Corkscrew Page 2

  “Am I to be inducted into the school choir, sir?” I asked sweetly.

  “You truculent oaf, Hart. You think you’re clever don’t you?” He gave an unpleasant smile and rose from his desk. “Well you’re not. You are a miserable disappointment. Every privilege that God and Great Britain have seen fit to lay before you, you have frittered away.” He paused a moment, looking out of his window as if for inspiration. “You are the recipient of the Dio iuvante scholarship, Hart, the only one in your year. It means ‘With God’s help’. But how did you use this gift? You flushed it down the urinal like everything else that passes through those sorely abused kidneys of yours.”

  Parr peered down at a report on his desk. “Three GCSEs passed. An ‘A’ in French and you scraped a ‘D’ in mathematics and feminist studies. You didn’t even turn up for your mock A Levels last term, Hart. Why was that?”

  “I was ill, sir.” In fact, the exams had clashed with the Hammersmith Beer Festival. I’m not a man to get his priorities muddled.

  “We could have given your scholarship to that nice Nigerian boy. By God, he wouldn’t have let us down as you have. A good Christian family, too!” He narrowed his eyes. “What would your parents have said?”

  “That’s a little low sir,” I murmured, eyes cast down for effect. God alone knows what my father would have thought. I didn’t remember him, and my mother told me he was killed in an accident in Macao a year after absconding. It’s true that my mother would have been heartbreakingly disappointed but, given that she passed away the best part of a decade ago, her influence and my shame had eroded somewhat.

  I had been a model infant, scoring top marks in every little end-of-year test my primary school threw at me. Then mother’s tragic illness struck, just as I took the scholarship exam to Fletching Ordnance School for Boys. Who knows whether it was my academic prowess or sympathy for a poor little orphan, but I was immediately inducted into Hampstead’s most venerable public school, rubbing shoulders with the sons of stockbrokers, well-to-do farmers and a few scions of the international super-rich.

  “You’re a waste, Hart. A waste of a good place at Fletching Ordnance. And I cannot abide waste.” Parr took a deep breath. “You’re fired Hart.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “You’re expelled. This is your last week at Fletching Ordnance School for Boys.”

  “You can’t do that sir!” I was genuinely shocked. Surely there should be a final warning, some kind of ultimatum? Not just an execution. I hadn’t expected this degree of ruthlessness, not even from the Reverend.

  “But I can, Hart, you see. The terms of your scholarship specify very clearly that you must meet minimum benchmarks in your exams. And you have fallen short, Hart. Very short indeed! What, no clever little bon mots then, Hart? No smart-arse comebacks?”

  I considered planting my fist right into the centre of Parr’s face, but an assault charge against a man of the cloth was unlikely to improve matters, and anyway I’d had the wind taken well and truly out of my sails. “Well sir, I was wondering what came next, really?”

  “Next Hart? Ah, you refer to your career perhaps? Nothing comes next, Hart. No opportunity for re-sits. The terms of your scholarship preclude it. Winners of the Dio iuvante scholarship are expected to glide through their exams. In fact, no recipient has ever failed to get less than a hat-trick of distinctions and a six-gun salute as they are waved through to Oxbridge. Which makes you unique, Hart. Quite unique.” Parr paused and considered me, his jaded expression that of a treasure hunter unearthing a foil-wrapped turd.

  “But you’re in charge of career guidance sir. Surely you’re supposed to give me some pointers?”

  “Pointers, Hart? I’ll give you pointers!” and he jerked his thumb backwards, towards the window and the high street in the distance. “That’s where you’re headed my boy. To make a living like the vast majority of mankind, most of whom have had none of your privileges. Try shop work!”

  “Sage advice sir. I’ll be off then,” I said. You appalling old fucker, I thought.

  I dropped by the office of the Deputy Head, Mr du Plessis, on the way out. He was one of the few masters who liked me, a slim Afrikaner whose skin was wrinkled and permanently grilled brown by the fierce South African sun. I knocked on the heavy oak door.

  “Ja. Kom.”

