Here is another short novella of naked ambition, greed, and loves won and lost. We all start somewhere. Climbing the greasy pole of life can be hazardous. Is it better to watch from the safety of the sidelines or join the heaving throng? Make up your own minds and read on.
Chapter 1
‘Hello, you’re new, aren’t you?’
The little boy with the short trousers and darned grey jumper looked up.
A pretty blond girl, wearing a gingham checked dress was standing in front of him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Not telling, you tell me yours.’ There was a pause, the little boy turned to move away.
‘Yvonne,’ said the little girl.
The boy looked back, ‘Reg,’ he said. ‘Reg Palmer.’ Then he scampered across the school playground.
‘Pleased to meet you, Reg Palmer,’ she called after him, but Reg was already out of earshot.
A smile crossed Yvonne’s face as she remembered Reg’s skinny, white legs pounding the pitted asphalt as he disappeared into a group of boys kicking a leather football.
~
Max had made specific instructions in his last will and testament that the Bishop of Richester cathedral lead his funeral service. Suprisingly, the deceased was neither a church attendee, donor, or a member of the laity. In fact, Max had not set foot in the place since his childhood when the junior school he attended held their Christmas carol service.
‘I have had an express request in a client’s will that the Bishop conduct the funeral service for Max Bulstrode-Palmer,’ said the lawyer speaking to the Bishop’s secretary.
‘I don’t think we know Mr Bulstrode-Palmer, other than by reputation... he runs the estate agency doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘I think it is unlikely that the Bishop would consent to conduct the service. When were you thinking of?’
‘In three weeks’ time, on the Friday, if possible.’
‘I am afraid Bishop Arnold is away at Synod all that week.’
‘Is there no chance?’
‘I am afraid we cannot accommodate everybody who requests a funeral in the cathedral, particularly, as the late Mr Bulstrode-Palmer is unknown to us.’ The bishop’s secretary was ingenuous in her answer for Bulstrode-Palmer had a formidable reputation as social-climbing philanderer in the county. He was a man who had made his money as a successful estate agent to the gentry, nobility and Russian oligarchs. ‘Perhaps if he had made a request before his untimely departure then something might have been arranged. I am sorry I cannot be of any helpful.’
‘You mean, made a reservation? Surely, one can never be certain of an actual departure date. Dying is not like catching a train.’
‘Well, that’s not exactly what I meant…it is a special privilege to hold the service in the cathedral, even in one of the side chapels.’
‘Whatever, can you please ask the Bishop on my behalf. It would mean a lot to Mr Bulstrode-Palmer’s family.’
‘Very well, I will try my best,’ she replied, knowing full well what the Bishop would say.
‘Money does not buy salvation and certainly a person of Mr Bulstrode’s character does not warrant the ecclesiastical hierarchy he desires,’ said the Bishop. ‘But bless him anyway,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Do you think the Dean might conduct the service in your absence? We could ask for a substantial donation to the organ fund, and there should be a big collection from the mourners. Mr Bulstrode-Palmer was known to mix with the monied classes of the diocese, however vulgar.’
‘Oh, very well. Ask the Dean if he would like to conduct the service, he enjoys a good party, and I imagine there will be plenty of Saxon revelry at the wake.’
As befitting a person of Max Bulstrode Palmer’s acquired social status, his funeral was a portentous occasion. There was a tasteful absence of black horses drawing his hearse, rather a gleaming Daimler holding a simple English oak coffin with solid brass accoutrements. A single family bouquet of white roses rested on top of the coffin.
A frock-coated funeral director supervised four sombre, black-suited, lackeys who lifted the heavy coffin from the back of the hearse. The casket was transferred to the unsure shoulders of Max’s two sons and two senior members of Carstair Palmer’s office. His will had stated whom he wished to carry his remains and it was their solemn duty to undertake the perilous journey down the central aisle of the cathedral. The choristers gave an uplifting rendering of Faure’s requiem and the Dean of the cathedral, his mitre held aloft, led the pall bearers as they moved unsteadily on the long march towards the bier in front of the altar.
Miraculously, the heavy coffin was safely placed on the bier and the pallbearers took their places in the pews allocated, relieved that their ordeal was over. Max’s sons had not inherited their father’s physical girth or height, and the slow-paced journey down the long aisle of the cathedral to the transept had been an exhausting experience. It was the final challenge left to them from their late father. ‘Even in death our father is demanding,’ whispered Simon to his brother Hugo.’
‘I hope there is not a bolt of lightening during the ceremony,’ said Hugo. ‘The ten commandments didn’t play much of a role in father’s life.’
