The Secret Generations
Now, at the age of fifteen, the twins were well on their way along different paths. Ramillies was determined to enter the Diplomatic, for which he was obviously suited. Like most Railtons, he took easily to languages, and also had the ability to write in the terse, truncated manner of the Whitehall men.
Ramillies’ letter was typical:
Dearest Papa and Mama,
Promotions announced today. I have taken over the House as House Prefect.
Also colours up on School Board. Awarded Fencing Colours which I know will please you.
Nothing else appears to alter. The same old round and common task.
French and German well up to standard, according to M.R. and Herr B. English also, by word of Mr H.
Must go and see House is well turned-out.
Deepest love to you both. Please tell Rupert that he really should write to me.
Fond affection
Your obedient son,
Ramillies.
Andrew read over the concise note twice, putting it to one side so that Charlotte could also read it.
The longer letter was from the son – though he would never admit or show it openly – whom he loved the most. Rupert, who, after his preparatory school, had broken tradition and gone to Osborne, for the statutory two years of basic and academic study. Then to the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, where he would leave, as a midshipman, to join his first ship at the end of this present year. Andrew was well aware that his feelings for Rupert stemmed mainly from the boy’s love of the Royal Navy, and all things naval.
Dearest Pa and Ma,
Make do and mend, which includes the writing of letters to one’s wives, sweethearts and loved ones, and as I have neither wife nor sweetheart (though I would not tell you if I had), I sit here scribbling to my loved ones. That includes my beastly brother, Ram, safe and tucked up in bed at Wellington and my eldest brother Caspar.
The word here is that those of us to become Middies at the end of the year are to go to Dreadnought or Invincible, Indomitable or Inflexible. Do not know the truth, but it would be tremendous. I think the story derives from the fact that we now have a full mock-up of a Dreadnought type 12 inch turret, and learn the drill daily.
I find it difficult waiting to get out of here and into one of the Fleets now, and I do not honestly care which. To be in the Royal Navy, as an officer, even a lowly Snotty, is the greatest adventure for which a man can hope.
Everything else is shipshape and in good order. Discipline remains tight, with many scorched backsides; but that is the only way to run a ship. Must finish now as Duty Watch has just been piped – and that’s me.
My love to you both,
Your affectionate and loving son,
Rupert.
Andrew was cheered, for the boys were doing well. His personal life was good; and there was not a cloud on the horizon.
Andrew Railton rose, then went upstairs to dress, and await the dinner gong.
*
James, having eaten all too well, pushed back his chair. The dizziness, he reasoned, was due to alcohol.
‘Don’ know about you, Dick old man,’ he grinned at Dick Farthing, looking positively stupid. ‘Don’ know about you, but if I’m to soar like a bleedin’ eagle tomorrow, then I’d best be off to bed.’ He swallowed, shook his head like a soaked dog, then pulled himself together and very carefully enunciated, ‘We had best join the lady,’ collapsing into a giggling fit at the idea of there being only one lady for them to join in the drawing room.
Sara, always precise in these matters, had left the two young men to their port wine and cigars. When they came into the drawing room she was also laughing, holding a book.
She swallowed her mirth. ‘I can’t believe this man Le Queux is serious. Just listen to this.’ She was reading William Le Queux’s Secrets of the Foreign Office. Through giggles she now read aloud: ‘Before I could utter aught save a muffled curse, I was flung head first into an empty piano case, the heavy lid of which was instantly closed on me… I had been tricked!’
James clung to Dick, hardly able to breathe, while his American friend merely smiled. At last James managed, ‘Whacked, Sara. Just tol’ Dick I’m whacked. For me – bed.’ He swept his arm in a dramatic circle. ‘I have been tricked.’
‘By the wine, no doubt. You’re as tipsy as a fiddler, James. Off with you.’ Sara smiled at Dick Farthing.
James nodded gravely, backing unsteadily to the door. ‘Tricked,’ he repeated, now raising a hand in farewell. ‘’Night, Richard Farthing.’ Stumbling forward he bent clumsily to kiss Sara’s cheek. ‘And ’night to you dear sister, stepmother. Slayer of estate managers. Parting is such sweet sorrow – something like that.’