  I put my head round. “Just wanted to say goodbye, sir. I’ve been dismissed.”

  “I know.” He pointed to a seat on the opposite side of his huge mahogany desk. As I sat, he rose and unlocked a cabinet next to one of the many shelves of books, and I saw the glitter of crystal. He returned to the desk with a heavy decanter and two tiny glasses, and poured us each a glass.

  “I think you can heff a little drop, given the circumstances,” he said kindly, his crisp Afrikaans accent still strong despite decades in England. “Here’s to your rather unconventional graduation.”

  “Cheers,” I muttered. I tasted the wine. It was strong and salty, very unusual.

  Du Plessis held the glass up to the light. “They say you should not serve dry Sherry in a decanter, or at room temperature. Why do you think they say that?”

  Well, if my final lesson of my school career was to be wine appreciation, I may as well make an effort. “To stop it oxidising, perhaps?”

  “Exactly, Felix. So you picked up something from your studies. Goed. The salty taste comes from the sea breeze that cools the barrels as they age on the coast of Sanlúcar de Barrameda, in the province of Cádiz.” He gazed at the liquid.

  “Nice,” I agreed, swallowing the rest of the glass.

  Du Plessis poured me a refill. “So what are you going to do, young man?”

  “Reverend Parr suggested I work in a shop. I don’t have any better ideas.”

  “What kind of shop? And don’t say a knocking shop. I’m serious.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something that allows me to travel and do the things I like to do.” I downed the pitifully small glass of wine and replaced the glass on the desk.

  “I have an idea what it is you like to do, Felix. Unfortunately, being a drunken gigolo doesn’t offer much in the way of a career path, never mind health care or pension.” He replaced the heavy crystal stopper on the decanter. “You should work in a wine shop. An off-licence.”

  “Selling Mars bars and cigarettes?”

  “Selling wine, Felix. It’s hard work but you’re a strong lad and I think you could be a good salesman. And if you make a success of it, you may even have a chance to see the world. The better half of it, anyway.”

  “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

  “You do that. Go down to Charlie’s Cellar in Crouch End. It’s a wine shop for the more discerning customer.”

  Du Plessis considered me for a few seconds, then he opened a low drawer in his desk and extracted a small cardboard box, the size of a bag of sugar. He placed it on the desk and pushed it towards me. On the side there was a sketch of some orange mountains, a vast plain and a tiny town nestled in the foothills. It didn’t look like the South Downs, that was for sure.

  There was a title which I tried to read aloud. “Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. What is it, sir?”

  “It’s a folk medicine, you might call it a pick-me-up. The original Madame Joubert took part in the Great Trek into the heart of Southern Africa. Her community relied on this… remedy… when they were escaping from the type of person who founded this school.” He looked around his grand study for a second and smiled. “It’s an old recipe, learnt from the ancient people who originally inhabited those lands, millennia ago, which has been kept alive by the great Madame Joubert and her descendants.”

  “What do I do with it, sir? Stir it into my morning cuppa?”

  “If necessary, yes. But use it only at times of great fatigue or when you need a special boost. And I advise you, most strongly, never to take more than one teaspoon full at a time.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “I think you might n
eed it. And I trust you won’t abuse it. There’s a kilo there – that’s around two hundred doses. Depending on how frequently you burn the candle at both ends it should last you a year or two.”

  “I’ll come back if I need some more, shall I?”

  “When you need some more you can go and find it for yourself.”

  “And where should I find it, sir? Down the supermarket next to powdered soup?”

  “Follow the picture on the packet, young man. That’s the Karoo. Die Groot Karoo…” He tailed off and stared into the distance.

  I sensed the meeting was over. “Thank you for the Sherry, sir.”

  He looked back at me. “Good luck, Felix. May the gods be with you.”

  1.2

  Cackering Hall

  The gods were bloody well not with me. My day was about to get much worse. As I crossed the huge, oak-panelled hallway of the Old Manor House, a woman’s voice called to me.

