Journey to the River Sea

Chapter Seventeen

One of the things Clovis had been most afraid of was being forced to ride. He had seen the horses in the stables and they looked large and twitchy. If Sir Aubrey put him in the saddle, Clovis meant to confess straight away and take the money Finn had given him to run away to his foster mother.

But the week after he arrived at Westwood, Sir Aubrey asked Clovis to come into the library because he had some bad news for him.

‘Now I want you to be brave about this, my boy. I want you to take this like a man and a Taverner.’

Clovis’ heart began to thump. Could someone have died — Maia perhaps, or his foster mother — and if so, how did Sir Aubrey know? Or was it just that he had been found out?

‘I won’t hide from you the fact that the Basher — your Aunt Joan, I mean — disagrees with me. She was all ready to teach you. She had picked out a fine mettlesome filly to start you on; nothing sluggish or second-rate. A real thoroughbred. You’d be going over jumps in a couple of weeks. But I’m afraid I cannot allow it.’

‘Can’t allow what, sir?’ asked Clovis.

‘Can’t allow you to ride. Can’t allow you to go on a horse. You can imagine what it cost me to come to this decision; the Taverner children have always been up in the saddle from when they were two years old. But after Dudley’s terrible accident…’ Tears came into Sir Aubrey’s eyes. He turned away. ‘If there was anyone else to inherit Westwood, I would let you take your chance, but with Bernard and Dudley both gone…’ He pressed Clovis’ shoulder. ‘You’re taking this very well, my boy. Very well indeed. You’re taking it like a man. I confess I expected arguments, even tantrums.’

‘Well, it is a disappointment,’ said Clovis, wondering whether to break down and cry, a thing all actors learn to do at the drop of a hat. But in the end he just gave a brave gulp instead. ‘I had of course been looking forward…’ He looked out of the window to where the Basher, mounted on a bruising chestnut, was galloping across a field. ‘But I do understand. One must always think of Westwood.’

Sir Aubrey nodded. ‘You’re a good lad. Of course no one will ever take Dudley’s place but…’ He took out his handkerchief and blew into it fiercely. ‘There’s another thing. About your schooling. Bernard was very weedy about his school, but then Bernard was weedy about everything. All the same, I think you’re a bit old to be sent away now. Boys usually leave home at about seven or eight, you know, and you’d feel out of it. So I’m going to engage a tutor for you. He’ll come next month when you’re settled in.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Clovis. And then: ‘I’m afraid I’m not very clever.’

Sir Aubrey looked shocked. ‘Good heavens, boy, I should hope not! The Taverners have never been bookish. Except your poor father, and look what happened to him.’

Clovis went downstairs and out into the garden where the little banshees were waiting for him to play ball with them. If he didn’t have to ride, maybe he could hold out another week or two before he confessed. The idea of confessing was nasty; not just because everyone would be so angry with him, but because Sir Aubrey would be disappointed. He’d obviously mellowed a lot since Bernard was a boy — old gentlemen did that, Clovis knew, at the end of their lives.

It was while they were having lunch that Clovis decided he would find a way of visiting his foster mother in the next few days. She would know what to do for the best — and he wanted to make sure that she was still there, in her cottage on the village green, before he gave himself up.

The butler took away Clovis’ pudding plate and filled it up with a second helping of apple crumble. The way the young master enjoyed his food gave great pleasure below stairs. It was a pity that the cook was engaged to be married and would soon be leaving.

Mrs Bates, Clovis’ foster mother, lived in the end cottage of a row of small farm cottages on Stanton Green. Her husband had died even before she took in Clovis, but she was thrifty and hard-working and though she had to go out to work in some of the big houses in the neighbourhood, she kept her house and her garden spotless.

Clovis had come by bus. Sir Aubrey had given him a ten-shilling note for pocket money, so there was no need for him to use the money Finn had given him.

As he crossed the green, it seemed to Clovis that nothing had changed. The well was still there in the centre of the common, and the old oak tree, and some boys were kicking a football on the grass. He had been gone four years; they were too young to remember him.

But when he knocked on the door of the cottage and opened it, Mrs Bates went red and then white and hugged him while the tears ran from her eyes.

‘Jimmy,’ she kept saying. ‘Well, well, you’re back, Jimmy! And how you’ve grown. And my, don’t you look well, and so smart! So those Goodleys did right by you after all!’

‘Well, not exactly. The company folded up so I came back.’

‘Aye, and don’t you speak nicely. Oh, I can’t believe it! I was thinking as how I wouldn’t ever see you again. Sit down, boy. There’s some scones in the oven, they’ll be done in a jiffy. And there’s some buttermilk fresh from the cow.’

While she spoke, he looked round the room. He’d been Jimmy Bates, and then Clovis King and now was Finn Taverner — but here nothing had changed. The cross stitch sampler was still above the mantelpiece, the brass kettle was on the hob, there was a pink geranium on the windowsill. But everything looked smaller, and… poorer, somehow. Had things been hard for his foster mother? Her apron was neatly darned but there seemed to be more darns than cloth — and had the rug always been so threadbare? ‘Have you been all right, Mother?’ he asked her.

