the evidence, have you, boy?'
'Well, no, but--'
'Exactly. You've accepted her word for it. You all have, because it suited you to do so. Trust nothing except primary sources in this game. And not always those. That's my motto.'
T'm sure Ms Hartley would be delighted to show you the letter.'
'Maybe so. But why hasn't it come to light before? That's what I'd like to know.'
'Ask her.'
'I have. Unnoticed until she cast her eye over the archive it was part of. That was her answer.'
'But you don't believe her.'
Michael looked down, his confidence ebbing marginally. T'm not saying that.'
Irene sighed. 'Then what are you saying, Dad?'
The question seemed to give the old man pause for considerable thought. He picked up his pipe, then put it down again, then said, T'm saying I'm the only unbiased judge of what's best to do.'
'We're biased,' said Anna, 'but you're not?'
'I can put my bias to one side, Anna.'
'And we can't?'
'Apparently not.'
'That's . . . ridiculous. And arrogant to boot.'
'Arrogant? Depends on your point of view. And if you want to think me ridiculous, fine. I've reached an age where that's more or less taken as read anyway.'
'WhatT Anna sunk her head in her hands.
'I won't be selling Trennor to a faceless millionaire to facilitate a wild glass chase or to rescue any of you from the financial consequences of your own fecklessness and there's an end to it.'
They were words uttered in anger. His children knew that. He probably knew so himself. But since he had always
59
maintained that a man should stand by his words as well as his principles, he was unlikely to withdraw the remarks. They were on the record. And they told a truth that comforted no-one. He believed they had mismanaged their lives and thereby forfeited the right to prevent him mismanaging his own.
A silence had fallen. Basil's clearance of his throat broke it, but Andrew was first to speak. 'An end of it? Yeah, Dad, it certainly sounds like it to me.' He stood up. 'Reckon I'll be on my way. Before I say something I might regret.'
'If you think I'll regret a single--'
'No, Dad, I don't. Regrets, you haven't had a few, right? In fact, not one. Vous ne regrettez rien. That's wonderful. That's a real achievement.'
'Andrew,' said Irene, 'don't go like--'
But he was already making for the door. 'Let him go if he wants to,' said Michael, shaking his head in apparent denial of responsibility for his son's reaction.
'It's his birthday, Dad,' said Anna. 'Can't you lighten up just a little?'
'I remember his real birthday, my girl. The day he was born. Fifty years ago almost to the hour. I remember the hopes I had for him. And for the brothers and sisters we planned he would have. Those hopes haven't been fulfilled, let me tell you, not nearly. So, don't ask me to ... "lighten up".'
Andrew was in the kitchen by now. So was Irene. The others could hear her trying to dissuade him from leaving. Nick knew she was wasting her time. Andrew was almost as stubborn as their father. Irene had never quite grasped that simple truth. He could remember her pleading with Andrew to come out of his bedroom and rejoin the family in the living room at their house in Oxford after some row with the old man. The memory was a collation of innumerable similar incidents, in which Irene was always the mediator and always in vain. Nothing had changed. And nothing, he realized now, was going to.
Basil caught his eye and gave a despairing grimace, sowing
60
the suspicion in Nick's mind that Basil for one had anticipated this turn of events in every grisly detail. Including Anna's loss of temper, which was gathering momentum at that moment.
'Your hopes, Dad. Yes, we've heard a lot about them and how far short of them we've fallen. Do you ever wonder why we've disappointed you? Do you ever consider that it could have something to do with your own narrow-minded, mean spirited approach to life?'
'Don't be absurd.'
'Have you any idea how hard it's been for Andrew
'Well, no, but--'
'Exactly. You've accepted her word for it. You all have, because it suited you to do so. Trust nothing except primary sources in this game. And not always those. That's my motto.'
T'm sure Ms Hartley would be delighted to show you the letter.'
'Maybe so. But why hasn't it come to light before? That's what I'd like to know.'
'Ask her.'
'I have. Unnoticed until she cast her eye over the archive it was part of. That was her answer.'
'But you don't believe her.'
Michael looked down, his confidence ebbing marginally. T'm not saying that.'
Irene sighed. 'Then what are you saying, Dad?'
The question seemed to give the old man pause for considerable thought. He picked up his pipe, then put it down again, then said, T'm saying I'm the only unbiased judge of what's best to do.'
'We're biased,' said Anna, 'but you're not?'
'I can put my bias to one side, Anna.'
'And we can't?'
'Apparently not.'
'That's . . . ridiculous. And arrogant to boot.'
'Arrogant? Depends on your point of view. And if you want to think me ridiculous, fine. I've reached an age where that's more or less taken as read anyway.'
'WhatT Anna sunk her head in her hands.
'I won't be selling Trennor to a faceless millionaire to facilitate a wild glass chase or to rescue any of you from the financial consequences of your own fecklessness and there's an end to it.'
They were words uttered in anger. His children knew that. He probably knew so himself. But since he had always
59
maintained that a man should stand by his words as well as his principles, he was unlikely to withdraw the remarks. They were on the record. And they told a truth that comforted no-one. He believed they had mismanaged their lives and thereby forfeited the right to prevent him mismanaging his own.
A silence had fallen. Basil's clearance of his throat broke it, but Andrew was first to speak. 'An end of it? Yeah, Dad, it certainly sounds like it to me.' He stood up. 'Reckon I'll be on my way. Before I say something I might regret.'
'If you think I'll regret a single--'
'No, Dad, I don't. Regrets, you haven't had a few, right? In fact, not one. Vous ne regrettez rien. That's wonderful. That's a real achievement.'
'Andrew,' said Irene, 'don't go like--'
But he was already making for the door. 'Let him go if he wants to,' said Michael, shaking his head in apparent denial of responsibility for his son's reaction.
'It's his birthday, Dad,' said Anna. 'Can't you lighten up just a little?'
'I remember his real birthday, my girl. The day he was born. Fifty years ago almost to the hour. I remember the hopes I had for him. And for the brothers and sisters we planned he would have. Those hopes haven't been fulfilled, let me tell you, not nearly. So, don't ask me to ... "lighten up".'
Andrew was in the kitchen by now. So was Irene. The others could hear her trying to dissuade him from leaving. Nick knew she was wasting her time. Andrew was almost as stubborn as their father. Irene had never quite grasped that simple truth. He could remember her pleading with Andrew to come out of his bedroom and rejoin the family in the living room at their house in Oxford after some row with the old man. The memory was a collation of innumerable similar incidents, in which Irene was always the mediator and always in vain. Nothing had changed. And nothing, he realized now, was going to.
Basil caught his eye and gave a despairing grimace, sowing
60
the suspicion in Nick's mind that Basil for one had anticipated this turn of events in every grisly detail. Including Anna's loss of temper, which was gathering momentum at that moment.
'Your hopes, Dad. Yes, we've heard a lot about them and how far short of them we've fallen. Do you ever wonder why we've disappointed you? Do you ever consider that it could have something to do with your own narrow-minded, mean spirited approach to life?'
'Don't be absurd.'
'Have you any idea how hard it's been for Andrew
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