The great i am, p.1
The Great I Am, page 1
THE GREAT I AM
BERYL KINGSTON
The Great I Am. Kindle Version.
Copyright © Beryl Kingston 2021
All rights reserved.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 1
The two teenagers were hiding in the cherry tree at the end of the garden. It was an old tree and a large one, with good strong trunks and forks as big as armchairs. They’d been climbing it since the day they moved into the house, at first for the fun of it and latterly whenever they needed to hide from their father when he was in one of his moods. It was a good hide-out because it provided lots of perches and plenty of cover particularly if they were wearing the right coloured clothes. On that day, Paul was wearing what he called his survival kit, the green t-shirt that was almost the same colour as the leaves, his camouflage trousers and a pair of battered trainers that were the same colour as the bark. As his hair was brown and he had a healthy tan, he reckoned that, if he kept quite still, nobody in the garden would see him sitting there, even if he was six foot. Melanie wasn’t quite so lucky and that was because of her hair. She had very blonde hair, not dyed or anything but just natural – their mother said it was her crowning glory - but if she’d hidden in the tree without covering it up, it would have shone like a candle. Yesterday evening, when they’d planned how they would keep out of the way of their father’s latest ridiculous party without actually leaving the premises - which had been forbidden, if you ever heard of anything so ridiculous - and had sorted out what they would wear, they’d hunted in all her drawers and cupboards for a hat or a scarf or something that would be big enough to cover it, and they’d almost given up hope when they found a very old and totally useless shower cap which was tea brown with age and covered in a faded shoal of small grey-green fishes. And when they’d finished laughing at it, they decided it was just the thing.
‘I shall look a freak,’ Melanie said, ‘but it can’t be helped and, anyway, with luck, no one’ll see me. Anyway, I wouldn’t care if they did. I’m not sitting through another one of his ghastly parties listening to him bay and brag and show-off, and that’s that. Not after what he did last time. This time it’s got to be different.’
This was the fifth party their father had hosted since the beginning of June and the second one in July and they’d all been pretty horrendous. But the last one had been the worst of the lot. Neither of them could bear to think about how bad that had been.
There was a burst of forced laughter and a babble of artificial voices and, looking down through the leaves, Paul and Melanie could see their father and his guests walking out of the lounge, champagne glasses in hand, the men wearing dinner jackets and false smiles and the women trailing their dresses across the lawn and tottering in their kitten heels.
‘What I always say,’ their father was booming in his lecturing voice, ‘is that the quality of leadership is an inherent virtue. An inherent virtue. Inbred. There are no two ways about it. Inbred. It can’t be bought or taught, although, as we know, there are many people who have convinced themselves that that is the case. Total folly, of course. Can you imagine a group of poor old plebs trying to cope with the complexities we face in the House on a daily basis? They’d be out of their depth in seconds, poor things, and where would the country be then?’ And he laughed in his superior way. Wah, wah, wah. And his guests laughed with him, some of them politely, so as not to annoy him, and the others in the same superior guffaws.
‘I can see his bald patch,’ Melanie whispered to her brother, grinning happily
Paul looked down at their father, his face devilish. ‘Where?’ he whispered.
‘Watch and you’ll see,’ Melanie whispered back. ‘The breeze is blowing that awful comb-over of his right up. Look. See. There it goes.’
And it did, revealing the pale skin under the dyed black hair.
Paul grinned so widely he creased his entire face. ‘Serve him right for being so vain,’ he said.
But then their father’s voice changed tone. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Guinivere,’ he said to their mother who was walking beside him, dressed in grey and looking pale and withdrawn as she often did on these occasions, ‘what are all those cushions doing on the hammock? How are our guests going to sit on that great pile?’ And everybody craned their necks to see what he was talking about. And Paul and Melanie parted the leaves cautiously to look too.
Their father’s elegant new hammock was heaped with a motley collection of very old, grubby looking cushions, piles and piles of them. Someone must have seen them in the end garage where they’d dumped all the old stuff last summer and brought them out there. How odd! But as they watched, the cushions exploded, like a volcano erupting, and were hurled into the air and scattered in all directions and an amazing apparition rose from the wreckage. It was wearing a black straw hat that looked as battered and dilapidated as the cushions and was bent over sideways, a shawl made out of an ancient blanket and a pair of owlish spectacles with a broken bridge that was stuck together with a wodge of sellotape. Its hair was like the wire wool that their cleaner attacked the saucepans with and its face looked as if it was made of leather, brown and seamed and none too clean. ‘Must ha’ been asleep,’ it said.
Their father’s friend, the great, suave, Sir Timothy Clements, was staring as though his eyes were going to pop out of his handsome head. ‘G-g-good God alive!’ he said, anxiety bringing on his usual stutter. ‘What the hell is that?’
