Man in Armour, page 16
‘I didn’t know you were home,’ Christopher accused him from the dressing room doorway.
Archie said smugly from behind him. ‘I did, I saw Daddy last night.’
‘You did not!’
Archie was quick and indignant. ‘I did too! He was in his library. I spoke to him, then he put me back into bed.’
Christopher shoved Archie. ‘He did not, he wasn’t even here.’
‘He was!’
Christopher turned to reproach Charles. ‘Why did you talk to Archie in the night and not to me?’
Maisie was saying loudly, ‘I don’t care if you saw him last night, Archie, I saw Daddy this morning. I’ve been helping him get ready for hours. For hours and hours.’
‘So I’m the only one who hasn’t seen you,’ Christopher said.
Charles pulled his eldest son down to sit beside him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ruffling Christopher’s hair, ‘there’ll be other times.’
Christopher leaned over and whispered forlornly into Charles’s shoulder, as Charles tied his shoelaces, ‘When, Dad? When?’
Archie was loudly stating to Maisie, ‘He was with me for at least two hours. No, more than two hours.’
Maisie dismissed that with a shrug, ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘He was! And he told me about his scar.’
Charles looked up. He needed to stop Archie. Stop him talking. Now.
‘What scar?’ Maisie asked.
‘The one on his head. Grandpa did it. On purpose!’
‘On purpose?’ Maisie turned to Charles for confirmation.
The blood flooded out of Charles’s body. Onto the floor. Collected around his ankles. Cold blood.
He should have told Archie the lie he’d told Juliette. The standard lie. The lie that had almost become truth.
‘No.’ Christopher looked up into Charles’s face for clarification. ‘Dad got it horse riding. Mum told me.’
Charles’s heart rose to his throat.
He pushed past Maisie.
Sidestepped Archie.
Strode to the loo and vomited again.
It was still whisky. And now a bit of blue cheese.
His body shook.
He closed his eyes.
He could hear Archie loudly telling Maisie and Christopher, ‘And Grandpa threw a fishing knife at Daddy and he has a mark on his finger!’
Vomit streaked his shirtsleeve.
He ripped off some loo roll and dabbed at it.
‘There’s some in your hair too,’ Maisie offered quietly from where she had come to stand at the basin.
He stepped back and looked in the mirror; she was right. He’d have to shower.
There was silence except for ‘Press 1 to replay, 5 to delete, 2 to skip. Press 1 to replay . . .’
‘Can you hang up my phone?’ Charles croaked.
Christopher found the phone on the dressing room floor and obeyed.
Charles’s trousers were fine but the shirt and tie were not.
Maisie followed him towards the shower. ‘Did Grandpa do that too?’ she whispered, appalled, pointing to the ski stick stigmata on his foot.
His throat was constricted. He turned the water to hot.
Maisie retreated with Christopher and Archie to the dressing room; there they huddled, whispering.
Charles let the shampoo and vomit run off. Rested his head against the shower wall.
His ears were ringing.
His cheeks streaming.
They delegated Christopher. He came towards the shower, asked on their collective behalf, loud enough to be heard through the water, ‘Dad? Dad? Are you all right? Daddy?’
The water was too hot.
He mustn’t faint, that would distress them further.
He turned the shower off.
Lifted his head off the shower wall.
Stepped out.
Clutched a towel around himself, longed for his armour.
Maisie led him to the edge of the bath and sat him down.
Archie whispered, ‘Do the scars still hurt, Daddy? Do they?’
The scars still hurt. More now than ever. He was shamed as each scar was laid anew by the children’s fresh eyes.
Charles sat up straight. He was the parent. He pulled the children into his arms.
‘Don’t worry,’ he managed.
He met Maisie’s worried eyes and mustered a small reassuring smile.
He took a deep breath. ‘It happened a long time ago.’
He pressed Christopher’s fingers between his own.
He kissed the top of Archie’s head murmuring, ‘It’s OK.’
