Tricks and Treachery

By Phyllis Bischoff

Why did Cyril, former ambassador and pillar of the establishment, never get a gong? And why is his retirement increasingly plagued by uncomfortable memories? His daughter is determined to find out about 'Uncle Leo's' agenda, during his regular visits to her father's embassy in East Berlin. In the meantime, Leo has decided to tell all in a series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phyllis Bischoff
• Release date: Oct 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781805416036

Book preview

CYRIL

CHAPTER 1

Isaw the kingfisher again today. He was sitting on the edge of the pond, waiting for his next meal to swim by. But then something must have disturbed him, because he took off suddenly, in a flash of brilliant blue and orange. He’s a frequent visitor now, appearing at the bird table when Mrs Ogden has remembered to put out the bird seed. And that reminds me; I think she’s coming today. She usually comes on a Monday, but then again, I’m not sure if today is Monday. Perhaps I should have looked at the calendar but, in fact, there’s nothing to distinguish one day from another. There’s nothing to jog my memory.

Now I hear the front door bang, so I know it must be her day. I can hear her calling, infuriatingly cheerful. ‘Cyril? Are you there?’

Well of course I’m here woman. Where else would I be? I don’t say that though. And that’s another thing. I resent the hired help calling me by my Christian name. Whatever happened to respect?

‘Ah, there you are. Now then, have you had your breakfast? I can make you a nice poached egg if you like.’

‘No, please don’t bother Mrs Ogden.’ I stress the ‘Mrs’. ‘I had some toast earlier.’

She looks doubtful. I can tell she’s not convinced. The truth is I’m just never that hungry these days.

‘Very well, if you say so. I’ll start on the bedrooms.’

I shrug. The house doesn’t really get dirty, but Helen insists I have a charwoman. I only really use my bedroom, the kitchen and one of the bathrooms. Oh, and occasionally the library, but not that often. I don’t watch TV much. The news is alright, but I can’t stand the rest: screaming game shows and over-complicated dramas. There are some beautiful women though, and some of the scenes, well, they leave nothing to the imagination. In my day you’d have to go to Soho to see stuff like that. Now Mrs Ogden is calling me, ‘Cyril, the phone. Didn’t you hear it?’ Well, obviously not. It’s usually just someone trying to sell me something. Now Mrs Ogden is lumbering towards me, holding out the receiver. She seems to have got even bulkier recently. Her overall strains across her enormous bosom. She wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

‘There you are Cyril’ she pants. ‘It’s your daughter.’ As I take it from her my head starts to swim, and I sway slightly.

‘’Ere, Cyril, sit down, you look queer.’ The dizziness passes and my head clears.

‘I’m perfectly alright thank you, Mrs Ogden.’

Helen’s voice is sharp at the end of the line. ‘Dad, are you OK?’

‘Hello Helen. Yes, of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Why is everyone constantly asking me if I’m alright?

‘The doctor called me this morning and said he couldn’t get hold of you. He wanted to do a review of your medication.’

‘I don’t answer the phone in the evening. And anyway, if he did call, I didn’t hear it.

‘Honestly Dad. We should get you a ring tone amplifier. I think you can get them from Amazon. I’ll check.’

‘It won’t make any difference Helen. If I don’t want to answer the phone then I won’t.’

Helen is sighing now. ‘Have it your own way Dad. Anyway, I’m coming over later. I’ve got some shopping for you.’

‘There’s no need. I’ve got plenty of food.’

‘I doubt that. Anyway, I’ll see you later.’

Earlier the sun had been out, but now grey clouds are galloping across the sky, casting the house into deep shadow. I shiver. That’s another thing; I always seem to feel cold these days. Helen tells me to put the heating on, but the house is so big and chilly that it would cost a fortune. I take my old shooting jacket and stick from behind the scullery door and set off down to the pond to see if I can catch another glimpse of the elusive kingfisher. I make my way through the orchard. The grass is long and littered with fallen apples, wasps swarming round them. The trees are gnarled and stunted, the branches covered in a green patina. They don’t produce much fruit any more. Mr Benson, the gardener, is getting old like me and the upkeep of the grounds is getting too much for him. I don’t want to let him go though, despite Helen’s exhortations. He’s a link to the past.

