Sons and Daughters Page 5

  ‘How much bawling?’ grinned Tommy.

  ‘I refute bawling, Dad,’ said Paul.

  ‘Hollering, then?’ said Tommy.

  ‘I grant you, sometimes someone has to make sure his point is heard,’ said Paul, ‘but it’s all civilized.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tommy, the family stalwart. ‘Who got hurt?’

  ‘I’ll have you know, Dad, that Socialism’s not a joke,’ said Paul. ‘Its purpose is to free the workers of the world from the crushing bonds of capitalism.’

  ‘Well, seeing we’ve got a Socialist government, are you talking about communism?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Lor’, I hope you’re not, Paul,’ said Vi, ‘it would make Grandma Finch think you supported what she calls the Bolsheviks, which would really upset her. Especially now.’

  ‘Why especially now?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Well,’ said Vi, then, ‘Tommy, you tell him.’

  ‘Paul,’ said Tommy, ‘your grandpa’s going to get a knighthood for services to the country, and your grandma’s going to be Lady Finch.’

  ‘Eh? What?’ said Paul.

  ‘Yes, it surprised us too,’ said Vi, ‘but isn’t it lovely?’

  ‘Lovely?’ Paul staggered about. ‘It’s a shocker. I’ll never live it down. I’ll get chucked out, me, the full-time paid secretary and chief speaker of the Young Socialists. I’ll have to go underground and do my work for the starving poor on a clandestine basis.’

  ‘Clandestine?’ Vi giggled. ‘Clandestine?’

  ‘Never heard of it meself,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Will someone tell me it’s not true?’ implored Paul.

  ‘I’ll bring the dinner in,’ said Vi, ‘then we can all have a nice talk about Grandpa being Sir Edwin over the roast lamb, even if it’s only a small joint.’ Out to the kitchen she went, leaving Paul groaning theatrically.

  ‘Your mum and me are going round to pay our compliments to Grandma and Grandpa this evening,’ said Tommy, his grin a yard wide. ‘You coming with us, sunshine?’

  ‘I won’t be able to,’ said Paul. ‘On account of being related to titled members of the Establishment, I’ll be spending the evening committing suicide.’

  ‘Well, I’ll stay home to see you don’t,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Thanks, Dad, glad you care,’ said Paul, ‘but it won’t help the fact that my political career’s up the spout.’

  ‘Yes, rotten hard luck, me lad,’ said Tommy. ‘Still, your Uncle Sammy will always find you a job.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Paul, ‘but much as I like him, he’s a capitalist and it’s against my convictions to work for any capitalist.’

  ‘Oh, well, cheer up,’ said Tommy. Vi reappeared, pushing the laden dinner trolley. ‘Your mum will make sure you don’t get to be one of the starving poor.’

  That evening, Chinese Lady’s weekend of disbelief and smelling salts was favoured by the arrival of her sons, her daughter and their spouses, together with the twins and Jimmy, Paula and Phoebe. Boots and Polly, Lizzy and Ned, Tommy and Vi, and Sammy and Susie all offered the right kind of congratulations to Mr Finch, with Chinese Lady’s expression daring any of them to make jokes.

  However, Jimmy presented himself to his grandma by bowing to her.

  ‘Grandma, Your Ladyship,’ he said, ‘I’m—’

  ‘None of that, you saucy boy,’ said Chinese Lady.

  ‘Well, of course, I know it hasn’t come to pass yet,’ said Jimmy, straightfaced, ‘but out of respect for what’s forthcoming, my mother – that lady’s my mother – she said I was to—’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Susie.

  ‘Didn’t you say I was to bow?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘No,’ said Susie, ‘I told you to honour your grandma and grandpa.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, Grandma and Grandpa, Your Honours, I’m chuffed about Grandpa’s—’

  ‘Jimmy Adams, d’you want your ears boxed?’ said Chinese Lady.

  ‘Not much, Grandma, no,’ said Jimmy, ‘I just want to say you’re a wonder, and so are you, Grandpa. Many congrats.’

  ‘Thank you, Jimmy,’ said Mr Finch.

  ‘That Jimmy, can’t he talk?’ said Phoebe.

  ‘Ever so unfortunately, yes,’ said Paula.

