The Lace Balcony (19 page)

Felix flinched at the jarring note of the nickname Mungo had given his mother as a child, but allowed it to pass.
Please God, allow Mutti to remember what Mungo has suffered – and handle him with tact. Or history will repeat itself – and Father's heart will be broken again.

‘You realise, Mungo, your assignment is purely a formality. For all intents and purposes Sean O'Connor has disappeared off the face of the earth – forever.'

‘So I've got my own identity back, have I? Where exactly have I been?'

‘As far as the servants are concerned you've been in Kororaeka – successfully trading with American, British and French whalers based around the North Island.'

‘New Zealand, eh? Listen, I've a great plan that could make us a fortune –'

Felix was quick to cut him short. ‘We must go downstairs. Mother wants an audience with you – to discuss your future. Of course I am available to be present.'

‘Can't face Mrs Less on your own, eh?'

Felix ignored the taunt. ‘Please hurry.'

‘Hang on. I need to see my own mother first.'

‘This won't take long – Father's instructions.'

‘Still the perfect son, eh?'

‘I'll leave you to get dressed,' Felix said stiffly.

•  •  •

They paused before the door of her personal sitting room from which came halting notes on the pianoforte, followed by the accomplished repetition of the piece.

Mungo recognised the German folk song. ‘That's ‘The Moon is Risen', right? She made you play all seven verses of it.'

‘Mother now teaches pianoforte as a reward to our servants' children for their progress in reading and writing. The
servants
are most grateful.'

He knocked and they entered when Albruna L'Estrange inclined her head to grant them permission. She spoke gently to the small boy, ‘Go straight to the kitchen, lad. Ask Cook to give you a slice of cake. You've done well.'

When she turned to examine Mungo, Felix did not miss the flicker of surprise she quickly suppressed.
Poor Mutti. She has seen the same thing I saw – Mungo's so changed he now bears an extraordinary resemblance to Father as a young man.

‘There is no need for you to remain, Felix.'

Mungo made an obligatory bow and Felix smiled uneasily, determined to lighten the mood. ‘I would prefer to remain, Mother. It is not every day I have the pleasure of welcoming my half-brother home.'

Albruna looked up sharply at his gentle, unexpected rebuke as Felix drew out a chair for Mungo and stood stiffly behind him.

‘Be seated, Felix. The pair of you look as though you are posing for a portrait.' She turned directly to Mungo. ‘So! What have you to say for yourself?'

‘I would be an ingrate if I didn't first thank you – and Father – for saving my life and for your years of effort to free me.'

‘Your thanks are best placed with my husband. Your assignment to me was
his
idea.'

Felix stammered in reassurance. ‘A mere formality, Mungo. Your early release was a reward for the evidence you gave at the inquest into Logan's murder.'

Mungo stiffened, a reaction that Felix saw did not escape his mother.

‘Not purely a formality, Felix,' she said. ‘Sean O'Connor has served his time. We will never refer to him again. But I expect the Prodigal Son to mend his ways and serve this family with loyalty.'

Felix flinched.
Prodigal Son and servant – must you rub salt in the wound?

Mungo's voice had a distinct edge. ‘There's a wise Manx saying – Don't tell me what I was, but tell me what I am.'

Felix hurriedly intercepted Mungo's baiting reference to Jane Quayle. ‘Mungo will be invaluable in another capacity, Mother. I have organised a place for him in a new arm of the family's estate management – at Father's express wish. As you know, I am able to communicate with Father better than anyone else – since his illness.'

‘So I am to understand.' Clearly thwarted, his mother retained her dignity. ‘In that case, young Quayle, you are on trial. You may now both take your leave.'

Mother chooses to forget Mungo was born in this house. I know that's a painful memory for her, but she's acting as if he is a serf.

The moment Felix closed the door behind them they exchanged a rueful glance at the sound of the ominously heavy chords of the ‘Dead March in Saul'.

‘Well, I've survived the first round, thanks to you.' Mungo added lightly, ‘I'd have made a rotten servant – too much of the Currency Lad in me. I welcome the chance of working in a new field.' He added reluctantly, ‘I owe you.'

