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Chapter Three

The following Saturday evening, Reynard McCann drew himself up to his full height and regarded his appearance in the long mirror with curt satisfaction. He liked clothes and he liked dressing well, and tonight he had chosen dark trousers, a formal shirt with winged collar, and a plain narrow tie. His new waistcoat, in an expensive dark blue brocade, completed the ensemble. As it was a rather cold evening he would be wearing one of his half-length, fur-collared overcoats. Then, lastly, his shoes – perhaps his favourite item of clothing – his boots with the white uppers. His father, also called Reynard, had always insisted that you could tell the quality of a man by what he had on his feet.

Reynard hadn’t slept well the previous night; in fact he rarely had a good night’s sleep. It seemed that his brain could never rid itself of all the teeming thoughts, the schemes, the stresses of a highly successful working life, the memories, and, yes, the regrets, too. He sometimes thought that if he could turn the clock back, just once, he would be a happier man. He pulled himself up. Perhaps a few brandies at the club later might help him have more than his usual three or four hours of restless slumber.

As he stood silently in front of the mirror, Reynard McCann realized that he always avoided actually looking into his own eyes, as if afraid of what he might see there. He looked everywhere else – at his broad forehead, his long, straight nose, and at his full moustache which he regularly fiddled with when concentrating. But he rarely smiled because he didn’t like his teeth which, he felt, could sometimes make him look faintly sinister.

He was well aware what people called him because the boys had heard it in the playground often enough.

It seemed that he was known as Foxy.

Foxy McCann.

When he’d first heard of it, this information hadn’t upset him. In fact he considered it a compliment. The fox was a beautiful creature, sleek-coated, swift-footed, surviving on its wits to fend for itself and its family. Man seldom got the better of the fox unless it was by grossly uneven means.

He went into the wide reception area and from the hallstand in the corner he selected one of his many walking canes, picked up his soft, felt Homburg, opened the heavy front door and left the house.

He decided not to take the car, but instead to walk the three quarters of a mile to his destination – even though the residual pain in his right leg had been giving him trouble recently, making his limp more pronounced. Reynard wished he didn’t have that limp but there was nothing that could be done about it. And it was all thanks to his youthful, hot-headed decision to volunteer to serve in the first Boer War. He’d thought the uniform was extremely smart and would suit him well, but he’d paid a heavy price for his vanity because he’d been injured within two months of the conflict and invalided out, the legacy being the tedious limp which was to go with him for the rest of his life.

Reynard McCann didn’t go to many social occasions, but members of his club had been asked to attend tonight because someone important was to be their guest speaker. Reynard found it hard to relax in company – unless it was work-related. Work had always been his sole motivation in life, thanks to the influence of his father who had drummed into his son from an early age that there was no room for sentiment in business. Business was hard, and you had to work hard – and be hard – to stay on top. And you must always work alone, be ruthless, determined, and utterly self-interested.

Reynard senior had done extremely well in the property market in the east end of London – where his son had been born and raised – but had died in his early fifties from a heart attack, leaving a considerable fortune to his only son whose mother had died when Reynard was an infant.

Having gone to an all-boys school, there had been little female influence for Reynard until he’d met and married Sylvia in his thirties – again, mostly to please his father by hopefully producing another generation to carry on the family firm. Reynard had known very little about Sylvia before marrying her, but they’d got on well enough, and in a fairly short time Alfred and Johnny had been born.

But now Sylvia was sadly no longer with them and on a sudden whim Reynard had decided to leave London with all its sad memories and continue his money-making activities in the West Country. After due consideration, he had decided that Bath looked a reasonable bet, added to which the smaller town would be a better place for his sons to grow up.

He’d soon deduced that amongst the glitter and glamour of Bath’s well-to-do in their magnificent Georgian houses, there was extreme poverty. The sweeping, imperious Crescents – Royal Crescent, Lansdown Crescent – and the more smug and cloistered Circus, all looking down their noses over countless ranks of small dwellings, many of which were practically derelict and unfit for human habitation. All waiting for rebuilding, for renovation, for someone with money to invest. Someone like Reynard McCann, giving him another opportunity to increase his wealth and prosperity. And so it had proved. Well, he seldom put a foot wrong. One bad decision is one too many, his father had always declared.

In the fourteen or more years since his arrival, Reynard had made a name for himself all right. He’d bought and redeveloped countless ranks of terrace dwellings – let out at vastly increased rents – and restored many dilapidated shops at the edges of the town. He was also the undisputed lender of money which made many people afraid of him because he was not known for doing anyone any favours. He knew that, generally, he was hated and he didn’t care. Why should he? He was in business to make money and if that made him unpopular – too bad.

