The Secret Generations Page 2

  In the tenth century, Benedictines arrived at what was, by then, a thriving settlement, its people living off the good growing and grazing ground of the area. Work began on the Abbey – little of which remains; though the major part of the Parish Church of SS Peter & Paul dates from those early builders, with additions constructed in the 1780s.

  The church itself is a monument, not only to the glory of God, but also to the men who went out from Haversage to do battle throughout the world, and at home in England. There are the tombs of four crusaders within its walls, and at least three other noted soldiers lie under the main aisle.

  The Benedictines were, naturally, ousted by Henry VIII’s Commissioners, and, like so many other monasteries, the Abbey was sacked and burned when the King reformed the Church, splitting from the Papal authority of Rome. In place of the peace-loving monks, a new landowner arrived – Richard de Railton, descendant of that Norman knight, Pierre de Royalton, who had distinguished himself at Hastings with Duke William in 1066.

  Within eighty years the family had dropped the ‘de’, to become plain Railton, having built the great manor house at the top of Red Hill – a vantage point, which probably derived its name from bitter skirmishes, and the shedding of blood, centuries before. They then set about creating a pattern for other landowners by organizing their farming, and extending a building programme.

  Over the years, the Railtons evolved into the true backbone of Haversage. There was usually a Railton living at the Manor, running the estate, and acting as squire to the local community. At the same time, other members of the family spread abroad, serving Monarch and Country in the army, navy, or some branch of the diplomatic Service; and the best of them, the natural patriarchs, returned to Redhill Manor to see out their last years.

  So it was with General Sir William Arthur Railton VC KCB DSO – known to all within the family simply as ‘The General’.

  The entire family had spent the Christmas of 1909 at Redhill, as was the custom. The General’s younger brother, Giles, had been there with his naval officer son, Andrew, who brought his wife, Charlotte, and their three sons – Caspar, and the twins, Rupert and Ramillies. Giles’ second son, Malcolm, had travelled from Ireland with his recent wife, Bridget; while Marie – Giles’ only daughter – had come with her French husband, Marcel Grenot, from Paris, together with their two children, Paul and Denise.

  The General’s own two sons were present – Charles, the younger, with his oddly dowdy wife, Mildred, and their daughter Mary Anne; and John, the Member of Parliament, proud with his young second wife, Sara, and the son of his tragic first marriage, James.

  It was the happiest of holidays, for this was a special time at Redhill, and The General was in excellent spirits.

  On the Tuesday after Christmas they had gone their separate ways, leaving The General to celebrate the New Year at the Manor with his staff: Porter, his old servant; Cook; her daughter Vera, the head maid; the two undermaids; Natter the groom; Billy Crook odd job boy, and the others.

  Giles was to see in the New Year with Andrew, Charlotte, and his grandchildren, and was just preparing to leave his Eccleston Square house, during the early afternoon of New Year’s Eve, when the telephone message came from an almost incoherent Porter – The General’s servant – to say that his master had been taken ill with a seizure.

  Immediately, Giles warned Andrew, but did not stress the seriousness of the situation; then set out for Haversage, arriving at the station to be met by Ted Natter with the dog cart.

  Even on this bleak evening the golden red brickwork of the Manor appeared inviting as ever – a sight which remained constant in Giles’ memory: for here was his childhood: the holidays from school; the first riding lessons; Christmas; his own father and mother; an age of autumns and a wealth of winters, a cycle of springs and summers.

  The dog cart stopped within the square-U of the Manor frontage, and Giles looked up, a sudden weak last flicker of winter sunlight glancing off one of the big leaded windows of the second floor; as though God was vainly trying to flash a heliograph message of hope.

  The doctor was there, with a nurse; and the house, usually so lively, had taken on that quiet hushed quality of places where death has come, suddenly, uninvited.

  William lay unconscious, as though asleep, upstairs.

  Once the doctor had told him that it was only a matter of time, Giles sent for young Billy Crook to run down the hill and warn the vicar. He asked the nurse to let him know as soon as there was any change, then, with professional speed, went to The General’s study.

  The room faced south, to the back of the house; and in summer you could step through the tall windows, into the sheltered rose garden, from the top of which almost the entire estate, together with the home farm, could be seen.

  Giles went quickly through the papers, knowing what should be destroyed, and what kept. So it was that he became the first to read the will, and perceive the immediate problems.

  Only when he had completed the careful sorting of documents did The General’s only brother set about informing the family that the old soldier’s end was near. He died at ten o’clock that night, and the nurse reported he had clearly spoken the word ‘Patience’, at the end. It puzzled the nurse, though Giles merely nodded.

  Soon, from the town below, the passing bell began to toll; the tenor, ‘Big Robin’, the ringers called it: great melancholy booms of resonance, vibrating the frost already forming on the trees; the sound creeping, like a warning, into every household.

  In the Market Square, the butcher, Jack Calmer, blew his nose, looked at his wife, and their daughter, Rachel, pausing in his eating. ‘We should make a prayer for him, I reckon. A good brave man. A gentleman.’

