Short fiction: The Key

He had drawn the car up a few feet from the steps that led to the front door. The latter was some feet above him and he could not see through the open doorway, but he saw his wife standing in it, the huge iron key in her hand. 

He could imagine her staring into the hallway at the walls with their oil paintings, mostly of hunting scenes and ancestors with their favourite hunter or dogs. They would be half-hidden in the dim light – it was mid-morning, but a grey November day.

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He had glanced inside earlier, and the sheet-covered furniture had stood out in the gloom, with here and there a glimmer of light on a candlestick or the brass armrest of a chair. He had shivered, and hurried away. “I’ll wait in the car,” he told her, and anyway he knew that she would rather be alone with her thoughts for a few moments; she wouldn’t pass this way again. So he sat behind the wheel of the Ford Pilot and waited.

At length she seemed to straighten up; she pulled the door to, inserted the huge key, turned it and jiggled it for a moment to extract it from the lock. Then she turned round and came crisply down the steps, the key in her hand, a tall, slim woman in her middle 30s, in a smart wool coat of prewar quality, its signs of wear well hidden.

He pushed car the door open for her.

“I can drop the key at the agents when we get back to town,” she said.

“Good.”

“Bloody death duties.”

“Indeed.” He glanced at her. “But Fleur, so much has changed. Would we ever have lived there?”

As soon as he asked the question he realised he should not have done. They relapsed into silence. He drove for five minutes or so. It started to rain as they entered the village. They reached the crossroads in the middle.

“Will you stop here for a few minutes, please, darling?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“I want to remember the last time I saw Hugo,” she said.

He pulled out the handbrake.

“It wasn’t a day like today,” she said. “Not at all. It was a beautiful early-summer afternoon. The sort you only seem to get in England, and only once or twice a year; the sky is deep blue and the trees so green they almost sing, and there are swallows everywhere. I was twelve. We weren’t expecting him; we hadn’t seen him for months. He came up the drive in this bright-blue sports car, it was French I think and very snazzy. And I sort of worshipped him, you see. My funny glamorous elder brother…”

*

“Beg pardon, Sir, but Master Hugo is here,” said the maid.

“So I see.” Lord Remington had been about to join his wife for tea; she had had it served out on the lawn, which pleased him in this weather. He frowned.

“Shall I tell him tea is served outside, sir?”

He frowned.

“No,” he said. He turned around, towards the east wing of the house. “You will please show him into my study.”

“Very good, sir.” The maid bowed her head slightly, and turned back towards the front door. Neither saw Fleur, who was lurking behind a stone pillar in the passageway. She decided she must leave the building without being seen; this she did, via the library and its window, which faced onto some rhododendron bushes. These afforded her valuable cover as she hastened around the wing of the house and took up position on a pillar just outside her father’s study. Here she could hear what was said within and could, with care, peer around the stonework and see the figures in the room. As she assumed her perch, she heard her brother’s voice, clear, a little mocking.

“Oh, Father.” There was a hint of a chuckle. “Really. I assure you that I am quite the reformed character.”

“Are you indeed.” Lord Remington had a piece of paper in his hand and appeared to be waving it at him. “Then what in the name of thunder is this?”

“A misunderstanding,” said Hugo.

“I can assure you,” said his father, “that nothing has been misunderstood. It is a letter from the Regiment with respect to your mess bills. I have agreed that I shall pay them, since you seem unable or unwilling to do so.” He paused and glanced at the paper. “! am aware that the Regiment prides itself on its cellar. You appear to have availed yourself of it with gusto. And there have been frequent guests from other regiments.”

“I invite them down to hunt,” said Hugo. “And on occasion for golf. That is scarcely conduct unbecoming.”

“No.” Lord Remington approached his son and seemed to tower over him. “Not paying one’s mess bills, however, is. And so is the wife of a brother officer.”

“Father, that was simply a rumour.”

“That is as maybe but you are lucky that you were permitted to resign your commission. For God’s sake, man, you could have been cashiered!”

