GUSTAVE (Part 5 & Last)
by Richard Banks
The
consolation of many an irksome journey is to return to the familiar comforts of
home and family; in this no man can be more fortunate than myself. It was while
sitting in the conservatory after dinner, a cigar not long lit, that Helen
remembered to give me a letter which had arrived in the morning post. Finding
it to be postmarked Penrith I opened it with a trepidation that rapidly shifted
to horrified disbelief. It was, no less, a letter from Gustave. Dated several
days before his death I can do no better than to bring it into this narrative,
word to word, as it was written:
‘Dear
Richard,
Our friendship was my first and last.
Only you, it seemed, had time for the impoverished little Saxon who, like
yourself, was scraping a living at Shadlows. We shared the drudgery of that
place and also the after hours delights of the tavern and music hall. You were
my passport into that other world of pleasure, your manly bearing and easy
manners so often attracting the attention of the ladies, jolly East-end girls who after a few
drinks were always up for a lark, girls like Dot and Ethel. Do you remember
them? I’m sure you do, especially after meeting them again at my funeral. What
a reminder they must have been of your wild bachelor days.
What would your friends in polite society
say if they knew? Would they continue to be the true friends you thought them
to be, the true friend I thought you were until you left Shadlow’s and
abandoned me, no more to be seen in our familiar haunts, nothing said about
your change of address, no letter of explanation or goodbye.
You were going up in the world and I was
no longer good enough, an embarrassment, someone not even to be acknowledged
when we passed each other in the Strand.
Betrayal! There is no better word, none more appropriate, and I have spent many
an hour contemplating my revenge. Best served cold so they say, so I held off,
until you were married, had children, and then even longer until your much
predicted elevation to the board room. The higher the man the heavier the fall,
and oh what a tumble it was going to be when I struck you down. But now I can
wait no longer and my funeral must be the scene of your undoing, your
embarrassing disgrace. I only wish I could have been made to sit up in my
coffin as you hovered over me, but the things I have planned will, I’m sure,
have been well done by the persons well paid to do them.
And now there are consequences to face.
Your penance has only just begun!
Remember me
always,
Gustave.’
Never have I
received a letter triggering such a tumult of emotions: guilt, yes I did feel
guilt over my dropping of Gustave, embarrassment at youthful indiscretions,
anger at being tricked and humiliated, and fear of things yet to happen. But
surely it was over now, despite the veiled threat in Gustave’s letter. Had I
not suffered enough? Of course it was over. He was dead and buried, what else
could he do? The Countess might write a letter of complaint to the bank but
then did she realise who I was when I
was so unclear and confused and she less than fluent in her English. Anyway, I
was there in a private capacity and any letter would surely be sent to myself.
No need for any one else to known. I was in my ‘castle’ now, everything back to
normal, the way it would continue until my next promotion when we would move
into one of those new villas bordering the golf course. Yes, that’s how it
would be.
I sleep well, too tired to do anything
else. The new day is a Sunday, nothing much happens on a Sunday, and what does
happen is as predictable and reassuring as the rising of the sun. Helen and me
do our own rising at nine, the girls are already playing noisily in their
bedroom. We breakfast in our dressing gowns at half past, after which we ready
ourselves for church.
One sees the best of people at church
on a Sunday, everyone in their best clothes, on their best behaviour, trying
not to fall asleep when the sermon is overlong and obscure. The sun shines
brightly through the stain glass windows and when we finally emerge into the
fresh air we know it is with the vicar’s end of service blessing. We exchange
pleasantries with him in the porch and I give him a donations envelope
containing a five pound note for the restoration fund.
Am I trying to buy the Good Lord’s
favour? If so, will five pounds be enough? But then should I need to? I have
done nothing wrong, indeed it is me who has been wronged. If only Gustave was
still alive! What a thrashing I would give him! But these are not appropriate
thoughts for a Sunday and after an excellent lunch I am as untroubled as the
day which continues on like a meandering stream: games and stories with the
children, Sunday tea, the children to bed and the quiet eve tide companionship
of the woman I love and always will. I’m tempted to say so, but don’t. True
feelings are felt, no need for words.
