Best Kept Secret

31





‘I’M NOT SURE if he’s in,’ said a man Sebastian could never forget. ‘But I’ll check.’

‘Seb!’ a voice echoed down the marble corridor. ‘It’s so good to see you, old chap,’ Bruno added as he shook hands with his friend. ‘I was afraid I might never see you again, if the rumours were true.’

‘What rumours?’

‘Karl, please ask Elena to serve tea in the drawing room.’

Bruno led Sebastian into the house. At Beechcroft, Sebastian had always taken the lead, with Bruno his willing lieutenant. Now the roles were reversed as the guest followed his host down a corridor and into the drawing room. Sebastian had always thought he had been brought up in a degree of comfort, even luxury, but what greeted him when he entered the drawing room would have taken minor royalty by surprise. The paintings, the furniture, even the carpets wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum.

‘What rumours?’ repeated Sebastian nervously, as he took a seat on the edge of the sofa.

‘I’ll come to that in a moment,’ said Bruno. ‘But first, tell me why you left so suddenly? One minute you were sitting with Vic and me in the study, and the next you’d disappeared.’

‘Didn’t the headmaster say anything at morning assembly the next day?’

‘Not a word, which only added to the mystery. Everyone had a theory of course, but as both the housemaster and Banks-Williams were silent as the grave, no one knew what was fact and what was fiction. I asked Matron, that fount of all knowledge, but she clammed up whenever your name was mentioned. Most unlike her. Vic feared the worst, but then his glass is always half empty. He was convinced you’d been expelled and that was the last we’d hear of you, but I told him we’d all meet up again at Cambridge.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Sebastian. ‘Vic was right.’ He then told his friend everything that had happened since his interview with the headmaster earlier in the week, leaving Bruno in no doubt how devastated he was to have lost his place at Cambridge.

When he came to the end of his story, Bruno said, ‘So that’s why Hilly-Billy called me to his study after assembly on Wednesday morning.’

‘What punishment did you get?’

‘Six of the best, my prefect status removed, plus a warning that any further indiscretions and I’d be rusticated.’

‘I might have got away with just being rusticated,’ said Sebastian, ‘if Hilly-Billy hadn’t caught me smoking on the train to London.’

‘Why go to London when you had a ticket for Bristol?’

‘I was going to hang around here until Friday, and then go home on the last day of term. Ma and Pa aren’t due back from the States until tomorrow, so I figured they’d be none the wiser. If I hadn’t bumped into Hilly-Billy on the train, I would have got away with it.’

‘But if you take the train to Bristol today, they still won’t be any the wiser.’

‘No chance,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t forget what Hilly-Billy said. “School rules will still apply to you until the last day of term,” he mimicked, clinging on to the lapels of his jacket. “Should you break even one of them, I will not hesitate to reconsider my position concerning your place at Cambridge. Is that understood?” Within an hour of being booted out of his office, I’d broken three rules, right under his nose!’

A maid entered the room carrying a large silver tray weighed down with food that neither of them had ever experienced at Beechcroft.

Bruno buttered a hot muffin. ‘As soon as we’ve had tea, why don’t you go back to the guest house and pick up your things. You can stay here tonight, and we’ll try and work out what you should do next.’

‘But how will your pa feel about that?’

‘On the way here from school, I told him I wouldn’t be going up to Cambridge in September if it hadn’t been for you taking the blame. He said I was lucky to have such a friend, and he’d like the chance to thank you personally.’

‘If Banks-Williams had seen you first, Bruno, you would have done exactly the same thing.’

‘That’s not the point, Seb. He saw you first, so I got away with a thrashing and Vic escaped scot free, and only just in time, because Vic had been hoping to get to know Ruby more intimately.’

‘Ruby,’ repeated Sebastian. ‘Did you find out what happened to her?’

‘She disappeared on the same day as you. Cook told me we wouldn’t be seeing her again.’

‘And you still think I have a chance of going to Cambridge?’

Both boys fell silent.

