The Sons of Adam Read online

  ‘That’s perfectly all right. It’s the concession I want, not money.’

  ‘But you’ll find it a damned awkward thing to make a go of the concession without some money in your pocket.’

  ‘I dare say.’

  ‘And Lottie, dear boy – she may not care to marry a pauper. Have you thought how this arrangement will affect her?’

  Alan shrugged. He thought of the village green: the oak crosses covered with flowers, the names of the dead, the sad December rain. ‘I have to have the concession, Father. Have to.’

  ‘For Tom?’

  ‘Yes, for Tom.’

  ‘You made him a promise?’

  ‘I did make him a promise. My most solemn promise, not long before he died. But even if I hadn’t, the agreement had been made between us years before. I couldn’t break it.’

  ‘You know how the odds lie against you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Old D’Arcy almost failed and we thought his purse was bottomless.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your mind’s made up?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re a stubborn fool.’

  Alan smiled. Coming from Sir Adam, that was a compliment.

  50

  Liverpool.

  One of the greatest ports in Europe, and all Tom encountered was ragged kids, the smell of urine, the sharp stink of poverty that four years of war had done nothing to purge.

  Tom walked quickly through the streets, down to the docks. He soon found what he was looking for. An American cargo ship, the SS Calloway, had just arrived, with seven hundred and fifty head of cattle mooing in the hold, and two thousand sheep bleating hopelessly on the hurricane deck. Tom ran up the gangplank and offered his services to the captain. The broad American face looked him up and down, noting the officer’s tunic, the medal ribbon, and its state of age and decay.

  ‘You want to rope cattle?’ The American’s voice was disbelieving.

  ‘Yes – yes, sir.’

  ‘You ever worked on ship before?’

  ‘No, but I’ve worked with animals.’

  The American wiped his chin with the back of his hand and spat over the side of the boat into the turbid water. He laughed. ‘Is that what the King gave you a medal for? … Hell no, sorry, I didn’t mean anything. Sure. We need hands. A couple of the steers got loose last night and we’ve got four men bleeding all over the sickbay.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a pause. The American seemed transfixed by the uniform and its medal ribbon.

  ‘Listen, bud, you might want to change your coat. These here cattle are true-born Yankees. They might not know how to respect the King’s uniform and all, on top of which, some of them ain’t too good as sailors and the cattle deck ain’t too wholesome right now.’ The smell coming up from the ship’s well suggested that the American was, if anything, understating matters.

  Tom gritted his teeth and shook his head.

  ‘No other coat, eh?’

  Tom shook his head again, feeling a flash of inappropriate temper mixed with shame at his poverty.

  ‘Hell … Goddamn.’

  The American thought for a moment, then stuck his hand in his pocket and brought out some money: a mixture of paper and coin, dollars and pounds. He sorted through his change and gave Tom some English money. ‘Go get yourself a coat, then get back here quick as you can. We lost two days on the crossing, so we need to get these cows out at the double.’

  Tom took the money and bought himself a thick tweed jacket. He sold his uniform tunic for a shilling, but took the purple and white ribbon off before handing it over.

  ‘Down on yer luck, sir?’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Never mind. Things are bound to look up.’

  The man’s face was begging to be asked a question and Tom knew what question to ask.

  ‘Do you have children?’ he asked. ‘Any sons … ?’

  ‘Two, sir. Both good lads. One took a bullet at Mons, but not hurt too bad, sir, thank God. The other one’s a miner, sir. Couldn’t be spared, though he begged to go …’

  Tom fled the shop. He wanted never to hear the word ‘war’ spoken again, and the country was littered with it. The smell of war hung over England like a cloud. It clung to things like the smell of coal-smoke. He put on his new jacket and hurried back to the ship.

  Unloading the cattle was unbelievable. The cattle deck was awash with the solid and liquid deposits of four hundred seasick cows. Roping them, getting a belt under their bellies, swaying them up through the hatchways and setting them safely down in pens on the dock was a violent and dangerous business.