  Paul turned up later, nursing a political headache, but saying not a word to Mr Finch or Chinese Lady about being against honours on principle. He let family affection guide him, which was a relief to Vi, who thought he might make a speech about what the working classes had to suffer from lords and ladies with high-sounding titles. But he didn’t, he was very nice to his grandparents.

  Other members of the family, such as Rosie and Matthew, Tim and Felicity, were going to call separately sometime during the coming week. This evening, a large crowd was avoided for the sake of not overwhelming Chinese Lady, and the relatively modest number present made the occasion a success, which further encouraged her to face up to the future embarrassment of a title.

  Chapter Six

  At the advent of twilight that evening, a ten-acre field near the village of Woldingham in Surrey was under observation. Matthew Chapman and Jonathan Hardy lay flat on their stomachs in a fold in the ground close to a hedge. The field was their chicken farm, the land with its cottage owned by Matthew and his wife Rosie. The farm was run by them and their partners, Jonathan and his wife Emma.

  The field was the haven of a multitude of chickens and a dozen sheep. The sheep kept the grass cropped, which made it easier for the chickens to get at the worms. A neighbouring farmer brought a ram to the sheep in the autumn for a reasonable fee, and in the early spring when the lambs arrived, foxes prowled at night, and the ewes kept their little ones sheltered by their bodies.

  There were lambs now, a few months old, gambolling bundles of soft creamy wool in the bright light of day, but nestling close to the ewes at the moment. Dusk was due, and night would be close on its heels. Dangerous night. Foxes had taken two lambs last night. The mothering ewes had no defence against foxes. The ram would have charged, and the foxes would have scattered, but there was no ram. Its autumn visits lasted only a few days.

  The chickens and cockerels were roosting, the henhouses full of happy egg-layers dreaming of tasty earthworms. Matthew and Jonathan, armed for a confrontation, were waiting in the hope that the foxes would reappear before darkness fell. Their rifles, old but reliable ex-Army Lee Enfields, were at the ready, fingers around triggers, eyes glued to the mounted telescopic sights, watching the hedge opposite them at a distance of one hundred and twenty yards. The fox trail in the adjacent field, also owned by Rosie and Matthew, led to that hedge. Matthew and Jonathan were concentrating on a certain spot, scented by the foxes. They were silent, vigilant, hoping to put paid to the animals that preyed on the lambs and chickens. They devoured lambs, they slaughtered chickens. Some people thought them endearing. Matthew and Jonathan, rural men, thought otherwise.

  So they were waiting. The distance of one hundred and twenty yards was no problem for the Lee Enfields, but would be for the eyes if darkness fell.

  It was a ewe that first signalled the approach of the enemy. It came to its feet in agitation. Its recumbent lamb protested at the withdrawal of its mother’s warm body. Other ewes rose to stand disturbed.

  Baa, baa.

  Matthew nudged Jonathan.

  Dusk was beginning to turn the sky a deep grey as through the hedge slipped the dog fox, its vixen and their two large cubs. Burn my boots, the whole bloody family, thought Dorset-born Matthew. Durn my eyebrows, thought Sussex-born Jonathan, here’s a chance to down all the sly buggers.

  The dog fox and its vixen halted and sniffed the air in search of the scent of man. Their cubs, sizeable enough for their parents to tell them to push off and find their own patch, fidgeted. The sheep became distressed and the lambs bleated. As agreed in advance, Matthew lined up the dog fox, telescopic sight bringing the animal clear to the eye. Jonathan aimed for the vixen. Rifle butts bit deeper into shoulders. Each man had a cartr
idge up the spout.

  The dog fox and its vixen had their heads lifted, stiff legs poised. They moved forward just as two rifles fired simultaneously. The parent foxes leapt and fell.

  ‘Downed ’em!’ breathed Jonathan.

  Bolts were drawn back fast and rammed home, shunting new cartridges into the breeches. Telescopic sights searched for the cubs, which were whining around inert parents. At that point, the dog fox and its vixen rose up, turned tail and vanished through the hedge, the cubs whipping after them.

  ‘Diddled us,’ said Matthew, and softly swore.

  ‘Diddled, dished and done,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Did you note that forward shuffle at the moment we fired?’ said Matthew.

  ‘That I did,’ said Jonathan, ‘and nor did I miss ’em playing possum.’