‘Elena,’ said Bruno when the maid returned, carrying a large fruitcake, ‘my friend will be returning to Paddington to pick up his things. Would you ask the chauffeur to drive him, and have a guest room prepared by the time he gets back?’

‘I’m afraid the chauffeur has just left to pick up your father from the office. I’m not expecting them back before dinner.’

‘Then you’ll have to take a taxi,’ said Bruno. ‘But not until you’ve sampled cook’s fruitcake.’

‘I’ve barely enough money for a bus, let alone a taxi,’ whispered Sebastian.

‘I’ll book you one and put it on my father’s account,’ said Bruno as he picked up the cake knife.



‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Mrs Tibbet, once Sebastian had told her everything that had happened that afternoon. ‘But I still think you should phone your parents and let them know where you are. After all, you still can’t be certain you’ve lost your place at Cambridge.’

‘Ruby’s been sacked, my housemaster refuses to discuss the subject, even Matron, who is never short of an opinion, wouldn’t say a word. I can promise you, Mrs Tibbet, I won’t be going up to Cambridge. In any case, my parents aren’t back from America until tomorrow, so I couldn’t get in touch with them even if I wanted to.’

Mrs Tibbet kept her counsel. ‘Well, if you’re leaving,’ she said, ‘you’d better go and pack your things because I could use the room. I’ve already had to turn away three customers.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Sebastian left the kitchen and ran back up the stairs to his room. Once he’d packed and tidied up, he returned to find Mrs Tibbet and Janice standing in the hall waiting for him.

‘It’s been a memorable week, quite memorable,’ said Mrs Tibbet as she opened the front door, ‘and one Janice and me are unlikely to forget.’

‘When I write my memoirs, Tibby, you’ll get a whole chapter,’ Sebastian said as they walked out on to the pavement together.

‘You’ll have forgotten us both long before then,’ she said wistfully.

‘Not a hope. This will become my second home, you’ll see.’ Sebastian planted a kiss on Janice’s cheek, before giving Tibby a long hug. ‘You’re not going to get rid of me quite that easily,’ he added as he climbed back into the waiting taxi.

Mrs Tibbet and Janice waved as the cab began its journey back to Eaton Square. Tibby had wanted to tell him one more time, for heaven’s sake ring your mother the minute she gets back from America, but she knew it would be pointless.

‘Janice, go and change the sheets in number seven,’ she said as the taxi turned right at the end of the road and disappeared out of sight. Mrs Tibbet quickly returned to the house. If Seb wouldn’t get in touch with his mother, she would.



That evening, Bruno’s father took the boys to the Ritz for dinner; more champagne, and Sebastian’s first experience of oysters. Don Pedro, as he insisted Sebastian call him, thanked him again and again for shouldering the blame and making it possible for Bruno still to go to Cambridge. ‘So British,’ he kept repeating.

Bruno sat silently picking at his food, rarely joining in the conversation. All his confidence of the afternoon seemed to have evaporated in the presence of his father. But the biggest surprise of the evening came when Don Pedro revealed that Bruno had two older brothers, Diego and Luis, something he’d never mentioned before, and they’d certainly never visited him at Beechcroft Abbey. Sebastian wanted to ask why, but as his friend kept his head bowed, he decided he’d wait until they were alone.

‘They work alongside me in the family business,’ said Don Pedro.

‘And what is the family business?’ asked Sebastian innocently.

‘Import and export,’ said Don Pedro without going into detail.

Don Pedro offered his young guest his first Cuban cigar, and asked what he planned to do now he wouldn’t be going to Cambridge. Sebastian admitted between coughs, ‘I suppose I’ll have to look for a job.’

‘Would you like to earn yourself a hundred pounds cash? There’s something you could do for me in Buenos Aires, and you’d be back in England by the end of the month.’

‘Thank you, sir, that’s most generous. But what would I be expected to do for such a large sum of money?’

‘Come to Buenos Aires with me next Monday, stay for a few days as my guest, then take a package back to Southampton on the Queen Mary.’

‘But why me? Surely one of your staff could carry out such a simple task?’

