Only Time Will Tell (2011) Read online

  Jack shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I remember you well, sir. You taught me a love of Trollope and an appreciation of the finer points of spin bowling.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to remember,’ Trent chuckled. ‘I wonder if I might accompany you on your way back to the station?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘As you know,’ said Trent as they began walking towards the town, ‘your father was resident canon of this cathedral for the past nine years. You’ll also know that he cared nothing for worldly goods, and shared even the little he had with those less fortunate than himself. If he were to be canonized, he would surely be the patron saint of vagabonds.’

  Old Jack smiled. He recalled going to school one morning without breakfast because three tramps were sleeping in the hallway and, to quote his mother, they had eaten them out of house and home.

  ‘So when his will comes to be read,’ continued Trent, ‘it will show that just as he entered this world with nothing, he has also left it with nothing - other than a thousand friends, that is, which he would have considered a veritable fortune. Before he died, he entrusted me with one small task should you attend his funeral, namely that of handing you the last letter he ever wrote.’ He extracted an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Old Jack, raised his hat once more and said, ‘I have carried out his request, and am proud to have met his son once again.’

  ‘I am obliged, sir. I only wish that I hadn’t made it necessary for him to have to write in the first place.’ Jack raised his hat and the two men parted.

  Old Jack decided that he would not read his father’s letter until he was on the train, and had begun the journey back to Bristol. As the engine shunted out of the station, billowing clouds of grey smoke, Jack settled back in a third-class compartment. As a child, he remembered asking his father why he always travelled third class, to which he had replied, ‘Because there isn’t a fourth class.’ It was ironic that, for the past thirty years, Jack had been living in first class.

  He took his time unsealing the envelope, and even after he had extracted the letter, he left it folded while he continued to think about his father. No son could have asked for a better mentor or friend. When he looked back on his life, all his actions, judgements and decisions were nothing more than pale imitations of his father’s.

  When he finally unfolded the letter, another flood of memories came rushing back the moment he saw the familiar bold, copperplate hand in jet-black ink. He began to read.

  The Close

  Wells Cathedral

  Wells, Somerset

  26th August, 1936

  My beloved son,

  If you were kind enough to attend my funeral, you must now be reading this letter. Allow me to begin by thanking you for being among the congregation.

  Old Jack raised his head and looked out at the passing countryside. He felt guilty once again for treating his father in such an inconsiderate and thoughtless manner, and now it was too late to ask for his forgiveness. His eyes returned to the letter.

  When you were awarded the Victoria Cross, I was the proudest father in England, and your citation still hangs above my desk to this very day. But then, as the years passed, my happiness turned to sorrow, and I asked our Lord what I had done that I should be so punished by losing not only your dear mother, but also you, my only child.

  I accept that you must have had some noble purpose for turning your head and your heart against this world, but I wish you had shared your reason for so doing with me. But, should you read this letter, perhaps you might grant me one last wish.

  Old Jack removed the handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his eyes before he was able to continue reading.

  God gave you the remarkable gift of leadership and the ability to inspire your fellow men, so I beg you not to go to your grave knowing that when the time comes for you to face your maker, you will, as in the parable Matthew 25, v14-30, have to confess that you buried the one talent He gave you.

  Rather, use that gift for the benefit of your fellow men, so that when your time comes, as it surely must, and those same men attend your funeral, the Victoria Cross will not be the only thing they remember when they hear the name Jack Tarrant.

  Your loving father

  ‘Are you all right, my luv?’ asked a lady who had moved from the other side of the carriage to sit next to Old Jack.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, the tears streaming down his face. ‘It’s just that I was released from prison today.’

  GILES BARRINGTON

  1936-1938

  35

  I was thrilled when I saw Harry walk through the school gates on the first day of term. I’d spent the summer hols at our villa in Tuscany, so I wasn’t in Bristol when Tilly’s was burnt to the ground and didn’t find out about it until I returned to England the weekend before term began. I had wanted Harry to join us in Italy, but my father wouldn’t hear of it.

  I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like Harry, with the exception of my father, who won’t even allow his name to be mentioned in the house. I once asked Mama if she could explain why he felt so strongly, but she didn’t seem to know any more than I did.

  I didn’t press the point with my old man, as I’ve never exactly covered myself in glory in his eyes. I nearly got myself expelled from my prep school for stealing - heaven knows how he managed to fix that - and after that I let him down by failing to get into Eton. I told Papa when I came out of the exam that I couldn’t have tried harder, which was the truth. Well, half the truth. I would have got away with it if my co-conspirator had only kept his mouth shut. At least it taught me a simple lesson: if you make a deal with a fool, don’t be surprised when they act foolishly.

  My co-conspirator was the Earl of Bridport’s son, Percy. He was facing an even greater dilemma than I was, because seven generations of Bridports had been educated at Eton, and it was looking as if young Percy was going to ruin that rather fine batting average.

  Eton has been known to bend the rules when it comes to members of the aristocracy and will occasionally allow a stupid boy to darken its doors, which is why I selected Percy for my little subterfuge in the first place. It was after I overheard the Frob saying to another beak, ‘If Bridport was any brighter, he’d be a half-wit,’ that I knew I didn’t need to look any further for my accomplice.

  Percy was as desperate to be offered a place at Eton as I was to be rejected, so I saw this as no more than an opportunity for both of us to achieve our purpose.

  I didn’t discuss my plan with Harry or Deakins. Harry would undoubtedly have disapproved, he’s such a morally upright fellow, and Deakins wouldn’t have been able to understand why anyone would want to fail an exam.

  On the day before the examination was due to take place my father drove me to Eton in his swish new Bugatti, which could do a hundred miles an hour, and once we hit the A4 he proved it. We spent the night at the Swann Arms, the same hotel in which he had stayed over twenty years before when he took the entrance exam. Over dinner, Papa didn’t leave me in any doubt how keen he was that I should go to Eton and I nearly had a change of heart at the last moment, but I had given my word to Percy Bridport, and felt I couldn’t let him down.

  Percy and I had shaken hands on the deal back at St Bede’s, agreeing that when we entered the examination hall, we would give the recorder the other’s name. I rather enjoyed being addressed as ‘my lord’ by all and sundry, even if it was only for a few hours.

  The examination papers were not as demanding as the ones I’d sat a fortnight earlier for Bristol Grammar, and I felt I’d done more than enough to ensure that Percy would be returning to Eton in September. However, they were difficult enough for me to feel confident that his lordship would not let me down.

  Once we’d handed in our papers and reverted to our true personas, I went off to tea with my pa, in Windsor. When he asked me how it had gone, I told him I’d done the best I possibly could. He seemed satisfied by this, and even began to re