‘It's no more than you deserve. Now I must take you to Father's chambers. I must warn you not to tire him. He eagerly awaits you, but prepare yourself. We have hopes of his eventual recovery in time. But he is not the same man since his heart seizure. You will need to do most of the talking – with myself as interpreter.'

Mungo frowned. ‘That bad, ugh? I didn't know. Never received a single letter from you.'

‘I assure you we wrote regularly,' Felix said defensively.

He had no sooner knocked on the door than the expected sound of a barely intelligible, excited male voice barked in response.

Felix studied the moment of their reunion, anxious about its effect on his father's health. Mungo stood in the doorway, frozen by the reality of their father's debilitated appearance. He quickly camouflaged his reaction. Striding across the room he flung himself into his father's open arms.

Laughing and crying unashamedly they talked over each other, gripping hold of each other like two sailors lost at sea who had each found a life raft in the other.

‘You old bastard!' Mungo cried, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘If you'd upped and died on me while I was at Moreton Bay – I'd have killed you!'

The absurd threat was so heartfelt that Kentigern roared with laughter and with both hands, the strong one and the crippled claw, he stroked Mungo's hair and face as if moulding him lovingly from clay.

Felix realized with a pang of envy that his presence was obsolete. The deep mutual love between this father and son needed no
interpreter. Moved by the scene but at the same time hollow, Felix backed from the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

The sound of Mungo's earthy laughter and his father's raucous, gravel-voiced attempts to join in followed Felix as he hurried downstairs to the family office.

Here at least I can be sure of being Father's right-hand man.

Mungo returned to his former schoolroom and hurriedly shed Felix's formal suit in favour of the casual clothing his half-brother had also provided. He brushed his hair, washed his face and hands once again with the forgotten luxury of soap, then knotted a neckerchief at the open neck of the fine linen shirt. He was far more at home in these moleskin trousers and riding boots, yet suddenly felt like a boy again, unsure about facing his own mother's punishment after a boyish prank.

Mungo felt emotionally exhausted after his reunion with his father, whom he had left sleeping peacefully. He had been shocked that at Moreton Bay the memories of his father's loved, patrician's features, distorted by paralysis, now resembled two sides of a gargoyle, one half smiling in his sleep, the other a grimace that he hoped time would gradually restore to normal.

The old schoolroom, transformed into a comfortable bedchamber, was a wry reminder that although he had studied here for years, last night was the first time he had ever slept at Rockingham Hall.
I had to become a convicted criminal before Mrs Less granted me that privilege.

When a gangling, open-faced girl made an awkward bob at the door, introduced herself and delivered an envelope on a tray, Mungo registered surprise.

‘Thanks, Molly. Word travels fast. I wonder who knows I'm back home?'

‘If you open it, Mr Quayle, they might be waiting on an answer,' she suggested helpfully.

‘If I can call you Molly, I reckon it's only fair you call me Mungo, right?'

He tore open the envelope, aware of the irony of its speedy arrival compared to the three years he had been hungry for mail at Moreton Bay – none received until the final weeks of his sentence.

The note was from Nathan Bloom and Sons, his father's tailors,
to confirm the appointment Felix had made for him to be measured for his new wardrobe. Written in customary flowery trading style, it thanked Mungo for his valued custom.

‘Thank you, Molly. No reply needed.' She bobbed a curtsey and he smiled in appreciation as he watched her light steps skipping down the stairs.

Molly's the first female face I've seen close up in three years. I'd forgotten how nice and clean girls smell.

From force of habit, Mungo took the servants' back stairs, passing an elderly servant who had been L'Estrange's man as long as Mungo could remember.

This bloke must have done his time by now – unless he's a Lifer. Hell, I've forgotten his name! And he doesn't recognise me.

The old man looked startled then bowed his head. ‘Welcome home, Sir. You won't remember me, Old Crawford, Sir.'