‘Because the package contains a family heirloom,’ said Don Pedro without missing a beat, ‘and I need someone who speaks both Spanish and English, and can be trusted. The way you conducted yourself when Bruno was in trouble convinces me that you’re the right man –’ and looking at Bruno, he added, ‘and perhaps this is my way of saying thank you.’

‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ said Sebastian, not able to believe his luck.

‘Let me give you ten pounds in advance,’ Don Pedro said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. ‘You’ll get the other ninety on the day you sail back to England.’ He removed two five-pound notes from his wallet and pushed them across the table. It was more money than Sebastian had been given in his life. ‘Why don’t you and Bruno enjoy yourselves this weekend? After all, you’ve earned it.’

Bruno said nothing.



As soon as the last guest had been served, Mrs Tibbet instructed Janice to hoover the dining room and lay up for tomorrow’s breakfast, but not until she’d finished the washing-up, as if she’d never given the order before. Then Mrs Tibbet disappeared upstairs. Janice assumed she was going to her office to prepare the morning shopping list, but instead she just sat at her desk staring at the phone. She poured herself a glass of whisky, something she rarely did before her last guest had gone to bed, took a gulp and picked up the receiver.

‘Directory enquiries,’ she said, and waited until another voice came on the line.

‘What name?’ asked the voice.

‘Mr Harry Clifton,’ she replied.

‘And which city?’

‘Bristol.’

‘And the address?’

‘I don’t have it, but he’s a famous author,’ said Mrs Tibbet, trying to sound as if she knew him. She waited for some time and began to wonder if she’d been cut off, until the voice said, ‘That subscriber’s number is ex-directory, madam, so I’m afraid I’m unable to put you through.’

‘But this is an emergency.’

‘I’m sorry, madam, but I couldn’t put you through if you were the Queen of England.’

Mrs Tibbet put down the phone. She sat for some time wondering if there was any other way of getting in touch with Mrs Clifton. Then she thought of Janice, and returned to the kitchen.

‘Where do you buy those paperbacks you’ve always got your head in?’ she asked Janice.

‘At the station, on my way in to work,’ Janice replied as she continued with the washing-up. Mrs Tibbet cleaned the Aga while she thought about Janice’s reply. Once she’d completed the job to her satisfaction, she took off her apron, folded it neatly, picked up her shopping basket and announced, ‘I’m off to the shops.’

After leaving the guest house, she didn’t turn right as she did every other morning, when she would head for the butcher in search of the finest slices of Danish bacon, the greengrocer for the freshest fruit, and the baker for the warmest loaves as they were taken from the oven, and even then she would only buy them if the price was sensible. But not today. Today she turned left and walked towards Paddington Station.

She kept a firm grip on her purse, as she’d been told once too often by disillusioned guests that they’d been robbed within moments of setting foot in London – Sebastian being the latest example. The boy was so mature for his age, and yet still so naïve.

Mrs Tibbet felt unusually nervous as she crossed the road and joined the bustling crowd of commuters making their way into the station. Perhaps it was because she’d never been inside a bookshop before. She hadn’t had much time to read since her husband and baby son had been killed fifteen years ago in a bombing raid on the East End. If the child had lived, he would have been about the same age as Sebastian.

Without a roof to cover her head, Tibby had migrated west, like a bird that needs to find new feeding grounds. She took a job at the Safe Haven guest house as a general dogsbody. Three years later she became the waitress, and when the owner died, she didn’t so much inherit the guest house as take it on, since the bank was looking for someone, anyone, to pay the mortgage.

She nearly went under, but in 1951 she was rescued by the Festival of Britain, which attracted a million extra visitors to London, making it possible for the guest house to show a profit for the first time. That profit had increased every year, if only by a small margin, and now the mortgage had been paid off and the business was hers. She relied on her regulars to get her through the winter, as she had learned early on that those who rely solely on passing trade soon have to close their doors.

Mrs Tibbet snapped out of her daydream and looked around the station until her eyes settled on a W.H. Smith sign. She watched as seasoned travellers dashed in and out. Most only bought a morning paper for a halfpenny, but others at the back of the shop were browsing among the bookshelves.