The edges of the pond are so overgrown that you can barely see the water. It is dappled with rays of light in places; the rest is brackish and opaque. Dragonflies skim the surface. The fish have long gone. They were always Claudine’s domain. It was she who fed them. I was never that interested.

I make for the wooden bench. It’s rotting now, and one arm has become detached. It’s rickety too. Helen is always warning me about it. There’s no sign of the kingfisher now, but a flock of starlings takes off suddenly with a mad beating of wings.

Claudine loved the pond. She used to come here every day. Although I can barely remember what day it is now, I can recall with absolute clarity the day she brought me to see the house. She was so excited that I couldn’t say no, although I could immediately see that its disadvantages were legion: too big, too run-down and, above all, too far from London. ‘But Cyrile,’ she used to say ‘It is perfect. And anyway, you will be retiring soon, so what does that matter?’ She had never lost her French accent despite many years spent in the UK. It captivated me from the moment I met her.

So - the next thing, I’d bought the house. The commute to town became more and more taxing. I was, as she herself pointed out, nearly sixty five by then. But it was worth it to see the joy on her face when we signed the contract.

As so often happens these days I start to nod off, only for a moment or two, but I think I see Claudine holding out her hand to me. ‘Cyrile,’ she says ‘Come. I want to show you something.’ I try to stand up, too quickly, and stumble to my knees. Of course she’s gone. There’s no one there. The stillness is only disturbed by the plash of an otter as it slips into the water. I heave myself up with the aid of my stick. Better get back to base, I think, before they decide to send out a search party. Didn’t Helen say she was coming later? To check up on me, I suppose.

HELEN

CHAPTER 2

It’s getting more and more difficult to keep tabs on Dad now he pretty much refuses to answer the phone. Take today for example. His doctor ended up calling me, because he didn’t pick up, and now I’ll have to go over there, check his medication and then contact the doctor again. Honestly, it’s a bit much, especially as I’m now doing his food shopping as well. Means I’m there practically every day. And another thing; I don’t think he’s as deaf as he makes out. He’s just a perverse old bugger if you ask me.

I wouldn’t mind so much if I got some help from Charlotte and Rupert, but Charlotte conveniently lives too far away, and as for Rupert well, might as well forget it. He’s never going to step up.

I think I’ll call Charlotte before she goes out for lunch, or has her nails done, or whatever it is that women like her fill their days with. Amazingly she picks up after a couple of rings. ‘Hello Helen how’s Pa?’

‘Not great actually. He’s now not answering the phone, so if Mrs O doesn’t happen to be there I haven’t a clue if he’s had a funny turn, or fallen over and can’t get up or something.’

There’s a pause, then Charlotte says, ‘perhaps we should try and organise a carer.’

‘Mm I guess so, but he’s not going to take kindly to it. As it is he’s very irascible with Mrs O. Fortunately she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.’

This starts Charlotte off on her favourite subject. ‘Of course he should sell the monstrosity and go into sheltered accommodation. That’s what Geoffrey’s mother did, and she’s never looked back: it’s whist drives, concerts, croquet on the lawn, you name it. There’s always something going on.’

‘But you know Dad will never do that. He’s just so attached to the house because of bloody Claudine. There’s no point in even trying to persuade him.’

‘Well, if he keeps falling over there’ll be no option. He won’t be able to stay there.’

This is turning into a circular conversation, like so many I’ve had before with Charlotte. It’s alright for her. She doesn’t have to deal with him day to day, and anyway I’m pretty sure you can’t force someone to sell their home unless their dementia is so bad they’re deemed unfit to make a decision. Ok, Dad is forgetful, who isn’t at that age? He’s not at that stage yet though.

‘I must dash now Helen I’ve got an appointment at the hairdresser’s at one. Keep me in the loop and, by the way, you’re doing a great job.’ With that she’s gone.

