Mexico Set

9

It was good to be back in London again. First I opened the shutters in every room and let in the afternoon sunlight. I just couldn't get used to going home to a dark, silent house. It seemed such a short time ago that it was echoing with the sound of the children, nanny and Fiona my wife.

For lunch I made myself a cup of tea and balanced the contents of a tin of sardines on two very stale wholemeal biscuits. It was hot and airless in the top-floor room I used as a study. I opened the window and let in the sounds of London on a Sunday afternoon. I could hear the distant cries of children playing in the street, and the recorded carillon of an ice-cream pedlar. I phoned the office and told them I was home. The duty clerk sounded tired and bored but I resisted his attempt to engage me in conversation about the climate of Mexico at this time of year.

While eating my sardines I opened the stack of mail. Apart from bills for gas, electricity and wine, most of the mail was coloured advertising brochures; head waiters leered at credit cards, famous chefs offered a 'library' of cookbooks, pigskin wallets came free with magazine subscriptions, and there was a chance to hear all the Beethoven symphonies as I'd never heard them before. On my desk-pad the Portuguese cleaning lady – Mrs Dias – had pencilled a list of people who'd phoned during her daily visits. Her handwriting was rather uncertain, but I recognized no one there I felt like phoning except for my mother. I called her and chatted. I had a word with the children too. They seemed happy enough but I could hear the nanny prompting them from time to time.

'Did you like it in Mexico?' said Sally.

'It was very hot,' I said.

'Grandma said you'd take us to the seaside when you got back.'

'Is that where you want to go?'

'You've been away a long time, Daddy.'

'I'll take you to the seaside.'

'When?'

'As soon as I can.'

'Billy said you'd say that.'

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm a rotten father.'

'Are we coming home?'

'Yes, very soon.'

It was only after I'd showered and changed my clothes that I noticed the cream-coloured envelope propped in front of the clock. Mrs Dias would naturally think of the clock as the place to which the human eye most readily returned.

Phone me home or office as soon as you return. Many matters to discuss. David.

It had been delivered by hand. The envelope bore a bright-red 'Urgent' sticker and the message was written in ink on a heavy handmade paper that matched the envelope. I recognized the stationery even without the engraved address and the artistic picture of the house that adorned it. The prospect of a discussion with my father-in-law, Mr David Timothy Kimber-Hutchinson, philanthropist, philosopher, tycoon and Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, was not my idea of a welcome home. But I couldn't think of any excuse for avoiding it so I phoned him and agreed to drive down to him without delay.

His house was built on a tree-covered hillside not far from the place where the ancient Roman highway of Stane Street surmounted the Downs. It was a Jacobean mansion, so restored over the ages that very little of the original sixteenth-century building remained. But priority had been given to the corporeal things of life, so that the roof never leaked and the plumbing, the heating and the electricity supply always provided a level of comfort rarely encountered in English country houses.

Sometimes I wondered how much money went through his hands for him to be able to run this place with its desirable living accommodation for the servants, a self-contained wing for his guests and heated stabling for his horses. I parked my battered Ford between Kimber-Hutchinson's silver Rolls and his wife's Jaguar. The Kimber-Hutchinsons wouldn't have a foreign car. It wasn't simply a matter of patriotism, the old man once told me; it would upset some of his customers. Poor fellow, he needed handmade shoes because of his 'awkward feet' and Savile Row suits because he wasn't lucky enough to have the figure for ready-made ones. Cheap wine played havoc with his stomach so he drank expensive ones, and because he couldn't fit into economy-size airline seats he was forced to go everywhere first class. Poor David, he envied people like me, he was always telling me so.

David – he liked me to call him David; 'father-in-law' being too specific, 'father' too inaccurate, 'Mr Kimber-Hutchinson' too cumbersome and 'Kimber' a form of address reserved for his intimates – was waiting for me in the studio. The studio was a luxuriously converted barn. At one end there was a huge north-facing window and an easel where he liked to stand and paint water-colours that were snapped up at good prices by executives of the companies with which he did business. Under the skylight there was a large wooden rostrum that was said to have come from the Paris studio of Maillol, a sculptor who'd devoted his life to loving portrayals of the female nude. I'd once asked David what he used it for but got only the vaguest of answers.

