The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August(90)
Whether there were on me in my fourteenth life I cannot tell, as, following the usual course, I did not begin to recover full faculties for the normal passage of years. I made no attempt to contact the Club during this childhood, limiting myself instead to the essential tricks of a youthful ouroboran: theft, manipulation, exploiting sports results and gambling outfits to acquire any money I might need. In truth, I was also still determined to keep my head down, and made no attempts to run away or find Vincent but worked as Patrick August’s apprentice in the grounds of the house, as I had done so many lives ago, before the Cronus Club entered my existence. In 1937 I applied for a scholarship at Cambridge to study history, considering that, with so many ouroborans forced to forget and the Cronus Club in such a poor state of affairs, a knowledge of the past and, more importantly, of the means to study it, might allow me to detect patterns in events which I could usefully connect to Vincent in years to come. When I was offered the place, the Hulnes were gobsmacked, not least because Clement, my pasty cousin, had actually been turned down–a thing almost unimaginable for one of his wealth and background at the time. My grandmother Constance, for almost the first time in that life, summoned me to her study.
I had noticed something of a pattern in the Hulnes’ relationships with me. For most of my lives my biological father, Rory, ignored me as one might ignore a somewhat embarrassing disease, a thing that is part of yourself but best not discussed with others. My aunt Alexandra showed cautious interest, hidden behind a mask of respectability; Victoria ignored everyone who wasn’t of use to her, and I was no different; and my grandmother Constance actively shunned me and yet was also the regular bearer of bad news. If my actions were somehow disreputable–and at that time it took very little for a bastard son’s deeds to be considered disreputable–it was Constance more than Rory who did what she doubtless considered to be necessary but dirty work.
So it was then, and as I was summoned into her study, a scholarship boy of eighteen years old, she was already set for recriminations, her back turned to the door through which I entered, a pair of hanging silver earrings bouncing beside the harsh line of her chin. She glanced at me in the mirror by which she adorned herself, before her eyes darted back to the examination of her ears and, without turning, she said, “Ah, Harry. Yes, I did want to see you, didn’t I?”
It had been remarkably easy to move beyond the fact that, in my infant years, Constance had wanted to throw me back whence I came. To me, after all, these revelations were hundreds of years old, yet I had to recall that to her the impulse was only as old as my current physical body.
She faffed with her earring a little longer, then turned sharply as if all interest was lost in this task, to stare at me hard down a pointed nose. Whatever unkind genetic pixie had gifted me with my face, it hadn’t spawned on her side of the family.
“I hear you are for Cambridge,” she said at last. “Not quite as fashionable as Oxford, but I suppose for someone like you it must be a great thing.”
“I’m very glad, ma’am.”
“Glad? Is that what you are? Yes, I suppose you must be. They tell me that the college was so impressed that they are overlooking your background, is that correct? Your father can’t be having letters asking for financial assistance once you’re gone, that won’t do at all.”
“The college have been very generous,” I replied, “and I have some other means.”
Her eyebrows arched in disdain at this notion. “Do you? Do you indeed?”
I bit back on my reply. “Yes, biological Grandmother. I know precisely who wins the Grand National every year from 1921 to 2004, as well as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of famous boxing matches, football championships and even the occasional dog race for the same time period, in case I am starved of choice.” Somehow it didn’t seem like an appropriate revelation for the moment.
“Of course it’s very inconvenient of you to leave at this time,” she blurted against my more considered silence. “Your father is hardly as young as he was, and the grounds… Well, I needn’t tell you how much he’s valued his work for this family. I had rather expected you to do the same.”
It was a conversation I’d had with Constance every time I’d left the nest for any employment other than national service. At first I thought it was sheer resentment at my potential success, but as the conversations rolled by I had begun to wonder if it were not a deeper anxiety–a desire, even now, to keep control of the boy who symbolised her son’s greatest mistake. I remembered Holy Island, my father dying in a room above a cottage, and felt a brief flush of unexpected shame at the things I had said to him.
“… it’s actually rather ungrateful, I think, for a boy like you to just abandon his home like this.”
The words brought me back to my grandmother’s study. I imagine there had been some preamble to this statement, but live as a servant long enough and you acquire an understanding of when sound is meaningless. “Ungrateful, ma’am?” I queried.
“You’ve been a part of this household your whole life,” she replied, “practically a part of the estate! And now to just pick up and go, it’s really not what we were expecting from you, Harry, I must admit. We all thought rather better of you.”
“Better… than getting a scholarship to Cambridge?” I suggested.