Subdued, they moved with him to the sink to re-brush his teeth, then into the dressing room. They watched him re-dress. They surreptitiously saw his body anew. As a war zone.
Maisie chose another tie.
Someone could be heard from downstairs, calling, ‘Children, come downstairs. Breakfast!’ That must be Maria.
None of the children paid the slightest attention.
He saw the pound coin. His fingers brushed it as he picked up his wallet. He rasped, ‘Maria’s calling from downstairs. It’s breakfast time.’
After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the coin, slipped it, his handcuffs, into his trouser pocket.
He squatted next to Archie and looked up into Maisie’s and Christopher’s faces. ‘I’d rather no one knew. About the scars.’
‘Because Grandpa would go to jail?’ Maisie asked.
‘No. Because . . . Well. Just because it’s private. Can you please not tell anyone?’
‘Does Mummy know?’ Christopher asked tentatively.
Charles managed to smile. ‘No, she just thinks I’ve had an adventurous life.’
He stood up, brooking no refusal. ‘Children, downstairs. Maria is calling,’ he said, shepherding them towards the stairs.
Charles stopped in the library. Margaret’s barb had worked its way in through his vambrace and was digging into his forearm, making it painful for his shaking hands to re-buckle his cuirass. The blow from David had severely dented the faulds, but he resolutely reattached them. His helmet was heavy and stained with sweat and blood on the inside, but Charles heaved it on.
He fretted that there was no lock to prevent Mother coming into his library. Nothing to prevent her entering during his absence and seeing him. Finding him. But he had to leave.
Maria was in the kitchen, serving up porridge. At least he presumed it was Maria.
Charles saw the Jo Malone box again. He opened the card which rested on top. Thank you for putting up with this deal. Much love, Charles. Had Juliette presumed he’d sent her the Jo Malone as congratulations for being awarded the grant? Yes, in that context, the card was not appropriate. Never mind, he ripped the card into four pieces. He would blame Tracy if Juliette mentioned it again. And he must remember to find out the details of Juliette’s grant.
Charles kissed the top of each child’s head, breathing in the comforting smell of their hair.
Archie turned and fiercely hugged him. It were as if Charles’s armour was made of fragile paper. As if it wasn’t there at all. Charles could feel every bone in his little son’s body, his every muscle, his every thought. Charles’s heart rushed to meet Archie’s, overwhelmed. Charles’s joy was bittersweet; his armour no longer fully protected him.
Charles made himself let Archie go. Kissed the top of his head again. Then made his way to the front door through the plaintive echoes of ‘Bye bye, Daddy.’
CHAPTER 11
Charles listened to the rest of his voice messages in the cab on his way to Marylebone. He pressed the join between his skull and spinal cord into the back of the seat. Eyes shut. Left hand massaging his head, right hand holding his phone, thumb poised over 5 to delete. Would it never end?
Simon saying there was a revised employment contract on Charles’s desk. Charles hoped Simon had reneged on one or two key terms. So he could reject it, resign in a blaze of anger.
Human Resources reminding him to sign off on the terms of the appointment of a new investment banking director in Sao Paulo.
Three more congratulatory messages.
Three journalists: one noting his lunch with Simon and the Grocer and wondering whether it was a coincidence the shipping mogul Joseph Beck was at the next table; one seeking comment on speculation that the government would be announcing the appointment of a senior banker from the City to lead the Financial Services Inquiry; one asking for confirmation of an altercation at Hindsight among members of the GlobalBank team.
The final voice message was from this morning, someone senior at security, indicating David’s email file was ready to be sent to the external forensics firm; could Charles please confirm the analysis required.
He knew he had to wade through his emails too, otherwise they would relentlessly build. Each day he ran, sometimes staggered, ahead of the crest of their wave. Tracy deleted, filed or actioned most of them before he could see them, otherwise he’d be overwhelmed. Of those she had left for him he sent one-word answers to most. Forwarded a few on to other people to manage. Simply read a couple, including the one from the bank’s head of PR at 12.36 am notifying him of an article that would appear in the FT’s online edition regarding David’s departure. He ruthlessly deleted all but six that required more action than he could muster from the cab.