‘Bed, James,’ Sara laughed. Then, as the door closed, she turned to Richard, ‘He will be all right to fly in the morning?’
Dick slumped into a chair. ‘The boy’s not used to liquor.’ He snorted. ‘Didn’t have very much, if you noticed. Guess if he gets to sleep straight off he’ll be fine. It’ll be clear and sharp up there in the morning. That’ll blow the cobwebs from his brain in no time. The heart starts to pound when you’re in charge of an airplane. It’s like the man said, concentrates the mind wonderfully. Death always sits on the aviator’s wing, my dear.’
Sara was silent, staring into the fire. She had not seen or looked for faces in the fire since childhood. Now she saw several. Ugly, dancing, misshapen.
Presently Dick said, ‘Sara, what are we to do?’ and she knew what he meant.
Still staring into the fire, feeling its warmth flush her cheeks, a whole army of images walked through her mind.
Though Dick Farthing had visited on only a few occasions, they had spent much time together, often talking late into the night. More and more, Sara had a terrible and disconcerting desire, wishing that she could become two people – one who continued to care for John, and be a good wife; the other to love deeply, and give herself completely, to this huge, attractive American.
He moved across the room to sit beside her, repeating – ’Sara, what are we to do?’
Desperate, trying to evade the truth, she asked, ‘Do? About what?’
His large hands were tender, the long fingers tracing down her hair. ‘You know very well, Sara.’ Then, after an unbearable pause, ‘Last week, I tried to arrange for James to meet me somewhere other than here. I don’t think I can come to Redhill any more.’
‘Not come…? You can’t just…’
‘No. No, maybe I can’t,’ he almost whispered. ‘All I know is that I shouldn’t come here. I’m more than fond of you, Sara. I want you. You understand?’
She could not drag her eyes from his: they were the colour of rich earth, part of her realized, as though her thoughts tried to focus on something else. Rich, brown earth in the spring, tilled and ready for the first glint of green. Far away she heard her own voice say that of course she understood.
‘I wonder if you really do.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Conscious of her own folly, she placed a hand lightly on his thigh. The cloth of his suit felt rough, like putting her palm flat into a well mown and rolled lawn.
His hand closed around her wrist. ‘No, Sara, I don’t think you do understand. Yes, of course I want you in that way – what man wouldn’t? But I want you in the impossible way. Completely. As a wife.’
Her brow creased, real pain in her mind. ‘Please, Richard,’ very level, not a whining, pleading voice. ‘Please, have me in the only way you can. Yes, I’d like you in all ways, but please, as that can’t happen, would it be so wrong to be…?’
‘Lovers? Yes, I think it would be very wrong. That’s why I shouldn’t come back here. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for it not to happen.’
‘Then don’t talk of going away.’ She felt unnaturally controlled, and her voice remained calm. ‘We’ll do no harm to John. Please take me, Richard. At least…’
Out in the hall, the telephone started to ring. For no reason she thought of The General,
who had installed the instrument only a year before his death. Dick Farthing moved back to his chair. The ringing stopped, and, presently, Porter tapped at the door.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Madam.’ He said that Natter had been called out, and the cart harnessed. The telephone call had been from John’s club. He was arriving on the late train.
Sara thanked the old man, asking if there was food left, and ready, for her husband. ‘I was actually just going to bed, Porter. I’ve a slight headache.’
‘I’m sorry, Madam, is there anything…?’
No, no, she said quickly. She would go up, and could Porter ask Mr John to come and see her when he arrived.
The silence following Porter’s departure was as violent as an assault by a footpad. Dick Farthing rose and poured himself a brandy, while Sara slumped on the settee, still staring into the fire. Irrationally she felt her husband to be the intruder.
*
Sara did not appear at breakfast the following morning, and when John came down, his son James was startled to see that, so suddenly, his father looked tired and older. He greeted Dick warmly, thanking him for all he had done for James.
‘Sara’s not too well, I’m afraid,’ he told them.
‘Lord, nothing frightful is it, Pa?’ from James.
