Heirs And Descendants Collection

3. Red-Veined Snake Head Fritillary

I"ve never been one to reminisce, to rediscover memories locked away in parts of the mind only psychologists know about, but in those last few days that I had with my mother, I found myself swept away in her nostalgia. I had not thought of my father as being a handsome man but there, in the photographs of their wedding, stood a person I could not recognise as him. As to her beauty, the wedding memorabilia only testified more strongly in confirmation of what I already knew. As to the man beside her, it was a stranger that I stared at. He looked taller than I remembered with jet-black hair combed back from his forehead, sharp clean features in a strong commanding face far more mature than the 26 years of age that he was then. There was a dashing, debonair look about him, a nonchalant character whom I could believe had swept my mother off her feet, as she had told me. He was not the person I had always remembered him as.

“He was impetuous then, Harry, romantic and audacious a lot like you are today, I suspect. He was dangerous around women. Are you the same?” I didn"t answer that question of hers, but understood entirely what she meant.

To me, he had always been an eccentric old man with no hidden charms or fascination. I searched those photographs and more, to find some of us together, but could find none. No snaps of us two kicking a ball or hitting one, riding ponies and whirling mallets in unfinished chukkas or leaning over the side of the boat and landing fish. In fact, none of us being father and son. Perhaps there were no secret memories, none there to find, even had I have looked closer. No shared happiness, no laughter, no hugs and certainly none of affection. Perhaps he had entered my life as he had left it; a disillusioned, self-obsessed man.

As I have said, to me he had never changed. He was portly in build and slow in movement, more deliberate than made so by his slightly excessive weight. He had thick white hair parted at the side, dull blue eyes shaded by broken red veined cheeks and nose, and his constant spectacles, wearing his reading variety permanently around his neck. At all times he was smartly dressed, his pocket watch suspended from his buttonhole by a double gold chain and carried in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Always grey light or dark; pinstriped or checked, but always a shade of grey, for his daily London attire.

“I never wear black, too sombre…looks like you"re in mourning,” he explained. “Blue is for those continentals, the Italians and Southern French, goes with their colouring. And never, never wear brown that"s for those shirt-lifters. Lots around in my day, especially up at Cambridge. Mind you Harry, the breeding ground was Eton. Never could spot them there…I wasn"t their type. Now there seems to be more Queens than Kings everywhere, even here!” We were in Boodles, his London club, too many year ago to recall, but I can remember vividly what he was doing, he was renowned for it. Expounding on life in general and demonstrating his practised skill at cognac consumption, there was no one in the family better at both.

neverIn the winter months, he would say, that his hat matched the colour of his overcoat, as would his gloves and scarf, but not the colour of the green rubber boots that he wore on his walk to "Annie"s".

“Look after your feet son, and they will carry you through life without complaint.” This was, perhaps, the only sensible advice he ever gave me.

He was not particularly tall, maybe it was my mother who made him appear so in that nuptial snapshot but strode in a military fashion, straight-backed with swinging arms, pacing out his steps with his silver-topped walking stick. He had served in the Coldstream Guards before his inevitable transfer to the bank at the age of 39. Longevity lay before him in this role and maybe it was this that had burred away at his impulsiveness, dulled the sharpness and taken away the spirit that shone from those photos. However, his self-assurance and assertiveness stayed with him for all to see. It was only with me that he let that curtain rise, and then only briefly, months before his death.

Most banking Patersons lived well into their eighties. Five had reached the three-figure mark, and the normal age of their youngest to take outright charge of the bank was in their late forties. Elliot had been the youngest, but he had been the exception, as his father Phillip was quick to point out.

“I had enough interference from your grandfather. He kept his nose in the trough almost until he was dead, and that was not until he was ninety-three! I"m not going to make the same mistake. I"m going before you"re forty; you can have the worry, boy.” When I was told this story, I wondered what could have been meant by the word worry.

worryIn 2003 Elliot began the transfer of all the Saint George files onto computer discs, and that was when his trouble-free complacency began to be interrupted irretrievably.

