Elsingham's Son

A Family Drama in Sixteen Scenes

by Airn Hethaway

email: s_psoli@yahoo.co.uk

Scene III

Claude and his new girlfriend, soon to be his wife, he hoped, were sitting in the conservatory. The orchids were Gerda’s passion and she enjoyed their heady scent and the moist warmth of the glass-domed extension on the south facing terrace of the house. Gerda was of a frail disposition, not unlike the orchids which she tended so assiduously. Not lovingly, but with the cool confidence of one in her social class; it didn’t do to get too passionate about things – or people. She was a nervy person, with a weak heart, a legacy of a childhood bout of rheumatic fever. She had been in the conservatory when Claude had rushed in to tell her of her husband’s heart attack which had killed him by the time she had reached the ground-floor study from which Hamlyn Senior worked. Claude had been most solicitous, he had arranged the funeral, sorted out the reading of the will, informed all the far-flung relations and generally been a tower of strength for her. The same could not be said of Prince. He more or less disappeared for a whole week whilst everyone else was busy in making arrangements, sorting things out. She had hardly seen him and when she did, he was morose, silent and withdrawn. It was understandable, she supposed, father and son had been very close, so she didn’t blame him, but, all the same, she thought he would have the breeding to know what was expected of him at times like this. This should have been the time for him to step up, fill the breach and support her, his mother. Instead he vanished and Claude was left to cope, which he did admirably.

     The Will was duly read. Prince put in an apperance for that, Gerda noted sourly. Everything was as it should have been; the entire estate went to her, Prince would take over the business, Elsingham Holdings, assisted by Paul and he was left a considerable sum in trust which would come into effect upon his marriage. After Gerda’s death, everything went to Hamlyn Junior and his issue. Gerda didn’t really understand why Claude had only been lift a lump sum, admittedly quite considerable, but no seat on the Board, not a mention of Claude taking part in the business. She believed that that was what Claude had wanted and didn’t think any more of it.

     Claude did. He thought a lot about it. It consumed him. He was furious with his late brother for so effectively cutting him out of the lucrative business. He recalled several occasions through the years when he had told his elder brother of his plans for the company, if only Hamlyn would take him on board, but his brother always found an excuse not to include Claude in the family concern. Claude seethed inwardly. Why didn’t he get the chance to make a fortune, like Paul, like his own brother? And Hamlyn Junior, ‘Prince’ (he detested the nickname and refused to call the young man by anything other than his given name) was absolutely not interested in joining the firm. He had no head for business, that boy. No backbone. He couldn’t survive in the tough world of finance and deals. Whereas, he, Claude, had been about a bit, made a fortune – and lost several along the way – all sorts of deals, ‘opportunities’ had come his way. He knew the ropes, he had contacts, he could put deals together. Admittedly, much of what Claude did sailed pretty close to the wind as far as the law was concerned, but wasn’t that the idea? Make a fortune by cunning? If the other people allowed themselves to be duped, or hoodwinked, so much the worse for them, it was their fault, not his. As a matter of fact, though, things hadn’t been going Claude’s way in recent years. Not that he had lost his touch exactly, it just seemed that there were others ‘out there’ just as ruthless, if not more so, than he.

     So, with his brother dead, he’d get his hands on Elsingham Holdings and life would be a bed of roses. But Hamlyn Senior had put the mockers on that. Damn, damned bastard! He had been sure he would be named in Hamlyn’s Will as successor. Fuck it! He would have to talk Gerda round and that callow youth. Paul would be a problem too, but Claude had ‘dealt with’ enough problems during his chequered career not to have too many qualms on that score.

     The couple sat at a small cast-iron table in the conservatory, sipping their pre-lunch drinks, although this was already Claude’s third or fourth; his idea of pre-lunch started after his late breakfast, which was usually only black coffee to dispel the hangover he invariably had every morning.

     Gerda was reading the paper and every so often would relate interesting bits of gossip to Claude, who although he couldn’t care a tinker’s cuss, smiled and made appropriate noises. He had his eye on the small TV screen in the corner, where the latest stock-market figures were continually displayed. The sound was down on the small flat-screen so he couldn’t hear the comments made by the ‘pundits’ who pontificated on the financial channels. They knew nothing anyway, thought Claude as he drained his glass and contemplated a refill.

