A Family Saga Volume Three

By Neale Edwards

Michael, Louise's son, after Eton goes up to Trinity Cambridge. Life in the sixties was about fun and work. His time at University is peppered with an active social life in Cambridge and London. After working in his grandfather's business in Norfolk, Michael goes into the City, joining the Merchant Bank of which his father had been a Director. H

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neale Edwards
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915889348

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Sir Michael McLeod, Bart. was a schoolboy in his last half at Eton. He had time on his hands and aimless confusion in his heart.

Michael was eighteen years old, and about to spill out, as he saw it, prematurely, into a world of which he knew almost nothing. He was leaning against the wall, opposite the Burning Bush, contemplating what his place might be in the labyrinth of the future which lay before him. This was interspersed with wondering what food might appear at half-past one for Boys’ Dinner. His stick-up collar, not uncomfortable in itself, made his neck red. It was hot that summer of 1964.

He thought to himself, a year ago, I was just Michael. Billy’s Boy. A non-entity. This year, still not having run its full course, had brought every kind of upset. Why did everything have to change, it’s just not fair.

I’ve almost forgotten poor Granny O. There really wasn’t that much to remember; she had become more and more turned in on herself.  Michael had almost no recall that once she had been fun. You know, fun. Did things and all that. But she’d been going nuts for years; she just became odd, and then slipped away peacefully.

At the end, she was silent, looking down at her expensive shoes, waiting to die, he thought. And that is exactly what she had done. How long ago? I don’t know, can’t remember. Two years? Probably. It was soon after the fourth of June I seem to think. A bit of a nothing really. Pity, a waste of a life, I suppose. She must have been a bright spark in the old days; flying, she and Grandpa Guy doing things together. But not by a long stretch in my time.

Grandpa Guy had more or less given up on her, it seemed. Such a tragedy, I’m sure they must once have been normal and all right. Mustn’t they? Then, when I knew her before coming here, she was, not to put too fine a point on it, a bloody nightmare. Cantankerous when she was awake, silent the rest of the time, a ruddy ghost. Funny, I do remember sometimes she would seem better, then it just went back to more of the same. What a way to end up. We put dogs down when they get like that. Oh well, at least Granny didn’t bite.

It was hardly surprising that Grandpa Guy had given Wensum to Uncle Harry and Phyllida.

Still, it was good to have Grandpa Guy around at Harston, he was still good fun and he liked to shoot with me and do things. With him, I’m still just Michael.

Grandpa Charlie had just evaporated; one minute racing his Morris Minor to Fakenham, the next dead in a chair at lunch time. Not a bad way to go, but a bit of a shock when Mummy found him. Still smiling, she said, but that’s probably balls or a medical accident. Nothing goes smoothly any more.

Then Daddy and Mummy became Sir William and Lady Louise. They’re still the same people, what’s all that about?

Michael let his mind wander as he walked; a familiar trick which generally served him well. He settled on the memory of Grandpa Charlie’s death and funeral. Only a year ago; can it be that long, or was it even longer ago? Never mind, he watched the film in his head as the event rolled out again.

There he was, with his mother Louise, on the day of the burial in the family vault. The old rogue had had a bronze plaque made. None of us knew anything about it, but it was on show in the church. I remember there is a small piece of engineering hidden somewhere near the bottom right hand corner. A steam something or other made by McLeod’s of Coatbridge. Just a little reference to the family origins and an in-joke for Charlie. I miss him; a wise bird I think. Probably.

Mum, this all means Daddy will be Sir William and you’ll be Lady McLeod, I suppose from now on?

Louise answered without giving this minor matter too much attention. What did she care what she was called? Besides, with the complications in her own life and Billy’s illness, there was plenty to occupy her without worrying about what she’d be known as.

Yes, Michael, you suppose right, although I hadn’t given it my full attention really.

Well you’d better get used to it before it all changes again Mum; we all know Daddy’s not good at the moment and I don’t think he can go on for much longer, do you?

Then, as an afterthought Michael added,

No one ever tells you anything, but you can’t help picking things up, can you?

