GARSTEIN'S LEGACY
Peter D. Wilson
Copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011
Licence Notes
For permission to reproduce, stating extent and purpose of the request, contact details may be found under "About the author".
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance therein to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1 Background
Chapter 2 Forster's fortunes
Chapter 3 Garstein
Chapter 4 Inheritance
Chapter 5 Transmogrification
Chapter 6 Undercover
Chapter 7 Garstein's hoard
Chapter 8 Calamity
Chapter 9 Aftermath
Chapter 10 Discovery
Chapter 11 Confluence
About the author
Chapter 1. Background
Mike Crampton's school days were not by any means the happiest of his life, and they were trying for his teachers, too. Although he was anything but lazy, and perhaps a shade above average in general intelligence, he showed little sign of exercising it. The only exception was a penchant for crosswords, in which he took after his father, to whom it was some relief since if nothing else, it did help to develop his vocabulary. Among the schoolroom subjects, he hated maths, showed no talent for languages, found science baffling and the literature in the English curriculum uninteresting, although books that did appeal to him he read voraciously. Neither did sport offer him the usual alternative possibilities for the non-academic. If someone else particularly wanted to be first at the far end of a running track, Mike was quite content to let him, while he could easily think of better things to do than chasing a ball around a field or waiting at the edge on the off-chance that one might come his way. The most attractive of the better things was fiddling around in the metalwork shop, making little gadgets to his own design. He could happily have spent all day every day doing that.
His reports, despite stressing his amiability and good conduct as the best that could be said of him on any other subject, were the despair of his parents, Walter and Muriel. Both were from families that prided themselves on having risen in the previous generation from proletarian origins into the comfortable reaches of the middle class and were quite content to be called "bourgeois" by the lefties they despised. Their original ambitions for young Michael to climb further, ideally into one of the more lucrative professions, had long ago faded in the face of reality, as had any prospect of a more promising sibling for him, so after his sixteenth year it was with relief rather than disappointment that they greeted his gaining an apprenticeship in a local engineering works. At least he could deploy his one evident talent and might in time make something better of himself.
Unfortunately the mid-1980s were not the best time for engineering, and despite satisfactorily completing his apprenticeship he found no employment near his Berkshire home. However, a cousin living in the midlands heard of a vacancy for a junior mechanic in a small bus company based nearby. There was no harm in applying, and although the pay offered was too low to attract serious competition, it was enough for him as a start and he was glad to take the job. The cousin was prepared to let him a room if he wished, but both agreed that whilst it might serve for a week or two as a stop-gap, he ought for everyone's sake to have independent accommodation, so he took a small flat in a converted vicarage.
He found the company of his work-mates a little coarse, and on their side a few of the more aggressively uncultured openly considered him disagreeably posh, but he made the best of it and after a few blunders settled down tolerably well among them. The most considerate and congenial, although rather older than most of the rest, was one of the drivers, Terry Haskins. He noticed Mike's early difficulties and was a great help in guiding him through the pitfalls, in particular warning him of dangers in associating too closely with some of his less scrupulous fellow-workers. No criminal activity had been proved against them, but they were strongly suspected of drug dealing and handling stolen property among other things, and their apparently trying to cultivate the acquaintance of a vulnerable youngster itself aroused Terry's concern.
One evening in the pub Terry introduced Mike to his wife Sheila, who took pity on his isolation (rather more than was really necessary, as Mike was not particularly gregarious, but he was grateful for the kindly intent) and occasionally invited him for a meal with them. It was usually followed by a film or a game of Scrabble, in which Mike's familiarity with words outside the colloquial range gave him a considerable edge and often needed confirmation from the dictionary.
At the beginning of December Sheila asked what he was doing for Christmas. He had given it no thought, but assumed that he would be expected back home and confirmed that by telephone. He had grown rather lax about keeping up his promise of regular contact, and Muriel was greatly relieved to get his call after imagining all kinds of disaster. Walter, who during National Service in the fifties had been just as casual towards his own parents, assured her that it was perfectly normal and she shouldn't fret, but she couldn't help it.
Mike therefore arrived on a chilly Christmas Eve to an emotional welcome from Muriel, who in a rush of pent-up affection urged him to take off his coat, put on his slippers and warm himself thoroughly before he did anything else bar drinking a really hot cup of tea with a slice of cake - not of course the Christmas cake, which was reserved for the following day, and it might be a bit stale but she thought still palatable - there were some mince pies too if he would like one, which he declined - assured him that he would find his room undisturbed - well, tidied up a bit but essentially as he had left it - Mike didn't believe it for a moment but refrained from comment - and eventually had to leave him to his own devices while she returned to her mysteries in the kitchen. Dinner was to be ready for when his father came in, expected about an hour ahead, and meanwhile she had to get on with the cooking.
