27

As Timothy disappeared around the top of the stairs Roger heard the sound of a car door shutting. When the doorbell rang loudly he dithered, not wanting to answer, but Andrew Gibson peered in through a side window and he was compelled to open the door.

‘Ah, Roger,’ he said. ‘I’ve just heard through our on-call doctor that Tim’s had a crisis, so I thought I’d better come straight round to check up on him. Is Sally here?’

‘Come in, Andrew. Sally’s gone away for a few days so I’m keeping an eye on Tim. Proudfoot relatives are a bit thin on the ground, so I’ve been drafted in.’

‘I’m glad he’s not alone. The HO was extremely concerned. How is he?’

‘He’s just dragged himself up to bed and I’m seriously worried too. He’s just told me to organise the gin and tonics because his mother’s on her way home.’

Andrew knitted his brow. ‘Oh, dear. It all sounds very much like post-traumatic stress disorder, but it’s far too early for his mother’s death to be the cause. It’s got to be something triggered by a past trauma, and I don’t think we need to look very far, do we?’

‘You mean the drownings?’

‘Yes. It must have been an horrendous experience to go through.’

‘It was. I was there myself on the day. Truly horrendous.’

‘Well, it’s likely the terror of that day has returned and, psychologically, he’s drowning too. Ah, well. Let the dog see the rabbit.’

Roger carefully opened Timothy’s bedroom door, but he wasn’t there. ‘He, er… might, er… be in another room,’ he said. The two men then cautiously shuffled into Marina’s bedroom to find Timothy in the vast brass bed, propped up by pillows and wearing his mother’s black satin kimono. The exotic Anthea, who was nestling under his arm, looked up possessively and wriggled closer in. ‘Tim, it’s Andrew,’ Roger said carefully. ‘He’s just popped in to have a chat.’

Timothy turned his head languidly. ‘I need to contact Patrick,’ he said.

Roger shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea who Patrick is,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Best I leave you to it.’

After the doctor had spent half an hour with Timothy, trying to coax some sort of exchange or outpouring, he admitted defeat and came downstairs. ‘All he wanted to talk about was this Patrick’ he sighed. ‘It was such a muddled story. All I can deduce is that he must have been a childhood companion, real or imaginary. I suspect there’s some serious regression going on, and it’s all very worrying. I’ve not medicated him, but I may need to give him something later on.’

Roger reached into his trouser pocket and produced a crumpled envelope. ‘Just remembered. The hospital gave me this letter for you.’

The doctor read it slowly and placed it in his medical bag. ‘Nothing I didn’t know, apart from the fact that he took Communion this morning and it seemed to help. Strange, that. I was sure religion didn’t ride too high in this household.’

‘You’re right, it doesn’t, but he’s certainly become seriously God-struck all of a sudden. Their parish priest was here yesterday; a silly old buffoon called Father Joseph, but he’d be as much help as a chocolate poker.’

‘Are you OK to stay on here for a bit?’

‘No problem. Happy to help.’

‘Then I’ll come back around six to assess the situation.’

After letting Andrew out Roger walked wearily to the kitchen and slumped down at the table. The cold, lonely feeling of yesterday evening was creeping back, and he realised that without Tim’s normal, easy presence The Manor was a hostile place. A pristine, visual perfection that only reflected the shed-loads of money that Lady Fucking Muck had thrown at it. The ‘what if ’ scenario came into his head. What if he and Tim had run away together in 1982 and cut all their family ties? One thing was certain: he wouldn’t be sitting here being tortured by Tim’s strange behaviour, Finnegan’s death, the dangerous driving charge and Sally’s bewildering disappearance. His grandmother had had a stock phrase for anyone who expressed even a passing regret for any disappointment in life: ‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no need for tinkers,’ but this philosophy held no answers. With white knuckles, he twisted a tea cloth into a tourniquet.

July 1982

Being a crowned champion in the art of sexual conquest, Roger had always taken his opportunities wherever and whenever possible, but the silver birch wood, on the outer reaches of The Manor House grounds, was quite the most magical place he’d ever removed his clothing. He lay with Tim on a soft, tartan blanket while butter-kissed light dappled their faces and garden birds sang. With silly, smiley contentment the two besotted lovers pressed their bodies hard close, exchanging words of the ‘I love thee more than’ genre. Roger sighed heavily and stared into Tim’s beautiful neo-classical face. ‘I’m sorry, old chap, but I’ve got to go. Just a quick show of my face and I’ll be back.’

