Chapter Six - Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan
Poole, Dorset
Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan was in a state of shock.
Standing now in the shower, he let the jets of hot water hit his skin, which was pleasant and uncomfortable all at once.
Reluctant to step out of the cubicle, he took his time, knowing, once he did, the day would begin in earnest, events would flow, timings would be adhered to and he’d be swept along by the tide, part of the spectacle.
He wasn’t ready, knew he’d never be ready, not really.
‘Don’t take forever, Benjamin, the cars will be here in an hour!’
‘You think I don’t know that, Marcus!’ he barked, instantly regretting his tone. It wasn’t Marcus’ fault. His younger brother, like him, was only doing his best to keep control of this surreal situation, trying to get through.
It was an odd time, the period between his father dying and today, the funeral.
Fourteen days during which he had taken trips down memory lane, picturing childhood holidays where they’d played in the sand or his dad threw him high in the swimming pool, only to catch him again.
The man ruffling his hair with affection and wrapping him in a warm hug.
Lovely though these recollections were, he had no idea where they had come from as, whoever these memories belonged to, they certainly weren’t his!
Throughout his youth there had been numerous holidays to exclusive islands in warm places, ski trips where roaring fires awaited them after a day on the slopes, weeks spent on yachts in the BVI, and they’d eaten in Michelin starred restaurants the way others ordered chicken nuggets and went large for an extra couple of quid.
Hugh Stokes-Rattigan was a man whose idea of casual dining was to loosen his tie.
During all of these jaunts, and always with a nanny or assistant in tow, his father was strangely absent.
Often present physically, but usually with a phone pressed to his ear or a laptop within tip-tapping distance or he’d be having a business discussion with a never seen before associate who would join them at the table and garner all of his attention.
In the days since the man’s death, Benjamin had watched a stream of visitors press the main gate for entry and make their way along the gravel path with flowers for Allegra and casseroles, of all things.
It made him smile, as if his father’s wife would eat casserole made in a stranger’s kitchen.
She wouldn’t. Unless those casseroles were vegan, macrobiotic and organic, and she’d had a chance to scrupulously inspect their kitchen and hygiene practices, which he very much doubted.
Allegra was a mystery to him. His stepmother of sorts and the second woman to hold the title in ten years, but at only six years older than him it was hard to view her as anything other than his father’s partner, definitely not motherly. Besides, he already had a mother, and she was wonderful.
Allegra was solely responsible for influencing his father’s decision to have a hair transplant, which had been very successful.
Tooth veneers, which were dazzling. To upgrade his designer wardrobe, which was a bit hit and miss, Benjamin felt that cowboy boots on any man not a cowboy was a bit iffy.
And of course his decision to purchase an Arancio Borealis coloured Lambo Huracan, which had proved to be a mistake, a big one, as it was now in three pieces, having wrapped itself around a sturdy oak tree on a tight bend.
Hence, the funeral.
In the aftermath of the accident, the house had felt busier than usual, as the police (emergency service, not the group), the local vicar, a funeral director, florists, a team from the bank and many of his father’s employees all at various times, took seats in the library or study, wearing similar solemn, grey-faced expressions.
Allegra and Marcus had dealt with the vicar and bank; everyone else, he had greeted.
It seemed comical, a bit of a farce, as he shook hands with the men and women who only viewed him as Hugh’s son, a pretender, as he took his father’s chair behind the big desk, feeling horribly uncomfortable. Truth was he was inclined to agree with them, it all felt like pretending.
This was not a feeling new to Benjamin, who, at the age of eighteen – with a weighty gold watch on his wrist, gifted to him by his dad along with the words, ‘you’re a man now’ – hadn’t felt like a man.
Instead he’d felt like an eighteen-year-old with a very fancy watch, but not a clue about life or how to live it.
Again at twenty-one – having signed on the dotted line, as his father proclaimed, ‘You’re a director now’ – he hadn’t felt like a director. He’d felt like a twenty-one-year-old with a title, and a very fancy three-year-old watch, who still didn’t have the first clue about life or how to live it.
Most of the staff he greeted wanted to offer him reassurance that his father’s business interests could be left safely in their care during this most unfortunate period of transition.
The car dealerships.
Yacht chandlery.
Boat sheds.
Hotels.
Office complex.
Estate Agency.
