Читать книгу The Sons of Adam - Harry Bingham - Страница 14

It was Guy who cracked first.

There was something about Tom’s new-found confidence that he couldn’t stand. The enmity that simmered between the two of them crackled and spat with renewed energy. Boiling point arrived one weekend in early February, when the house was full of guests – including the pretty young daughter of an earl, whom eighteen-year-old Guy was sweet on.

‘Fetch my horse, stable boy!’ said Guy, passing Tom in the hallway and casually reaching out to flick his ear.

Tom stopped dead.

‘Your horse?’

‘You heard me, stable boy. I feel like riding today.’

Tom’s face whitened. The seven-year age gap between the two of them had never held Tom back from a physical confrontation when necessary. He looked Guy up and down, from boots to head and back again. His gaze seemed to assess Guy truthfully for the very first time. Then he dropped his gaze. He shrugged and said, ‘If you like. I don’t mind. I’m going that way anyway.’ He sauntered off.

Guy couldn’t quite believe that Tom was going to do as he’d asked, but didn’t mind waiting to see. A group of house guests emerged from the drawing room and Guy strolled with them to the front of the house. Guy, in riding costume, stood and chatted. The earl’s daughter was there and Guy (slightly plump still, but charming and handsome enough to make up) stood swishing his whip and trying to impress her. She laughed a lot and blushed slightly when she caught his eye.

Then Tom arrived.

He had complied with Guy’s request to the letter – or very nearly. He had gone to the stable yard and saddled a mount. He led the animal in question by its bridle to the spot that Guy had indicated.

But it wasn’t Guy’s grey mare he led. It was the donkey Guy had learned to ride on, a dozen years before. Guy’s saddle and stirrups drooped ridiculously low off the donkey’s back. The animal was old now and nodded its head ludicrously as it walked, as though deliberately setting out to provoke laughter. Tom himself walked with the exaggerated dignity of an expensive manservant. He had even, absurdly, found a pair of white gloves from somewhere and an old footman’s cap.

‘Your horse, sir.’

The assembled house guests laughed and clapped at the spectacle. It seemed like a harmless comic turn, deserving its applause. But Tom hadn’t finished. He brought the horse close to Guy and his girl, before addressing the girl in a confidential whisper.

‘Excuse the donkey, ma’am. He learned to ride on one, you know. Poor chap’s just a little bit yellow.’

Guy was white with anger, but with an audience all around him he was forced to act as though he didn’t care. He laughed and clapped with the rest of them, before taking the donkey and heading back with it to the stables. After hanging around to milk the congratulations, Tom hurried off to join him.

‘I’ll kill you for this, you little brat,’ said Guy, without turning round to look.

‘Like you killed my mother, you mean?’ said Tom, who had long ago heard the story of his birth in the various versions that flew around the servants’ hall.

They had arrived at the stable yard. A couple of stable lads sniggered discreetly as they watched. Guy stopped. He flicked his whip at the stables and the big house beyond.

‘None of this is yours, you know. Not now. Not ever. Got that, garden boy?’

For a short while, that had appeared to be that, but Guy hadn’t forgiven, hadn’t forgotten.

Four days later, Guy was alone with Sir Adam in the billiard room. Sir Adam had just had news from Knox D’Arcy. The oil well in Persia was yielding just a hundred and twenty barrels a day, but there was great expectation of enlarging the strike to something far more lucrative. D’Arcy was already hopeful of finding City investors to share the risks and profits.

‘Must have increased the value of our own little bit of concession,’ remarked Guy.

‘Yes, I should suppose it has. I suppose once they’ve discovered even a little bit of oil, it makes it all the more likely that there’s more to be found.’

Guy, who was a decent billiards player, threw the three balls softly on to the table and began to knock them around with a cue. Sir Adam watched the game, but hardly played any more these days and was happy to drink his brandy and watch his son.

‘What will you do with the concession?’ asked Guy. ‘I suppose if you were going to sell, now would be the time.’

Sir Adam looked up in surprise. ‘Why, that’s hardly a fair question! It’s not really mine to sell. Little Tommy absolutely treasures the thing.’

Guy let out a small puff of laughter as he took his shot. The three balls, trapped on the same bit of baize, clattered round and round against each other. Guy straightened again and chalked his cue.

‘Little Tommy might absolutely treasure one of your paintings, Papa, but if it made commercial sense to sell it, then I dare say you would.’

‘I dare say, but the concession belongs to Tommy.’

‘Legally, Father? I’m surprised.’

‘No, no, no. Of course not legally. Morally. I told him he could have it.’

‘Did you? Really? As I recall, you told him it was a fine patch of land. That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Guy! I meant he could have it. He knew I meant it. The boy’s besotted with the damn thing.’ Sir Adam spoke sharply. Guy was his elder son and heir, but there were times when his behaviour wasn’t all it should have been. There were times when Sir Adam didn’t entirely like his own son.

‘Yes, Father,’ said Guy, ‘but, with respect, you’re missing the point. You gave him the land because you were certain it was worthless. If you had been sure it had been worth something, you wouldn’t have dreamed of conceding it like that.’

Sir Adam frowned, waving his brandy glass as though to brush his son’s point aside.

‘Well? Would you?’ Guy insisted.

‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t. But that’s hardly –’

‘Father, may I be blunt?’

‘It would seem you’re more than capable of it.’

‘The concession is yours. Legally yours. You let an eight-year-old boy dream about managing it because he clearly wanted to dream and you saw no reason why not. But now, against all probability, the concession may actually have a value. Suppose, sir, a syndicate of investors in London were prepared to pay something for the blasted thing. A hundred thousand pounds, let us say. What then? That would dwarf any settlement you’re able to make for Alan. I don’t think of myself in this matter, but it’s hard to avoid noticing that it would look like a very fine thing if your elder son and heir had barely greater expectations than the boy you rescued from the kitchen garden.’ Guy struck the balls savagely round the table. Again and again, the cue ball slammed the red into the pockets. The red disappeared with an abrupt clack of ivory against wood. ‘I think you have been very generous to young Tommy, Father. I’m not sure you’re holding Alan sufficiently in your thoughts.’