Now, strolling along the streets towards the centre of town, and passing all the crowded pubs and private beer houses spilling out their loud, inebriated customers onto the pavements, Reynard’s mouth hardened. How much of their money – perhaps his rent money – was being wasted on such passing pleasures? Many apparently lived from hand to mouth, yet they seemed to have no problem with squandering what little they did have.

His thoughts made him lift his head up as he walked on. He’d had the wisest training for life that anyone could have, and he was passing that wisdom on to his sons. He hoped they appreciated the life he was giving them. Biting his lip thoughtfully, Reynard wondered what they really thought of him … did Alfred and Johnny like him? As far as he could remember, he had never particularly liked his own father who had often beaten him unmercifully when angry … and Reynard had soon learned that if he made no sound, the beating would stop more quickly. There’d certainly never been any warmth in their relationship, none at all, and his father had only ever greeted him by the occasional shake of the hand.

As for love – Reynard didn’t know what that word meant, and Sylvia had been a shy, introverted little thing and had probably only married him for his money. Perhaps she, too, hadn’t known what love was. They’d certainly never discussed it.

Stopping for a second to give his leg a rest, he frowned as he tried to hold on to a sudden, distant, fleeting memory of something … of someone … a memory of soft arms around his neck, of sweet words whispering in his ear, of a heart beating next to his own. Where was it … when was it?

Then he walked on with more determination. None of that had happened. It was not a memory, it was a figment of his imagination. Or, maybe, a recall of being held to his mother’s breast? That could have been it. Human memory is an unknowable thing. Who knows what lies hidden deeply in the recesses of the subconscious? Perhaps hidden so deeply that it never rises to the surface to be identified.

Exasperated by all this unusual introspection, Reynard increased his step. It was already ten o’clock – he should have been there by now. But as he rounded a corner he came across a gaggle of men brawling, shouting, swearing, and clustering around a bedraggled creature cowering there on the ground.

‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, Mary, Mary daft as a bloody fairy,’ one of them started chanting, and soon the rest all began to join in, poking and pushing at the old woman who stared up at them, her eyes rolling. Then she grinned up stupidly, and began to screech and scream along with them.

‘I’m Mary Mary, daft as a fairy,’ she wailed while holding out a grubby hand in the hope of some cash. “Money for Mary, please, money for poor Mad Mary.’

For a few moments, Reynard stood there transfixed as he watched that crowd of brutes overpowering the old crone … yet as he looked closer he realized that this was not an old woman. She was quite young, but clearly demented and unable to fend for herself. Totally dressed in rags, her long, black hair hung in damp, dirty strands around her thin shoulders, and her teeth were broken and black as she grinned and grimaced.

Reynard raised his cane, thrusting himself forward. ‘Leave her alone!’ he thundered, ‘leave her alone! Do you hear me?’

The biggest man among them lurched over to Reynard. ‘Wha’s the matter wi’ you, gaffer?’ he shouted rudely ‘Yer ol’ woman not givin’ you any? Well don’t blame us for that!’

The others all laughed and jeered, turning now on Reynard. ‘Try yer luck down the brothels!’ one of them shouted. ‘They’ll show you a trick or two to put a smile on yer miserable face! But don’t waste yer time with a mad woman, not with Mad Mary! You won’t get far with ‘er!’

Incensed at being caught up in this ugly business, Reynard was about to raise his cane again and give them a hiding when he thought better of it – the wily fox was too clever for that. There were five of them, and he was alone.

The men, now tired of this, stumbled away, still cursing amongst themselves. Reynard stared down at the woman, not wanting to meet her eyes, not wanting to look into that unwashed, pathetic face. Then, glancing around quickly – he didn’t wish to be observed, people might think he was going soft – he reached into his pocket and took out a half crown piece.

With her eyes fixed on the money, the woman knelt up and grabbed at it, then crawled away into the night, gibbering away to herself as she went. ‘I’m Mad Mary, Mad Mary, poor Mad Mary …’

Turning away, Reynard retraced his steps. He couldn’t go to the club, not after that. He was going home. Increasing his pace, he got back to the house, let himself in and shut the door quietly behind him. Everywhere was silent, though he could see a light under the basement kitchen door, so Anna, his housekeeper, was obviously still up.

Noiselessly, he made his way up the stairs to the first floor where his rooms were. His was the largest bedroom in the house, with a dressing room next to it, and beyond that his bathroom. At the far end of the long corridor was his study which overlooked the back garden. This room was his domain, where he could work uninterrupted, though the boys sometimes came in. Not so much Alfred, who, anyway, was only home during the holidays, but Johnny seemed to like being in the study. Johnny knew where everything was, where all the important papers were filed, and in which drawer to lock away the rents he’d collected. His younger son was beginning to act like his secretary, even refilling the ink well when it was needed.