  Tom worked with eight tough and strong Americans, all of whom had done this kind of thing before. It took him a while to catch up with their skill, but he soon learned and quickly became a crucial member of the team. When the deck was emptied of cattle, it was another day’s work to clear out the stalls, hose down the decks and swab the walls. By the end of the day, the deck smelled of brisk saltwater and sounds went ringing round the steel hall like the inside of a bell.

  The American mate approached Tom with a roll of dollars.

  ‘We normally pay people by the trip, but I’ve put you on a daily rate as a cattle hand, second class.’ He held out some money.

  ‘I don’t want pay, sir. I’d like passage.’

  ‘Passage? Hell.’ The American spat. ‘We’re not that type of ship. We bring cattle in. We don’t take nothing out. We don’t need hands on this leg.’

  Tom said nothing, but held the other man’s gaze. The American spat again.

  ‘Aw, hell, OK. I can’t pay you, but you can berth with us if you want. But New York immigration won’t let you into the country with an empty wallet. You’ll need to show ’em you can pay your way.’

  Tom continued silent.

  ‘Goddamn, pal, you ask a lot. OK. You can make a few round trips with us, get yourself set up. My father left this damn port when he was eighteen. Never came back. You can see why.’

  He spat.

  When the ship sailed away on the evening tide, Tom watched England sinking grey and smoky below the horizon. Except a few times to unload cattle, Tom wanted never to set foot there again.

  51

  Alan and Lottie were alone in the drawing room of her father’s huge Berkeley Square house. The room was furnished in the old-fashioned style: heavy oppressive colours and too much of everything – too much furniture, too much ornament, too much fabric. Lottie herself hardly seemed to fit. She was slim, not heavy. Her auburn hair was pinned up behind her head. Her dress was a simple modern outfit, dropping in a straight, almost boyish cut from her shoulders to six inches below the knee. Apart from a gold wristwatch and a string of pearls around her neck, she wore no jewellery. Although usually so bright, so unfazed and vivacious, today she was quiet and anxious.

  ‘My father can be a horrible old beast,’ she said.

  Alan was a mass of nerves. He stood up, sat down, caught Lottie’s hand and stroked it, then let it fall and lit a cigarette. ‘But he must care for you. He must. He couldn’t not.’

  She took the cigarette from his hand and stole a puff. ‘My goodness, the things you men will smoke.’ She took a cigarette from her own case, waited for Alan to light it, then inhaled deeply. ‘Well, if he can’t not, I don’t know why your hands are shaking.’

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘They were.’

  Alan leaped up again and paced the room. ‘I won’t plead with him.’

  ‘My darling, his mind is probably made up one way or another by now anyway. I don’t think anything you say will make the smallest amount of difference.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so calm.’

  ‘Oh, Alan, you silly.’

  Her voice was small and Alan realised that she was, like himself, desperately worried. ‘Sorry, my love, it’s just –’

  Just what, Lottie would never find out. A pair of double doors opened, and a manservant indicated to Alan that Lotti
e’s father, Egham Dunlop, was ready to see him.

  Alan squeezed Lottie’s hand, got a squeeze in return, and was gone.

  ‘A most damn bloody awful affair, this war.’

  The banker was silver-haired, but powerfully muscled and absolutely certain of his own authority. A large map on his study wall was studded with pins wherever Dunlop and Partners were engaged in business. There were six pins in Australia, fourteen in Latin America, eight in Africa, and so many in Europe and North America that Alan couldn’t count them.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alan. ‘Lottie worked as hard as any woman could, yet even so, sir, you must have been pleased not to have any sons in France.’

  ‘Hmm? What d’you say?’ Dunlop looked puzzled.

  ‘You were talking about the war, sir, the butchery of it all.’

