THE PRIVILEGE OF RANK

THE PRIVILEGE OF RANK

The four sat around the fireplace in the impressive old library enjoying talking about old times; the closest of friends. Outside, the wintry rain was lashing down furiously, trees swaying noisily back and forth in the fierce North Yorkshire gale and it felt good to be a part of this quartet, inside, warm and cosy. The house had been in Freddie’s family for generations and, now, it was Frederick DuBarry Winthrop the 3rd who had inherited the old place and the baronetcy that came with it. His companions had been friends of his since their schooldays though it had been a while since they had all been available to get together for a weekend; the Great War having disrupted everybody’s lives for so long. The plan had been to do a bit of shooting on the Saturday but, unless there was a dramatic change in the weather, that now seemed unlikely. Still, it was wonderful to be united under one roof once more and the evening, thus far, had been filled with gaiety and laughter.

“I say, Freddie, old chap, how does it feel to be Lord of the Manor after all these years?’

It had been Silas Barker who’d asked this seemingly innocent question. Silas, like the others here this night, had served alongside Freddie in the 121st Queens Battalion and, together, all had seen service in India before the Great War in Europe had dragged them back to do battle with the Hun. To have survived the trenches of Ypres and Mons was a miracle in itself; so many of their chums from university having not returned from the battlefields of France.

Before answering, Freddie looked around the vast old room as if checking that nobody could hear him. As he stared into the shadowy corners of the book lined library, his three pals turned in their chairs and looked also. When Freddie turned back, his face was ashen and, for the first time since their arrival that evening, they seemed to notice the bags under their friend’s eyes and the bloodshot whites around his irises. He had also drank far too much wine at dinner and a great deal of whiskey since. Silas wondered if he had mis-spoken.

“I say, Freddie. Did I say something wrong? I merely wondered how it felt to inherit this pile”.

“No, it’s okay, chum. It’s just…well, I suppose, if I can tell anybody, I can tell you chaps. You see, ever since I got back from over there, I’ve…well I’ve not felt quite right about being here in Random House It’s rather silly. After all, this has been my home for all of my life. I was born here, for pity’s sake. I can’t quite put my finger on it but…it feels as if I am, somehow, not supposed to be here. A lot of poppycock, probably”.

David Warner, a doctor, put his arm around Freddie’s shoulder and spoke reassuringly.

“Look here, Freddie, you had quite a scare in France. You were in the thick of it and the after effects are bound to catch up with you at some time. You’ve no idea how many men are suffering from shell shock; officers and enlisted men alike. I expect each one of us here, is experiencing some form of trauma”.

David looked at Silas over Freddie’s shoulder, imploring him with his eyes to agree with him. For his part, Silas, who had experienced no such after shocks, spluttered something conciliatory.

“What? Oh yes. Yes indeed. Lots of bad memories, friends lost, you know”.

Freddie recognised what his friends were trying to do to make him feel better but he hated to be patronised.

“I’m not experiencing shell shock, David. Thanks all the same. It was a living hell over there but, on the whole, I was bloody fortunate in that I was part of the General Staff and not actually in the trenches like you chaps..."

“I think I understand”.

It was the fourth member of the quartet, Arthur Balfour, a barrister, who had interrupted. As the youngest in London ever to take silk, his intelligence and ability to think several moves ahead marked him out as a formidable opponent in a courtroom. Having got everybody’s attention, this man who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time listening before offering an opinion on any subject; a trait that ensured that his words, when they came, carried a great deal of weight, continued:

“Freddie, I think this may have something to do with the will. The fact that Albert, your older brother, was first in line of succession until his…unfortunate accident, may mean that, for some reason, you are feeling guilty at inheriting this great estate, almost by chance, one might say. Does my theory hold water?”

Freddie thought about Arthur’s conjecture and it did seem to make sense.

“Do you know, Arthur, I think you may be right. Yes! It’s as if I’m an intruder in my own home”.

“Well, let me assure you that you are not. Far from it. I think it’s fair to say that, if anybody understands the law, it is I. You have inherited Random House through due judicial process. Now, if you don’t mind, as lovely as it has been to sit and reminisce, that journey up from London was rather exhausting and I’m for my bed”.

“Yes, of course, Arthur. You know where you are, of course. Stanton took your bags up earlier. Don’t rush in the morning. Breakfast will be ready for 8am but sleep as long as you like. We shan’t be in any hurry to get out and about by the looks of things”.

The remaining three sat on, Freddie dispensing more whiskey from the crystal decanter, now almost empty.