I go through to the conservatory. It had been Ben’s idea to have it built. I’ve never been a fan actually. I think it’s a tad naff stuck on the back of a Victorian villa. Also it’s too cold in winter, unless you put on a blow heater, which costs a fortune, and it’s too hot in summer. We never did get round to installing blinds. Today though is one of those rare days when the temperature is just right. I decide to have a quick glance at the paper before summoning up the energy to go to Dad’s. I start an article on the millionth governmental plan to sort out social care but, after a few lines, my attention starts to wander. I have to admit to myself that, although I have a vague sense of filial duty towards him, I’ve never really got on with Dad. He was rarely there when we were children. We – that is Charlotte and I - were at boarding school, but even in the summer holidays we hardly saw him. He was always off playing golf or on business trips. He showed no interest in our achievements either, and when I got into Cambridge to do PPE he barely seemed to notice. All that may well have been typical of families of our social class, but the way he treated Mum definitely wasn’t, and that’s what I can’t forgive him for.

The sun is low on the horizon when I approach Chestnut Lodge. There’s already a tinge of autumn in the air; the musky sweet smell of decaying leaves coupled with the faint aroma of wood smoke. The days are getting shorter now, and the evenings are cool. As I open the car door a sudden gust of wind nearly whips it out of my hand. I go through the laborious task of opening and then shutting the five barred gate behind me. Then the house can be seen outlined against the pale sky, its tall chimneys outlined against the pale sky, its windows blank. It’s massive and, in my view, pretty hideous. If I were forced to pin a date on it I’d say nineteenth century Gothic. The drive is long and weedy, bordered by straggly Chestnuts. I park, and haul the two bags of food out of the boot. Damn I’ve forgotten the phone amplifier. It’s sitting on the kitchen table at home.

I push open the heavy oak front door. I’ve told Dad so many times to lock it after Mrs O has left, but he never does. The hall is in almost complete darkness. Not much light penetrates through the high windows at the best of times, and now that the sun has almost set. the gloom is intense. ‘Dad!’ I call into the shadows. There’s no reply. I go into the kitchen and dump the two bags on the table. Then I go to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Dad!’ Still no reply. My heartbeat quickens. At the top of the first flight the staircase splits. To the right are several bedrooms and to the left the TV room, or library, as Dad prefers to call it. It’s true that one whole wall is given over to books, but they’re dusty, the bindings peeling. It’s a long time since anyone took one down to read.

Now I can hear the distant shrieks of one of the game shows Dad professes to hate. I open the door softly and there he is, mouth open, snoring gently. There’s a whisky decanter and glass beside him. By the look of things he’s been helping himself pretty liberally. ‘Dad’ I call, quietly at first, then a bit louder. He doesn’t stir. I go up to him and shake his arm. He starts up, confused. ‘Whaa? What is it?’ He tries to sit up, looking wildly round the room. ‘It’s OK Dad. It’s only me.’ ‘Good God, Helen, You gave me a start.’ I draw up a chair, suddenly sorry for him. He’s a pitiful figure really, his hair unkempt, his eyes rheumy. ‘Dad, anyone could have come in, like I just did. You forgot to lock the door again.’ Something of his old asperity returns. ‘Well, they didn’t did they?

‘It’s just that Charlotte and I don’t think it’s safe for you on your own here anymore. The house is too big for you, and if you were to fall – well – no one would know until it was too late.’

‘I told you, I’m perfectly alright. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’

‘Just let me investigate getting someone to come in and help you. A sort of companion, I suppose. It would be peace of mind for Charlotte and me, knowing there’s someone here with you, especially now that winter is coming.’

‘Huh! Charlotte! Fat lot she cares. I haven’t seen her in years.’

‘You saw her a couple of months ago, when she came for your eighty fifth birthday.’

‘And Rupert? Is he still even alive?’

I have to admit, I haven’t seen Rupert for a very long time. Last I heard he was living in a Buddhist community in Brighton. Then he told me that family life isn’t one of the tenets of Buddhism. It seems the focus is on personal fulfilment and the pursuit of enlightenment. Very convenient!