  ‘Eh? No. I mean the killing was bad enough, but our countrymen seem to breed new ’uns all the time. I meant money, damned hard stuff to replace.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’

  ‘Nineteen fourteen. British investment overseas was pretty much the equal of America, France, Germany, Italy, Russia all heaped together. We didn’t just rule the world, we pretty much owned the place. Now? Gone. All gone. All sold off to pay for a few damned guns. And the British government in debt to the Americans. Debt, you understand! Debt!’

  Alan took a deep breath. This wasn’t the best possible start to what he had to say, though it seemed inconceivable to him that Dunlop should not have guessed why Alan had asked to see him in private.

  ‘If I may, sir, there’s a matter I wanted to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘You will know, I believe, that Lottie and I have grown very fond of one another, very fond indeed.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dunlop’s grunt could have meant anything or nothing. Alan was unable to pick up any clues from his demeanour about how best to proceed. He ploughed on.

  ‘I think you should understand my financial position, sir, as I wouldn’t wish to … to extract a promise from Lottie that I should be forced to ask her to withdraw.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. Financial position. You’re the eldest son, no?’

  ‘No, sir. I have an elder brother, Guy.’

  ‘Ah!’

  This was definitely a bad Ah, and Alan winced internally. But he drove forward.

  ‘My father has been reviewing his affairs and has generously made arrangements to settle certain … certain assets on me.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘The principal asset – the only real asset, in fact – is an intangible one, but no less valuable for that. Potentially valuable, that is.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I own a concession to drill for oil in Persia. The concession covers the south-west corner, starting not more than a hundred miles or so from the site where Anglo-Persian has already struck oil in abundance. I can’t boast of the most oil-rich lands myself, but the geologists tell me that my prospects are not entirely without hope.’

  ‘Have you started to drill?’

  ‘No, sir. I shall need to raise capital.’

  ‘Your own funds are not sufficient?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. No.’

  ‘Have you started to raise capital?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Have you ever found so much as a soup dish of oil anywhere in your so-called concession?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And in plain English, you are asking me if I will consent to your marrying my only daughter?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We happen to love each other very much and I can promise to do everything in my power to make her happy.’

  ‘Everything in your power? If I understand you right, you have no income nor any real prospect of one. What exactly do you think will be in your power? Will it be in your power to place a roof over her head? Will it be in your power to put food on the table?’

  Alan’s face whitened. ‘I have a small allowance from my father, sir. It isn’t much, but we wouldn’t starve. I believe –’

  ‘Starve? Starve? You propose to take my only daughter and you promise me that she won’t starve! The answer’s no. Unconditionally no. You will not marry her. You will break off relations with her. You will leave this house immediately, I tell you.’

  Alan’s ejection from the house was delayed by one minute as a manservant ran to find his hat. Alan felt humiliated and furious, but worse than that, he felt shell-shocked by the idea of having to live without Lottie.

  Lottie, of course, read his expression instantly.

  ‘Oh, darling, it’s bad news, isn’t it?’

  ‘He flew into a rage. He was only interested in money.’

  ‘Alan, my sweet, it must have been horrible.’

  He put his hand to her chin and raised her head until they were looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Lottie, darling, you do understand what this means?’

  ‘It means we shall have to elope and live in a garret,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve always wanted to live in a garret.’

  Alan shook his head. ‘You know I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘My love, there are women in the world who know how to survive on five pounds a week, but you’re not one of them.’

  ‘I could learn. No one ever thought I could be a nurse, but I turned out rather well, actually.’

  ‘You’re a perfect nurse, the best nurse that ever was, but to live on nothing, week in, week out, buying cheap cuts of meat, doing your own washing, darning your own stockings, cleaning the house like any old parlourmaid … I won’t see you come to that. I won’t think of it.’

  ‘I have jewels. We could sell them.’

  ‘And what then?’

  Alan’s voice was harsh, but determined. He had seen enough during the war to know what poverty was like. It was a hard life, relentless and difficult. Alan would never allow himself to bring Lottie so low.

  ‘Oh, dearest!’ Her voice was a whisper. She was begging him to change his mind, but knew he wouldn’t.