…and gyms.
What they were actually asking, and what they really wanted to know, was what was going to happen next? Were their jobs safe? Who was taking over? How would it all work?
He wished he had the answers.
His response had been pretty much the same for all parties. ‘Thank you for your condolences. We’ll do our best to get through this and then work on the detail when things have settled down…’
Even he wasn’t sure what this word salad meant, but noted how most went away with a spring in their step and dropped shoulders indicating a lack of tension, which was good.
‘My job is to keep the ship steady.’ His father said this a lot.
Benjamin, unfortunately, had always had a tendency towards sea sickness, especially on choppy water.
He had, as the oldest child, been tasked with delivering his father’s eulogy.
A matter that weighed most heavily on his gym-honed shoulders which showed no sign of dropping any time soon.
He’d sat at the dining room table with a leather-bound notebook open and his trusty Mont Blanc in his hand, tapping the weighty writing instrument on the blank page, hoping words might fall from the nib.
They didn’t.
He resorted to Google and read how others had paid homage to their fathers in their darkest hours. One or two missives seemed eloquent and heartfelt. He cut and pasted the text onto his phone, deciding to edit the words and rework them to fit the way he felt about his father.
It was only after he’d scratched through the bits that didn’t apply and blanked out anything too schmalzy that he abandoned this method too.
‘I really, really loved my Dad. He was my hero! Always there for me, he was my best friend, my guardian angel even in life! He loved cricket. My dad was my biggest cheerleader, I will be forever thankful for his guidance. He was my rock.’
‘How’s the urology going?’ Allegra had asked only a couple of days ago. His stepmother was, as he’d heard his father once cruelly describe her, untroubled by the weight of intellect.
‘Umm.’ Ordinarily he’d have made a straight-faced comment about the amount of study required, and how it was the male genitourinary tract, with fiddly details of the kidneys, bladder, and prostate that were proving most taxing.
But he didn’t, not when they were in this sticky limbo between death and funeral.
Emotions were running high, and Allegra’s mascara looked permanently smudged, suggesting tears or excessive laughter, he wasn’t sure which. ‘Good, yeah, good.’ Felt safer.
The fact that he was now only an hour or so away from having to stand in front of the great and good of his father’s circle and every distant relative and acquaintance this side of Bath, to deliver a speech about the man himself, was nothing short of terrifying.
‘Benjamin, cars will be here in about an hour!’
‘Yep, thanks,’ he called out to Allegra. He was never late, yet today everyone seemed to think he might rock up when it suited him, missing the grand entrance entirely or, worse still, arriving as everyone was leaving.
Now wouldn’t that be terrible.
Yes, Benjamin was in a state of shock. Not because of his father’s untimely demise, although, yes, that too, but more because of a very peculiar visit that had occurred five days ago.
‘There’s a bloke in Dad’s study.’ Marcus had spoken, mouth full of bagel, as Benjamin entered the kitchen that morning in search of coffee.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dunno!’ his brother shrugged.
‘Well, is he here to fix something, deliver something, talk to someone?’ The lack of detail was irritating.
‘Talk to you.’ Marcus clicked his fingers, as if only just remembering, and took another large bite of bagel. ‘He said he was here to talk to you.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m supposed to be meeting Dan.’ His friend, and the pickleball court, would just have to wait.
Opening the study door, he saw the back of the man, suited, booted and staring at his father’s impressive portrait which hung over the fireplace.
‘That’s some painting.’ He whistled, turning to smile at Benjamin.
‘Yes, a terrible loss. Erm, forgive me, but do you have an appointment, I didn’t catch your name?’ He did his best to make the necessary enquiries without appearing rude.
‘That’s because I haven’t given anyone my name yet!’ the man laughed. ‘My name is Chen.’
‘Chen-?’
‘Just Chen!’ he laughed.
‘I see, well, Just Chen, thank you so much for stopping by, how can I help you?’ The grandfather clock ticked loudly, a reminder that time was passing, and Dan would be warming up.
‘Might we sit down?’ Chen nodded towards the desk and the wide leather chairs on either side.
‘Sure, although I don’t have too much time, I’m already late for—’
‘Daniel won’t mind waiting,’ Chen spoke, as he sat in front of the desk.
‘You know Daniel?’ It was curious, who was this guy?