Elsingham's Son

A Family Drama in Sixteen Scenes

by Airn Hethaway

email: s_psoli@yahoo.co.uk

Scene IV

Kneeling on the floor of the elegantly furnished drawing-room, Prince was aware of nothing save a blackness in his very soul. It was as if he were falling through an endless void, infinity spreading out from him in all directions and a silence so profound he might have been deaf.

     First what Horatio had told him, followed by the scene with Poppy. He knew now he couldn’t possibly marry her, he had been on the brink of making a most terrible mistake, but had stepped back at the very last moment. That fact alone should have made him feel better about it, but it was what Horatio had told him which almost made him physically ill. Until that moment, he had never suspected Claude, but he saw now that what Horatio had said made sense. He trusted Horatio. No, more than that; he loved him like his own brother. He knew Horatio wouldn’t lie to him, it wasn’t in his nature. But how to prove it? He knew what a slippery customer Claude was.

     He had never liked his uncle. Never. He remembered, as a boy, how Claude would always try and get friendly with him, but he saw through the older man’s subterfuge. Though he said nice things to Hamlyn, the boy saw that his eyes were always cold, calculating. They reminded him of a snake’s eyes, hooded, intent, unfeeling. That and the fact his uncle was always touching him, ruffling his hair, hugging him, holding his hand. He even used to come up to his room in the evenings when he was visiting and say goodnight to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the boy’s hair or forehead and always giving him a kiss. He sometimes even stroked the boy’s chest and tummy, under the blankets, his bloodshot eyes staring almost hungrily down at the boy. Hamlyn remembered the man’s breath, reeking of booze and cigarettes, and how he dreaded his uncle’s visits to him. But what could he say? He was only a seven-year-old. Who would believe him if he said he thought his uncle was acting inappropriately? He didn’t even know properly what his uncle was up to, only that he didn’t like it. One such visit ended with him biting down hard on his uncle’s thumb. For a moment, he thought his uncle was going to slap him, he saw his eyes flare with anger, but after a moment all he did was say to him that he was a ‘stupid, stupid boy’ and that he ‘didn’t know what was good for him.’  After that, the visits to his room stopped and his uncle ignored him. Hamlyn was glad. Since then he avoided his uncle as much as possible. Now that slimy low-life was back and this time, quite possibly, was about to become his stepfather. Hamlyn retched where he knelt, but nothing came up.

     I wish I were dead! Just not to be here any more to see this! I could easily do it, it would be for the best. But what then? He’ll have won! I’d rather put up with anything than to let the bastard get away with what he’s done! No. I have to carry on. If I don’t then it will all have been for nothing. I’ll find a way. Just you see, you bastard, I’ll trip you up, expose you for what you are!

     Prince slowly got to his feet, his head aching. He noticed the discarded ‘Tatler’ on the floor where Poppy had thrown it. A photograph on one of the splayed pages caught his eye; a recent picture of his father, taken at a function about a week before his untimely death. He looked more closely. In the background he could make out Claude’s florid features. What surprised him, however, was the look of absolute hate on his uncle’s face as he looked at Hamlyn senior from behind. The young man felt the hate as an almost physical thing. “So you did do it, you bastard!” Prince muttered under his breath. He ripped the page from the magazine and quickly left the room.