He should call Tracy to check in. But didn’t. He was too cold. Too tired. Too ill. He needed to husband his energy for seeing Mother.
He had been to Peter Straw’s office a few times as a child. The street was familiar; it was still largely doctors’ rooms, lawyers and accountants. As he got out of the cab, Charles glanced around for a place to get a coffee and something to eat; his stomach needed settling. From memory he thought there might be a greasy spoon at one end of the street.
Before he could set off in search of it, another cab pulled up alongside his. Michael raised his hand in greeting as he stepped out, before reaching back into the cab to assist an old lady.
It took a moment for Charles to realise. He stepped forward involuntarily and said, ‘Mother.’
She was draped elegantly in a shawl, a cast and sling visible underneath it.
‘Charles, dear,’ she said in greeting, without approaching him, without smiling.
His stomach revolted. His whole bodied shivered and shuddered. He turned aside, clasping the mottled trunk of a plane tree. He was mottled too. Inside. And out.
Charles steadied himself, turned back to where Michael and his mother were mounting the stairs to Peter Straw’s office, looked back up the road towards the hoped-for greasy spoon. He couldn’t get something to eat now. Although it would probably be better for them all if he did. His phone started ringing, it was still clutched in his hand. Tracy; she’d have to wait.
The lift held them uncomfortably close as it creaked to the second floor.
He and Michael hung their coats on the ancient hat stand in the waiting room under the baleful eye of a grizzled receptionist. Charles thought he remembered Father hanging his coat on the same rack. And also his hat. And his black umbrella. Charles’s leg tremored.
The out-of-date magazines on offer were Shooting Times, Trout & Salmon and The Lady. None of Charles’s party bothered to flick through them. Each was preoccupied. With unpleasant thoughts. Charles kept his eyes on his global citizen shoes. Kept reminding himself he was here in a passive capacity, to listen, to observe. Afterwards he could ensure Michael understood the financial facts. No more.
Mother and Michael were entwined on a sofa. Mother querulously asked, ‘Perhaps you should have asked Nobby to come today. He could have helped explain everything.’
Michael shook his head, spoke soothingly. ‘It’s better we just see Peter. He’s across everything.’
‘Well, Father says Nobby’s very clever. We occasionally dine with him at The Langham.’
Michael nodded.
‘He has such a way of explaining things.’
Charles closed his eyes against the umbrellas in the hat stand and quelled his damaged calf, damning Michael for getting him involved in this. Mother was not his responsibility. Had stopped being his responsibility. He was a global citizen, not tied to England. Not chained to home. Not chained to Amberley. Not any more.
Michael’s reply to Mother was cut off by the Grizzly standing to show them in to Peter Straw’s office.
Peter moved from behind his large mahogany desk to clasp Mother’s hand. Then to shake Michael’s. Then Charles’s. Charles found himself saying in a sing-song voice, as if by rote, ‘How do you do, Mr Straw?’ as he must have done previously when he was here with Father. He corrected himself with a gruff ‘Peter.’
The Grizzly brought tea and a plate of Digestive biscuits while Peter Straw enquired after Michael’s children by name.
Once they were all settled, Michael said formally, ‘Thank you for seeing us today, Peter.’
Peter Straw sat back in his chair. ‘That’s all right, Michael, it’s always a pleasure to see you. And, of course, you, Mrs Edgeware. How can I be of assistance?’
Michael looked at their mother. She closed her eyes and nodded.
Michael began. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather unpleasant, Peter. We’re here because Mother has decided to leave Father.’
Peter’s chair creaked as he leaned forward.
‘As you may know, Father has been . . . difficult . . . for some time. Mother has been staying with me since this latest incident, and Father is . . . well, being rather unpleasant about the whole thing. Mother doesn’t want to go home. Indeed, she cannot go home.’