“Arthur’s right, of course. This place should have gone to Albert if only he…”

“Don’t harp on about that, Freddie. It will just make you more maudlin. What’s done is done and it wasn’t your fault”, David spoke calmingly. Silas, changed the subject to something else Arthur had mentioned:

“Yes, Arthur was right about the train journey, also. So many delays. I thought we'd never get here. When will the railway ever get back to what it was before the war? I’m afraid I’m rather pooped, too. So, with your leave, I’ll toddle off. Good night, chaps”.

With both Silas and Arthur now departed, only Freddie and David remained.

“Shall I decant another bottle?”

“Not for me, Freddie. I’ll be off to bed soon”.

As if Freddie had not heard his friend, he tugged on the bell pull anyway and, within minutes, an elderly butler arrived in the library.

“Ah, Stanton, another bottle of the Glenfiddich, if you don’t mind”.

As the butler departed, David spoke as a doctor to his patient.

“You really must try and curb your liquor intake, you know. I’ve seen too many good men succumb to alcoholism…”

“I know. I know. Don’t worry. From tomorrow, eh? You’ll keep your beady eye on me, I’m sure”.

Long after David had taken his departure, Freddie sat with the new bottle, too afraid to climb the great stairs to his bedroom, the master bedroom that had been his father’s and should have been his brother’s. He drank to keep the demons at bay. The fire was reduced to embers as the heir to Random House sat alone until the whiskey, finally taking its toll, he fell asleep on the ancient Chesterfield as he had done every night since his return from France three weeks previously.

On the Saturday morning, the rain was still teeming, the heavy winds sending it beating against the south facing windows in a monotonous pitter patter. One by one, the three visitors made their way downstairs to the dining room where Stanton had laid out an excellent breakfast buffet, the food being kept warm in the silver chafing dishes, warmed by the paraffin burners below. Silas was, as usual, the liveliest of all.

“I say, I slept like a log. How about you chaps? I’m ravenous”.

Arthur and David agreed that their nights had been peaceful and undisturbed as they, too, helped themselves to the various dishes on display: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, kippers and an abundance of toast.

“Where’s our baronet?”

David Warner answered.

“Stanton said that Freddie would be down shortly. I must say that I didn’t like the look of our host last night. The poor chap looked haunted and as for his liquor consumption. Well…”

Arthur interceded quickly.

“Look chaps, if either of our brothers had blown their heads off with a shotgun, I dare say that we’d be drinking rather heavily to try and forget. I know I bloody would. It’s been a massive shock to our friend. He never wanted to inherit this huge pile, for God’s sake. All he’s ever wanted was to be left alone to paint. Now, he has to take charge of this huge estate with its hundreds of tenants, a responsibility he never asked for. It’s our duty, as his closest friends to lighten his load. All agree? Despite the weather, we’re going to make damn sure that this weekend is a happy and cheerful one”.

As per usual, Arthur Balfour’s insightful words were not to be argued with and, when Freddie entered the room finally, he was greeted with a reminder of why he loved these young men so much as he was pelted with bits of toast and sausage.

“Sorry. I must have overslept, chaps”, he offered, laughing and ducking as another piece of toast made its way towards him. Only David, the concerned doctor, noticed that Freddie was dressed in the same clothing as he’d been wearing the previous night. For a man as fastidious as his aristocratic friend, this was most unusual.

Following breakfast, the four young men relaxed in the library, a great fire warming the room. Newspapers were read, books glanced through; the library at Random House being famed for its eclectic works. Arthur Balfour worked on his latest legal brief. Silence reigned but, to Freddie, it was a comforting silence; a reminder of their student days spent studying in the library at Balliol, their Oxford college. He felt reassured by this camaraderie, his fears and guilt assuaged -for the moment, at least.

The day dragged on pleasantly. A delicious lunch was served and, despite the wine on offer, David was pleased to note that Freddie, as he had promised, abstained. As they ate, a sliver of sunshine broke through the clouds and pierced the dining room window as it shone upon the three guests sat eating their lunch, illuminating them in an eerie, ethereal manner. Only Freddie, sat at the head of the dining table, remained in shadow. He looked at each of them in turn, astonished at the tableau presented to him.

“I do believe, the rain’s easing up. What do you say to a bit of exercise? Freddie, you can show us around”.

It had been Silas who had spoken but, receiving no response, he turned towards his friend and was alarmed to see Freddie, eyes wide, sweat beading his forehead, reaching for the wine bottle.