‘How could I ever forget you, Crawford? Rockingham Hall would have fallen apart years ago if you didn't keep the wheels turning. And it's Mungo!'

‘I hardly recognised you, lad. New Zealand has made a man of you.'

‘You could say that. But I'm the same Mungo I was as a kid. Remember that day the clothes lines were filled with L'Estrange' bed sheets? And I used them for target practice – covered the lot of them with mud balls?'

‘Indeed. You were quite a handful. Mrs L'Estrange believed in “Spare the rod and spoil the child”. So I was the one ordered to give you a ten of the best with a razor strap. But you took it like a little man. Not a whimper out of you.'

Mungo flinched at an unwanted flash of memory – Moreton Bay.

The sound of the lash. The scourger taunting him, ‘I'll have you blubbering before three hundred, O'Connor.'

‘Want to bet?' Mungo said through clenched teeth. The next ‘stripe' brought merciful blackness . . .

He was jolted back to the present by Old Crawford's words. ‘I mustn't keep you. Jane Quayle has been on tenterhooks for weeks.'

•  •  •

The path leading through the long rectangular garden was lusher and denser than Mungo remembered. Exotic trees and shrubs had been
planted by Albruna L'Estrange as a young bride, passionate about landscaping her first home to reflect her husband's love of native flora. These trees now towered along each boundary of the estate, lined by lower levels of native shrubs that Mungo knew bore incongruous Latin botanical names, replacing the names the blacks had used forever.

He recognised a species Sandy Gordon had admired at Moreton Bay and Mungo had identified as
Xanthorrhoea Macronema
, charming little grass trees whose single black trunks bore long reed-like leaves showering from the top. He knew the Aboriginal name for them was
balga
grass, their word for ‘black boy' due to the plants' resemblance to childlike black figures.

Their cream flower spikes would blossom throughout summer, along with the beds of English and German flowers that Mrs L'Estrange instructed be maintained to her high standards, despite the different climate and invasions of tropical bugs.

I'll say one thing in her favour. No matter the odds against her, that woman never admits defeat. She might hate me, but she never gave up on me. And she's determined to outlast her rival – but then so is my mam. God knows how it will end.

He noted that the trees that framed the scene with apparent wild abandon had been carefully shaped so as not to screen the view between the twin mansions and the cabins at the far end of the garden. Seeing the cottage, his heart lifted. The long road from Moreton Bay was at an end.

Mungo walked down the narrow walkway lying between his mother's cottage and the stables, at what he had always thought of as ‘the poor man's end' of Rockingham Hall estate. No surprise to find the side door was open. Her tiny living room was filled with the smell of Manx cooking and there were baskets and tubs of herbs filling every conceivable space.

Jane Quayle was sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, its empty grate filled with pots of lavender and sage. The air smelled clean and sweet.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mam.' He wasn't sure if the words sounded like a flippant reference to Moreton Bay – or his tardiness in calling on her.

‘Your father has been living for the day. It was only right you go to him first.'

‘Are you going to give me a hug, or aren't you?' he said gently, holding out his arms to her.

She half rose to greet him, but sank down in the chair as if unsure her legs would carry her.

‘Take thy time – it will come to thee.' Mungo said the Manx proverb softly. The words were enough to send her stumbling into his arms, laughing and crying all at once. Then she stood back, prodding him to assure herself he was flesh and blood.

‘Don't move!' she ordered, then ran to the dresser to take a down a bottle of Glen Kella Manx whisky from the shelf. With trembling hands she unscrewed the cap.

‘Your father gave it to me the week you were saved from the gallows – to keep for your homecoming. Three years. Let's hope it's still drinkable.'

Together they raised their glasses in the traditional toast made by Manx fishermen, who often drowned while making a precarious living from the sea. ‘Life to man and death to fish'. Jane Quayle said the words in Manx Gaelic, Mungo in English, at the same time.

‘Shame on you, you've forgotten the mother tongue I taught you.'

‘It slipped my mind,' Mungo said, ‘but I've not forgotten that
grog
is the reason I was born!'