Paul and Melanie turned to see what their father would say and were instantly alert and alarmed. He was breathing in that frightening broken way he had and his face was growing darker and uglier with every second, his black eyebrows drawn into a straight line of fury, his beaky nose looking even bigger, scowling at the apparition as if he was going to hit her. He can’t do that, Melanie thought, surely to God. She’s an old woman. She and Paul glanced at one another quickly, unable to speak or they’d have been heard now that their father had stopped booming, but sending rapid eye messages to one another. Keep still. Keep quiet.
‘Send for the police, Hillary,’ another of their father’s friends was advising, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘You don’t have to put up with this.’
‘Hillary?’ the apparition said and screeched with laughter. ‘His name ain’t Hillary. Whatever next? His name’s Fred. That’s what his name is. He’s Fred Perkins from Whitechapel. An’ I should know. I’m his mum.’ And she threw the rest of the cushions on the lawn and sat up and dusted herself down. ‘What’s for dinner? I’m starvin’ hungry.’
There was a susurration of indrawn breath from the astonished party-goers and one or two complained in their well-bred way ‘Oh I say! That’s not on!’
Sir Timothy had a mobile phone in his hands. ‘C-c-call the police,’ he advised. ‘I’ll do it for you if you l-like.’
Their father had recovered his balance and stopped scowling and was giving them all his professional smile. Not for the first time, Melanie saw how quickly he could change from one extreme to another, and the knowledge annoyed her and upset her. He was playing the expansive host now, in complete command of the situation. He waved the idea aside, as if it was no more trouble to him than a fly. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘My lady wife will deal with it, won’t you Guinevere? We’re used to beggars. I’m a generous man, you see, known for it, and word gets round. It’s one of the consequences of a good nature. Let us proceed to our Friday feast.’ And he continued his walk to the marquee, with his guests following him obediently, although Melanie noticed that one of two of them gave lingering glances over their elegant shoulders as if they wanted to know what was going to happen next. She and Paul waited until they’d all disappeared inside the marquee and their mother had reached the old lady and then Melanie took off her ridiculous bath hat and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans and they climbed down the tree. This was too extraordinary to miss.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ her mother was saying to the old lady. ‘But I shall have to move you.’
‘That’s all right, duck,’ the old lady said. ‘I can always come back another time. Is your name really Gwinny whatever it was? Or is that just what he calls you?’
Their mother looked embarrassed. ‘Well, actually, I was christened Gwen,’ she said. ‘But he thought that was – um - common.’ And she smiled apologetically and turned to look at Melanie and Paul.
‘It’s a pretty name,’ the old lady told her. ‘Much better’n the other one. That’s just high falutin
’. Are these your kiddies?’
‘We are,’ Melanie said, ‘and you must be our grandma. If you really are his mum.’
‘Oh I really am,’ the old lady said, ‘for my sins.’
‘And was he really christened Fred?’ Paul asked, grinning at her.
‘He was,’ the old lady said, grinning back. ‘Fred Perkins, after his father. He was a bad lot an’ all. Great ugly thing. Ended up in prison an’ died there. They sent me a letter to tell me, ‘regret to inform you’ an’ all that sort a’ rot. I didn’t care. I was glad to see the back of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
It was getting better and better.
But their mother was uncomfortable and looked it, biting her lip and frowning. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry about this, but I’ve got to show you out. I’m afraid you’re trespassing.’
‘No I ain’t, duck,’ the old lady said, happily. ‘I’m his mum an’ I’ve come ‘ere to see him. Nothing more natural. Even a Bobbie’ud see that.’
Melanie could see that her mother was now very deeply embarrassed and at a loss to know what to say next, so she moved in to rescue her. Poor Mum. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we take the lady up to the study and we can all have something to eat up there and sort something out. Don’t worry. We’ll arrange it, won’t we Paul? You can tell him we’re dealing with everything. Then he won’t expect us to be sitting at the table listening to him. So it’ll be win, win all round.’
Gwen was tempted, ‘Well…,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, duck,’ the old lady said to her. ‘We’ll be as good as gold.’
Gwen still looked worried but she agreed, after a bit of thought, and walked slowly across the lawn to the marquee.
‘Come on Old Gran,’ Paul said, putting out his hand to the old woman and grinning at her.
‘Where to?’
‘The kitchen,’ he told her. ‘Where else? It’s piled to the ceiling with food. Didn’t you say you were hungry?’
‘Right,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘Now you’re talking. Just let me get me bag.’ And she fished around under the hammock and pulled out a sizeable carpet bag with bamboo handles. It looked very battered and was packed tight so Paul took it and carried it for her. And was thanked and had his arm patted.
‘Your brother’s a gentleman,’ their grandma said to Melanie.
‘He’s all right,’ Melanie admitted, smiling at him, and she offered the old lady her arm. ‘Hang on and we’ll show you the way.’
So they set off together towards their father’s impressive house, following the swanky white avenue between his immaculate box hedges. And their mother stood at the entrance to the marquee, watching them anxiously and lovingly, and hoping she’d done the right thing. After a few seconds she became aware that someone was standing just behind her, and turned to see who it was.