It was a Sandridge Fuller tradition that all new authors were invited to The Dower House for lunch with the managing director and his family. Roger was thus required to hand around food and drink and make witty conversation. Sadly, he could make no contribution as a literary expert. Marching around with a bear skin on his head and seeking sexual encounters (of both skirt and shirt variety), were the main claims on his life, but his father was so excited about the firm’s new political thriller, he’d instructed him to read the advance proof. Despite a month’s notice, his obsession with Timothy had been so all-consuming he hadn’t quite got round to it.

‘Promise you won’t be long,’ Timothy pleaded.

‘Promise faithfully, but I’m commanded to attend. You know what my old man’s like. Armchair General. I have to wave the family flag.’

‘You’re lucky to have a flag to wave, Rog.’ Timothy leapt to his feet and threw himself into Roger’s arms. ‘Oh, Rog, I can’t bear it. I miss Pa so terribly. Mumma tries to comfort me but she’s sunk in her own grief. Hold me, Skipper. Tell me you love me.’

‘I love you, Angel. Come on. Hold me tight. Squeeze the life out of me. We’re going to be together forever. When you finish at Kew I’ll resign my commission. Then we can go anywhere. New York, San Francisco, Rio. We’re a couple.’

Timothy released his grip and jerked back sharply with a look of amazement on his face. ‘I can’t leave here. I couldn’t possibly leave Mumma. Look, I’ve made a big decision. She doesn’t know yet, but I’m not going to Kew. I’m going to stay here and get some greenhouses put up. Real commercial ones. I’ll grow exotic vegetables and get to grips with this huge wilderness down here. Maybe start a market garden. The soil’s brilliant and we’ve got acres going to waste.’

‘No, Tim,’ said Roger carefully. ‘We can’t just fuck in the garden for the rest of our lives. While you’re at Kew we can get a little flat nearby. Then, when you’ve finished, we’ll move away and make a new life together.’

‘But I can’t ever leave Mumma. I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Hey, come on. It’s early days yet. Time’s the greatest healer and all that. She’ll recover, just like you will. Bet your socks she’ll get married again. Men go gooey over her, and she’s rolling in dosh. She’ll be snapped up.’

Timothy stared at Roger, his face as innocent as a three-year-old’s. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Look, Tim, I must go, but when I get back we’re going to have to have a serious talk.’

When Roger got up to the lawn he saw ‘Mrs Perfect/Faithful Wife’ standing outside the garden room wearing a long, black, floaty dress. Her feet were in the third ballet position and she was holding her head at a ‘Grace Kelly-at-her-most-beautiful’ angle. Certainly shaggable, and his father had obviously tried to get some action, but the thought of the fat and florid old Toby, grappling on top of her like a dung beetle, made him feel quite queasy.

‘Hello, Roger,’ she said sadly. ‘Have you got to go?’

‘’Fraid so. One of Pa’s business lunches, but I’ll pop back later if it’s OK’

‘Of course it’s OK. This place isn’t exactly awash with visitors. Nobody calls. They’re all too afraid of dealing with me. Except you. You’ve never shirked. You’ve been invaluable.’ She sighed, and wobbled her actress’s head. ‘Oh, Roger. Tim’s so lucky to have a friend like you. You’re so sweet and kind.’

Ignoring her emotion, he saluted playfully. ‘You can rely on Captain Fuller, ma’am.’

Two months later the salute fell from grace, but it hadn’t got into the papers. No glaring headlines, ‘Guardsman Arrested for Immoral Act in the Gents.’ It had all been hushed up by establishment protection. Roger was offered the choice of resigning or being transferred to the Royal Engineers, but it was no thank you very much to getting his hands dirty. Instead he chose the firm handshake, from a firm hand that had shaken him many times. His Guards tie was safe. All reunions were safe. Honourable discharge and the truth concealed from both of his parents. But his father was less than pleased to find his son was now at a loose end.

‘I’m furious. What the hell are you going to do for the rest of your life? You’ve been thoroughly spoiled and if you think you’re going to loll around and enjoy yourself you’ve got another think coming. Your mother insists I’m obliged to find you something to do at SF, and there’s a vacancy for a tea boy in the New York office. You can start from the bottom, like I did.’

Loud sigh. ‘I don’t really have a choice, do I?’

‘Well spotted!’

Informing Timothy had been very quick and mandatory. ‘Tim. I’m leaving the Guards and joining the jolly old firm. Got to go off to the States right away.’

Timothy had collapsed with near hysteria. ‘Please, Skipper, don’t leave me.’

‘Tim, I really have to go, but it won’t be long. Just short-term, until we sort ourselves out.’

‘You won’t dump me, will you?’

‘Never. Never, never, never.’

‘Please don’t go.’

‘Tim, the only answer is to run away together. I mean now. Just pack a bag and go.’

‘I can’t. You know I can’t. Mumma needs me.’

‘I need you.’

‘I can’t leave her.’

‘Then I have to go.’