  Alan stood up. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Oh, stay, for God’s sake! Don’t just march out on me.’

  ‘Your father’s throwing me out.’

  ‘Oh, darling!’ They could hear him stomping around in his study and it was clear that Alan’s time was limited. Already the butler was standing in the door, twiddling Alan’s hat, while the under-butler and first footman stood just behind, like a pair of beautifully tailored heavies.

  Alan and Lottie hugged and kissed passionately.

  ‘I’ll wait for you, my darling. You go and dig for oil until you’re as rich as Croesus. I’ll still be here.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Alan’s voice went suddenly hard. ‘Don’t ruin your life to make a point against your father. You’re a free woman. There’s no point in me going if you don’t understand that. You must seek your own happiness. You must find love, marry, be happy.’

  ‘I believe in you. If ever a man stood a chance of succeeding, then it was you.’

  Alan smiled. He adored this woman. He longed to make love with her; to spend hours learning every contour of her body beneath his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and harsh.

  ‘That’s a sweet thing to say, but remember what we’re talking about. This is oil, a business equally divided between man and God. If I sink a well in the right place, I’ve made it. If I deviate by a hundred feet, I may miss it altogether. I’m afraid your father’s perfectly correct about my financial prospects at least. I’m unbankable now and I probably always will be. Goodbye, my beloved. Goodbye.’

  52

  ‘Shirt off, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Please take your shirt off, then climb those stairs.’

  The official’s voice slurred all the words into one long groan of tedium, ‘Pleasetakeyourshirtoffthenclimbthosestairs.’ He pointed at a flight of fifteen wooden stairs that led nowhere. A bored doctor in a blue uniform looked dully at Tom, b
efore his glance drifted back to the newspaper sports report. Tom removed his jacket, shirt and tie, then ran up the stairs and down. His pulse hardly accelerated. After five months of cattle wrestling on board heaving Atlantic cattle ships, his physique had regained nearly everything it had lost in the prison camp. The doctor looked curiously at the purple stains round Tom’s shoulder where he’d taken his first bullet wound, and the other light scars that Tom had collected either from shrapnel scratches on the front line or from injuries received in prison.

  ‘You’ve taken some knocks, huh?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Brawling?’

  ‘War. No problems now.’ He wriggled his shoulder to show off its mobility. In truth, although his shoulder was fine now, his wounded leg had never quite felt right since. Although he could walk on it all day, the wound fell into a dull red ache at times, especially if he twisted his leg at all or put his weight on it awkwardly.

  ‘Epilepsy? Any diagnosis of tuberculosis?’

  ‘No.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘OK. Shirt on.’

  The immigration official stamped Tom’s card. ‘Move on to the Public Examination hall. Out here, right, right again, get in line. Next!’

  Tom moved off. Behind him a Polish immigrant with a terrible limp was trying to conceal the fact as he puffed his way up the stairs. ‘OK. Geddown. Gimme your card. Next!’ The official sent the Pole in a different direction from Tom and the Pole wept bitterly with disappointment.

  The Public Examination hall was packed. A long line of humanity snaked its way up and down the long bare room. Notices on the wall explained who was prohibited entry: ‘All idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded persons –’ Tom half read the notices as he walked past. The would-be immigrants were mostly badly dressed and poor. There was a preponderance of men, and a mixture of voices and accents that reminded Tom of nothing so much as prison camp. ‘Persons of constitutional psychopathic inferiority; persons with chronic alcoholism –’ A few of the men were sneaking bites of food from parcels carried in their pockets: hard biscuit and fried pork, with the occasional strong smell of cheese or sausage. The air was cloudy with tobacco smoke. ‘Paupers; professional beggars; vagrants –’ Tom was better dressed than average, though nobody would have guessed that he’d grown up in the twelve-bedroomed Whitcombe House, with an English aristocrat for foster uncle. He shuffled his way along, feeling the mixture of hope and fear common to everyone else in the room.