Slippered and warmed, he took his bag upstairs and as expected found the room considerably reorganised, or at least much neater than he had left it, but had no great difficulty in finding anything. He thought of changing but decided that a wash and brush-up would suffice for the time being. Although not particularly religious, the family habitually attended the midnight service at a nearby church. Many of the congregation, including no doubt his mother, would take some pains to dress up for it, but under heavy winter clothing in a poorly-heated nave it could only be a private gesture of respect. For himself Mike thought it a waste of time and well beyond the call of duty.
Coming downstairs he noticed an envelope on the doormat. The shape suggested a greeting card rather than a letter, and it bore a German stamp, but the postmark was mostly illegible with only "...berg" decipherable. The address too was smudged, with the result that whatever it was had evidently been wrongly delivered and brought round by a considerate neighbour.
"There's another card, Mum," Mike called, but Muriel was too busy to leave her stove and told him to see who it was from.
Taking it through to the kitchen, he found a knife and slit it open.
"It's from someone called Alex," he said.
Muriel was pleased and rather relieved.
"Oh, good. I was a bit concerned when we hadn't heard from him this year."
"Who is he? Come to think of it, I noticed his card last year and couldn't remember your mentioning anyone with that name, but never got round to asking about him."
"Oh, it's an old story, and a very sad one. From before you were born."
"Is it worth telling?"
"Let me get this in the oven first."
With that out of the way, Muriel explained that in the summer of 1965,
she and Walter had won a newspaper competition for a short break at an expensive hotel in the Cotswolds, something that in the normal course of events they could never think of affording. It was a splendid place in an attractive village setting, and on the second evening they had taken a walk around it before dinner. As they returned they heard the sound of cars rapidly approaching, and since the road was narrow they kept well to one side, very fortunately since a sports car came hurtling round a bend with a great squeal of brakes, skidded a little but recovered and raced off into the distance. They could hear another evidently in hot pursuit so stayed where they were, but as it rounded the bend a woman came out of the hotel right into its path. It hurled her across the road to land heavily a few yards away from them and of course failed to stop, although it left some debris behind.
Without much hope Muriel rushed to the woman and found her still alive and just about conscious but terribly battered, much too badly hurt in her opinion to be moved by anyone without proper training and equipment; she was already out of the way of any further traffic. Muriel did what she could to give comfort while Walter ran across to the hotel and asked the receptionist to call an ambulance, although from what he had seen he thought it a pretty hopeless case. Meanwhile a man dashed out distraught and across to his wife, if that was what she was, cradling her head in his arms and trying desperately to get some signs of recognition from her. Muriel's instinct was to prevent him from touching her, but on second thoughts he was unlikely to make much difference to the eventual outcome, and if what he was doing gave any comfort to either of them it seemed best not to interfere. Soon the ambulance came and he went with it to the hospital.
The Cramptons were of course horrified, with Muriel in shock now that the crisis had passed, and scarcely able to walk. Walter helped her across the road into the hotel lobby, where the receptionist immediately understood the situation and brought a large brandy that revived her to some extent. They were in no state to face the restaurant and the inevitable questioning by other guests, but she promised that the chef would do something light for them to eat in their room. They did the best they could with it, but Muriel could take very little and even Walter's appetite was depressed. The next morning they were still too upset to continue with their break and sombrely returned home.
However, some weeks later a large and heavy parcel came by special delivery with a covering note signed Alexander Forster, thanking them for their great kindness towards his dying wife and asking them as another favour to accept the gift as a token of recognition for it. He must have got the address from the hotel register.
Although they thought what they had done was no more than their duty in the circumstances, they could hardly refuse and in any case had no way of getting in touch with Forster; the note, evidently posted to the supplier for inclusion in the package, bore an American postmark but no other indication of its origin.
The package turned out to be the fine canteen of cutlery that they had ever since kept for use on special occasions. Thereafter, Forster had always sent a Christmas card, often in recent years from Germany or Austria, at first with his full signature but in time just "Alexander" and eventually the simple "Alex." He still gave no hint of his own address, and in any case it seemed that he moved about quite a lot, so they could never respond. Perhaps he didn't wish to impose the obligation on them. It would have been impossible to tell him if they moved house, but that was something the Cramptons had never felt inclined to do.