  ‘Jonathan, they were laughing at us,’ said Matthew. ‘They knew we were here.’

  ‘Smelled us, I reckon,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘But they’ll stay off limits now for a few nights,’ said Matthew, and they walked to the cottage, Jonathan limping along. The war had left him with a tin kneecap.

  Reaching the cottage, with its gabled upper windows and its annexe, they fortified themselves by sharing a bottle of beer. Beer, like spirits, was still in short supply, and a fair amount of under-the-counter tactics prevailed with one’s local suppliers. Not everyone knew a black market alternative, to wit, a spiv. Spivs, of course, were all in favour of short supplies, much as Al Capone was in favour of no legal supplies at all during America’s Prohibition years.

  Fortified to some extent, Matthew and Jonathan informed Rosie and Emma exactly how the perishing foxes had diddled them.

  ‘You mean you two old Army crackshots both scored misses?’ said Emma.

  ‘They ducked the moment we fired,’ said Matthew. ‘They scented us.’

  ‘At that distance?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Emma,’ said Jonathan, ‘you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if I had a high level of BO?’

  ‘I’d divorce you,’ said Emma. ‘Listen, how d’you feel about letting those mangy lamb-eating foxes diddle you?’

  ‘Fair mortified,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Well, men, Emma and I will forgive you this time,’ said Rosie, ‘but don’t make a habit of it. Lost lambs mean lost revenue.’ A local butcher bought the lambs at the right time. ‘Those foxes have got to pay the penalty.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Matthew, a lean and sinewy man of endurance and vigour at thirty-eight. ‘And don’t I know it.’

  Rosie gave him a little pat of sympathy. The adopted and treasured daughter of Boots, at thirty-four she was still extraordinarily attractive, and still like Boots in finding the peccadilloes of people amusing rather than irritating. To Matthew, Rosie in line and form made everything in his immediate world look better than anything in the National Gallery. In fact, the National Gallery was overburdened with far too much plump flesh for his liking. He saw Rosie as a tribute to God’s finer handiwork, and that went for her intelligence and disposition as well as her looks, although there were a few things she couldn’t suffer gladly, such as badly behaved kids who bawled in public places. Crying babies, well, they were understandable, but bawling kids, no.

  As for Emma and Jonathan, both in their late twenties, they had one child, little three-year-old Jessie, and a shared gift for funny repartee. Jonathan came of a Sussex family full of jokers from his parents downwards, and Emma came of Adams stock, noted for what Chinese Lady called its music-hall comedians.

  Saying goodnight to Rosie and Matthew, Emma and Jonathan went through the kitchen to the annexe, their living quarters, where little Jessie lay sound asleep. Their own home, off Denmark Hill in south-east London, was occupied by a young couple who were renting it on a year-by-year lease.

  ‘Is Emma expecting?’ asked Matthew. He and Rosie knew their business partners wanted a brother or sister for Jessie.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Still no bun, then?’ said Matthew.

  ‘No conception.’ Rosie smiled. ‘Matthew Chapman, I object to bun.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Matthew. ‘Jonathan looks healthy enough, but I wonder, would a Guinness a day help him if we could feed him oysters as well?’

  ‘Phone the fishmonger tomorrow,’ said Rosie, ‘and if he can oblige, we’ll feed Jonathan a Guinness and some oysters with his lunch.’

  ‘Who’s serious?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘I am,’ said Rosie, ‘and so are you. And so is Emma, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oysters and Guinness for Emma too, then?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Don’t go over the top, Dorset man,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m still trying to come to terms with Grandpa’s promised knighthood.’

  ‘That,’ said Matthew, ‘would be way over the top in my book if it weren’t for the fact that my wife’s the natural daughter of a baronet.’

  ‘I’m happy you’re able to live with it,’ smiled Rosie, and went a little pensive. Sir Charles Armitage, her natural father, had been killed at Tobruk during the Middle East campaign. Rosie had come to find him a completely likeable man, but had never been able to give him the kind of love she gave Boots.

  Sometimes that love had had its dangerous moments. If no-one in the family had noticed, Polly had, and she experienced clear-cut relief when Rosie fell in love with her Dorset man, Matthew Chapman. Even then, Polly felt Matthew’s initial attraction for Rosie was due to the fact that he was not unlike Boots in his dry humour, his tolerance and his naturalness.

