Peter Ransley: The King’s List

I had thrown on yesterday’s clothes. He bore the marks of Gilbert, the fastidious servant he had brought from Highpoint: barbered cheeks and fresh, clean linen. I could not help having the feeling that he should be sitting at the desk and I standing there. He was a Stonehouse from the tip of his elegantly coiffured crown, to his turned-down floppy boots. When he eventually spoke, his words were as polished as his boots.

‘I wish to apologise, sir.’

That was all. I waited for more, but there appeared to be no more. ‘Well, go on. Apologise for what? For being a Royalist?’

I cursed myself as soon as I had said it. Why did he always drive me the wrong way? He seemed to grow even taller. Or perhaps years at my desk had made me more bent. His nostrils flared; his voice was edged with contempt.

‘I will never apologise for that.’

Oh, to hell with you , I thought, the fuse has been lit . And in a moment we would be in the middle of a full-blown argument that would leave us worse off than before. I jumped up. Better end it before we reached that explosive point. I calmed myself by thinking of the ride to the City.

‘Look, Luke, you can see I’m on the point of going out. If you have something more to say, please say it.’

He spoke carefully, painfully slowly, as if I was a lawyer ready to seize on a faulty argument. ‘This house belongs to you, sir …’

I paced up and down. The toes of his boots seemed glued to the line in the carpet.

‘… as does Highpoint.’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you. I’m aware of that.’

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