Monday begins as usual with the shrill
ringing of my alarm clock. For the first time since March it is more dark than
night, but no matter, by the time I’m on my way to the station it is as light
as any overcast day is likely to be. I arrive at the bank ten minutes early as
is my practice. If a man can’t be punctual he’s unlikely to be good for
anything else. My staff know this and are never late without good reason.
I mean this branch to be a model of
efficiency, a shining example to all those in London and beyond. Old Jessop will be
retiring in three years. Could it be that I will be promoted in his place. No
one has ever risen from Assistant to Branch Manager in as little as three
years, but then no one intends to be more deserving than myself. I seek out
Dawkins, the Chief Clerk, to find out what has been happening in my absence
and, ten minutes before opening, inspect the cashiers to ensure they are
appropriately attired. Jackson
appears not to have shaven that day. He denies this but I suspect the last time
he used a razor was the previous evening. This is not good enough I tell him. I
send him to the wash room where I have made available various toiletries,
including a razor and a stick of shaving cream. Jackson returns to his position as Second
Cashier, the doors are opened and the first customer enters. I observe the
transaction and retire to my room where I make a start on my in-tray. At half
nine Jessop puts his head around the door and asks me, “how it went.” I tell him
it went well, a funeral grander than most, but nevertheless just a funeral,
nothing much to report.
“Did you get to speak to the Countess?”
I assure him that I did.
“And?”
“She was most gracious,” I say, “but,
of course, there was no business spoken.”
“Quite so. I’ll report what you say to
head office. Anything else I should know?”
I smile and shake my head. “No, nothing
that comes to mind.”
At a quarter past twelve I’m nearly
through to lunch. Any letter of complaint to the bank posted on the Friday or Saturday will surely be through the post room by now. If one is
not received by closing time I will probably be in the clear.
At half past twelve I go to lunch. At
twenty minutes past one I return, and everything is changed. Jessop is standing
stony faced in my office. We have both been summoned to head office in Threadneedle Street.
“What for?” I ask.
“What for!” he croaks, bristling with
rage. “What for! You’ll soon be finding out what for.”
We depart in a hansom cab leaving the
inexperienced Dawkins in charge with instructions to do nothing he’s not sure
about until Jessup’s return. My return is not mentioned. This is not looking
good. We are admitted to the board room where the Managing Director, Secretary
and three board members appear to be engaged in a competition to make the
angriest face. The bank has received a letter from her ladyship complaining
about my conduct at the funeral which, she says, has not only sullied the
reputation of the bank but is an affront to all civilised standards of
behaviour. Not only was I intoxicated at Mr Von Wern’s funeral but I also
consorted with several lewd women who, in addition to their other
indiscretions, had gained unauthorised access to the corpse. The Countess could
hardly believe that such a man could be a senior employee of an organisation
she had previously understood to be both reputable and trustworthy. She
therefore had no hesitation in closing all the Von Wern accounts with the bank
that were under her control. Indeed she was also considering with her legal
advisers whether prosecutions should be brought against myself and the bank
with regard to possible violations of the criminal and civil laws. Any
observations the bank was minded to make should, the letter says, be addressed
to Walpole and Bamford of Lincoln Inn Fields.
The Director finishes the ‘indictment’
and, red faced with rage asks me if I have anything to say. Indeed there is
much that could be said, but if her ladyship considers me to be a disgrace to
the human race, who am I, many places down the social scale, to say otherwise.
Anyway, who is going to believe me if I say that Brownlow made me drunk without
me knowing, especially as he would deny this and in all likelihood give further
testimony against me. I return to Holborn to clear my desk and from there catch
the train home, my career in banking at an end.
How am I to explain all this to Helen?