‘Oh aye, times aren’t easy, but I do some cooking for people in the village and I manage, with the garden and all. Oh yes, I manage fine.’

She went to the oven and took out the scones.

‘Well, now,’ she said, putting out the butter and the home-made strawberry jam. ‘You start talking, boy. You start right from when those Goodleys took you away. I want to know everything.’

So Clovis began. He told her about the years of travelling, the discomfort, the low pay — but also some good times at the beginning when the Goodleys had made a pet of him, and he’d enjoyed acting. ‘I sent you some postcards but they’d never remember to let me have stamps.’

‘I just got the one,’ said Mrs Bates. ‘Oh, I did miss you, Jimmy boy.’

‘And I missed you,’ said Clovis, biting into a scone. The scones at Westwood were very good but these were better.

And then he told her about his last voyage out to the Amazon, about meeting Maia and Miss Minton, and about the disaster of the Lord Fauntleroy matinée.

To Mrs Bates it was like a fairy story. ‘Go on. Go on,’ she kept saying.

So Clovis went on to what had happened with Finn at the lagoon, and the plan they had worked out to set Finn free and get Clovis back to England.

But now poor Mrs Bates began to be very muddled and very upset.

‘You mean you’re pretending to be someone else?’

‘Well, that’s what actors do,’ said Clovis.

‘Yes, but everyone knows it’s only pretence.’ She shook her head. ‘You mean at Westwood they think you’re the heir? And they’re still thinking it?’

‘Yes. But I know I’ll have to confess.’

‘Of course you will, Jimmy. You couldn’t live a lie. That grand place — I’ve heard it’s splendid. You must tell them straight away. And of course you can come here. Times is hard but we’ll manage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clovis.

He looked round the cottage again. Funny how small it was. He’d wanted so much to be back here when he was with the Goodleys, but now…

But he knew his foster mother was right. He would confess. He’d do it the very next day.

But finding a time to do it was not easy. The next day Sir Aubrey was shut up with his bailiff and the day after that he was driven into York for a checkup with his doctor.

But on the third day after Clovis had seen his foster mother, Sir Aubrey suggested a little walk round the park. He took his stick and a pair of binoculars and put on his deerstalker and they set off.

‘Time you got to know the estate,’ he told Clovis.

But before they crossed the courtyard, Sir Aubrey stopped by the statue with the severed head. He touched the neck stump with his stick, then ran it over the battered forehead and nose of the head lying on the ground.

‘Something I wanted to ask you, my boy,’ he said. ‘About this statue. Could you leave the head the way it is after I go? Because of Dudley. Something to remember him by?’ He sniffed and blew his nose.

‘After you go, sir?’

‘After I pop my clogs. Turn up my toes. Die, you know, what. When everything in the place is yours.’

Clovis took a deep breath. Now was the time. He couldn’t go on with this lie.

‘Actually, sir,’ he began, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ He flushed, but went on resolutely. ‘You see—’

A thunderous, braying voice interrupted him. The Basher, mounted on an enormous black horse, came galloping across the Home Paddock towards them. Behind her, looking cold and worried, came the three banshees on their ponies.

‘Came to ask the boy to tea,’ brayed the Basher. ‘The girls want him to play charades.’

So that was the end of the first confession.

The next time he was alone with Sir Aubrey was after dinner, when they were served coffee in the drawing room.

The fire was drawing nicely; Sir Aubrey looked sleepy and amiable. Perhaps he wouldn’t be too angry?

‘Sir Aubrey, I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Grandfather. Told you to call me Grandfather, boy.’

‘You see there’s been a mistake — a muddle. The crows — I mean Mr Trapwood and Mr Low — thought I was someone else and—’

He began quickly to tell his story, looking down at the fireside rug. When he had finished he lifted his head, waiting for the explosion.

Sir Aubrey lay stretched out in the chair; his arm hung limply by his side and from his chest there came a deep and rumbling snore.

He hadn’t heard a word that Clovis had said.

Clovis almost gave up after that. Only the thought of what his foster mother would say if he did not tell the truth kept him going. And at the beginning of his third week at Westwood, he managed it.

He was with Sir Aubrey in the picture gallery. The old man often took him there, and in particular he liked to stand Clovis next to the portrait of Admiral Sir Alwin Taverner in his cocked hat, and point out to Clovis how alike they were.

‘Look at the nose, boy; the way it turns up, just like yours.’ Or: ‘See the cleft in the chin — exactly the same.’

This time Clovis felt he couldn’t stand this, and before Sir Aubrey could take him to see a picture of what was supposed to be another of his great-great uncles, he took a deep breath and began.

‘Sir Aubrey, I have to tell you—’

‘Grandfather,’ interrupted the old man. ‘I’ve told you to call me Grandfather.’

Clovis was getting desperate. ‘Yes; but you see you’re not really my grandfather. There’s been a mistake. I’m really—’ And this time, very quickly, he managed to tell his story.

Clovis had often imagined what would happen after he owned up and told the truth. He had imagined Sir Aubrey ragingly angry or icily cold or even hurt.

But never in his worst nightmares had he imagined anything as terrible as what happened next.