Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“I don’t want to spend money on clothes,” I said. “Not that I’ve got any money for clothes.”

“I do hope you’re not going to be frightfully boring and tell me you have money problems?”

“My money problems are no longer your concern.”

“They are very much my concern, darling,” she said. “School fees.

Or had you forgotten?”

“School fees.” I imitated her perfect enunciation.

“You can’t expect Mands and Pip to slum it in a state school. Be reasonable, Nick.” I flinched from Melissa’s nicknames for our children. Amanda was the eldest, six now, while Piers was four. I’d been in Belfast when Amanda was born and in Germany when Piers arrived; two postings that explained why I had been given no say in the choice of names. Melissa picked up an emery stick and lightly buffed the tip of a fingernail. “Or do you want them to become communist perverts, Nick? That’s all they teach children in London schools these days.”

“I’m already paying their school fees,” I said. “There’s a standing order at the bank.”

“But in a few years, Nick, Mands will want to be at a decent boarding school and Piers will go to the Dragon. Then Eton, of course, and you can’t expect Hon-John to pay. They’re not his children.”

“But the Honourable John’s filthy rich,” I said as though it was a most reasonable objection.

Melissa sighed. “And Mumsy and Dadsy won’t pay.” Melissa’s parents were always called that, Mumsy and Dadsy. I imagined how very relieved Mumsy and Dadsy were that Melissa had rid herself of the jailbird’s son and married the Honourable John instead.

Melissa was a most beautiful rat who had abandoned the sinking ship with immaculate timing. She was also, though it pleased her to disguise it, a most clever rat. Cleverer than I was. “Or Dadsy won’t pay unless you’re dead,” she said now.

I put two fingers to my head. “Bang.”

“So if you’re spending all your money on that silly boat, Nick, you won’t have the funds for the school fees, will you? And then I shall have to sue you again, which will be awfully boring.”

“Jesus wept.” I walked to the window. “You’ve got my bloody Army pension that I’ve hocked for their bloody school fees. You’ve got the God-damned tin handshake which paid for their bedrooms in this palace. What more would you like? A pint of my blood? Or would you like to fry one of my kidneys for their breakfast?”

“I see that being out of hospital hasn’t helped your temper.” Melissa frowned at her fingernail, then decided it came close enough to perfection. She smiled at me, evidently satisfied with victory in the opening skirmish and now prepared to offer a truce. “I saw you on the moving wallpaper device last night. I think it’ll be jolly nice to see a proper film about you. Do you think they’ll want to interview me?”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Tony. Your very close friend, Tony.”

Melissa looked at me dangerously. She is a most beautiful woman, and I, with the foolishness of lust, had married her only for those looks. She married me for my father’s wealth, and once that had gone Melissa went straight to the divorce courts. By that time I was on a hospital ship. “Do I hear jealousy?” She asked me sweetly.

“Yes.”

She smiled, liking that answer. “I know Tony quite well.” Her voice swooped judiciously on the word “quite”, investing it with special meaning. “He’s a bit rough trade, don’t you think? But of course he married frightfully well.”

“Rough trade? He seems bloody smooth to me.”

“I mean that he’s not top drawer, Nick. But then, nor are you. And of course he’s another sailor, isn’t he? Do you think I have a weakness for sailors?”

“All I know,” I said bitterly, “is that your friend Tony has a weakness for a bloody Boer brute.”

“That’s hardly surprising, is it? If you had that ghastly man threatening you, you’d have a Boer bodyguard too.” I stared in astonishment at her. I’d spoken in resentment of the trick Angela had played with the contracts, but my words had achieved the effect of tossing a grenade into an apparently empty foxhole and being rewarded with a body. The foxhole, in this case, was Melissa’s prodigious memory for gossip. “Who’s threatening him?” I asked.

The long lashes went up and the big blue eyes looked suspiciously at me. Gossip, for Melissa, was a precious coin that should not be squandered. Her first remark about someone threatening Bannister had been made on the casual assumption that I shared the knowledge, but now, upon discovering my ignorance, she was wondering what advantage there might be in revealing more.

“Who?” I insisted.

She put the emery board down and evidently decided there was no advantage in revealing her knowledge. “Did you have a lovely time with the children?”

“We went to Holland Park.”

“How very thrilling for you all, but I hope you didn’t fill them up with grease-burgers, Nick?”

“I gave them fish and chips. Piers had three helpings.”

“I think that’s very irresponsible of you.”

“What am I supposed to do? Feed them avocado mousse? Fish and chips is all I can afford.” I scowled out of the window at the mirror image of Melissa’s house across the street. The London home of the Honourable John and Mrs Makyns is one of those tall and beautiful stucco houses. The Honourable John complained that Kensington was far too far from the House of Commons, but I sensed how much Melissa loved this expensive home. Now, in spring, her road was thick with cherry blossom, in summer the stucco would reflect brightly white, while in winter the windows would reveal the soft gleam of wealth inside high-corniced living-rooms. “And talking of money,” I said, “when are you going to pay me the rent you’ve been taking for my wharf?”

The faintest note of alarm entered Melissa’s voice. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nick.”

I turned on her. “You rented my bloody wharf when you had no right to do it, no justification for doing it, and no need to do it.”

“I might have known that if I invited you up for a chat you’d become tiresome.” Melissa opened her hands like a cat stretching its claws. She inspected her nails critically. “Actually, Nick, I had to rent the wharf.”

“Why? Did the Hon-John misplace one of his millions?” The Honourable John had oiled himself on to the board of a merchant bank and had somehow persuaded the selection committee of a safe Shire seat to make him their candidate. The Honourable John, in short, was sitting pretty, was already tipped as a future minister, and, so long as he wasn’t caught dancing down Whitehall with a prostitute in either arm, he would inexorably rise to become Secretary of State for Pomposity, then a lord, and finally a Much-Respected Corpse. Whatever the Hon-John was, he wasn’t rough trade.

“They’re not Hon-John’s children, Nick,” Melissa said.

“Mands and Pip need ponies, and I really can’t use Hon-John’s private account for your children’s necessities.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me for some cash?”

“You had some?” The interest was immediate.

“I could have pawned the gong.” I protected my flank. I had a small amount of cash, but only enough to provision a repaired Sycorax and I did not want Melissa to fritter it away on a week’s supply of lip-gloss.

“Do you have the medal?” she asked eagerly.

“As a matter of fact I do.”

“May I see it, Nick. Please?”

I gave it to her. She turned the medal in her hands, then held it against her left breast as if judging its suitability as a brooch. “Is it worth a lot?” she asked.

“Only in scarcity value.” I held out my hand.