me by surprise just as much as it has all of us. It is not the procedure, not the way to do things. Not at all. And yes, he should have spoken to me first, I should have been informed. This is not the way. Believe me, I had no idea.’
Pet was convinced, and wanted to apologise for having doubted Stein.
‘What a... bar steward! Get the lawyers to write a letter instead of doing it himself. I thought he was supposed to be a fucking lawyer himself, jumped up little....shit. What else does it say? Is he going to sack him?’
‘No, no. At least not yet. It’s not as easy as that, but this is a first step. He’s on to you, Bro, so best be on your best behaviour. This is an official warning, I don’t suppose it’ll stop there.’
‘What do you mean?’
Mr. Stein frowned over his rimless glasses.
‘I mean he won’t stop there. You can’t give him any more cause. He wants you out.’
‘I don’t give him no cause, do I?’
Ambrose pleaded. His sister nodded.
‘If he goes, I go.’
Defiant, loyal Pet.
‘And maybe that’s what he wants, too. Who knows what he wants, he certainly doesn’t consult me. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants, to get rid of us all.’
She hadn’t thought of that. Neither had Joe Stein until that moment.
‘Sneaky little.... What do we do, answer it? Do we need a lawyer? We had a lawyer once, not that it did much good...’
Joe held up his palms as if to say ‘calm, calm’.
‘No. It has been delivered, Bro has signed. Leave it at that. If we start contesting every point it’ll only make things worse. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. Act as if nothing has happened, o.k.? I’m sorry, Bro.’
Ambrose thanked him for that. Then he left with his sister so that she could explain to him in layman’s terms what on earth was going on.
Strangely enough it was Harvey who acted as if nothing had happened. He never mentioned the letter; not to Ambrose, not to Stein, and by all accounts not even to Andrea. He had made his point, it seemed. Ambrose had been called to order, job done. Stein kept the original, Pet stored a photocopy in an envelope in her knicker drawer, where she assumed no-one would ever look, and everyone did their best not to remember the incident, as if by naming it again it would suddenly leap back to life.
Even stranger was that from that moment on Harvey treated Ambrose more kindly. He abruptly stopped ambushing him during his off duty hours, the ridiculous jobs were dropped, and even Ambrose’s errors were tolerated to a certain degree. The official warning had been like a punch in the face from the tough but fair sheriff. Ambrose was supposed to take it like a man and get on with it. The status quo had been established, there was no need for more. At least that’s how they saw it at the time; it was the only interpretation that made sense.
As if the letter incident wasn’t enough to confuse all concerned, it was round about that time that Harvey started to show a timid interest in little Sydney. At first they were small gestures, almost imperceptible to outsiders, but very welcome to Andrea and Sydney himself. A little more patience when listening to the boy’s stories, a brief holding of hands while they waited for Andrea to finish getting ready, the occasional ‘my’, as in ‘how’s my boy this morning?’ Perhaps the ice was beginning to melt? Perhaps Harvey would learn to accept and even love the boy after all. There was hope, thought Andrea. And it was the memory of that possibility, the chance of a true relationship developing, that she clung to through it all, like a lifeline. She would never be able to believe the cynics, because that would be too much, that would be unbearable.
Harvey’s change of mood meant that for a long year the atmosphere at Haute House returned to something very much like it had been before his arrival. The settled routine allowed them all to relax, to loosen up and live a little. The place ticked over with professional ease, with hardly an incident worthy of note. The family, because now it could be called a family, appeared to be united and growing in strength day by day. Andrea was still infatuated by her new man, who in his turn had not for a second unattended her. He still sent flowers every so often, perfectly out of the blue, and she never knew when she would wake up to find a perfume or a trinket by her pillow. But what really made her feel happy was that he had taken to going for a stroll through the grounds with Sydney at weekends, if the weather allowed, and every so often sat with him through some cartoon fantasy, pretending to be fascinated by the infantile plot. She knew how much effort on his part this required, and she was very grateful to him for attempting to bond with the boy. Because Sydney was, as the saying goes, difficult. She realised now that she had spoilt him, and that what he now needed was not only love and affection, but a clear routine, a touch of discipline. Above all the child needed to learn to respect his elders, to learn some manners, to understand his place in the order of things. It was a task she did not feel able to see through on her own, as she knew she would capitulate at the first tear. Anyway, educating a son requires coherence, and Andrea was not the most stable of mothers. She would chide him for his behaviour one day, and laugh at it the next. She would put up with tantrums, but sharply snap at him over the most trifling affair. She would set up ultimatums, but let them pass without a fight. Sydney did his best under such circumstances, which meant looking after number one and getting away with as much as possible without suffering too much. By the time he was five he was considered by all to be a spoilt brat.
Andrea had hoped that Pet could help her out, and Sydney was often to be found in the kitchen or the laundry room with her. But Pet was not a mother, she was a hired hand. So she looked after the boy, but she did not feel it was her duty or her position to educate the lad. As long as he behaved himself in her presence, as long as he stayed out of trouble so she could hand him back safe and sound, that was enough. It was not her job to teach the child manners, that was Andrea’s task.
‘He needs a brother. Or a sister,’
Pet pronounced one day to Andrea. She made sure that it sounded jolly and jokey, even a little risqué, but she said it with a purpose. The comment was not lost on Andrea. It was a possibility that had crossed her mind more than once, to the point that she had even mentioned it, again casually, carefully, to Harvey. He had not been amused.
‘Do you really think the time, the timing, is right? That it’s the right time?’
Seeing the disappointment on her face he continued.
‘I mean, it’s not that I think it’s a bad idea, no, of course not. It would be fantastic! But not yet, not so soon, not with little Sydney being such a .. handful.’
Once more he asked for patience, once more it was granted. As he always said, first things first.
Still, she thought that his influence would help straighten out young Sydney. Harvey was always in control, very constant, very correct. He had perfect manners when required, knew how to behave in every situation, understood that an education is vital. And having been a little brat himself, he knew all Sydney’s tricks and tactics, and could outwit him every time. So to notice that for the first time Harvey was taking an interest in Sydney filled her with immense joy. Perhaps when he saw that the boy was less of a handful, then... Everything would work out, she was sure. For now, enjoy the present.
It was a period of peace and tranquillity. In the cyclical nature of things, the lull before the storm.