Louise and Michael were, in his vivid recollection, in the back of his father Billy McLeod’s Bentley being driven to the Parish Church for the funeral of Charlie McLeod, Sir Charles McLeod, Bart., Billy’s father. Billy was himself confined in hospital in London enduring the final stages of terminal cancer. Optimist that he was, he still hoped, believed even, that he would one day at least be allowed back home, to his flat in Lowndes Square, even if he might not make Norfolk yet.

Michael, we simply have to take things one at a time. Now; let’s just make sure we all give Charlie a good send off, and I want you most particularly to get around everyone and be nice to them. And remember. When you talk to these people who’ve taken the trouble to be here, look at them and appear interested. They have all lost a good friend and you know how everyone loved Grandpa Charlie.

I must admit; he was good fun. Above all he seemed to make you laugh and you never thought he was getting at you, did you? Somehow, he stayed friendly and made you feel, well, good I suppose. Actually, he was just full of beans too, really.

The car had turned out by the Lodge and was now approaching the Church. There was a huge crowd of friends and acquaintances milling about in the churchyard as Louise and Michael got out and walked slowly up the path to the west door.

The day was dull, and people were shuffling slowly on damp paving stones and moist grass towards the entrance to the enormous mediaeval Norfolk church. They deftly parted to let Michael and Louise through to their pew at the front, next to the Glow-worm boiler which endeavoured manfully, but largely unsuccessfully, to take the chill off the atmosphere. This huge device was a product of the iron works in Norwich and took ages to warm up. By the end of the service, its great cast-iron body would be beginning to glow red with heat. Too late, but aptly named and at last successful, in a sense.

Louise’s father Guy Halliday was already seated in the family pew with the faithful Croxley beyond him. Guy greeted Louise and Michael and, in search of some welcome levity, Louise whispered to Guy that Croxley must have had a Regimental scrub, he looked so well, whilst raising a hand in welcome to the old and faithful batman.

Eventually they heard the clang of the heavy oak west door and there was a low hum as the crowded church settled down, an aroma of rained-upon suit and moth-balls pervading the company.

Charlie had put the service and the music together himself and had refused to discuss his endeavours with the family, or even to give them an inkling of what he had chosen.

Wensum was fortunate in having a retired professional organist living in the Old School House, and those who suspected that there might be something unusual waited in suspense for the proceedings to begin.

The sound, like that of an enormous Hoover, of the organ blower alerted the congregation that something was about to happen and almost immediately the notes of ‘The British Grenadiers’ swelled out of the instrument and filled the church. This morphed seamlessly into the ‘Grand March’ from ‘Aida’ and finally into the ‘Dead March in Saul’. Charlie had set the pace in his own way and the service romped along, the rest of it in a traditional vein; Book of Common Prayer, King James Bible. It all went at a good clip. He had impishly chosen as the last hymn, ‘Tell out my soul,’ because as he had often told anyone who would listen, he had a Grandmother who was a Wills, and her family had always regarded that hymn as their family property because of its reference to ‘Proud hearts and stubborn wills’. Charlie’s choice of a finale was the ‘Eton Boating Song,’ which brought a tear to more than one pair of eyes and ancient memories to many a befuddled brain.

Those who wished to do so were expected to come up to the house after the Committal and a steady stream of cars and passengers of varying degrees of dodderiness collected around the house, in the hall and in the drawing room. Charlie, with his enormous experience of such gatherings, had provided tea and sandwiches, but had added the vital ingredient of what seemed to be limitless supplies of Bollinger. Thus oiled, the assembled company transformed itself rapidly into a proper party. Tea was hardly touched, although sandwiches vanished satisfactorily in no time. Particularly the egg sandwiches.

Eventually pennies began to drop and a general move not to be the last to leave set in.

The house was finally empty with only Louise, Michael and Guy left in the drawing room, surrounded by stillness and mess. The dogs joined them, slipping and sliding, the tapping of claws on the polished marble floor announcing their presence in the hall outside. Helen, a year old or so, had been parked with Nanny miles away on the top floor, in the nursery. The party in the drawing room were glad of a bit of peace. Louise would creep away soon and administer such rites as babies seemed to need, then she’d be back.

Daddy, a stiff whisky? Do light up your pipe too, I could do with the homely atmosphere that encourages. It always reminds me of the Old Days and Wensum.

Louise sat down, relieved to be back in the drawing room after an emotional day, and the others did the same.