Finally I leave, imploring Dad to lock the door after me. At least he hasn’t dismissed the idea of a companion out of hand.

CYRIL

CHAPTER 3

Now Helen’s gone, clumping down the stairs in those dreadful boots. She wasn’t a very attractive child and age certainly hasn’t improved her. She’s quite overweight – fat, actually – and those clothes! They look as though they came from a jumble sale. Gave up after that husband of hers left, I suppose. Can’t say I blame him. She’s like her mother. Valerie started looking frumpy once the children came along. Charlotte’s better, at least she’s kept her figure, but she’s turned into one of those brittle women I can’t stand. Helen says I saw her recently, but I don’t think I did. Sometimes I think she says things on purpose to make me think I’m losing my mind.

I suppose I’d better do what she said and go down and lock the door. She was on about me having someone to live in the house. Not sure what I think about that but just recently, I must admit, I’ve got a bit jumpy. Sometimes at night I think I hear someone walking around under my window. It’s pretty isolated here, and I suppose anyone could be prowling round. When I’ve had a couple of whiskies though, like tonight, I usually fall asleep pretty quickly, even if I wake up again later.

I lever myself up and totter to the window. The moon is bright tonight, it’s almost full, and its beam lights up the lawn. An owl hoots in the trees; it stirs an ancient memory of my first night a prep school. I must have been – what? - eight? – And it was the first time I’d been away from home. Pretty daunting really, at that age, but par for the course for people like us. It must have been 1943. The worst of the bombing raids was over by then, but the school was in Windsor, in the path of the bombers, and bright, moonlit nights were fraught with danger. ‘They won’t hit Windsor Castle’ the boys used to say, Hitler wants to keep it for himself.

The dying years of the war were pretty dreadful. Food was scarce and we were always hungry. Rations of meat were dwindling and butter and eggs were almost nonexistent. If there was any extra the bigger boys always commandeered it. And it was so cold! There was little or no heating and our blankets were threadbare. Bullying was out of control too. The masters seemed to be unaware of it, or had given up. Some had sadistic tendencies and beatings were administered for all sorts of trumped up reasons. Others were perverts, creeping round the dormitories at night, seeking out the boys who took their fancy. Fortunately I was never one of them.

After about a year of having my head pushed down the lavatory and having my pyjama trousers pulled off in front of the whole dorm, I realised that the only way to survive was to join the bullies, which I did enthusiastically. If you were good at games, which I discovered I was, it put you on the side of the gods. Then I never looked back, and when I went on to public school I carried on being one of the top dogs. That’s when I first met Leo. He was one of the in-crowd, like me, and soon we were dominating the weaker boys. Our paths were to cross many times over the course of the following years. In some ways we were uncannily alike. We both had cold and distant fathers and I can see with hindsight that this united us in a callous disregard for our peers.

HELEN

CHAPTER 4

Dad’s agreed to have a live-in carer, or companion – that’s how I sold it to him. I’ve no idea what made him change his mind, but the main thing is, he did. I got onto it ASAP. I decided to contact an agency near him. I imagined that whoever we found would need a day off, so it made sense to have someone who lived nearby. Of course I let Charlotte know. I didn’t bother with Rupert.

Then there was the question of paying for it; I imagine they don’t come cheap, although board and lodging is included. The problem is I don’t really know anything about Dad’s financial situation. Mrs O is paid by direct debit, as is the gardener, but as for the rest I haven’t a clue. I think he must be pretty well off. He had an extremely well-paid job all his life, so he must have savings, or investments. I remember him being shrewd about money when he was younger, to the point of meanness, especially when we were growing up. Now, though, I imagine he may be struggling to keep on top of things, now that everything is online. He should really have given one of us – me actually – power of attorney, but it’s not the sort of thing he would think of, he’s so independent, and I would feel awkward suggesting it. I’m sure he’d think I was trying to get my hands on his money.

