第 28 页

“So, does that mean that you are ready to talk now?”

“Only if you are happy to listen,”

“Of course I am, pour me a whisky and tell me all about the conflict which has turned my household upside down.”

John sat opposite me and poured us both a drink. He took a long sip.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Not as long as you share.”

He sighed disapprovingly but passed me a cigarette all the same. We smoked quietly together until he felt ready to begin.

“People often ask me why I tolerated Holmes’ critical attitude towards me. He trivialised the accounts I wrote of him and could be very rude at times. But, you see, my childhood had been full of such things and I have learnt the value of quiet compliance.”

I blew out a cloud of smoke thinking how strange it was that a pivotal childhood experience had taught me the very same thing.

“My father was always very critical of me. He disliked me for being so like my mother. In the same way, she resented my elder brother and Ronald for being too like our father who was a flamboyant, gregarious and intelligent man. He was loved by everyone, always entertaining with his wit and charm.

“He was an addictive drinker and terrible philanderer but no-one really understood that except those who lived with him. My mother was quiet and respectable, from a good home and possessing a gentle nature. He was a terrible bully. His personality completely overpowered her, dominated our home.

“He was a doctor like me, and quite successful but the family finances fluctuated depending on gambling wins and losses. My mother tried to conceal all this as best as she could from their social circle and succeeded well as far as I can remember.

“My elder brother had the same flamboyant, addictive nature as father. Our mother always turned to me because I was more like her. She was very strict with me to ensure that I didn’t become like them. She encouraged me to be studious, courteous and have self restraint, the very attributes that her husband lacked. All those things about me that you so disliked we when we met, they were from her. All the things you’ve turned me into in order to succeed are like him.”

“No John, that’s not true. You are a good man. There is no shame in being confident, perhaps your father abused that trait but you don’t. Well, a little bit I suppose to earn money and make a decent living, but please don’t start making these comparisons. You can’t spend your whole life being afraid of turning into your father.”

“He had an affair with a young patient, a very beautiful girl I believe. She fell pregnant and died in childbirth. My father brought the child home, forced it upon my mother and made her raise it as her own. From what I remember she did this very well but now I’m being told that was not the case. I don’t know what to believe.”

“The child was Ronald?”

“Yes. I tried to get on with him when we were children but, as he started to grow it became clear that he was just like our father. My elder brother Harry resented him bitterly because Ronald soon became our father’s favourite child. Ronnie’s lively humour and spirit were so like his own and very unlike me, the middle child who was dull in comparison and always with his mother. Both my brothers teased me and I grew very distant from Harry.

“Though my father preferred them to me, their likenesses to each other caused love and tensions in equal measure. The house would rebound with arguments regularly and I resolved to be different in my life. Father had a vicious temper but I didn’t realise that he had beaten Ronnie until now, nor did I realise that my mother did nothing to protect him. She was devoted to me and I witnessed nothing but kindness. I thought she had offered him the same but now I am being told of coldness and indifference. I don’t know what to believe.”

“In my opinion, there’s a raw honesty about Ronald and I don’t think he’d have the brains or the skill to deliver such a lie. I guess sometimes we only see what we want to see.”

John fell quiet for a moment and stroked Sandy’s ears. The dog was asleep on my desk in his usual spot and grunted gratefully enjoying the sudden attention.

“You are so wise Red. You have the wisdom of someone twice your age.”

“I think it comes from making so many mistakes.”

“Well, then, I should be the wisest man in London. Even if what he’s saying is true, it still does not alter the fact that my mother took him into her home, clothed him, fed him and raised him as best she could. She did not deserve the punishment he ultimately dished out to her.”

“What happened?”

“My father died of syphilis when Harry was twenty-one. He left everything to his eldest boy, something which Ronald resented and Harry used to exercise power over his father’s bastard son. The family fortunes were good when my father died and he left enough for Harry to support his mother but he refused to give anything to Ronnie.