     They were interrupted by Paul. He looked flustered and the creases in his brow were even deeper.

     “What’s the matter, old man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

     “It’s Poppy,” replied the other man, without preamble. “She and Hamlyn have had a fearful row, I think. It looks as if they’re not going to get married after all. She’s awfully upset, poor thing. I don’t know what the ins and outs of it are, she was hardly coherent poor little girl, but I think Hamlyn was awfully cruel to her. More or less called her a tart and told her to get out of his life. I don’t know what’s got into the boy.”

     Claude could have told him what he thought had ‘got into the boy’ but chose to say nothing. It was Gerda who spoke next.

     “Poor thing, he’s been distraught since his father’s death. I know he should have got over it and done his bit, but I do understand him, really. I’m sure he didn’t really say all those awful things to Poppy, Paul.”

     “Well, I can only go by what Poppy said. She was quite shocked and very hurt. I don’t know what has happened between them for it to turn into this. I really don’t understand young people today. When I was their age…”

     “Yes, yes,” interrupted Claude. “But you’re not and it’s not really our business now is it? I mean if they had a row, that’s quite normal isn’t it? People do fall out you know. Anyway, I never…” he checked himself. He had been going to say that he had never really cared for Poppy, ever since she, aged about sixteen, left him looking an absolute fool, his dick hanging out of his open flies, while she taunted him that he wasn’t man enough to ‘get it up’ and turned on her heel and left him standing there. She had never complained before, the little tart. When she wanted something, she got it and Claude knew he was only one of many older men who serviced the coldly beautiful girl. Then one day, for no apparent reason, she turned on him in a most cruel way, making his humiliation complete. Little bitch! He would never forget how she laughed in his face. Stupid little prickteaser! He vowed then he would get his own back. Cold-hearted bitch. She had been such an accomodating young girl, really most delightful. Expensive, but all the same…Claude found himslef actually drooling and his loins, even now, were stirring… Claude hastily corrected himself; “I mean I never thought they would have a serious falling-out though.”

     “It’s all too much,” said Gerda. “I’m sure it’s just a lover’s tiff, Paul. You’ll see. They’ll have forgotten all about it in a day or two.”

     Claude said nothing. He got out of his chair and, going over the bar to replenish his drink. “Have a drink, Paul,” he said in as cheery a voice as he could muster. He detested the man. He was convinced it was he who had persuaded Hamlyn not to include him in the business and he wouldn’t put it past him that Paul had contrived to keep him out of Hamlyn’s Will.

     “Er, no, no thanks. I’ve got things to see to…” his voice petered out as he noticed that no-one was listening to him anyway. Gerda was deep in her paper and Claude still had his back to him. He left the room.

     If Hamlyn and Poppy don’t get married, thought Claude as he stood at the bar, toying with his tumbler, then that will mean that Paul won’t become a member of the family. I know that Hamlyn doesn’t want anything to do with the firm and Poppy hasn’t a clue in her pretty little head about how to run a business. I need to get Hamlyn out of the way, away from here. Now he’s not marrying Poppy, someone should suggest to him that he takes a holiday, go abroad, get over his father’s death. He turned to Gerda.

     “Darling, I’m worried about Prince,” the nickname made him almost retch, “I think he needs to get away for a bit, have a change. He’s been cooped up here, doing nothing ever since Hamlyn’s sad, sudden death. The boy needs a change of scene. Why don’t you suggest he goes away somewhere. He can take his pal Horatio with him. What do you think?”

     Gerda looked up, her brow furrowed. “Possibly. He’s been acting very strange lately. It’s not good for him to brood so. I think that’s a good idea and if anyone can help him snap out of his moodiness, then I’m sure Horatio can. I’ll talk to him at lunch. That is, if he bothers to turn up to lunch.”

     She went back to her paper and Claude allowed a small smile to cross his lips. He might be able to turn this to his own advantage after all.