'Come in and sit down, Bernard old chap.' He was working on a painting when I got there, but he was not at the easel. He was seated at a small table, a drawing board resting on his knees, while he pencilled in the outlines of a landscape with horses. On the table there were half a dozen enlarged photos of the same view, photos of horses and a sheet of tracing paper from which he'd worked. 'You've discovered my little secret,' he said without looking up from his sketch. 'I always start off from photographs. No sense in not using all the help you can get. Michelangelo would have used a camera when doing die Sistine Chapel ceiling had he got the chance.'

Since David Kimber-Hutchinson showed no sign of revealing more about Michelangelo's frustrated technological aspirations, I grunted and sat down while he finished drawing the horse. Although it was a faithful reproduction of the horse in the photo, David's traced drawing of it looked wooden and stunted. He was obviously aware of this, for he was redrawing the outline to extend its legs, but that didn't seem to improve it.

He was wearing a dark-blue artist's smock over his yellow cashmere rollneck and riding breeches. His face was flushed. I guessed he'd just got back from a canter over the Downs. It was rather as if he'd arranged things so that I would see him tracing his pictures. Perhaps he thought I would admire such acquired trickery more than mere talent. A man could not take credit for talent in the way he could for cunning.

Eventually he abandoned his attempt and put the pencil down on the table in front of him. 'I can never draw horses,' he said. 'It's just not fair. No artist loved horses as I do, or knew as much about them. But even when I use photos I can't damn well draw them. It's not fair.'

I'd never heard him appeal to equity before. Usually he upheld the ultimate justice of market forces and even the survival of the fittest. 'Perhaps it's because you trace photos,' I said. 'Maybe you should trace paintings.'

He looked at me, trying to decide whether to take offence, but my face was blank and he said, 'I might try that. Trace a Stubbs or something, just to get some idea of the trade secrets. Ummm. It's all tricks, you know. A Royal Academy painter admitted that to me once. Painting is just learning a set of tricks, just like playing the stock exchange.'

'They are tricks I will never master,' I admitted.

'Easy enough to do, Bernard. Easy enough to do.' He took off his artist's smock and smiled. He liked to hear that his achievements were beyond other men; especially he liked to be praised about his skills with horses. He was up every morning grooming his horses and he endured the long drive to his London office for the sake of seeing his horses. More than once he'd told me that he liked horses better than he liked people. They never lie to you, horses,' he said. They never try to swindle you.'

He spoke without looking up from his board. 'So you're still driving that old Ford,' he said. 'I thought you were going to get a Volvo.'

'I cancelled the order,' I said. 'I don't need a big car now.'

'And a big car costs money, more than you can afford,' he said with that directness that you could always count upon. 'You should see the bills I pay on that Rolls. I had to replace the fire-extinguisher last month and that cost me seventy-eight pounds.'

'It might be worth that if you are on fire,' I said.

'Have a drink, Bernard. It's a tiring drive from London. How did you come, Kingston bypass? Full of weekend drivers, was it? "Murder mile" they call it, that bit south of Kingston Vale. I've seen a dozen cars crunched together on that stretch of road. The lights change at Robin Hood Gate and they go mad.'

'Coming in this direction it wasn't too bad,' I said.

He went over to an old cupboard that contained jars full of brushes and tubes of paint and bottles of turpentine and linseed oil for the times when he worked in oils. From a compartment in the cupboard he got a glass and a bottle of drink. 'You're a whisky and soda man, as I remember. Lots of soda and lots of whisky.' He laughed and poured a huge Scotch. He had me summed up nicely. 'Teacher's all right?' He handed it to me without waiting for a reply. 'No ice over here.'

'Thanks.' It was a cheap tumbler, not the Waterford he used at his dinner table. This David who painted here in his studio was a different David – an artist, a plain man with earthy pleasures and simple tastes.

'Yes,' he said. 'A big car is no use to you now that you're on your own. The big house will be a burden too. I've scribbled out some figures to show you.'