“I was doing my own medical studies by this point and did what I could to help mother, especially as Harry was prone to losses at cards which would leave him reluctant to give her anything until the next win came along. He and Ronnie played together often, they were members of the same card clubs and though they disliked each other, they were drawn together by their competitive nature.

“One night, both were horribly drunk and arguing about who was the better player. Ronald challenged Harry to a game of Bezique, agreeing that he would leave the country if he lost but daring Harry to give him all that was left of father’s inheritance if he won. Harry was so over-confident, so reckless, that he agreed.

“A date was set; papers drawn up, witnesses called and the game took place. Ronnie was still young and hardly an adult at all but an excellent player and he won. He made Harry keep his promise and took everything. Two weeks later Harry was dead, took his own life. Had nothing to his name except the clothes he was wearing and my father’s pocket watch, which I have kept ever since.”

He reached inside his waistcoat pocket and took out the watch which he handed to me. I took it into my hand. It was gold and had the initials H.W. monogrammed on the back.

“Your brother’s initials?” I asked.

“No, my father’s. My brother was given his name.”

The watch was quite scratched and had a few pawnbrokers’ marks on it.

“I gave it to Holmes once, asked him to prove his powers of deduction and tell me what it revealed about its previous owner. He was very accurate of course. Saw the pawnbrokers’ marks, the scratches made by a careless hand, trotted out intimate details of my family history in his cold and clinical manner.

“He never mentioned it again and I’ve never told anyone these things until now.”

He took back the watch and returned it to his pocket. His eyes were a little glazed now and he lit another cigarette.

“Ronald did not want to support the mother who had allegedly treated him with such coldness and so he took the money and disappeared off around the country spending it on God knows what. I tried to support my mother but it was such a struggle. We lost our home and had to take cramped lodgings in another town because mother was shunned by her social circle. She had never been popular in her own right. It was my father who pulled in the crowds, as it were. She died five years later of diphtheria. It was so damp in the house that this was no surprise. She died a broken, penniless woman and it was all Ronald’s fault.”

John wiped a tear from his cheek, got up and walked towards the window. It was open and he threw his cigarette out into the garden below. I joined him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. His narrative continued.

“Ronald wouldn’t even come to her funeral, and strangely, after everything, that hurt most of all. Shortly after, he left for Ireland and I for Afghanistan. I had no further contact with him until I saw him at the station three days ago. Now he’s in my house and I don’t know what to do. I feel as if I am disrespecting my mother’s memory by having anything to do with him.”

“But what if there is truth in his story? I’m not excusing what he did but I know better than anyone how easy it is to make terrible mistakes, especially when difficult things happen to you when you are a child.”

I placed my head on his shoulder and smelt the lovely familiar smell of lemons from the tonic he used on his hair. The garden behind the surgery looked pretty in the afternoon sun and we both stood there in silence looking out at it.

Eventually he kissed the top of my head. “Thank you,” he said gently, “I know what I need to do.”

That night the house did not resound with the sounds of conflict and argument. Instead, calm but emotional conversation could be heard coming from the study and by the next evening Ronnie joined John and I at dinner for the first time.

John had finally listened to Ronnie’s experiences of childhood and was able to put his subsequent behaviour into a previously unrecognised context. Though complete forgiveness was still some way in the future, John had made the first steps and harmony returned to our home.

Ronald was difficult to live with, messy, noisy, and a little too fond of Tilly. He needed work for those idle hands and somewhere to live. We had a little conference in my office to try to sort something out.

“So,” I began, “what are you good at Ronnie, professionally speaking? Are you good with figures? Your hands?”

“No, useless at business in every way, terrible with money, no head for figures. That was part of my trouble in Ireland, great behind the bar, customers loved me, life and soul I was, but couldn’t manage the business affairs.”

It transpired that bar work was all he had ever really done, except a few general labouring jobs over the years. I had an idea forming and asked for time to examine the figures. I did a little research and investigated the capacity of our finances and then gathered everyone back together a few days later to reveal my conclusion.