She ventured in but then stood helplessly in the middle of the shop, getting in the customers’ way. When she spotted a woman at the back stacking books on to the shelves from a wooden trolley, she walked over to her, but didn’t interrupt her work.

The assistant looked up. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ she asked politely.

‘Have you heard of an author called Harry Clifton?’

‘Oh yes,’ the assistant replied. ‘He’s one of our most popular authors. Was there a particular title you were looking for?’ Mrs Tibbet shook her head. ‘Then let’s go and see what we have in stock.’ The assistant walked to the other side of the shop, with Mrs Tibbet following in her wake, stopping when she reached a section labelled CRIME. The William Warwick Mysteries were stacked in a neat row, with several gaps confirming how popular the author was. ‘And of course,’ continued the assistant, ‘there are the prison diaries, and a biography by Lord Preston, called The Hereditary Principle, which is about the fascinating Clifton-Barrington inheritance case. Perhaps you remember it? It dominated the headlines for weeks.’

‘Which of Mr Clifton’s novels would you recommend?’

‘Whenever I’m asked that question about any author,’ replied the assistant, ‘I always suggest, start with the first.’ She took a copy of William Warwick and the Case of the Blind Witness from the shelf.

‘Will the other one, the hereditary one, tell me more about the Clifton family?’

‘Yes, and you’ll find it as gripping as any novel,’ the assistant said as she walked over to the biography section. ‘That will be three shillings, madam,’ she said, handing her both books.

When Mrs Tibbet returned to the guest house just before lunch, Janice was surprised to see that her shopping basket was empty, and even more surprised when she locked herself into the office, only coming out when a knock on the front door announced a prospective customer.

It took her two days and two nights to read The Hereditary Principle by Reg Preston, by which time Mrs Tibbet realized she was going to have to visit another place she had never entered before, and it would be far more nerve-racking than a bookshop.



Sebastian came down to breakfast early on Monday morning, as he wanted to have a word with Bruno’s father before he left for work.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said as he took a seat at the breakfast table.

‘Good morning, Sebastian,’ said Don Pedro, putting down his newspaper. ‘So, have you made up your mind if you’re going to come to Buenos Aires with me?’

‘Yes, I have, sir. I’d love to come, if I haven’t left it too late.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Don Pedro. ‘Just be sure you’re ready by the time I return.’

‘What time will we be leaving, sir?’

‘Around five o’clock.’

‘I’ll be ready and waiting,’ said Sebastian as Bruno came into the room.

‘You will be pleased to hear that Sebastian will be travelling to Buenos Aires with me,’ said Don Pedro as his son sat down. ‘He’ll be back in London by the end of the month. Make sure you take care of him when he returns.’

Bruno was about to comment when Elena came in and placed a rack of toast in the centre of the table.

‘What would you like for breakfast, sir?’ she asked Bruno.

‘Two boiled eggs, please.’

‘Me too,’ said Sebastian.

‘I must go,’ said Don Pedro, as he rose from his place at the head of the table. ‘I have an appointment in Bond Street.’ He turned to Sebastian and added, ‘Be sure you’re packed and ready to leave by five o’clock. We can’t afford to miss the tide.’

‘I can’t wait, sir,’ said Sebastian, sounding genuinely excited.

‘Have a good day, Papa,’ said Bruno as his father left the room. He didn’t speak again until he heard the front door close, when he looked across the table and said to his friend, ‘Are you certain you’re making the right decision?’



Mrs Tibbet couldn’t stop shaking. She wasn’t convinced she could go through with it. When the guests sat down for breakfast that morning, they were served with hard-boiled eggs, burnt toast and lukewarm tea, and it was Janice who ended up taking the blame. It didn’t help that Mrs Tibbet hadn’t done any shopping for the past two days, so the bread was stale, the fruit was over-ripe and they’d run out of bacon. Janice was relieved when the last disgruntled guest filed out of the breakfast room. One even refused to pay the bill.