  “Felix dear, there’s a phone call for you.” It was Hilda, one of the school secretaries. “It’s your girlfriend.” Hilda waggled the receiver at me while the other secretary pretended to read a file.

  I took the handset from her. “Which one?” I mouthed.

  Hilda shrugged and looked down, smirking, while the other woman tittered.

  “Hello? Felix speaking.”

  “It’s Portia. I couldn’t get hold of you over the Christmas holidays so I’m calling you now.”

  Ah, that girlfriend. I wouldn’t have put her in the top three of my current squeezes but she was probably still in the top ten. We’d had a few fun dates, although she was a little too matter-of-fact for my liking, probably because she was the daughter of a senior military man. I doubted we’d be together for too much longer. I preferred women with a little more je ne sais quoi.

  “I’ll get to the point, Felix. I’m pregnant. With your child.”

  I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach. I struggled to catch my breath. “How?” I whispered.

  “It’s very simple Felix. You ejaculated your sperm into my uterus.”

  “Ah. Yes. I see.”

  “The question is not how, it’s what. What are we going to do?”

  My heart was hammering and I was feeling distinctly sweaty. “Well, should we… er… visit a clinic somewhere?”

  “Don’t be a filthy beast, Felix. I’m having the baby.”

  Fuck! Buggering fucking fuck! That was it. That really did make this a grade-A, shit-stained, brown-letter day.

  I knew when it had happened. It was at a particularly well-stocked party at Tariq’s place in early November. A couple of bottles of Chilean Merlot down the hatch and a few smooth words from yours truly and it was knickers off and squeals of joy behind the gazebo. No johnnies to hand but what the hell. Well, this is what – a bloody baby! And she was having it.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes I am. We have to tell my parents.”

  “Um… wouldn’t it be better if you broke the news yourself? The wonderful, joyous…”

  “No! You did it, so you can come and explain it.”

  “Ah. Will they be pleased, do you think?”

  “No, they won’t. But when we explain we’re getting married, they might calm down.”

  Oh God.

  “Do you need a pat on the back, Felix?” called Hilda, looking alarmed. “Francis, go and get Felix a glass of water.” The second secretary hurried off.

  “We’re going to see them at the estate near Pluckley next weekend,” Portia continued. “Saturday, midday. Father will arrange for a car to meet you at the station. Don’t be late – he has a thing about punctuality.” She hung up.

  “Everything all right, Felix?” asked the other secretary, handing me the glass of water.

  “Yes, thank you,” I lied. “Everything is mostly fine. Thank you.”

  I walked slowly to the dormitory block with Mr du Plessis’s strange medicine under my arm. What was I to do about Portia’s condition? I could do the sensible thing, namely a runner, but where to? I had no job, and from next Monday, my final day at school, no home either. Maybe Portia could come up with something. I’d never met her parents but from the way she’d described the family home, it was huge. They must be worth a bob or two.

  So on Saturday morning I caught the train from Charing Cross to Pluckley. It took an hour, and then another twenty minutes in the car. The driver remained silent as we twisted past bare winter fields. I even spotted the odd vineyard, the rows of vines stumpy and black in the pale sun. A crow sat on one and watched us pass, cawing at my predicament. Then we turned between two high brick pillars onto a private road. A weathered stone plaque announced we had reached our destination, Cackering Hall.

  The house was a rather fierce red-brick mansion, three stories high with great towering chimney stacks and plants climbing over half the frontage. The doorbell was a white ceramic button with a large brass surround on which was printed ‘PRESS’, so I did as ordered. I heard no bell so I prodded it a couple more times. Eventually the door opened a crack and the face of a shrunken old woman appeared.

  “Good afternoon. I’m here for lunch,” I said.

  She scowled and opened the door a little wider. She didn’t take my coat so I flung it over a chair just inside the door. I followed her and found myself in a small kitchen with a stone floor. A large pile of wrinkled apples and a dead rabbit lay on a worn counter-top. The woman turned and scowled at me again.

  “I’m looking for Sir Balfour and his wife and daughter,” I said, lamely.

  She nodded toward the door.