‘Dismissed from the bank,’ she would say. ‘What have you done to deserve that?’
And I would have to tell her the full story which I should have done two days
before. We had an understanding, a pact, that there should be no secrets; she
was my confessor and I hers. Where there was truth and openness there would
always be trust and forgiveness. That is what we promised each other and, not
for the first time, I had fallen short. Why confess a sin when it might not be
noticed had become my axiom, and now I had been caught out, the allegations
against me seeming all the more credible for my silence. Nevertheless, I
determined to now tell her every humiliating detail and let her be the judge of
me.
I arrived home to find the house
strangely quiet. It was not until I had changed into my parlour clothes that I
realised I was not alone. Half way down the stairs there was a movement below followed
by a sob. It was Helen seated at the dining room table, dabbing with her
handkerchief at a tear stained face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, the disaster
of my day suddenly unimportant. She gave no answer, but picking-up a large
brown envelope tossed it across the table at me. I sat down and pulled from it
twelve photographs taken at that strange dinner before Gustave’s funeral,
photographs of the low company I was in, of the unseemly contest for
vegetables, and photographs of me being no better than them gathering my dinner
from the tablecloth. Worse were those showing the lack of distance between Dot
and me and of her arm out of sight below the table top into a space occupied by
myself. The intoxicated appearance of Ethel, with and without bottle, also
needed careful explanation, but the photograph of me hauling her up from the
floor in what appeared to be a passionate embrace seemed incapable of any other
explanation.
“But there was no photographer there,”
I stammered foolishly. “How can there be photographs without a photographer?”
“What does it matter who took them and
how, you silly, deceitful man; they are of you, you with those awful, dreadful
people, together in the kitchen of a common lodging house or some other low
place.”
“No, no,” I protested, “not so, these
people were at dinner with me at Whinfell
Castle.”
For the first and only time I heard
Helen give vent to bitter recrimination. “Whinfell Castle?
These people were guests at Whinfell
Castle? Do you take me
for a fool! They would not be allowed within sight of Whinfell Castle.
They are libertines like yourself and common whores. You think I don’t know
that such women exist, about the infections they have, which you might catch
and pass on to me and our children. Yet there you are, one to your left,
another to your right. Are you mad, am I not enough for you, your wedded wife,
the mother of your children? No! don’t say a word, no more lies, it’s over, no
more you and me, just hear you this….”
I could have made her stay. She would
not have gone without the children and over them the law gave me legal custody.
But had I enforced my legal right our marriage would have continued only in
name, our happy accord gone, replaced by distrust and bitter resentment. She
left that afternoon, with the girls, in a hansom cab returning to her parents’
home three miles away.
Her father brings the girls to me every
other Saturday. In desperation I tell him what happened, every detail, leaving
nothing out. He sighs and blows
out his cheeks, he believes not a word. “Take my advice, son. When you’re found
out the best thing is to confess all and beg forgiveness. Get down on one knee
like you did when you proposed. Play the penitent, the prodigal returned. Say
it will never happen again, and say it like you mean it. That usually works
first time around. Now, first off, write a sensible sort of letter and send it
in an envelope addressed to me. I’ll make sure she reads it, although what she
will do or say I have no idea. Young women now, who can guess them. Too many
novels and not enough needlework if you ask me. And they call it progress.”
*****
So Gustave, you have had your revenge.
A revenge after death is a very hollow triumph for I feel sure you have not
been savouring your ‘triumph’ from up high. However, if somehow, you are still
a witness to events on Earth I want you to know you have not won. The future
belongs to me, not you, and I will make it even better than before. Keep
watching, Gustave, while I win back my wife and children, keep watching as I build
a new career in insurance. Unlike you I may never have great wealth but what I
once had, I will have again, and value all the more. No one will be happier and
more blessed than myself, and for that, Gustave, I will remember you forever in
my thoughts and prayers. Thank you for this day, and every day to come.
The End
Copyright
Richard Banks