She went down to the kitchen to see if Mrs Tibbet was feeling poorly, but there was no sign of her. Janice wondered where she could possibly be.

Mrs Tibbet was in fact on a No. 148 bus heading down Whitehall. She still didn’t know if she could go through with it. Even if he did agree to see her, what would she say to him? After all, what business was it of hers? She became so preoccupied that the bus had crossed Westminster Bridge before she got off. She took her time walking back across the Thames, and not because, like the tourists, she was admiring the views up and down the river.

She changed her mind several times before she reached Parliament Square, where her pace became slower and slower until she finally came to a halt outside the entrance to the House of Commons, when, like Lot’s wife, she turned to salt.

The senior doorkeeper, used to dealing with people who were overawed by their first visit to the Palace of Westminster, smiled at the frozen statue and asked, ‘May I help, madam?’

‘Is this where I come to see an MP?’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Mrs Tibbet, hoping she would be turned away.

‘Don’t worry, not many people do. You’ll just have to hope he’s in the House, and free to see you. If you’d like to join the queue, one of my colleagues will assist you.’

Mrs Tibbet walked up the steps, past Westminster Hall, and joined a long, silent queue. By the time she reached the front over an hour later, she remembered she hadn’t told Janice where she was going.

She was escorted into the Central Lobby, where an official ushered her across to the reception desk.

‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said the duty clerk. ‘Which Member were you hoping to see?’

‘Sir Giles Barrington.’

‘Are you a constituent of his, madam?’

Another chance to escape, was her first thought. ‘No. I need to speak to him concerning a personal matter.’

‘I understand,’ said the clerk, as if nothing would surprise him. ‘If you’ll give me your name, I’ll fill in a visitor’s card.’

‘Mrs Florence Tibbet.’

‘And your address?’

‘Thirty-seven Praed Street, Paddington.’

‘And what is it you wish to discuss with Sir Giles?’

‘It’s about his nephew, Sebastian Clifton.’

The clerk completed the card and handed it to a badge messenger.

‘How long will I have to wait?’ she asked.

‘Members usually respond fairly quickly if they’re in the House. But perhaps you’d like to have a seat while you’re waiting,’ he said, pointing to the green benches that circled the walls of Central Lobby.

The badge messenger marched down the long corridor to the Lower House. When he entered the members’ lobby he handed the card to one of his colleagues, who in turn took it into the chamber. The house was packed with members who had come to hear Peter Thorneycroft, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, announce that petrol rationing would be lifted following the end of the Suez Crisis.

The messenger spotted Sir Giles Barrington seated in his usual place and handed the card to a member at the end of the third row, from where it began its slow progress along the packed bench, each member checking the name and then passing it down the line, until it finally reached Sir Giles.

The Member for Bristol Docklands stuffed the card in a pocket as he leapt to his feet the moment the foreign secretary had dealt with the previous question, in the hope of catching the speaker’s eye.

‘Sir Giles Barrington,’ called the speaker.

‘Can the foreign secretary tell the House how the president’s announcement will affect British industry, in particular those of our citizens who work in the defence field?’

Mr Selwyn Lloyd once again rose to his feet and, clutching the dispatch box, said, ‘I can tell the honourable and gallant gentleman that I am in constant touch with our ambassador in Washington, and he assures me . . .’

By the time Mr Lloyd had answered the final question some forty minutes later, Giles had quite forgotten about his visitor’s card.

It was about an hour later, when he was sitting in the tearoom with some colleagues, that he pulled out his wallet and the card fell to the floor. He picked it up and glanced at the name, but couldn’t place a Mrs Tibbet. He turned it over and read the message, shot out of his seat, bolted out of the tearoom and didn’t stop running until he had reached Central Lobby, praying that she hadn’t given up on him. When he stopped at the duty clerk’s desk, he asked him to page a Mrs Tibbet.

‘I’m sorry, Sir Giles, but the lady left a few moments ago. Said she had to get back to work.’

‘Damn,’ said Giles, as he turned the card over and checked the address.