  They heard the bell in the Royal Oak, the Blue Boar, the Swan, the Leg of Mutton, and the Railton Arms. Men who had known The General, and even fought under him, put down their beer mugs and stood in respect, for they knew it meant inevitable change.

  The bell notes were heard for miles, clear above the town. They heard it in the almshouses half way up Red Hill, and old Miss Ducket shed a tear, for she had known The General as a young man. To many people the steady bell-notes brought home the fact that the winter of their own lives was upon them, and the clock on the mantel ticked for all. The Redhill Manor farm manager, young Bob Berry, heard it, and felt fear for other reasons, as indeed did the estate manager, Jack Hunter.

  John, Charles, and their families, arrived before luncheon on the next morning; Andrew, and his family, were there by the afternoon. Marie, and her husband, Marcel Grenot, were again making the journey from Paris, having only just returned following the Christmas festivities; while Malcolm and Bridget – spending the New Year with Bridget’s parents in County Wicklow – would get to the Manor by the next evening, and stay until after the funeral.

  So, it had been Giles who made certain that the family secrets remained safe, and Giles who broke the news of The General’s will to the old man’s two sons; Giles who anticipated the trouble, and did his best to counteract it.

  The difficulties presented by the will were threefold, resting wholly within the areas of property and finance, together with the individual characters, and ambitions, of The General’s sons, John and Charles. With John, the problem was multiplied by his young wife, Sara, considered by some of the family to be immature, spoiled and headstrong.

  John had been unlucky in marriage, his first wife, Beatrice, having died giving birth to their only son, James, now in his seventeenth year. The boy had been brought up by a series of nannies, and then had gone through his baptism of fire, first at a preparatory school, and finally within the disciplined life of Wellington College – the family school.

  John’s life was politics, and from the year after Beatrice’s death he had been Member of Parliament for Central Berkshire, unusually hard-working for a politician, devoted to his country, with a vain ambition to attain Cabinet rank, or more.

  Unlike his brother Charles, John had never b
een thought of as much of a ladies’ man. It was, therefore, with a sense almost of shock that the family had heard, just under three years before, that John William Arthur Railton MP had announced his engagement to Miss Sara Champney-Owen – a girl twenty-five years his junior. Within a year they were married, and, since then, John had seen more of London society life than ever before.

  Whatever was thought privately of Sara, she appeared to care deeply for John, and made such a hit with the true powers within the government that her husband’s career stood every chance of distinct advancement.

  But now with The General dead, the prospect of John Railton being able to continue in politics at all hung in the balance – and that was a matter of property and duty.

  Apart from several small financial bequests, and an important two thousand pounds a year to Charles, the basis of The General’s Last Will and Testament lay in the whole question of family property.

  Because of their position, the Railton family had, over the years, amassed both wealth and lands. By 1910, as well as Redhill Manor, with its estates, home farm, and a large income from rents in the town of Haversage itself, the family owned four further properties in London: the excellent house in Cheyne Walk, in which John lived with his bride; the house just off South Audley Street, comfortable enough for Charles, Mildred and Mary Anne; and a tall, terraced home in King Street, where Andrew lived with his family during the periods of his service in the Royal Navy when he was in England.

  The Eccleston Square house – the finest of all – had been designated as a family property until Giles’, and The General’s, father had bequeathed it, for all time, to Giles, with the proviso that it should not be sold, or passed out of the family.

  Now, The General had obviously considered it was time to leave the various London properties to individual members of the family. The King Street house was to go to John’s son, James, when he came of age, or was married; South Audley Street was left to Andrew; Charles was to have Cheyne Walk, while John Railton became the principal beneficiary, receiving Redhill Manor, the farm and estate, together with all existing moneys and revenues, which meant a considerable income from the people of Haversage and the surrounding district.

  Nobody had to be over-astute to see the dilemma presented by what, to most people, would be an incredible boon.

  Redhill Manor was a full-time occupation, its owner being required to remain in residence for at least six months of the year. John was a professional politician – at this very moment engaged in fighting the general election, called by Prime Minister Asquith just before Christmas. Could he, in all conscience, now continue in politics and run the Manor? It would all depend on Sara.

  *

  During the late afternoon on the day following the death of The General, Giles Railton spent an hour, in The General’s study, explaining the will to the dead man’s sons, John and Charles.

  Charles was gleeful, for the bequest gave him a freedom he had long sought. But John Railton MP climbed the great staircase, which curved to the round gallery overlooking the main hall, with his mind in torment.

  The fact of his inheritance came as no surprise. Yet he was confused, being a busy and dedicated man, engrossed in two things only – his vocation and Sara. Now his mind centred on how best to soften what would undoubtedly be twin blows to his young wife.

  They were sleeping in the room situated almost directly above The General’s study, with windows looking down onto the rose garden. He gave their secret knock, opening the door immediately. The heavy crimson curtains were drawn, a fire burned in the grate, sending a pack of shadows dancing across the bed, on which Sara lay, only partially clad. The firelight flickered red over her face, and she looked as though she had been crying. Sara had adored The General, so appeared more upset by his death than either of his sons. She asked John to lock the door, holding out her arms, making it plain that she wanted him – either to give or take some solace.