  ‘Penny for them, Rosie,’ said Matthew, interrupting her musings.

  ‘Oh, I’m thinking we must keep our promise to call on my grandparents one evening next week,’ said Rosie.

  ‘To congratulate them?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Well, we should, shouldn’t we?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Personally, I’d like to,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Personally, so would I,’ said Rosie, and Matthew put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her.

  ‘You’re a sweet woman, Rosie,’ he said.

  ‘Thank ’ee, m’dear,’ said Rosie in West Country lingo.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday morning.

  Sammy and Jimmy were motoring north to Edmonton, and Paul was at the desk of his poky office in the Labour Party’s Walworth headquarters. His brow furrowed. It was no joke, it seriously wasn’t, being related to a title. Here he was, coming up to a man’s age of nineteen, secretary of the Young Socialists and a dynamic political career in front of him. But he could imagine some know-all heckler getting at him with a lot of heavy sarcasm about the titled toffs in his family, his grandparents. As it was, he already had problems on account of his Uncle Sammy being a bloated capitalist and his dad being a well-off one. Curses, there was something else too. Suppose someone who wanted his job as secretary found out that on top of his granddad getting a title, the father-in-law of Uncle Boots was General Sir Henry Simms? Working-class voters could sound off in shocking fashion about generals who were also titled toffs.

  Paul, usually a brisk and bright young bloke, gloomed.

  John Saunders, the local Member of Parliament, came in. There was a young lady with him.

  ‘Morning, Paul, enjoy your weekend? That’s something the Party never let up on, campaigning for the workers’ right to a five-and-a-half-day week. Now we’ve got a five-day week in mind, to give ’em a full weekend of freedom from their labours. And freedom from their sweatshops and their bosses, eh? Come to that, who needs the general run of bosses? I hear certain Cabinet ministers are prepared to back nationalization of private business and getting the workers to run their own factories, but of course we can’t do that sort of thing overnight, eh? We’ve done welfare, the health service and the mines, but the PM’s treading water on other matters until after the recess. Bevan’s rumbling and growling, of course. But you’d expect that of a man who embraced the compassion of the Labour Party from the day he was bo
rn. All that’s given you something for some new leaflets, eh? Well now.’ The MP, having automatically delivered a speech, made way for the young lady. ‘Here’s my daughter Lulu, your new assistant.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Paul.

  ‘As arranged,’ said the MP, burly figure attired in a smart suit. He wore his cap and scarf only when meeting the workers during electioneering. ‘Wake up, brother.’

  ‘Oh, yes, right,’ said Paul, remembering that his previous assistant had been upgraded to the post of secretary to the local constituency’s agent. He looked up at the MP’s daughter, dressed in long-skirted mauve. His notes told him she was eighteen. She looked twenty and a bit more. Her black glossy hair, parted down the middle, hung like straight curtains on either side of her face, and between the curtains dark eyes regarded him through the lenses of horn-rimmed spectacles. She wasn’t bad-looking, she had a wide firm mouth and an unblemished skin, but against that, she also had the paleness of a student given to earnest study all day and half the night. ‘Hello,’ he said, rising to shake her hand, ‘I’m Paul Adams, secretary of our group.’

  ‘Yes, good-oh,’ she said. ‘Lulu Saunders. Miss. Pleased to meet you. Trust we’ll get along. Can’t always tell. Not at first sight. Still, here’s hoping.’ Her speech was clipped and staccato, putting Paul in mind of Mr Jingle making his mark in Dickens’s novel Pickwick Papers.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ said the MP, and ducked out, looking so happy to escape that Paul suspected the daughter made him nervous.

  ‘Fill me in,’ she said.

  ‘For a start,’ said Paul informatively, ‘our chief work here is recruiting and propaganda.’

  ‘Know that, don’t I?’ said the earnest young lady. ‘Good at it, are you?’

  Paul blinked.

  ‘Good at it?’ he said.

  ‘No worries if you’re not,’ said Miss Saunders, ‘I’m brilliant.’

  ‘References?’ said Paul.

  ‘What?’

  ‘References to confirm your brilliance,’ said Paul.

  ‘Give over. My father’s my reference. Honest John. Not many like him in Parliament. But he’ll never make Prime Minister. Not the right kind of brain. If he had mine, he’d stand a chance.’