Peter Straw’s face was kind but remained impassive.
Michael continued. ‘She would like to understand her financial position better, so she can decide what to do. And Father won’t talk with either of us about it. I’ve asked Charles to join us this morning because he understands finances; he can help make sure Mother and I understand how things stand.’
Charles had been looking out the window reflecting on Mother’s broken hip last year, but the mention of his name brought him back to the conversation.
There was silence. Charles studied Peter Straw’s face; he seemed a nice man being put in a difficult position.
Charles looked at Michael. He was looking doctor-ish and holding Mother’s plaster-cast hand, tucked underneath her shawl.
Charles looked at Mother, who still had her eyes shut. Like a child who believed that if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t be seen. As Charles watched, a tear made a rivulet through the powder on her cheek. Her good hand surreptitiously emerged, the pink painted nails clutching a damp Liberty print handkerchief, to dab it away before retreating back behind the shawl.
‘If you’re unable to assist, Peter . . .’
Charles didn’t think Michael should have said that. Silence is best left untreated. Michael had just given Peter Straw an out.
Peter Straw eased himself backwards, the leather of his chair creaking again. ‘Well, Michael, it is rather awkward. I’m not sure whether you mean to get a divorce, Mrs Edgeware, but if that’s the case you’ll be needing a lawyer, not me, I’m just an accountant.’
‘Peter, we don’t want to put you in a difficult position,’ Michael said. ‘And we certainly don’t expect legal advice from you. Mother hasn’t decided whether she wants a divorce or not; all in good time.’ The volume of his voice increased. ‘What she wants is an understanding of her financial position. You have been doing her finances for years. More than twenty years. I had expected you would be able to give her an overview today, at least.’
Charles was waiting for Mother to do something to affirm Michael’s request. To say something. To contribute something. To nod. Anything.
‘I’ve been doing the estate’s accounts for twenty years, that’s true,’ Peter responded. ‘But, Michael, I’m not sure I can assist. Not without your father’s agreement.’
Michael became more clipped. ‘Several days ago Mother’s credit card stopped being accepted. And she is no longer able to withdraw from the cash machine. I spoke to Father about it and he says he has barred her access. Surely he can’t do that!’
Peter Straw looked uncomfortable. ‘Michael, I’m not sure I can help. Not this time.’
That gave Charles pause, he wondered when ‘last time’ was.
Peter Straw continued. ‘Michael, you know I respect what you have done for Edward’s girls. And perhaps on that occasion I was too frank with you regarding Edward’s affairs. But I cannot help you this time.’
Charles moved in his seat. What was he not understanding?
‘I don’t see the circumstances are all that different,’ Michael retorted. ‘The only difference is that this time I am not prepared to take Father’s word for it that he can’t afford it. And this time I’m also not prepared to think it is not Father’s responsibility to remedy it.’
Charles was astonished; he had never heard Michael speak that way. Brusque. Assertive. Direct. Michael was doing what he, Charles, was good at. Pushing and shoving. Charles was ridiculously pleased. If Michael could just hold his nerve . . .
The silence was even longer this time. Charles saw with dismay that Michael was about to stand up, to bring the interview to an end. Michael needed his help if he was to make any progress.
‘Can I see you outside for a moment, Michael?’ Charles asked.
The Grizzly begrudgingly showed them into the empty office of a P.E. Green that faced north over the miserable morning. Neither of them sat, they both went to the window. The street was bleak. The trees too.
‘Michael, what’s going on in there? What happened last time?’
Michael sighed. ‘Look, I wish no one knew. But . . . Well . . . When Carol left Edward he claimed he had no assets. And no income. So her settlement, such as it was, was small. That’s why she’s gone back to work as a schoolteacher.’
Charles nodded, that didn’t sound too dire. He’d forgotten Edward’s wife had been a teacher; he had her pegged in his mind as a cocktail waitress.