"Did they ever catch the maniac who caused the accident?" Mike asked.
"We wondered about that, and after a while we got a letter from the hotel, I imagine from that kind receptionist, with a newspaper cutting about someone being done for causing death by dangerous driving."
"I'd have thought you'd be called as witnesses."
"So did we, although it had happened so fast we couldn't have identified him anyway, but apparently he turned himself in and pleaded guilty. I suppose that's something to his credit, though he probably thought the damage to his car would give him away in any case. It certainly saved everyone a lot of trouble. Maybe that's why he got a lighter sentence than we'd have thought he deserved, but he didn't get away with it completely. But heavens, look at the time! Here am I gassing when there's work to be done. Now be off out of my way while I get the rest of the things ready."
Mike retrieved a magazine from his bag and settled himself by the fire in the sitting room, studying the plans for a rather elaborate model boat that he fancied trying his hand at making. Half an hour later Walter came in, so Mike had to give an account of his experiences, but was only part-way through when Muriel called them in for the meal.
"I see I don't rate the best cutlery," Mike chaffed.
"That's for tomorrow," Muriel replied. "You'll have the full fatted calf treatment then."
"Only it isn't calf, it's turkey," put in Walter.
Muriel was struck by a sudden thought. "Will you be coming to the midnight service with us?" It had never occurred to Mike that he might get out of it, so that was settled easily enough.
"Then I do think you ought to wear something a bit better than your travelling clothes." Mike was about to demur but caught a warning glance from Walter and after the meal had a thorough wash and change.
The church was already fairly full by the time they arrived, but Walter noticed a half-empty pew near the back and headed for it.
"Not there, Walter," Muriel murmured. "I shouldn't be able to see the vicar. There's room just up there." Neither Mike nor Walter could see the need for moving, as she had never made a fuss about sight-lines before, but there was no point in arguing and they let her usher them into the space indicated although it was scarcely wide enough for the three of them. In fact Mike found himself wedged rather more tightly than he really liked against a chubby girl of about his own age whom he vaguely recognised from his school days.
He had no particular objection to her, but found the situation a shade uncomfortable. Muriel had several time hinted that he ought to have more company of his own age, and he suspected a deliberate manoeuvre on her part. Catching a sly glance from her towards him reinforced his suspicions, and a wink from Walter confirmed them. Mike supposed she meant well, smiled at the girl and got a shy grin in return, then dismissed the matter from his mind.
The next morning he took advantage of the opportunity to lie in for once, and when he eventually arose found the dining table already set for the Christmas dinner, this time with the special cutlery. Muriel heard him moving about and called to him that there was toast and marmalade in the kitchen if he'd like it, and his usual cereal; would he prefer tea or coffee?
"Coffee, please.". He went through and commented on there being four place settings at the table; who else was expected? Muriel explained that she'd had a call from Ben Alsopp; his wife had been taken ill, badly enough to go into a Reading hospital, and he would be very grateful if the Cramptons could look after young Carol for the day.
"Why isn't she going too?" Mike wondered.
"I didn't ask. They were good neighbours to us when we needed them, and it's little enough we can do in return. We can't leave the poor girl alone on Christmas Day, after all."
Mike took the point well enough, but could not for the life of him remember any occasion for particularly needing good neighbours. He also realised that Carol had been his own neighbour at the previous evening's service, and without suspecting his mother of actual fibbing, wondered just how much real coincidence there was in all this. Walter kept a studiously straight face, which might mean anything or nothing.
Mike decided to do likewise, as far as he could. "Fair enough," was all he said about it, as he tucked into his cereal. "What time are we eating?"
"You'd better finish your breakfast before you worry about the next meal."
"It's just a matter of planning."
"Why, have you anything particular in mind?"
"No, but if I do happen to be doing something that ne
eds concentration, I don't want to abandon it at an awkward moment."
"What sort of thing is that?"
"For goodness' sake," Walter interrupted. "The lad only wants to fit into your plans. There's no need to make an issue out of nothing."
"I wasn't making an issue."
"Look, Mu, you know you always want to have everything ready at just the right time and get anxious if anything upsets the schedule. We can best avoid getting into a tizzy if we know what you have in mind. When are you planning to get to the table?"
"Well, I've suggested that Carol should come about twelve, to give her time for a sherry and anything else she needs to do, and sit down about half past."
"Thanks, Mum, that's all I wanted to know."
"And Michael, will you please get into something a bit more respectable before then."