Dick, not able to look at John, remarked that she had seemed well enough over dinner. Then, ‘No, she had a bad head and went to bed soon after James.’
‘Bit of a cold coming on, I shouldn’t wonder.’ John was not unduly concerned. ‘She isn’t feverish, but sends apologies. Now, what about this flying?’
Asquith had given him a week. ‘You are on the telephone down there after all. We can get hold of you if necessary.’ John was at Redhill determined to set all things right: to let Dick Farthing see that he did not neglect his wife; to give Berry some kind of warning; and make peace between Sara and the estate manager, Hunter.
After breakfast, the men went up on the downland, and John was impressed with his son’s progress. James had now been given more freedom with the Farman, and did four trips that day – circling high over the estate and town, making several low runs over the area they used for landing and taking off: demonstrating his confident ability and control.
Dick left at about three in the afternoon, while there was still sufficient light for him to get the aeroplane back to Farnborough safely. Father and son stood together, watching the great biplane dip its wings, setting course south-east towards Hampshire. Then the pair turned and made their way slowly back to the house.
Sara was waiting for them, composed, and in brighter spirits. She did, in fact, feel better, even though the terrible confusion still raged inside her. Her feelings for Richard Farthing, she knew, would probably never change, but she would remain a true and faithful wife to John, no matter what heartache she had to hide.
Of one thing she had become convinced as she lay, red-eyed, on her bed during the afternoon. If only she could have a child, a son preferably, then perhaps the uneasy bond would be strengthened. She even said it aloud while Vera Bolton brushed her hair.
‘Well, M’m, if all else fails you should talk to Martha Crook…’ Vera suddenly blushed, thrusting a hand to her mouth as though to push back the words. Martha Crook was Billy’s mother, and worked as seamstress for the Manor. Mother and son lived in the very pleasant Glebe Cottage which stood about half a mile from the main house, and a mile or so from the Glebe House which was occupied by the surly estate manager, Hunter.
Sara pressed Vera as to what she meant, but the girl was embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t have said nothing, M’m.’
‘Well you have, Vera. What do you mean about seeing Martha Crook?’
‘Please, M’m. Please forget I said anything.’
Presently, seeing she would get no further, Sara changed her tack. ‘At least you can tell me one thing. Glebe Cottage is a nice little place, and Billy’s a help around the house and estate. But isn’t it unusual for the seamstress to have her own cottage? What happened to Martha Crook’s husband?’
Once more Vera coloured and said she really should not have spoken of Martha Crook. ‘I think you’d better ask Mr John, M’m. Really I do.’
After dinner, sitting in the drawing room, her mind still occasionally blurred by the guilt of what might have been on the previous night, Sara asked her husband outright about Martha and Billy Crook.
‘I suppose I should have told you,’ John began slowly. ‘Damn it, everybody else knows. Remiss of me.’
So Sara quickly learned that Martha Crook had been the last in a long line of The General’s mistresses. ‘He was a virile old man.’ John stared into the fire, his voice odd, as though apologizing for something.
‘Like all Railtons,’ Sara did not intend to sound coquettish, it was more a word of reassurance.
James, who was with them, guffawed and received a sharp look from his father.
It was a kind of family tradition, which began after John’s mother had been killed. Always the seamstress – ‘Always had one, and never a bad needlewoman among them.’ John did not look at her as the story came out. ‘The tradition was that The General chose the seamstress himself, just as he imposed the conditions.’ Now he laughed. ‘I know of two who walked out pretty smartly, when they came to be interviewed. After that, The General went hunting on his own account.’
Martha Crook had been the last. ‘We thought it’d be the usual. None stayed for much more than a year, but Martha was different. It seems she was once a midwife and nurse: so they say anyhow. Well, the rest follows. The General spawned a child of her. Billy’s my half-brother, but he does not know, and there’s a family pact. Martha still does the work of a seamstress, and she has Glebe Cottage, rent free, plus a handsome salary. In due course I shall see that Billy’s looked after – should be thinking about that now, for he’s a growing lad. Martha demands nothing, and remains silent.’
Later, when James had left them, Sara told him that someone had suggested she should go to Martha Crook if she wanted a child. ‘Why should someone go to her, John?’