‘You have handsome children, Lady Ponsonby-Smythe,’ Sir Timothy said, smiling at her. ‘They do you great credit.’
She assumed her hostess smile, automatically. ‘Thank you, Sir Timothy. You’re very kind.’
‘And your daughter off to Oxford, I believe, now she’s 18’ he said. ‘A clever girl.’
She was flooded with anger. Is he going to push her to go to Oxford too? I thought I’d got this all sorted out when I went to Charterhouse. I know he wasn’t there with me but I thought he’d agreed. But she answered him diplomatically. ‘That will depend on her A-level results,’ she said, as coolly as she could. ‘She might go to Warwick.’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Sir Timothy said. ‘She’ll go to Oxford. No problem. He’s set his heart on it. Oxford, PPE and then into a splendid career in politics. He’s got it all planned.’
‘Has he?’ Gwen said, bitterly.
He didn’t notice the bitterness, ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Down to the last detail. He’s so proud of his children. He thinks the world of them. Always talking about them and the great careers they have ahead of them. It makes me quite envious sometimes.’
You should have seen him beating his son, Gwen thought. You wouldn’t have such a high opinion of him if you’d seen that. But she didn’t have to conjure up another anodyne answer for him because she was rescued by the sudden opening of the kitchen doors and the emergence of the four cooks, smart in their white chef’s coats and their neat blue caps, each one pushing a three-tiered trolley loaded with dishes.
‘Time to take our seats, I think,’ she said, and led Sir Timothy into the marquee.
The trolleys took up such a lot of space that the children and their new Gran had to stand back to make room for them.
‘Bli’ ol’ Riley!’ the old woman said, gazing at the food in amazement. ‘It’s a banquet. He must be loaded.’
‘Yes,’ Melanie told her. ‘He is. He’s stinking rich. And he likes putting on a show to impress his friends.’
‘You don’t like him much,’ the old woman said, shrewdly.
‘No,’ Melanie admitted. ‘Neither of us do. He’s a phoney.’ Then she realised that she might be hurting her grandmother’s feelings and stopped. ‘I’m sorry and all that,’ she said. ‘Him being your son and everything.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ the old woman said, patting her arm. ‘He was a nasty bit a’ work when he left home an’ he ain’t changed much as far as I can see. Say whatcher like.’
As the cooks trundled past, one of them called out to Melanie and Paul. ‘Hi there kids! Aren’t you joining the party?’
‘We’re going to dine in style in our study,’ Paul said, adding, ‘with our grandma.’
The word had an instant effect. Eyes were widening all along the line.
‘In that case,’ the nearest cook said, ‘ask our sous chef to have the food sent up to you. I’m sure she will. It’s all dished up so you can have a good look at it all and choose what you want.’
‘Come on, old Gran,’ Paul said and he led the way into their enormous kitchen, delighted when the old woman sucked in her breath with surprise.
‘Ye Gods!’ she said. ‘This aint a kitchen. It’s a bleedin’ palace. Look at all the people. An’ what’s that great thing in the middle?’
‘It’s an island,’ Melanie explained. ‘Where the food’s prepared and dished up. Come an’ see.’ They walked to the island where the sous chef was giving instructions and supervising, round and red-cheeked and welcoming. ‘We’d like to have lunch in the study, Cheryl, if that’s OK,’ she explained and when the sous chef nodded her dark head, she asked, ‘What’ve you got? What’s for starters?’
‘Roasted red bell pepper with pimiento cheese, bacon and blue cheese salad with white wine vinaigrette, prawn salad,’ Cheryl said, waving a hand at each dish as she described it. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘I’ll have the prawns,’ Melanie said.
‘I think I’ll have the bacon and blue cheese,’ Paul said, smiling at Cheryl, and turned to his new grandmother. ‘What about you, old Gran?’
But Gran was looking baffled. ‘I’ve never seen food like this before,’ she said. ‘Not in all me life. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Paul grinned at her. ‘Start with the prawns,’ he advised. ‘They’re delicious. I can guarantee it.’
So she decided on the prawns and then they all went on to choose their cooked meats and salads, and when she dithered between roast turkey and roast beef, he persuaded her to have both. ‘He can afford it,’ he said, sourly. ‘He’s loaded.’
‘You can see that from the size a’ this house,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘Never mind all the grub.’
‘We’ll send you up a choice of sweets later on,’ Cheryl said. ‘Study you said, didn’t you?’
‘No rush,’ Melanie said. ‘We’re going on a tour of the house first – to show our Gran round. Isn’t that right, old Gran?’
‘Providin’ it don’t take too long,’ the old woman said. ‘I’m starvin’ hungry.’
‘It’s worth a look,’ Paul said. ‘Come on.’ Until that moment he hadn’t really taken much notice of the house. It was sumptuous, he could hardly miss that, and ridiculously big, but other than that, it was just somewhere they lived. Now he was seeing it in a proprietorial way, almost as if he owned it. ‘Wait till we show you the hall.’