  “Thank you ever so much. I hope you don’t have to wait too long for your new vocal chords.” I retraced my steps and found the door to the dining room ajar. The room was huge, with leaded windows facing onto a frosty back garden. There was a sturdy brick hearth near the door and the wood-panelled walls were hung with pictures of plump men on horses surrounded by baying hounds. A chest-height wooden giraffe stood next to the fireplace, eyeing me suspiciously.

  A vast dining table lay at the far end of the room, already laid with cutlery and wine glasses. Two large antique china jugs decorated with peacocks held pride of place as a centrepiece. Portia sat at the long side of the table, scribbling at a Sudoku puzzle, her pert little nose and mouth twitching over the mental arithmetic. Somebody sat at the head of the table, hidden behind The Daily Telegraph, emitting a laboured wheezing.

  I cleared my throat and Portia looked up.

  “Felix!” She rose and walked over, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  I could swear to God her breasts had grown. I wondered what they might look like unencumbered by her unflattering knitwear. Not that I was likely to be permitted a look. “Hello Portia.”

  “Daddy!” she scolded. “Felix is here.”

  “Tell him to put the wine on ice then check on the horses,” The Daily Telegraph rumbled.

  “Daddy! Felix Hart is my friend, not the butler. He’s staying for lunch.”

  “Eh?” Sir Balfour lowered the paper. A livid red face traced with blue veins testified to a life lived to the fullest, with little regard to government health recommendations. “Where’s your tie, boy? Where do you find these people Portia? In the fish-porters’ café at bloody Billingsgate?”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Well, the pleasure’s all yours. Have some wine.” Sir Balfour waved at a large pewter ice-trough holding four bottles of wine. Bit of a rough start, I thought. But this place is undeniably impressive. Maybe he’ll warm up.

  After settling in the chair opposite Portia and downing a generous glass of Grand Cru Chablis, I raised my eyes to the cobwebbed ceiling. Maybe today won’t be so bad, I thought. I’ll give old Sir Balfour his due, he keeps a good cellar and he’s generous with it too. Perhaps the consumptive old fart might help me out. Introduce me to some contacts in The City? Maybe a loan to get me on my way?

  I took another look at Portia, still occupied with her puzzle. Was her belly sw
ollen, as well as her breasts? It had been only three months since I dipped my unprotected wick – surely it was too soon to show? I imagined her naked, with a rounded stomach and taut, full breasts, her stiff nipples demanding a thirsty suck. Christ, Hart, I chided myself, that’s what got you into trouble in the first place. I adjusted my trousers and glanced at the empty chair at the far end of the table. I can’t very well greet the mother with a raging hard-on. Mind you, from what Portia had told me, I doubt she’d notice, apparently she was a legendary soak.

  I leant forward and grasped the Chablis once more, pulling it from the ice trough with a rattle. Not that it needed chilling. Cackering Hall in January was absolutely bollock bloody freezing. Did they even have central heating?

  “Pour me one before you guzzle it all, boy,” growled Sir Balfour from behind the paper.

  “Right-o, sir.” I had just retaken my seat when the door was flung open and a butler, of Indian extraction, cleared his throat and announced, “The Lady Edith Whittington!” The lady of the house stepped into the room, resplendent in a long turquoise ball gown, the top encrusted with glittering beads, its chiffon base trailing out of the door behind her.

  “Good afternoon,” she called, imperiously, to the room at large.

  I rose to my feet like the gentleman I am. The rest of her family remained seated. Lady Edith grasped her skirts and wrenched her long chiffon train through the door. Unfortunately, the billowing material snagged on the wooden giraffe, sending it toppling to the floorboards with a crack.

  “Christ Edie!” growled Sir Balfour. “Will you watch where you’re throwing your skirts?”

  “Oh, be quiet Bal!” She gathered the fabric in her hands, threw back her shoulders and took a few seconds to focus on the opposite wall. Then, like a newly launched battleship, she advanced toward the table. Unfortunately, the generous fabric of her chiffon train had become entangled in the horns of the giraffe, which followed her noisily across the room.