Michael, what would you like?

Well, I don’t know. Have we got any beer do you think?

Louise nodded and said,

Yes, of course we have. On the cold shelf in the larder.

Then she added

I don’t know about you two, but I could do with scrambled eggs and an early night.

Shaken momentarily back to the confines of Eton, letting recent history quietly fade away, Michael couldn’t prevent his mind from drifting once more, relentlessly back to recent memories. As he meandered slowly back to The Timbralls for his lunch, his train of thought was broken by a jet flying over. Must be an east wind, they’re landing over us today. Zero nine Left, I expect. Makes a change.

Thoughts flooded in once more, randomly, returning to the themes of the not so distant past. He wasn’t that hungry, and his expectations of Boys’ Dinner were, as usual, low.

Poor old hard-working, hard playing, Daddy, who’d died so soon after Charlie. Well, we all knew what was coming there; he had been on the wind-down for what seemed ages, then bang, he was gone. Huge funeral, big song and dance. The Band of his Regiment, he always referred to them, I think affectionately, as the ‘Swedes’, played. Good rousing stuff; that’s all I remember; lots of bass drums and oom-pah. Daddy was so important, anyway. I hardly ever saw him, so I could cope with that. Sort of. I would like to have seen more of him, though. I really would. He was always so preoccupied and always had to be in charge. But Mummy didn’t take that sort of nonsense. She’s bloody strong, that one. Très formidable.

Now I am Sir Michael McLeod, fifth Baronet. Bugger that, I’m still the same Michael I always was. I’m not sure about this. Whose turn next for the chop?

How am I supposed to have the slightest idea of what I want to do? Or even can do? What the Hell am I actually going to do with myself?

Michael was nearing the end of his last Half at Eton. He had done well enough to have earned himself the option of going up to Cambridge, but he couldn’t help wondering whether his brilliant mother might have had a hand in this. How d’you work out whether it’s a good idea or a waste of time to go up? What to read? Grandpa always says either find something to read that excites you, or don’t go. Trouble is, I really have no idea what excites me. I like lots of things, but you can’t read shooting, or chasing girls, or even rowing. History might just be fun, but I don’t want to do boring stuff like Law or Economics. There could be a lot to be said for getting on with something and making a bit of money; then you could do what you really like. Shoot, drive an Aston-Martin, fish a bit, maybe fly? And get after those girls as well!

I don’t know about this Cambridge lark. I’ll have a proper talk with Mum.

Time for Boys Dinner. There it was before him. It was chicken. Always bloody tasteless chicken or gristly bangers. Bentwater must be saving millions on all of us. Harding’s even have beer. Hubert buys it himself for his boys, so they say.

I really quite like old Bentwater. At least he isn’t always bloody right. He has the good grace to tell you he’s sorry when he knows he’s made a cock of something. Which he does. They all do, but most are sanctimonious bastards who have to be right the whole time, on ruddy principle. I shall be glad to get out of this place and do something useful. But what? This goes around my head the whole time like a toy train set. What the Hell am I going to do?

Next week was Henley. Michael was rowing three in the first Eight and they were expected to do well. Most years the Eton College First Eight was a decent crew, but this year the coach, Bobby Stour, a Classics Beak, was letting it be known that they had an unusually good one. They had beaten all sorts of bench-marks that he had marked out in his mind on the stretch of river by Masters’ Boat House, opposite the Home Park. In a two-minute row at racing speed, they had reached the sixteenth propping post under the bank. That was unusually good, and boded well for next week, according to Bobby.

It’ll be good if Mum comes to the Wednesday of Henley. At least she’ll be sure of seeing us. I hope the race is at a civilized time, so she can get down there for it. And I do hope she doesn’t bring Helen with her. I’ve often wondered how Daddy managed this, but he did. Unless it was the mysterious Harald. How do you know? It’s anybody’s guess. What the Hell? I’ve got a bloody sister and that’s that. Mum would never let on.

You can hear her. ‘Oh no, darling, whatever makes you say that? I don’t want to hear any more of that sort of thing, and don’t you dare say such a thing to Harald. Ever’.

Michael smiled inwardly to himself. Bloody funny calling this little scrap Helen. Hell, more like. I think that’s really funny myself and it caught clever Mummy on the blind side. Yipee!