It was little more than Martha’s merely having been some kind of nurse or midwife. ‘You seem to be learning fast about the country, so you must have discovered how they are here. The old ways are just under the surface; the old charms; magic, if you like. The country folk round here seldom go out on All Hallows Eve, for instance. Martha has a reputation, and my guess is that she plays on it. I gather she still works as a midwife when it’s necessary. But people do go to her, people who want children – and those who want to be rid of them, I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s become the local wise woman…’
‘In this day and age? John it’s 1910, not the Middle Ages.’ Sara had been rather shocked by the story of The General and Martha Crook. There was something unpleasant about the family just keeping her, having Billy put to a trade. She felt he deserved more.
‘In the country, Sara dear, nothing’s impossible. You should visit her some time.’
As they were on the subject, John decided it was time to bring up the question of the estate manager. ‘I hear you’ve had a run-in with Hunter, about using man-traps,’ he began casually, not expecting the whirlwind he would unleash.
Sara’s lips pursed, her eyes turning towards him. ‘Yes, John. I wanted to speak of Hunter. He’s a vile beast of a man, and must go.’
‘Go? But you’ll never replace him. He was The General’s confidant, and…’
‘And he’s a pervert. A freak, who if it were not for your position, would be arrested and locked up.’
‘Sara!’ John Railton was taken aback by her vehemence. But he also knew she was right. Many blind eyes had been turned to Hunter. ‘Someone’s been…’
‘Yes. It’s like your Martha Crook, and your half-brother Billy. Something to be kept in the family. He’s a criminal and you protect him, because he was The General’s man, and a good manager. He’s not only a pervert, but he’s a law unto himself. Imagines he can play God.’
br /> ‘Sara, man-traps are regarded as part of life out here. We have to protect the game and…’
‘It’s not just the man-traps, it’s the man. I’m the one who is here most of the time, and I don’t want him working on the estate…’
John asked her what she knew, and how she had come by it.
‘I felt a fool.’ She sat, straight-backed, her face set. John began to see that, even in a few short weeks, life at Redhill had changed her. ‘Hunter was blustering at old Natter the other day. Uncalled for, to upbraid another servant in front of me – unforgivable; but Hunter’s a bully and insolent, as you know. Anyhow, when he rode off, old Natter muttered away, and I heard him say what Hunter was.’ She hesitated, ‘I didn’t know what he meant, so I asked James. He told me, with some embarrassment. John, I don’t think your son – and a lot of other people – really care for your employing a man who brings young boys and girls up to the Glebe House, and commits such horrible, criminal acts. You protect him, and that’s wrong.’
She was correct, of course, John acknowledged to himself. The General had a strange outlook and did not regard Hunter’s particular perversions as more than quirks. Yet it was against the law – God’s law as well as the law of the land. Over the years, the men of the family had simply accepted Hunter, and not dwelt on the implications.
‘How would you suggest we replace him, if I dismiss the man?’ He asked, presently.
‘It’s quite simple. Bob Berry’s a first-rate farm manager; he could combine the jobs, and do them both without difficulty.’
‘Ah,’ John smiled. ‘I also wanted to talk about Mr Berry. It’s a tradition here – in fact a necessity – that the farm manager should be married. The General made an exception with Berry. But I’m not going to allow it to continue. I’ve already decided, he’ll have to go by the end of the year – well, at Michaelmas really; that’s the usual time.’
Sara slowly rose, standing in front of him, her back straight, eyes becoming as hard as any Railton soldier’s. ‘John,’ while her voice remained controlled, there was an edge to it that her husband had never heard before. ‘You are my husband, therefore my master – for I promised in church to love, honour and obey you. You are also master of Redhill Manor. But you need me here for the best part of the year. I did not like the idea, but I have come to terms with it. I even enjoy it. If you are to go on in politics, I must have a measure of power here. I would not threaten you, for you are my beloved husband; but, if Bob Berry is sent from the farm, then I shall pack my bags, return to London and never put my foot over this threshold again. The same applies to the decision about Hunter. He must go.’ The words, melodramatic though they were, carried conviction.