Max’s third wife, Barbara, “Babs” to her inner circle of friends, was suitably attired in black, her lace veil was discreet enough to disguise the lack of customary tears expected at such sad events. Instead, her bosom quickly rose and fell in what the mourners perceived to be grief. But it was not sadness that gave rise to her increased heart rate, but the anticipation of the large life insurance payout on Max’s life which she was already mentally spending.
Yvonne, the first spark of Max’s infatuation with the opposite sex, was sitting demurely towards the rear of the packed cathedral. Her two sons were the only vestiges remaining of a marriage that disintegrated decades ago. She was sitting far enough away to be only mildly offended by the garish tapestry which provided the altar backdrop. If she half-closed here eyes she could barely discern this modern work which she considered to be an anathema. It was an unwanted tilt towards a modern interpretation of the scriptures. The tapestry highlighted two androgynous forms holding hands in a tropical orchard, they were surrounded by half-eaten apple cores, a donkey and a cross were mysteriously silhouetted in the background of the work. Hours of pointless needlework she thought. She straightened her back and sitting upright looked upward into the vaulted oak ceiling of the medieval building as the exquisite ‘In Paradiso’ passage of the requiem was sung by the choristers. As the sound filled the ancient building she recalled again her first encounter with Reg Palmer, at the secondary modern school.
Once Reg’s initial shyness lifted and his confidence grew, he quickly attached himself to a gang of older, tougher boys. He did his best to emulate them and over a passage of time he eventually rose to be their leader. It was about this time that his friendship with Yvonne took root. Reg’s retinue of followers liked to tease the girls in the playground and Yvonne was singled out for special attention as she was pretty and well groomed. ‘Vickers Posh Knickers,’ they would cat call, but it was Reg who would come to her rescue. He would divert their attention to some other unfortunate victim.
On the way home from school they often walked together. ‘Thank you for not putting chewing gum on my seat,’ she said.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said, brushing off the compliment.
Reg’s adolescence was punctuated with times of entrepreneurial flashes of brilliance and minor villainy, he avoided censure of the law by a hair’s breadth and gained a reputation for sharp-witted dealings, he worked hard at subjects that interested him, maths and history, and ignored those that bored him. At an early age he became fascinated with types of houses people lived.
‘Has your house got an indoor lav?’
‘Of course, it has, why do ask such silly questions?’
Reg undaunted ploughed on with his interrogation of Yvonne. ‘How many bedrooms?’
‘Five.’
‘Crikey! Which one do you sleep in?’
‘Shut up, Reg.’
‘I’m interested, that’s all.’
‘Do you want to live in our house?’
‘Wouldn’t mind, sounds big.’
‘Perhaps you should be a builder when you grow up.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or work in one of the shops that sells houses, you know like the one on the high street?’
‘What are they called,’ he asked, suddenly interested in this tid bid of information. He’d never heard of a shop selling houses before.
‘I dunno, ask your dad, he’ll know.’
‘I will, but my dad doesn’t know a fat lot.’
But Reg’s father did know. ‘They are called estate agents. They sell houses for people.’ he said. ‘Why are you so interested, most of ‘em are crooks.’
‘Why are they called estate agents when they sell houses?’
But Reg’s dad didn’t elaborate any further and returned to reading his Racing Post. The words “estate agent” resonated in Reg’s mind and he a made a point of exploring the high street.
He eventually found a shop called, Blenkinsop, Estate Agents. He peered in their window at cards with type written descriptions of the properties and accompanying photographs. He scanned them all from terrace houses to larger detached properties, some had prices mentioned, others had a mysterious POA letters where the price should have been. He wondered how anyone could afford the smallest of houses as the sums involved seemed astronomical. And what did POA mean? He thought about going into the shop. He could see a woman behind the cards, she was wearing a tweed suit and was talking to a skinny, bald man with a pointy face but he didn’t have the nerve to go in. He was hardly going to buy a house.
‘Do you want to come with me to the flicks on Saturday?’ Reg asked Yvonne, as they walked home.
Yvonne was taken aback by this request. She had never been invited to the cinema before and had never been asked out by a boy. ‘What’s the film?’ she said, as if it really mattered.
‘Guns of Navarone, with Gregory Peck. It’s meant to be an ace war film.’
‘I would rather see 101 Dalmatians, that’s on at the Roxy.’
‘That’s a girls’ film!’
‘And yours is a boy’s one.’
‘I’ll pay,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to ask my parents first.'
And that was the beginning of Reg’s courtship of Yvonne Vickers.
Please watch out for Chapter 2 published next week. Don’t miss it.
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Thank you for reading.