'Have you?' I said.

He got a piece of paper from the table and sank down on the sofa, studying the piece of paper as if he'd never seen it before. 'You bought the house four years ago, and property has been sticky ever since then. I warned you about that at the time, as I remember. The way the market is now, you'll be lucky to get your money back.' He looked at me.

'Really,' I said.

'And when you take into account inflation and loss of earnings on capital it's been a bad investment. But you'll have to grin and bear it, I'm afraid. The important thing is to reduce your outgoings. Get on to a house agent first thing in the morning, Bernard. Get that house on the market. And find yourself a small service flat; bedroom, sitting room and a kitchen, that's all you need. In fact, I wonder if you really need a kitchen.' When I didn't respond, he said, 'I've jotted down the phone numbers of a couple of house agents I do business with. You don't want to go to the first people you happen upon. Too many Jews in that line of business.' A smile. 'Oh, I forgot, you like Jews, don't you?'

'No more than I like Scotsmen or Saudi Arabians. But I always suspect that whatever is being done to Jews this week is likely to be done to me next week. In any case, I have decided to hang on to the house. At least for the time being.'

'That would be absurd, Bernard. You'll have only your salary in future. You won't have Fiona's trust fund, the children's trust funds or Fiona's salary.'

'The trust funds were used solely for Fiona and the children,' I pointed out to him.

'Of course, of course,' said David. 'But the fact remains that your household will have far less money. And certainly not enough to keep up a rather smart little house in the West End,'

'If I moved into a service flat there would be no room for the children.'

'I was coming to that, Bernard. The children – and I think you will agree unreservedly about this – are the most important single factor in this whole tragic business.'

'Yes,' I said.

He looked at me. 'I think I'll have a drink myself,' he said. He got up and went to the cupboard and poured himself a gin and tonic with plenty of tonic. 'And let me do something about yours too, Bernard.' He took my glass and refilled it. After he'd sipped his drink he started again but this time from another angle. 'I'm a socialist, Bernard. You know that; I've never made a secret of it. My father worked hard all his life and died at his work-bench. Died at his workbench. That is something I can't forget.'

I nodded. I'd heard it all before. But I knew that the work-bench was to David's father what David's easel was to him. David's father had owned half of a factory that employed 500 people.

'But I've never had any dealings with communists, Bernard. And when I heard that Fiona had been working for the Russians all these years I said to my wife, she's no daughter of ours. I said it just like that. I said she's no daughter of ours, and I meant it. The next morning I sent for my lawyer and I disowned her. I wrote and told her so; I suppose the lawyers handling her trust fund have some sort of forwarding address…' He looked at me.

'I don't know,' I said. 'I haven't contacted them. I daresay the department has contacted them but I don't know anything about a forwarding address.'

'Whether she'll ever get my letter or not I don't know.' He came over to where I was sitting and, lowering his voice, he added in a voice throbbing with emotion, 'And personally, Bernard, I don't care. She's no daughter of mine. Not after this.'

'I think you were going to say something about the children,' I prompted him.

'Yes, I was. Fiona has gone for good, Bernard. She's never coming back. If you're holding on to the house in the hope that Fiona comes back to you, forget it.'

'If she came back,' I said, 'she'd face a very long term in prison.'

'Yes, I thought of that,' he said. 'Damn it, that would be the final disgrace. Her mother would die of shame, Bernard. Thank God the story was never picked up by the newspapers. As it is I've cut back on visits to my clubs, in case I see someone who's in the know about such things. I miss a lot of my social life. I haven't had a round of golf since the news reached us.'

'It hasn't exactly made life easy for me,' I said.

'In the department? I suppose they think you should have got on to her earlier, eh?'

'Yes, they do.'

'But you were the one who finally worked out what was going on. You were the one who discovered she was the spy, eh?'

I didn't answer.

'You needn't worry, Bernard. I don't hold that against you. Someone had to do it. You just did your duty.' He drank some of his drink and gave a grim, manly smile. I suppose he thought he was being magnanimous. 'But now we have to face the mess that she's left behind her. My wife and I have discussed the whole thing at great length…' A smile to share with me the difficulties that always come from discussions with women. '… and we'd like to have the children. The nanny could come too so we'd preserve the essential continuity. I've spoken to a friend of mine about the schools. Billy has to change his school this year anyway… '

'I'm keeping the children with me,' I said.