  He crossed to the bed, not locking the door, sitting beside her, taking one hand in both of his. Then, as gently as he was able, he told her that he might well have to give up politics, while they would definitely have to hand over the Cheyne Walk house to Charles, and come to live at the Manor.

  Her long blonde hair was let down, spreading fanned across the pillow, and, as he spoke, so her large eyes opened wider, her face taking on a shocked look, as though someone had unexpectedly set out to hurt her.

  Slowly her manner turned to disbelieving anger. ‘You can’t give up politics! How can you give up in the middle of a general election?’

  He said he would probably go on for the time being, ‘Just to make sure the seat’s secure…’

  ‘And our house!!!’

  ‘It’s never been our house, Sara. It’s family property and I have new responsibilities. I doubt if I can combine running this place – the farm, the estate, and all else – with my life in politics.’

  ‘You mean we’ll be buried down here?’

  She liked Redhill Manor for visits, but often said it would be difficult to live there.

  ‘But, Johnny, we’ll be so far from…’

  ‘From London, yes.’

  Be firm, Giles had said. So John calmly told her the facts. His grandfather had given up a career in government service to run the Manor; and The General had retired early, from the army, to take over when his time came. ‘It’s part of one’s duty,’ John said.

  ‘Then why not Charles?’

  ‘Because he’s my younger brother. The General left the estate to me. It’s like a family business, Sara.’

  ‘Oh, don’t. You make it sound like trade.’ She bit a lip. ‘Very well. We have to live here. But don’t be a fool and throw away your political career. After all, didn’t Asquith suggest a Cabinet post after the election?’ As she said it, Sara’s hand went to her face, palm to cheek, an act of guilt, though she knew exactly what she was doing.

  ‘When?’ This was the first John knew of a Cabinet post.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sara did not look him in the eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Please don’t tell Mr Asquith that I let it slip. Please.’ Her concern sounded genuine enough, as well it might. There was certainly truth in the story, but Sara had reasons for keeping her husband from speaking to the Prime Minister.

  ‘He’s serious?’ John asked, and she nodded, saying that Asquith had talked about it for almost half an hour at a ball they had attended just before Christmas.

  The news put a new complexion on matters. Could he possibly combine the two things – run Redhill and stay on in politics?

  ‘It makes a difference, doesn’t it?’ she asked softly.

  He barely nodded, moving to the window, pulling back the curtains. Yes, it made a difference, but still meant that she would be mistress of the Manor. She would have to compromise.

  Viewing the whole cartography of the events from the high ground of hindsight, this was probably one of the most significant moments in Sara’s life.

  *

  Giles Railton looked around the dinner table, only half listening to the muted prattle of John’s young wife, Sara, seated to his left.

  He had little time for the chattering Sara, for she appeared to think only of herself. That was his deduction, anyway. Odd, John marrying such a woman. Now, if it had been Charles… Well, Charles was always too much of a good thing in that way. Women, and the drink.

  He caught sight of young James, at the far end of the table, with the Railton bone structure and nose, but his face closed, in a muted look. Poor young tyke, Giles reflected. First losing his mother at birth; then trying to adjust to a stepmother only a few years older than himself; now the death of his dearly-loved grandpapa. William had often remarked that young James was the one to come to him most often with his problems.

  Giles’ son, Andrew, was in discreet conversation with Charles across the table, while his wife – the delicate, porcelain-like Charlotte – talked quietly to John. Charles, Giles could see, was
already in his cups, the eyes becoming glazed and hooded.

  Andrew’s and Charlotte’s children – Giles’ grandchildren – sat in silence, knowing, though not believing, that their great-uncle, the family patriarch, was dead. Young Caspar, a month or so James’ senior, appeared to be lost in a world of his own; while the twins – Rupert and Ramillies – were having a fit of nervous giggles. Giles wished he could recall how it felt to be fifteen again. His other son, Malcolm, whose one obsession in life was farming, would be with them soon; as would Marie and her husband.

  Suddenly, as these things happen, there, was a silence: a stopping of conversation, as though by mutual consent. Faces slowly turned towards Giles, as if expecting him to say something of importance.

  For once in his life, Giles Railton was lost for words. ‘His… The General’s…’ he began, realizing the twist of emotion within him, ‘His… His last word was “Patience”,’ he paused, pulling himself together. ‘“Patience”, name of his horse. Name of the horse shot from under him at the Battle of Balaclava. Patience.’

  It was all he could think of to say.

  *

  The Railtons had provided moments of great pleasure, as well as sadness, to the people of Haversage. Countless Railtons were married and buried in the parish church; but none with the pomp, solemnity, and spectacle attending the obsequies of General Sir William Railton, where even King Edward VII was officially represented by the Lord Lieutenant; and six Staff Officers – from regiments with which The General had served – walked beside the pall bearers. The band of the 2nd Battalion Oxfordshire Light Infantry played the Dead March from Saul, as a Colour Party, and Guard of Honour, escorted the cortege down the long winding hill, through the town, to the church.