Anyway, I hope Hell will get a bit more interesting soon. They aren’t much at this age, just a screaming nuisance really, so it can only get better. Can’t it? Nanny can surely look after her for a couple of days. I haven’t entirely got my head around this new arrival. She doesn’t really bother me, but Mum spends so much of her spare time on her. I could do with a bit of her attention, especially over this Cambridge business. I’ll have a go at her and try to get her to come on her own, I’m sure she will. Well, she might. Babies make such a mess too. And they smell.

CHAPTER TWO

Michael ‘s last summer half at Eton wore on. He had been selected to row in the First Eight at Henley in 1964. Henley Royal Regatta, in the last week of June, the finals being on the first Saturday of July, was a rite of passage for those boys fortunate enough to row in the Eton College First Eight. They were awarded the privilege of staying in Henley for the week leading up to the Regatta, in order to practise. They wore the rowing gear of The Eight. Light blue beribboned cotton zephyrs and white flannel shorts. A light blue blazer and white flannel long trousers for their time as spectators in the Stewards’ Enclosure. This all added up to a generally good holiday, made better by knowing that the rest of the school were still slaving away back there.

This was the rowing man’s equivalent of Playing Cricket for The Eleven against Harrow at Lord’s. The rowing fraternity were in no doubt that their lot was a great deal more serious and a Hell of a lot more fun. What did cricketers do but sun-bathe in the deep-field making daisy chains, and sit in the pavilion dozing? Probably a bit harder if you had to bowl or keep wicket. At some point you might be rewarded with a shot at swinging a bat around, hoping to clout the ball a long way off. However, the cricketers had the last laugh, because they could look forward to a life of willow on leather, whether it be for England or for Lesser Puddleton Village Team.

The oarsmen knew that they would give up their slavery next week, or maybe after three years at University. And glad of it too. It might be something of a fraternity, but it certainly wouldn’t be a life-time’s pursuit.

Michael entered into the spirit of Henley, rather more as one swept along by events than as an avid pursuer of his sport. He was simply lucky that rowing had turned out to be something that he could do without too much agony and unwelcome commitment. He was just good at it and large enough to hold his own. At six foot two and twelve stone, he could pull trees out of fields. Michael had a complete loathing of any game which involved running about kicking things. He had little eye for a ball and no aptitude for belting here and there, running into people and getting hurt. The Field Game was, in his view anathema, and plain ordinary football got no consideration at all from him. It was below the salt. Rugger was just too bloody dangerous.

He had made a fairly useful initial stab at tennis, but soon discovered the oarsman’s curse. There never was any time to learn tennis properly, and he realized that if you were not well taught, you would get nowhere and almost certainly be an embarrassment to those with whom you played. Tennis was therefore ignored. The people who played it were known as slack bobs. Oarsmen were wet bobs and Cricketers were dry bobs.

By the time of Henley, Michael had reached the point where there was no more school work to do. He had somehow, miraculously achieved an offer from Trinity College Cambridge to go up there in September. The only task before him was to decide what to read, and whether to delay his entry until next year. Grandpa Guy and Uncle Harry had been lobbying him to convince him to spend a year doing something in the real world to give himself some experience of what went on outside, and to decide whether to go up to Cambridge at all, and if so, what on Earth to read. Guy and Harry, you could say, had an axe to grind. Neither of them had been to University and they shared the opinion that generally it only wasted three years which would have been employed a lot better doing a proper job of work. They had both been unimpressed with most of the wasters that they had come across in their working lives, and had put that down to the fact that a good many of these effete souls had frittered away their early lives doing very little at University. The wisdom of age was making a serious effort to influence the idleness of youth. Michael was confused and undecided. Many of his friends were going either to Oxford or to Cambridge, and he felt a certain pull to go with this movement, to relax and go through whatever the motions might dictate. This angered Guy and Harry, who cited that attitude as precisely the one from which they sought to save the boy. Both of these august gentlemen had served their country in war in the Royal Wessex Dragoon Guards. Guy in the First, Harry in The Second. Their attitudes must have been formed, to a degree, by their experiences of seeing and commanding men like Michael, and having to buckle down and risk their lives for the good of all. A certain impatience and intolerance had grown out of this.