“We shall, or rather the business, will purchase a public house. I will run the accounts and business side of things. Ronnie can manage the bar. All you will need to do is serve customers, manage a few staff and be your jovial entertaining self. I will do the rest. You will live rent free above the premises and take a wage from the business. The profits will remain with our existing company.”

And so it was decided. I had found the perfect premises near the surgery and the Watson empire expanded into a new, exciting direction.

I was delighted to be at the helm of what was now a diverse and sizable business and soon the pub became very popular on account of Ronnie’s natural bonhomie. It also became profitable due to my clever re-working of the ordering system.

Life was good for John and I, very good indeed. It had been eighteen months since our return from Switzerland and we had achieved so much together out of such deep initial despair.

It was an exceedingly cold morning and rain lashed against the windows. The air was damp, even inside the house, and the early morning light was weak and grey. I walked into the sitting room to find John pacing the floor. He was walking in front of the fire rubbing his left shoulder.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Old parting gift from my military service,” he said, looking at his shoulder. I regarded him quizzically as he continued to pace.

“That Jezail bullet which I took in the shoulder during my Afghan campaign was too dangerous to remove so it has stayed in there ever since. Sometimes, when the weather is like this it throbs terribly. I feel very uncomfortable with it this morning.”

I looked at his rather untidy attire, unruly hair, and concluded that indeed my friend was suffering.

“Come here. Stop pacing.”

I reached out and laid my hand upon his troublesome shoulder. I could feel a tight knot of muscle and knew that tension of that nature needed to be worked free. “Sit down,” I commanded.

“What? No, I’m fine really, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Oh just sit down will you?” I insisted.

Obediently John sat upon the settee and I began to manipulate his shoulder, working the muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt.

As I ran my hand across his shoulder and down the top of his arm I realised that John was actually rather muscular. Though lacking slightly in firmness and definition, his upper body felt surprisingly toned in a soft, natural sort of way.

“That’s lovely,” he sighed, as I worked my hands around the top of his back and found the pressure points at the base of his neck.

He loosened his collar and leaned against me, tilting back his head and resting it against my chest. At which point the most unexpected thing happened. I truly noticed for the first time what an attractive man he was. I found myself responding to him physically, to the feel of his body against my own, the pleasure of touching him, the enjoyment of such an intimate moment.

I worked my fingers deeper into his neck and pulled him closer to me. He groaned slightly, his body relaxing completely, his eyes closed. My fingers travelled further up his neck and into his surprisingly soft, thick hair. I was possessed by a sudden sense of desire, but also felt something stronger, a feeling of complete and perfect harmony with the man who lay against me in such total submission.

I was utterly shocked and ashamed to feel such a way about another man. I did not believe that I would ever love or desire anyone again. How could I feel this way about Holmes’ dearest friend of all people?

My senses returned and I sprang back from John, making him open his eyes. He looked at me in surprise, as if woken from a trance.

“Is something wrong?”

I shook myself slightly and stood up.

“I think that’s fixed it. Just keep warm and rest up today. I’ll see Doctor Roy and ask him to do your rounds. He had an easy day yesterday so a little extra work today won’t do him any harm.”

I babbled hopelessly, moving about the room picking up random objects for no reason and putting them down again, avoiding his gaze and feeling my face flush terribly.

After a slight pause, John straightened his collar, twisted his massaged neck and lifted the newspaper.

“Oh very well, I suppose dear Roy won’t object.”

Finally I faced him but as he looked at me I could tell that he was completely unaware of the epiphany which had just overpowered me. I was relieved that he hadn’t noticed.

My feelings seemed a futile, preposterous waste of emotion and I felt angry at my lack of control. I was disappointed in myself, confused and afraid of the prospect of even more heartache.

“How could you be so stupid? When will you ever learn?” I grumbled angrily to myself and gave the hall table a good kick.

Our pub was frequented by a varied mix of folk. Wealthy industrialists mingled with professionals and manual workers, all seated along the bar dissecting the newspapers and drinking.

I would often perch at the end on a stool toiling at my paperwork while Ronnie bantered merrily with rich and poor alike.