Chapter Six - Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan #2
‘I know everyone!’ Chen laughed and Benjamin laughed too, taking his father’s seat behind the desk.
‘Yes, it’s a small place. What can I do for you, Chen?’ he coughed to clear the awkwardness from his throat.
‘It’s more a question of what I can do for you.’
‘Oh! I see.’ He sat back in the chair, as the penny dropped.
This kind of tactic wasn’t unheard of, yet it was still a shock that someone might consider this a good time to shoot their shot.
When you had plenty of money, you were often a magnet for those with a great idea, a brilliant scheme, a brand-new product, a revolutionary service, or the best X, Y or Z you have ever tasted!
This guy, it seemed, was no more than a chancer who had managed to get into the house, and now Benjamin needed to figure out how to get him out of the house with the minimum amount of fuss.
He placed his phone on the desktop, knowing a quick button press would summon the gardener who was somewhere on the grounds. Ignacio was ex special forces, as skilled with his fists and a carefully concealed baton as he was with a pair of secateurs.
‘I fear you’ve had a wasted journey, Chen, but I would like to thank you for taking the time out to—’
‘You won’t need to call Ignacio.’ Chen joined his hands and folded them into his lap. ‘I mean you no harm.’
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Benjamin sat forward in the chair with a growing sense of alarm. ‘You’ve clearly been studying me, studying us, what is it you want?’ His patience was waning.
‘I want to tell you something, it won’t take long, but I think it might help you, Benjamin.’
‘And how much is this “help” going to cost me?’ he drew inverted commas in the air.
‘It’s free, actually.’ Chen smiled.
‘Free? So what’s in it for you?’
‘It’s my job.’ The man clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.
‘Okay, let’s hear it.’ He sighed, joining his hands on the desktop, still with one eye on the clock. ‘You’ve got five minutes, tops.’
The man spoke slowly, his tone calming and hypnotic.
‘What I am going to tell you will sound implausible, ridiculous even, but trust me when I tell you that I have never and will never tell you a lie…’
Chen’s visit had been comical. Benjamin, having ushered him out of the door, had laughed and laughed, managing to put the words of the charlatan out of his mind by the time he finally made it to pickleball, where he and Daniel had thrashed it out on the court.
It was the next night, Saturday, while Allegra was in her room, Marcus was out with the lads, and Ignacio was in his cottage by the main gate, that Benjamin found himself sitting in the very chair Chen had occupied at a little before eleven p.m.
He laughed to himself, as he stared at the imposing portrait of his father, took a slug of the old man’s brandy in a cut glass tumbler and closed his eyes.
‘What are you doing, Benjamin?’ he’d laughed, wondering if he might work this moment of madness into the bloody eulogy – maybe mentioning how grief had taken him on a trip that had resulted in him sitting in the chair of his father’s study, believing he might be about to communicate with the dead.
If nothing else, he figured it would lighten the mood, guarantee a laugh.
‘What are you smirking at?’
Benjamin took a sharp intake of breath. It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be possible, but there he was!
His father! Sitting in the big chair opposite him on the other side of the desk.
It came back to him then, all of it, this moment – about four months ago, he’d popped in to get some paperwork signed, Hugh had just arrived back from a trip to Zurich.
‘N… nothing, Dad! I, I,’
‘Spit it out!’
He’d almost forgotten how he stuttered in his father’s presence.
What did he want to say? What was important?
He tried to recall how long Chen had said he’d be given, was it ten minutes?
He knew it wasn’t long. The time pressure only added to his nerves.
It was bizarre seeing the man alive, whole and unblemished and yet curiously he felt very little, not like if his lovely mum were to pass and he got to see her again.
A lump formed in his throat at no more than the prospect.
He loved her dearly and she loved him, it was a wonderful and comforting thing, that knowledge.
‘Did, did you love my mum?’
‘Good Lord! Did I love your mother, where on earth has that come from?’ Hugh asked with a confused expression. The Stokes-Rattigans didn’t do emotion. Never had. ‘I suppose so. But you know what they say, Benjamin, all good things come to an end.’
‘They also say, all good things come to those who wait. Maybe if you’d waited until she was better, finished her treatment, you might have been given the biggest reward of all, you might even have been happy.’
He knew he would never have found the confidence to speak so plainly if his father were not dead and this were not a once in a lifetime opportunity. His father spoke plainly.
‘Possibly, but I think happiness is overrated.’
‘You do?’ there was nothing left his father could say that would shock him, but this came close.
‘Yes. People think it’s everything, but happiness is only one emotion. Why are we all so obsessed with it?’
‘B… because it feels nice?’
‘Poppycock! So does a warm bath, a cold G & T, hitting a hole in one in front of the club chairman, and getting a seat on the train, yet they can’t become the driving force of life! It’s a ridiculous notion! Power feels nice. Winning feels nice. Success feels nice!’
‘And they make you happy?’ he pushed.
‘Not always. For me it’s about getting right on to the next thing, facing the next challenge, that makes me feel good. Keeping busy!’
‘Maybe, contentment is the answer?’ Benjamin spoke softly.
‘Good lord! Contentment is for goldfish and simpletons! You see them, don’t you?
Average Joes walking around in tracksuits, hand in hand in revolting displays of sentimentality, only worrying about what beige thing to have for supper and looking forward to watching something on the telly!
Give me strength! Such small, small lives. ’
‘It must be exhausting, Dad, always getting right on to the next thing. Don’t you ever want to rest?’
‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’ His father winked. ‘I have responsibilities, need to keep the ship steady.’
‘I’ve never really known what that means,’ he levelled.
His father let out a nasal snort of irritation, ‘It means I have to have a hand on the tiller at all times! Means I need to keep an eye on all aspects of our business interests to make sure they don’t all go tits up and we lose the bloody lot!
’ He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth.
‘It means that every little thing needs my approval, from the colour of the walls in this study to where to invest next, or the brand of bloody fabric softener we use on the towels in the gym. Standards, Benjamin!’
‘Jesus!’ it was a scary insight into just how tightly his dad gripped that tiller.
‘Not sure what he’s got to do with it, but can you try and be a bit less flippant, what’s got into you? You sound like your mother!’
‘I think if, if I sound like Mum it’s a good thing.’ he pictured his lovely mum.
His father stared, a slight twitch below his left eye.
‘I sometimes wonder if you’re made of the right stuff, Benjamin.’
‘Do you know, Dad.’ He stood, aware that, if he left the room, he’d lose any remaining time and in that moment caring less. ‘I sometimes wonder that too.’
‘And now what, are you flouncing off to lick your wounds?’
He stared at his dad, seeing the glint of cruelty in his eye, the thin-lipped disapproval that dripped from his mouth.
‘Do you… do you love me, Dad? Because you’ve never made it clear, never said it.’ He gripped the back of the chair.
‘What in Christ’s name has got into you? You must be nearly thirty, bit late for wanting a cuddle from daddy!’
‘I am thirty,’ he corrected.
Hugh continued unabashed.
‘Do you think my father ever told me he loved me, do you think he hugged me and brought me warm milk and cookies, read me a bedtime bloody story?’
‘I’m guessing not.’
‘You’d guess right, and it made me the man I am!’ Hugh banged his hand on the desk.
It saddened him not to receive a response.
‘You haven’t answered my question, Dad, do you love me?’
Hugh looked down at the desk and took a moment, his discomfort evident. And it spoke volumes. It saddened him, that his father had not experienced the warm and comforting knowledge that Benjamin shared with his mother, would never know what it felt like to love your child and be loved in return.
‘I think it’s very easy, Dad, to say I do, I love you, I love you! It takes seconds, and would, I think, make all the difference.’
Benjamin turned to leave the room, and, in the same second, shuddered, finding himself once more alone at the desk with his brandy.
‘What the hell!’ He took slow breaths, staring at the painting of the old man above the mantelpiece. ‘What the actual hell!’
So yes, Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan was in shock, and it wasn’t solely down to the fact that his father had died, but more what had occurred in the study, when he’d been gifted time by Chen.
Stepping from the shower, he dried himself slowly and wiped the steam from the mirror, staring at the face looking back at him.
‘I guess that’s the question, are you made of the right stuff?’ he asked, saddened, again not to receive a response.
The church was, as he’d expected, busy. His mother took a seat towards the back of the room.
She stood out to him, the woman who loved him unconditionally.
It was surreal, hearing the accolades listed of the man who was his father, listening to the stirring music while the mahogany and brass coffin bedecked in lilies sat on a trestle by the alter, closest to God.
‘…and now his son, Benjamin.’
He almost missed his cue, before standing and walking briskly to the shiny brass lectern, still quite unsure of what to say, where to start.
‘Thank you all for coming here today.’ His voice rang out.
It threw him a little. ‘I know it would mean a lot to my father to see this service so well attended. What can I say about Hugh Stokes-Rattigan? He was a man who, who loved cricket.’ He paused.
‘A man who believed happiness was overrated and that contentment is for goldfish and simpletons.’ He looked out over the congregation whose expressions were mostly perplexed.
‘He was married to my mother for a while, his first wife. She’s a remarkable woman, my mum.
She lives quietly and kindly in a cottage along the coast. My father left her when she was fighting breast cancer.
I’m sure he loved her in his own way, but all good things come to an end, right?
’ There was the faint ripple of awkward laughter that echoed up to the rafters.
‘I’ve come to the conclusion over the last couple of weeks that, actually, I’m a simpleton.
’ This time, as he spoke with tears sheeting his face and all eyes on him, the room was very quiet, gripped by the sincerity of his words, ‘I’m not my father.
I want to walk around in a tracksuit and worry about what to have for supper.
I want to look forward to watching something on the telly.
I want to figure out life and how to live it.
I want not to feel like an imposter. I don’t want to keep the ship steady, I want to dive into the water and swim!
’ His head fell forward, as his sadness poured from him, and he wiped away his tears with the palm of his hand.
‘I’d like to end by saying, that’s my advice to you all, especially you, Marcus.
’ He held his brother’s gaze, ‘just dive into the water, and swim.’
It was as he walked from behind the brass lectern that Marcus shook his head, and mouthed, ‘Dickhead!’
The air outside the church was fresh, the sky blue, and the sun did its best to make its presence felt.
Benjamin looked back at the solid doors of the church where He Who Would Valiant Be was being sung with vigour.
‘You might be right, Marcus, but I’m a dickhead who is free! I’m bloody free!’
Loosening his tie, he ran then, down to the beach, towards the sea.
He began to hum the tune of Message in a Bottle, by The Police (the group, not the emergency service) – knowing he was done with being lonely and was not about to risk his life falling into despair.
‘Thank you, Chen!’ he called, as he kicked of his well-polished shoes, peeled off his cashmere socks, and prepared to dive in…
‘Thank you!’