The time came soon enough for the Eight to set off for Henley. The party consisted of the Eight Oarsmen, the Cox, and the Ninth Man, the spare. They stayed, all ten of them and the two coaches, Bobby Stour and another with whom to share the general task of keeping the boys on paths which were reasonably straight and narrow, in the house. This secondary task fell to Tom Bentwater, and Michael was glad to have his Tutor there. He was in his element as they drove up to Mrs Lucas’s house at the top of Rotherfield Hill. It was a nineteen thirties creation. A good deal larger than it appeared from the road, fifty yards away down a tree lined drive. The crew were put up, two to a room, while the Beaks had a separate room each.

The impedimenta arrived in Bobby Stour’s nineteen thirty-three Rolls-Royce limousine. The luggage was all stacked in the back by the boys before leaving. It was noticeable that the rear compartment was somewhat sullied by bits of horse manure and by recalcitrant pieces of straw all over the place. Rose Stour, Bobby’s wife, was an experienced, not to say fanatical, horseman. It is fair to say that horses came first in her life, followed by her five children, the rear being brought up balefully by Bobby. This explained the condition of the baggage wagon, and Bobby’s inability to do anything about it. The back compartment was exactly the right size to squeeze a diminutive pony and a couple of bales of straw together with some hay nets into. Rose would wind up the division, and hay presto, a perfect small horse-box. No matter that this conveyance was Bobby’s pride and joy. Rose had bumped the beautiful front of this thing into the back of their other car because she feared bending the brake pedal if she pushed it too hard. She was a lot better with horses. The crew came in Tom Bentwater’s Singer saloon and the overspill was in a large van with seats, driven by the under boatman. The boat was in a huge set of tents between The Stewards’ Enclosure and Leander Club, on the river bank.

As soon as the party had sorted out who went where and put its possessions in the drawers and cupboards provided, it was time to get some sustenance into everybody. This consisted of good red meat and a lot of green vegetables. A real bonus for people like Michael, who liked their food and particularly appreciated good honest plain family cooking. That is what they got. For a month leading up to Henley, they had been treated to Eight Dinners. These feasts were provided by College Kitchens, and were eaten in a small private room somewhere in the unknown bowels of Eton. Beer was provided. The idea was to build up strength for the coming competition at Henley. It certainly worked and was greatly enjoyed. Part of the pleasure derived from the fact that there was an air of mystery and exclusivity surrounding this ritual, as it was not given to anyone else. You had to be a member of The Eight to get this.

Once these Titans had been fed, there was an enforced period of rest, before going down to the river for an outing at three in the afternoon. This would be a warm-up and they would go beyond the island, then turn and come back, doing a few practice starts on the way. That was a prelude to the day’s excitement to be enacted at half past five, later on.

The American School, St Paul’s Concord, had challenged Eton to a friendly race and it had been set up for later that afternoon. It was to be a full course, and the Eton crew didn’t really know quite what to expect. They had heard that these Americans were almost unacceptably keen and that, if given the chance, they would cheat. Just how you cheated was never explored. But it was the common impression that the American hat was bristling with rabbits.

The first surprise when the St Paul’s characters appeared, was that they all seemed a bit skinny and lean. They were, or so it seemed, a bit taller than Michael and his friends, but they were anything but intimidating. They also appeared to splash around rather more than Eton, and looked untidy and frankly unimpressive. This raised the morale of the British crew, who were beginning to think that the coming race might be very friendly indeed, and they looked forward to wiping the floor with Concord.

The two boats were lined up by eye and when the coaches agreed that they were level, the order was given to get going. I’ll ask you once. Are you ready? If I hear no response, I’ll say GO.

Are you ready? GO!

Eton went off striking at forty strokes to the minute, starting a half stroke, a three- quarter stroke, another half stroke, then a full stroke and so to the end.

St Paul’s Concord went off at forty-three strokes to the minute. A blood-vessel bursting pace. Eton heard the American coach announce this to his crew, and noticed at the same time that the Americans were a tiny bit ahead of level when they reached the first mark, The Barrier. A degree of consternation accompanied this discovery, but as the crews settled down to a better rhythm, Eton took a canvas off St Paul’s.

