Harry Bingham - The Sons of Adam

‘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.’

From that point on, events ran a hideously predictable course.

Sir Adam, unable to put Guy’s comments out of mind, decided to write in confidence to his London stockbroker, asking him – discreetly – to try to gauge whether there was any value in the Persian concession. Sir Adam told Guy that he had done as much. Guy let a few days pass, then told Tom.

Angrier than he’d ever been in his life, Tom flew to Sir Adam.

‘Uncle?’

‘Tommy! Hello there!’

‘What’s this about the concession?’

Sir Adam liked and admired Tom. The boy had pluck, doggedness, flair and passion. But, in moments of fury, he could also be rude, even violently rude. Sir Adam frowned.

‘What’s what?’ Sir Adam’s voice should have sent a warning, but Tom was unstoppable.

‘What are you doing with my concession?’

‘It’s not your concession, Tom. It’s in my name as your guardian.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What makes you think I’m doing anything at all?’

‘Guy.’

Sir Adam answered slowly, trying to keep his calm. He nodded. ‘At Guy’s suggestion, which was a good one, I am taking steps to discover if the concession has marketable value. It may well do, seeing as D’Arcy seems on the verge of a major discovery in a region not so very far from our own patch.’

‘ My patch. My concession.’

Then Sir Adam got angry. Tom’s impertinence was too much.

‘It is not your concession, Tom, nor is anything else for that matter, unless and until I damned well give it to you.’

‘You did give it. You said.’

‘I said it was a fine patch of land and I hoped you’d have fun dreaming about it. The idea that it might come to be yours – might one day come to be yours – arose when I believed the property in question to be without value.’

Tom almost staggered backwards. He crashed back against a mahogany sideboard.

‘You gave it to me because you thought it was worth nothing?’ Tom half laughed to himself. ‘And you’ve taken it back, at Guy’s suggestion?’ He blinked and looked down at the sideboard, where there stood a vase and, next to it, a framed photograph of the family: Sir Adam, Pamela, Guy, Tom, Alan. ‘Thank you, Uncle. I understand.’

He nodded once as though confirming something to himself, then swept his hand along the sideboard, knocking the photo to the floor. Almost by accident, he also caught the vase and toppled that too. The blue and white china shattered with a hollow boom and littered the floor with its wreckage.

Tom stared briefly and unemotionally at the mess, before walking quickly out of the room.

Alan paused at the door to the seed shed.

The building was invisible from the big house and the nearest gardeners were over the far side of the kitchen garden. Alan watched them go about their business, until he was sure that none of them was watching. Then he quickly slipped the catch and entered.

The wooden-built shed was about twenty-five feet long by only eight wide, with a line of windows running down the south side. Now, with winter ending, the workbenches were crammed with trays of compost, ready for the March sowing. The shed had a warm smell of earth and wood and growth and sunlight. A couple of mice scuttled away as Alan closed the door. Apart from the mice, there was total silence inside the shed. Once again, Alan checked he hadn’t been seen, then he raised his arms to one of the roof joists and swung himself up.