“Actually, I’ve a bit of a headache, Silas. So I’ll pass, if you don’t mind but, by all means, you chaps go out for a walk. Stanton will furnish you with appropriate clothing and footwear. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

As the three friends, dressed in warm, waterproof coats and wearing gumboots strolled towards the out buildings of the estate, the rain having eased to a gentle drizzle, David commented on their host’s hasty departure from the dining room.

“Something startled him. One minute he was happy and garrulous, the next…”

“I looked in on him before we left but he wasn’t in his bedroom…”

“Look here, chaps, as I said at breakfast, he is our friend and it’s our duty to be there for him. We don’t want him doing something awful like his brother, Albert”.

As Arthur reminded the others of their responsibility towards Freddie, they reached the stable block and Silas stopped them by spreading out both arms.

“Talking of Albert. This is where he…”

The three men stood staring at the stable block, not wishing to proceed further. Silas continued:

“He’d seen some awful things in France; lost a lot of his friends. I don’t think he could face life without them”.

“Terrible thing but we’ve all experienced the horrors of that damned war-and lost good friends. For Freddie, he’s lost friends and his beloved brother, so it’s even harder. Look, let’s get back and make sure that we spend the rest of this weekend lifting our host’s spirits. I, for one, intend to leave here tomorrow, knowing that Freddie is in the best of spirits”.

They found their pal in the library, a glass of whiskey in hand. Without any preamble, Silas recommended a game of cards and, within ten minutes, laughter was flowing around the great room as they played and reminded each other of past escapades at Balliol.

By the time, dinner was announced, Freddie’s ribs ached from all the laughter. David had noticed that his chum had not topped up his whiskey glass once during the afternoon. He pointed this out to Arthur as they headed into dinner.

“Good. Let’s keep it up then. Laughter is the key”.

By the time the friends were ready to retire, they could all, Freddie included, say that the evening had been tremendous fun. They had played Monopoly, charades and other such games and had laughed and laughed. All of them, Freddie included, had stuck to the one glass of Glenfiddich, much to David’s satisfaction. But, left alone, Freddie’s fears returned. He could not face the stairs and, once again, he summoned the ever patient Stanton to fetch another bottle of whiskey.

The following morning, the guests gathered in the dining room for breakfast, their host, once more, missing. Their bags had been packed ready for their departure and a car had been arranged to take them to the train station. Silas spoke for all of them.

“I hate leaving like this. Yesterday was such fun, like old times. But I looked in on Freddie before coming down and his room looked like it hadn’t been slept in”.

“Whatever happens this morning, remember what I said, yesterday, chaps. It’s our duty to leave our pal in the best of spirits”.

“Agreed, Arthur…”

The dining room door opened and in came Freddie, exuding bon homie.

“Good morning, chaps. The sun is out, the rain has stopped. Such a shame you all have to rush off so soon”.

“Yes, it’s been a wonderful stay, Freddie, but I’m due in court tomorrow…”

“And I have an operation to perform…”

“What about you, Silas? Do you have urgent business in London, too?”

“Actually, old boy, I do. Marion Fitzgerald arrives back from New York and I…well, I’m going to meet her off the boat and ask her to be my wife…”

Freddie, who’d been rather hoping that Silas, at least, wouldn’t have to hurry away, swallowed his disappointment.

“Why, you sly old dog, Silas. That’s wonderful news”.

The others all joined Freddie in congratulating their friend who had kept his secret well. The rest of the meal passed happily with lots of ribbing of Silas’s virginal state. To any outsider looking in, it presented an enormously happy scene of four friends who clearly shared an unbreakable bond. Only David Warner noticed that Freddie partook of no food and was dressed, yet again, in the same tweeds as the previous two days.

The car loaded, the three London bound friends in the car, Freddie saw his great pals off from the gravel driveway. He ran a part way after the Rolls as it made a slow loop in the drive, calling out his thanks, telling them how much he loved them, waving farewell.  

It was good, old faithful Stanton looking out and seeing his master talking to himself and running slowly down the drive, waving at nothing -that came out and gently ushered Freddie inside.

Freddie sat in the library reflecting. He watched through binoculars from the viewpoint of the General Staff as the 121st Queens Battalion prepared to obey the order-his order- and go over the top. He heard the whistles from the battalion’s captains, David, Silas and Arthur as they joined their men in climbing the ladders from the trenches and rushed into the jaws of the Hun. Try though he might, he could not block out the deafening clatter of the German machine guns as they mowed down his friends.

He looked at the service pistol nestling in his hand. Why had his rank given him the right to send men to their death? Why did he deserve to live?  He needed courage to do what he had to do. He tugged on the bell pull.

“A bottle of Glenfiddich, Stanton”.