The Eton crew settled into a good long rhythm at thirty-six strokes to the minute against Concord’s thirty-eight. Eton’s confidence rose, and they pulled out their lead to three-quarters of a length by the half-way mark, at Fawley Boat House.

With rising confidence Eton began to assume that the threat, never that great, was now over. They dropped their rating to thirty-four, but the Americans still held thirty-seven. Michael thought, I wonder why? They’d be better off letting the boat run and striding out. That is what he and the others had been taught.

Over their right shoulders, the crews could hear the noise of the fair ground. At the same time, Concord relentlessly hung on. Eton woke up to the fact that their lead of almost a length seemed imperceptibly to have diminished to almost a quarter of a length.

Eton put on a spurt. In the parlance of rowing, gave her ten.

No effect at all. The little rubber ball on the nose of the American crew kept on coming. The crews were by now opposite the Stewards’ Enclosure, by the Hole in the Wall, and St Paul’s had pulled out a lead of nearly half a length.

How the Hell?

Eton were shaken and went down to St Paul’s by somewhere between a half and three-quarters of a length.

A salutary lesson. They didn’t appear to be holding themselves back at any time; the Americans were right up there all the way. How on earth did they manage to row us down?

The Post Mortem from Bobby was unforgiving.

You went to pieces when they started to come back. Remember, it’s the run of the boat that wins races. If you go ragged and let the timing go off, every beginning of every stroke will try to stop the boat. You’ve watched the rudder of countless other boats before. Yours was nearly stopping at the beginning of each stroke because your timing had gone, and you were becoming erratic, not getting your beginnings together. Let that be a lesson. Our first race is against Trinity Dublin, and let’s do that to them, shall we?

Supper at Mrs Lucas’s was a rather subdued affair. Much was eaten, little was said.

Louise had made arrangements to stay over the Tuesday night and Wednesday, with a colleague from Barts, Professor Neville Blear-Hilton and his family, who lived at Wargrave, a few miles from Henley. The Professor had rowed for Winchester in the Neolithic age, and had also rowed for New College Oxford. He was a member of Leander Club, and that is where Louise and his family had invited Michael to join them for lunch, after his race against Trinity, Dublin that morning. Eton were to race Trinity at eleven forty. Eton on the Bucks station. Tension was rising as Wednesday dawned. The memory of being trounced by St Paul’s Concord still at the front of their minds.

The race over and won by a good margin, Michael and the crew easied by the rafts which stuck out into the Thames by the boat tents. The Cox slewed the boat across the river and came in to one of them; they all got out, beaming smiles upon their faces. They’d done it. They’d rowed Trinity down and beaten them with clear water between them. Trinity must have been demoralized, this was almost unheard of. Bobby came bouncing up, Tigger-like.

Well, well! That showed them! Well done all of you, nicely timed, a good clean row. You can do it. Good time too. It’s Queen’s Cambridge next, tomorrow, I’ve just discovered. Their time was one second faster than yours, but they were going hard all the way, and there was a tail wind, which you didn’t have. They beat Jesus Cambridge by a quarter of a length.

Louise and Michael enjoyed a peaceful afternoon in the covered stand, and watched the other people go by. Some they waved at, some friends came up inside the stand to say hello and congratulate Michael.

Ducks paddled peacefully between the shore and the booms. The swans had been upped and taken away from the Regatta course for the duration. There was a moment of excitement when one of the beautiful Umpires’ launches only just made it through the manned opening gap in the booms before a race came down. How Michael loved to see these elegant craft with names like Enchantress, Magician, Bosporus, Amaryllis.

They were very fast, powered by straight-eight Buick engines of about five litres. Steered from amidships, with the Umpire in the bows and the time-keepers in the stern. There was a preponderance of Leander pink caps interspersed with the almost green blue of Cambridge and the dark blue of Oxford.

The harsh world of brutal reality reasserted itself the next morning. Eton were beaten by Queen’s Cambridge by three quarters of a length, in a time which was very respectable. They had equaled the Fawley time record for the Ladies’ Plate, so a degree of honour was satisfied. Both crews had been level at that point, so this was shared. The performance just went to pieces after that. How finely balanced this is. Michael pondered on this and thought that most things in life probably turned on the point of a pin.