“I have done nothing improper, Father, I can assure you,” said Hugo. His voice sounded smooth, yet there was a note of uncertainty. “But I appeal to you. If I am to have no allowance, how shall I manage?”

“That may indeed require more character that we have instilled in you.” Lord Remington turned back to his desk and slapped the papers onto the blotter. “Still, you have run through the sum settled upon you on your majority. So I suppose that without my support, you will find some way to embarrass us.”

“Really, Father, I have scarcely said so,” said Hugo.

“You have not needed to. Very well.” His father turned back towards him and stood with his legs somewhat apart, his arms crossed. “I am prepared to make you an allowance of £600 a year.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Hugo said:

“Thank you, Father. I had hoped for closer to £1,000. These are uncertain times…”

“You will find that £600 will serve you in your likely location.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a condition attached,” said Lord Remington. “The allowance shall be payable provided you remain outside the British Isles. That includes the Free State. You may reside in the Empire if you wish; Australia would serve, or perhaps the Barbadoes.”

There was another silence. Then Lord Remington asked:

“Do you accept?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Very good. I shall go to town on Monday and ask Goodwood to draw up the papers. You may be gone abroad by September; he will communicate with you as regards the terms.”

Nothing more was said. Fleur saw her brother stand and go to the door. She dropped like a cat to the ground and slipped through the rhododendron bushes, reaching the veranda doors off the living room just as Hugo stepped through them onto the patio, where his mother was standing anxiously, her hands clasped together. The maid approached from the lawn. Behind Hugo came his father.

“Pardon me, madam, tea is ready and I have laid a place for Mr Hugo,” she said, sounding a little nervous.

“Mr Hugo,” said Lord Remington, “will not be joining us for tea.”

“No,” said Hugo. “I am so sorry. I have a golf engagement in Sussex.”

He shook hands with his father and kissed his mother on the cheek. Then he walked across the lawn towards the bright blue Salmson Grand Prix tourer parked on the drive. He wore plus-fours and a flat cap; a golf bag filled the passenger seat, and a valise was lashed to the luggage rack.

Fleur called out: “Hugo!”

He turned, and stopped.

“My dear,” he said. He reached out to her, and smiled, though she thought he looked sad. “My dear Fleur. Am I still allowed to tickle you?”

“No,” she said, proud. “I’m getting too big.”

“Then I shall give you a little hug.” He did; then he lowered himself behind the wheel of the Salmson, adjusted the ignition and choke and started the car, which emitted a throaty bark and a cloud of blue smoke. Then he drove away down the drive, a cloud of dust from the wheels catching the afternoon sun that slanted across the lawn and lit the polished silverware laid out for tea.

*

She pushed the car door closed and went over to the granite cross in the middle of the junction. There was nobody in sight. It was beginning to rain. She stood there anyway. After a few minutes he got out and went to stand beside her, The Remembrance Sunday service had been held two days before, and there were wreaths at the foot of the cross. The front face of the base was carved with the names of the village’s dead from the first war; the side panel, with the second. She pointed at the side panel.

“There he is,” she said. “Hugo Sterling. They don’t say anything on these, they just give the names. Everyone’s the same when they’re dead.”

 “You’re getting wet, you know,” he said.

“He got the MC,” she said. “At Monte Cassino.”

“Yes,” he said.

“He was a reformed character, you see,” she said. She looked up at him. “They all were, then. The cads and the bounders and the spivs and petty crooks. Redeemed, somehow. All of them.”

“Yes…. Yes. Come into the car, you’re getting wet.”

She sat in the car and he shut the door behind her, then went round to the driver’s door. He put his hand on hers and they sat still for a few minutes. Then he grasped the huge iron key and removed it gently from her hands.

________________________________

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

Sport is Character-Forming A migration through a muddy river
It Turns on a Sixpence The CEO has a rotten day
The Man Who Lost the Plot When the character you write is cardboard
The Long Road from the Black Death A history lecturer retires
Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now
A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth
Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story
In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer
A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
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