Walter sighed and gazed heaven-wards. There were times when he almost imagined he had married a clone of Mrs. Bennett from 'Pride and Prejudice', and sometimes said so when driven too far, but Christmas mornings were always a little fraught with her anxiety that everything should be just right. This wasn't the time to say anything that might raise tension any further. He glanced at Mike who had recognised the significance of the formal "Michael" and winked back at him. Walter nodded with relief and turned to the crossword in the previous day's paper, as often happened finding solutions to clues that had previously baffled him. When Muriel left the kitchen for a moment he suggested that they should take a walk out of the way so that she could get on with whatever she had to do by herself as she always preferred.
It was a frosty morning and Walter wondered how the ducks were faring on the pond in the park, so he risked disturbing Muriel enough to beg some scraps of bread for them. The pond proved to be frozen as expected, although fortunately none of the birds had been trapped, and they took flight as people approached. Returning to the pond they evidently had some difficulty in adjusting to a solid surface, several of them misjudging the approach and at first managing only a clumsy three-point landing on two feet and beak. Later they got the hang of it better, making it two feet and tail, still comical but decidedly more dignified.
Walter produced the bread and threw a few of the scraps, provoking the usual frenzied scramble among the ducks, much to the amusement of two young children who had approached with their mother. They jumped at the offer to feed the ducks themselves, squealing with delight that however turned to alarm when one drake decided to go for the whole bag. Walter drove it back to the pond and then had a few casual words with the mother before noticing the time and apologising for having to leave abruptly.
Mike noticed that he seemed rather thoughtful and wondered what was up.
"Oh, nothing to worry about. It's just that we could go back by way of the Alsopps' house and call for Carol."
"Oh?"
"Don't take alarm, I'm not trying to do any match-making - I leave that to your mother, and anyway it would probably back-fire - but if you don't mind it would probably help to break the ice a bit - no reference to the duck-pond." Mike though it could hardly do any harm, so they slowed their pace a little ("It wouldn't do to catch her not ready," said Walter, but they still did) and escorted her home.
After a nudge from Walter, Mike offered to take her coat and realised that she had dressed up more than he expected for the occasion. For once his mother had evidently been right, so while Walter offered a choice of pre-prandial drinks he nipped upstairs to change. He found a pair of trousers smarter than his habitual jeans and realised that he ought to wear the sweater that was his mother's Christmas present; fortunately there was no serious clash between them, not that it would have worried him if there were, but Muriel would probably object. He even wondered whether to wear the tie from his aunt the previous Christmas, but it seemed excessive and in any case he couldn't remember where he had put it.
The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, and Mike actually volunteered to walk Carol home, which seemed to please her although she was rather quiet on the way. At her door she seemed to come to a decision, but then hesitated, and Mike wondered what was coming. Eventually she simply asked if he would write to her occasionally. He was unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved. On the spur of the moment he could think of no reasonable excuse and said he would, but refrained from the goodnight kiss that her manner suggested would be welcome. He was very thoughtful on the way home.
He was not much of a letter-writer but remembered his promise, if rather belatedly. A fortnight after returning to work he summoned up the effort to make a start, although he could think of little to write beyond asking whether Carol's mother was still in hospital and how well she was recovering. A week later he could still think of nothing to add so posted it as it was. The reply, embarrassingly prompt, was that she was home, progressing well and sent her good wishes. In fact there was an enclosed note from the mother also wishing him a happy new year and thanking him for saving Carol from what would have been a very bleak Christmas; she hoped he would come to see them on his next visit home. Mike wondered how much collusion there might be between the two mothers; the fathers, he was fairly certain, would be keeping well out of it.
There was a longer delay before his next attempt at a letter, as he could still think of nothing to say except about his work which was unlikely to interest her but the best he could do. Again the reply came quickly. Mike's mind blanked every time he tried to compose something appropriate, and the best part of a month had passed until during a telephone call home, Muriel wondered if he was all right and said that Carol had also been asking. He could make only a feeble excuse of being busy but asked her to pass on his good wishes; he didn't want to hurt the girl, who was pleasant enough in her way, nor for that matter to offend his mother. Neither did he want to involve himself any further or raise hopes that he had no wish to encourage.
As Easter approached, he realised that he would be expected home again and wondered how to deal with the situation. When the time came, however, he found it unnecessary: Walter told him that Ben Alsopp had taken the whole family off to Paris for the holiday weekend, ostensibly to put a bit of sparkle back into Madeleine's life after her long convalescence. That was a perfectly good reason, but he had privately told Walter that he understood the position with Mike and Carol, and thought it best to get her out of the way for this occasion; two birds with one stone. Afterwards - well, time would tell.
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