Slowly, Reynard began to undress, feeling deeply disturbed at the memory of that bedraggled creature grovelling in the gutter. It had shaken him up. Presently, he would have an extra large brandy and soda – which sometimes helped him to get some sleep.

In his red velvet dressing gown and slippers, he left his bedroom and went along to the study. Switching on the desk lamp, he crossed over to the mahogany cabinet which contained wine and spirits and an array of expensive glasses and decanters. He was not a heavy drinker, seldom taking anything during the day, but this room was where he had meetings with his accountant or other business associates, and he liked to offer them quality refreshments. His father would say that apart from a tenner, nothing talked like a good tipple.

Reynard poured himself a drink, added the merest splash of soda water, then sat down heavily on the huge leather chair in front of his desk. Swivelling gently from side to side, he took the first few sips of the golden liquid, feeling his throat burn pleasantly as he swallowed. And presently, his thoughts began to mellow as he thought about his two boys, his two good boys. They’d seldom given him any trouble – and why should they? They had the best of everything that life could offer. But you never knew with families. Alfred, the older of the two, was hot-headed and self-opinionated – especially since being away at that college in Salisbury for the last couple of years – but that was no bad thing. Alfred would never allow himself to be pushed around in life.

But Johnny … Reynard didn’t like to admit this, but Johnny had always been his favourite. There was just something about Johnny – the boy would be sorely missed when he joined Alfred’s college in September. For one thing, Johnny had always been interested in the business and how it all worked. That was why he had been given charge of the rent-collecting last year. Well, that and the fact that it saved Reynard having to pay an older person much more than the small wage he gave Johnny. And the boy was so trustworthy, so good at figures. Reynard seldom checked the ledger against the money collected, before taking the cash to the bank.

He frowned briefly as he drank from his glass. Of course, they didn’t see so much of Alfred now, but when he was at home he seemed to spend a lot of time in town with friends he’d made. And from what Reynard managed to glean, he liked the girls. Well, when the time came, Reynard would issue certain warnings. Work came first, must always come first. Alfred had a long way to go before he could become seriously involved with a woman.

The thing that Reynard could not deny was that his older son was a rebel, had been from a young age, always questioning why he should or should not do this or that, always wanting his own way. Reynard’s brow furrowed even more deeply as his thoughts ran on, because there was that other thing, that other much, much worse thing.

War.

War with Germany was now highly likely and Alfred had announced in no uncertain terms that he would be joining up as soon as it began. Reynard dragged a hand through his hair. If only the boy realized how dreadful war was, how unbelievably savage and cruel and terrifying. Surely in a civilized world there should be no war ever again? War was a terrible waste of life, of resources, of opportunities …

But in their discussions Alfred had not wavered. He was going to volunteer for service and that was that.

Reynard took a gulp from his glass. There was no use denying it, Alfred was a carbon copy of himself.

Johnny, on the other hand, was different. No talk of war or girls with Johnny. You couldn’t count little Lexi, Lexi Martin, who seemed to scuttle out of sight as soon as she saw him. She was the daughter of the woman who helped Anna in the house now and then, a woman who was an expert with a needle. If Reynard needed the legs of a pair of trousers lengthened, or the sleeves of a new jacket brought down a tiny bit, Mrs Martin always obliged. And his favourite waistcoats were the ones she had made for him.

He poured himself another glass of brandy, then sat down again, recoiling once more at what he had witnessed earlier. Then he put down his glass and picked up the small bunch of keys always kept behind the inkwell. Selecting the smallest key, he leaned forward and inserted it into the bottom drawer of the desk. This was his private drawer, the only one which was out of bounds to everyone else – Johnny had never opened it, Reynard knew that.

Slowly, Reynard opened the drawer and took out a large brown envelope, realizing that his hands were shaking slightly – well, they usually did when he opened this envelope …

Then, carefully, carefully, he slid out the photograph. That photograph.

It was a picture of two young couples, standing close together, and smiling happily. One couple was Sylvia and himself – it always surprised him how young and carefree his wife looked in that shot. But he, as usual, was straight-faced … well, it was those teeth …

And the other two in the picture were his best friend Roland, the only friend Reynard had ever had, and Roland’s wife. A pretty, dark-haired girl, full of life. In their fairly short acquaintance, they’d had such good times, the four of them. Enjoyed being together, trusted each other implicitly …

For several minutes Reynard just sat there gazing at the picture, gazing into the past. Slowly, his forefinger traced the outline of the four in the photograph, as if by touching he might bring them all to life …

Then he slid the picture back into the envelope, replaced it in the drawer which he locked again carefully, and stood up, leaving the study to return to his bedroom.

Why had he done that, tonight? Why had he opened that drawer? Was it to punish himself, to make him even more miserable than he’d already been?

Was confronting the past ever any help at all?