Eight months before the shot was fired from the Slovak semiautomatic pistol found beside my father"s body, he had spoken to me on the telephone. At a younger age I would have replaced the receiver on hearing his voice, but I recognised his courage in taking that step. When I left him on the threshold of Eton Square almost eighteen months previously, having used most of the expletives in current usage and some, I"m sure, I conjured up on the spot as he stood there open mouthed and traumatised, I had left him with no doubts into the advisability of contact between the two of us.

“Harry, I am sorry that I have to disturb you, but I have no option. There is something terribly amiss in some notes I"ve found of Maudlin"s, and I don"t know what to do about it.” There was an element of fear in his voice; I had heard fear at the end of telephones too often in my life not to recognise it.

“Thought of confiding in Edward? Why trouble me with it?” There was not much compassion in my response to his call for help.

“He"s too young Harry, too young for most things. It"s big and if I"m correct, it"s still going on. It"s certainly over my head, and I"m way out of my depth. I think Maudlin was a spy working for the Russians, and I"m not sure how I can save the family name.”

“Where are you speaking from?” I asked.

“I"m at my club, why?”

“Have you told anyone else, anyone at all?”

“No,” he replied, in a questioning tone.

“Good. Don"t call me from home, or from the bank. Tomorrow…no do it tonight, there must be somewhere open in your godforsaken part of the world for it, it"s only seven thirty buy a mobile phone, a pay as you go one, no contracts understand? Then buy a twenty-pound top-up card, and charge the phone overnight. I"ll call you at "Annie"s" in the morning, no, that won"t do. Stop at that call box you pass in Hobart Place and ring me here with the number. Remember to write it down before you leave.”

“You"re being forgetful, Harry. If it"s a number, I"ll remember it,” disdainfully he replied.

“Have you enough cash? I don"t want you using a card.”

“I expect so.”

“That"s not what I asked, was it? How much have you got on you?” I asked, curtly, with no respect.

“Couple of hundred, I suppose. Haven"t looked.”

“Well, now would be a good time, don"t you think?”

There was a pause whilst I heard the sound of the rustling of paper.

“I"ve got one hundred and sixty in notes. Will that be enough?” he asked, innocent of the world beyond his own.

“Yes, that will be fine. Dad…don"t tell anyone about this, not even George. When you get the phone, look through the security options and put a password in it, so no one can access it without your say so. If George sees it and asks about it, tell him it"s for another of your liaisons…he"ll understand that or, better still, say that your young violinist is causing you trouble again. Tell him that her father has found out that you haven"t broken it off yet and you need a different number to keep the sordid arrangement going. After all, George might be able to relate to that, you being almost three times her age.” I stressed the "her," hoping he would notice. The knife that had only grazed my mother was buried deep in my heart.

"her,"“I understand,” was his only reply as a momentary silence split our conversation. “I"ll do as you say,” he added, eventually.

“Good, and I will do the same tomorrow. No more land lines, or personal mobiles, never that okay?”

“All a bit melodramatic, the need for all these precautions, Harry. It"s only a suspicion, after all.”

“Maybe, probably. Let"s hope so…but better to be cautious Dad, just in case there is something in what you say. We don"t want the good name dragged around needlessly, do we? Keep all this between the two of us for now, and remember the old war motto: Keep Mum, She"s Not So Dumb.” He was one for platitudes, my father. I enjoyed the usage in return, for once, knowing he wouldn"t miss the ridicule in my voice. I had his acquiescence, but not only that; I also had the same feeling of fear and trepidation as he did.

isKeep Mum, She"s Not So Dumb.“Make that call here early in the morning. We will have to arrange times to call and other ways to contact each other. By the way, don"t ring again tonight, I"m out,” I had added trying to sound as impassive and as unconcerned as I could.

“I hope I"m wrong about Maudlin, Harry…I honestly do.”

I said goodnight, but I didn"t think he was. I had found some old photographs of Maudlin whilst rummaging through the family photographic chronicles, and one in particular had caught my eye. I needed answers and, I needed help in finding them.