'I know how you feel, Bernard,' he said. 'But in practical terms it's not possible. You can't afford to keep up the mortgage payments on the house the way the interests rates are going. How would you be able to pay the nanny? And yet how could you possibly manage without her?'

'The children are with my mother at present,'

'I know. But she's too old to deal with young children. And her house is too small; there's only that little garden.'

'I didn't know you'd been there,' I said.

'When I heard you were away in Mexico I made it my business to see the children and make sure they were comfortable. I took some toys for them and gave your mother some cash for clothes and so on.'

'That was none of your business,' I said.

'They're my grandchildren,' he said. 'Grandparents have rights too, you know.' He said it gently. He didn't want to argue; he wanted to get his way about the custody of the children.

'The children will stay with me,' I said.

'Suppose Fiona sends more Russians and tries to kidnap them?'

'They have a twenty-four-hour armed guard,' I said.

'For how much longer? Your people can't provide a free armed guard for ever, can they?'

He was right. The guards were still there only because I'd had to go to Mexico. As soon as I got back to the office there would be pressure to withdraw that expensive facility. 'We'll see,' I said.

'I won't see the children's trust funds squandered on it. My lawyer is a trustee for both the children; perhaps you're overlooking that. I'll make sure you don't use that money for security guards or even for the nanny's wages. It wouldn't be fair to the children; not when we can offer them a better life here in the country with the horses and farm animals. And do it without taking their money.'

I didn't answer. In a way he was right. This rural environment was better than anything I could offer them. But the bad news would be having the children grow up with a man like David Kimber-Hutchinson, who hadn't exactly made a big success of bringing up Fiona.

'Think it over,' he said. 'Don't say no. I don't want to find myself fighting for custody of the children through the law courts. I pay far too much money to lawyers anyway.'

'You'd be wasting your money,' I said. 'In such circumstances a court would always give me custody.'

'Don't be so sure,' he said. 'Things have changed a lot in the last few years. I'm advised that my chances of legal custody are good. The trouble is – and I'm going to be absolutely frank with you about this – that I don't fancy paying lawyers a lot of money to tell the world what a bad son-in-law I have.'

'So leave us alone,' I said. I'd feared I was heading into a confrontation like this right from the moment I saw the cream-coloured envelope in front of the clock.

'But I wouldn't be the only loser,' he continued relentlessly. 'Think what your employers would say to having your name, and my daughter's name, dragged through the courts. They wouldn't keep that out of the newspapers in the way they've so far been able to do with Fiona's defection.'

He was right, of course. His legal advisers had earned their fees. The department would keep this out of the courts at all costs. I'd get no support from them if I tried to hang on to my children. On the contrary; they'd press me to accept my father-in-law's sensible offer of help.

Beyond him, through the big studio windows, I could see the trees made gold by the evening sunlight and the paddock where Billy and Sally liked to explore. Money isn't everything, but for people such as him it seemed as if it could buy everything, 'I'd better be getting along,' I said. 'I didn't get much sleep on the plane and there'll be a lot of work waiting for me on my desk tomorrow morning.'

He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Think about it, Bernard. Give it a couple of weeks. Take a look at some of the bills coming in and jot down a few figures. Look at your net annual income and compare it with your expenditure last year. Even if you pare your expenses right down you still won't have enough money. Work it out for yourself and you'll see that what I've said makes sense.'

'I'll think about it,' I promised, although my mind was made up already, and he could discern that from the tone of my voice.

'You could come down here any time and see them, Bernard. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.'

'I said I'd think about it.'

'And don't go reporting Fiona's Porsche as stolen. I sent my chauffeur to get it and it will be advertised for sale in next week's Sunday Times. Better to get rid of it. Too many unhappy memories for you to want to use it. I knew that.'

'Thanks, David,' I said. 'You think of everything.'

'I do but try,' he said.