Once the heightened euphoria of the Henley experience, and its deflating conclusion at the hand of Queen’s, had subsided, Michael found himself at home wondering what came next. He was aware that he was mooching around at a loose end, without any real idea of what to do in any positive sense. This he disliked intensely. He was frustrated by his inability to see beyond the high blank wall that had, somehow, erected itself before him. On this wall his imagination saw grotesque graffiti of mocking figures ridiculing him. Doing the little things which had always given pleasure, seemed no longer to work. He didn’t just want to give in and say he would go up to Trinity in September and enjoy himself until then. Everything seemed to be so short of purpose.

He bearded Louise in one of her rare moments of inactivity.

Mum, I’m going to do something useful and make my mind up about Trinity. Is there any way that I could help you and Harald with the spade-work at Animus do you think? There must be some things that need doing but don’t have to tie you two down.

Since the return of Harald into Louise’s life, they had put their plans into action and made the West Wing of Harston into a research and small scale residential workshop for the exploration of stress, and its relief. They called it Animus. This had been the activity in which she and Harald had been engaged at the end of the war at Whistlehoe, and after years apart, they had got things moving at last. Their area of interest had started with sufferers of extreme mental trauma who had found themselves barely surviving after the maelstrom of the end of the Second World War. Louise had followed this up, and after a great deal of learning and application, had ended up as a Professor at Bart’s. Harald, after his escape from East Germany, had by chance followed the same path in Frankfurt. They had re-met following an International Symposium on this subject at Trinity College Cambridge a year or two back.

I am sure we could benefit from your help. I will talk to Harald and we’ll see what we can come up with. Paying might be a bit of a problem, though. We just haven’t got spare cash and we are trying to get some outside funding. People are very ready to throw jibes at you if they sense what they undoubtedly would see as nepotism.

That wouldn’t matter. No, not at all. I could stay on here and get fed and all that couldn’t I? In fact, I wouldn’t need to be paid. That’s not the point.

Of course you can, this is your home for Heaven’s sake. Never will you be less than welcome, that’s silly. Darling this is all yours.

Michael’s father, Billy McLeod had, as befits a true Banker, made very elaborate arrangements for the passing on of the family property. He foresaw that he and Charlie, his father, might well depart this life at about the same time, and had set up, with the help of the City Merchant Bank of Harbrecher Scharfenberg, his employers, the mechanism which would alleviate, even with luck eliminate, that problem. It was however important to the scheme that Michael should not die. At least not yet.

Billy had seen many friends’ families reduced to extremes of poverty by the swingeing taxes imposed by envious and vindictive socialists; great and historically important houses had even been demolished.

Mild little Clement Atlee was a much-despised character in his circles; wise heads predicted that those times would herald the beginning of a new darkening socialistic age. Current opinion was that such a judgement had got it about right.

Billy’s opinion fell into line with this impression. He was convinced that there had been too much meddling, creating such lasting harm for so little or no gain; it would not serve the country well in the long term. He was fond of pointing out that, though it might take seventy years to develop into a true cancer, it would come home to roost and be the undoing of our once great country. He would usually follow this pronouncement with the words, ‘but I shall not be there, though you may be’.

The small act of pitching this ball of frustration at his mother had made Michael feel better. Whatever would help at Animus, he would do. He knew it would be such things as driving around picking things up, taking livers-in out for appointments, for entertainment, to go shopping. He was already throwing himself into the job of Dog’s Body with enthusiasm.

Michael was down in the depths of the service side of the house, looking for some tools to mend a leaking cistern in Animus. The telephone went.

Hello.

Michael, that you? I want to talk to you about putting together a Vikings Four for Staines Regatta. Are you interested?

Marcus Ferne, I do believe. Maybe; who are the others?

Stredling and Grosvenor.

Sounds like a cheap-skate firm of lawyers.

Don’t say that, Stredling is going to do articles at Blinkrater’s. He’s sensitive about that sort of thing.

About this Four. Where do we practise and what’s the form? I expect you will need some boodle?

No, the Vikings are doing all of that. We will work it up at Eton and stay with Bobby Stour. He’s agreed to coach us too.

Done.

Well, well. Busy again. We might even win. I’ll have to see