So, I’ve been to see his solicitor, mine too, actually, he handled my divorce. Anyway, it’s as I thought. You can’t apply for power of attorney for another person if they’re of sound mind. They would have to make the application themselves. Obviously he can’t discuss Dad’s financial affairs with me, but he indicated that paying for a companion shouldn’t be a problem. He’s going to make an appointment with him to discuss it. In the meantime the agency has come up with some suitable applicants, and I’m going to vet them. They’ve sent me a short list of three applicants to interview. They’re all women. Although I didn’t specify that I imagined they would be. The first is about sixty five, and I immediately know she’ll get on Dad’s nerves. She’s a former nurse, and talked a lot about milky drinks before bedtime. Not Dad’s scene at all!

The second is an ageing hippy type, who told me she normally goes to Ibiza each year for a couple of months where she sells homemade jewellery in the markets, so that’s a non-starter.

The third applicant seems eminently suitable. She’s about forty five, newly single, quite attractive and used to dealing with her elderly father before he died, who sounded a lot like Dad. She lives in the next village and is flexible about time off. She said she’s not keen on cleaning, but that’s OK because Mrs O is there, but she’s happy to prepare simple meals. She sounds ideal. I took her to meet Dad and, for once, he was on his best behaviour. He even asked her, Sarah, some questions about herself. When she addressed him as Mr Montgomery he invited her to call him Cyril! That’s a first, and a great relief all round. We’ve arranged for her to start moving some of her stuff in over the next few days, and to move in herself the following week

If it’s a struggle dealing with Dad, then Mum’s even harder work. My friends are wont to tell me how lucky I am. Two parents still alive augurs well for me, they say. I’ll live to a ripe old age. But, if they don’t have ageing parents themselves, they just don’t get it. In my case it’s not just that they’re physically failing, it’s the emotional strain. Mum is still eaten up with resentment, understandably. Dad dumped her unceremoniously when he met Daphne, and left her with very little money. She lives in a cottage on the outskirts of Bungay, and that’s where I’m off to now. I’ve cajoled my daughter, Emily, into coming with me. Actually I had to bribe her with dinner afterwards. Alex flatly refused to come.

The cottage is on the banks of the river Waverney, sandwiched between a converted barn and a pub. It’s a pretty enough location, but the shops are about a mile away and, like most villages, many have closed, leaving mainly hairdressers and charity shops. Now there isn’t even a bank. Yet they’re building new houses on every available plot. Wherever are the people who buy them going to work, I wonder.

Mum insists on making tea, although I offer, and as she brings it in the cups rattle dangerously on their saucers. Milk slops onto the tray. While she’s gone Emily voices what I always think when I go to see Mum.

‘How come Granddad is living in a huge manor house, even if it is a bit run down, while Gran is in a two up two down cottage?’

I can’t immediately offer an explanation. Never the soul of tact, Emily exclaims at how small the cottage is.

‘It’s all I can afford dear. You know your grandfather left me almost penniless after twenty years of marriage.’

‘But couldn’t you have got a job?’

Emily has strong feminist views since going to university, but she’s still living at home, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.

‘It was different then dear. I’d given up any chance of a career when I married your Grandfather.’

‘That’s just disgraceful. I thought he had some amazing job. Wasn’t he a diplomat or something?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but when he met Daphne, and wanted a divorce, his solicitor managed to hide most of his assets. I just couldn’t fight it.’

This reminds me of my recent visit to Mr Jenkins, Dad’s solicitor. Clearly his plush offices had been funded by profitable divorce settlements, among other things. I know what happened was iniquitous, but frankly I’m tired of hearing Mum rehearsing all the old arguments for the millionth time. I do wonder though what will happen to her when she’s too frail to look after herself. Perhaps more concerning is my anxiety that Dad will cut my children out of his will. He’s never had much time for them, or for Charlotte’s two, for that matter. Rupert hasn’t any offspring.

‘Ah well’, Mum gets into her stride now, ‘We were living in Istanbul at the time. Your Grandfather was first secretary to the ambassador.’

‘That must have been fascinating’.

‘Actually I hated it. All that moving around. I just wanted some stability for the children, and life in the embassy was