2: Peter at home
It was with the fumbling of various keys, suddenly seeming to be of identical size and shape and becoming surprisingly difficult to grasp with sweaty fingers, let alone position in the lock, that Peter Ruddle attempted to enter the pristine, high gloss, black painted, double front doors of the Ruddle residence.
Ill at ease in the late afternoon winter sunshine—which seemed to have been unrelenting in it’s attempts to shine with particular intensity directly into his eyes; needling his already nagging headache and increasing his state of confusion and exhaustion after the short walk from the tube station—he was anxious to get inside.
“For Christ’s sake,” Peter cursed as he dropped the entire bunch with a metallic rattle, trying hard to recall the night before, but with little success. As he bent down to pick up his keys he felt tiny beads of perspiration trickle down his forehead and into his eyes, and a slight dizziness, reminding him of exactly how unwell he had felt earlier in the day.
The journey home from Cambridge had been a blur but at least the mild nausea that had persisted most of the way back to London was subsiding and he was, he had to admit, feeling better, even though still plagued with an overwhelming sense of weakness.
The house was situated in one of the more salubrious parts of West London. The houses in this district were substantial white stucco affairs and being too large for most requirements and too expensive for most pockets, had been systematically divided into lavishly appointed units of
various sizes and shapes.
A few houses, however, retained their more or less original Victorian layout; fitted with the latest kitchens, bathrooms and modern amenities, but otherwise laid out as the architect intended.
It was one such house that Dr Andrew Ruddle had made his main London residence many years before. Since that time, life for Dr Ruddle had moved on and he had acquired additional properties located in some of the most prestigious cities around the world. He now spent most of his time in a lavish penthouse in New York overlooking Central Park with his new wife and his new children.
He kept the London house mainly as an investment but also for his personal use during his frequent trips to London on business. In addition, it was useful for Peter whilst he completed his course in Computer Science at Cambridge University.
Peter, finally managed to fit the correct key, turn the lock and stumble into the hallway.
The hallway, seemed to Peter, in his current state of confusion, to be even more cavernous than he remembered; designed, more to the proportion of a small luxury hotel than to that of a domestic residence. Peter, looked around at the high Regency grandeur, the ornately decorated ceiling roses, coving and architraving. The sparkling chandeliers twinkling in defiance of weight and gravity and skirting boards of quite unnecessary depth which all combined to both impress and overwhelm.
How is it that big houses intended for vast entertainments; people, friends and family, only help to emphasise — like a permeating silent dense fog that crawls into every part of the soul—an overwhelming sense of detachment.
Peter tried to recollect if it was Byron who once described the gloom of his once magnificent ancestral home built for a different time and age, now decaying and cold, as he moved from one room to another in a monotonous lonely charade. Peter smiled to himself. Perhaps that was why Byron spent so much time travelling.
Languishing deeper into lethargy and depression, Peter anticipated a long, lonely and fairly miserable Christmas.
Last year had been very different. He had been invited to spend Christmas and New Year at his girlfriend Anna’s parents; a sprawling country estate in Surrey. Anna was an undergraduate studying Medieval languages. She also had a large extended family and Peter had been popular with Anna’s mother and three younger sisters. Her father had also liked him particularly after a few male bonding sessions down at the local pub. This was one of the happiest periods that he could remember and Anna seemed to be besotted with him and he believed he loved her.
Peter however, was finding his course at Cambridge a challenge, not because he was out of his depth or finding the projects difficult, on the contrary. He often found he knew more than his lecturers and had become increasingly frustrated and outspoken which had led to several warnings from his college Proctor.
He had also developed an expensive cocaine habit on which he was spending nearly all his monthly allowance. He owed money to friends as well as some unscrupulous and unsavoury characters from the back-streets of the more remote and lesser visited Cambridge suburbs.
Anna had become increasingly frustrated due to his mood swings and unreliability. The final break had come when, after a night out, he had turned up late for a date, dishevelled, over anxious, and demanding money for new software he claimed he desparately needed for his work, promising to pay her back the following week. Suspicious, but giving him the benefit of the doubt, she lent him £350, drawn out in cash from her student account.
In the meantime, Anna was hearing all sorts of worrying things about him and how he was mixing with some of the dregs and detritus of what was, outside the University world, a small provincial town.
When a week later he had completely forgotten about the loan, she started making further enquiries and found that he also owed money to many people in his college. When she told him over the phone that she knew about his drug taking, he became defensive and angry, calling at her hall of residence and banging at the door of her flat shared with two other girls, until she opened it.
On entering, he pleaded with her to give him another chance, grabbing her around the waist pushing her down onto the sofa and attempting to kiss her. For a few moments her body relaxed as she succumbed to both desire and habit, allowing him to push his tongue deep into her mouth as his hands felt inside her blouse and under her bra.
Moments later, she was pushing him off with all her strength and became frightened, telling him to leave and that she never wanted to see him again. He became aggressive and then affectionate and when she shoved him towards the door, he swore at her; calling her a cold bitch and a fucking frigid cow.
She had never been called names like this before and was deeply hurt as Peter had been her first love and first real lover. Realising that he was high, she was becoming really scared, when one of her flat mates entered via the front door and having heard the row asked if everything was all right.
Peter, looking embarrassed mumbled that everything was just fine and left the house in a heated rush. When he was gone, Anna sobbed. She was inconsolable for she had really loved Peter, or the person that she thought Peter was.
He knew he had blown it with Anna. She had now seen a side to him that she never thought existed. He didn’t know it had existed until a few months ago when he started experimenting with various drugs; just out of curiosity at first, but the habit had taken him by surprise and overwhelmed him.
This was not helped by the fact that his social life now gravitated towards a low life of other drug users and the people who could supply. He had, he admitted, slowly drifted away from Anna, amusing himself with other girls he met on the scene and spending increasing amounts of time in seedy bars and clubs.
How could he have been so stupid?
He walked from the hallway of this large empty house, throwing himself down onto one of the lavishly cushioned Regency stripe sofas, trying not to think about his next drugs hit and attempting to consider his immediate plans.
He also thought about Anna a lot and how good things had been last year. She was a thoroughly respectable family girl and it had taken a long time to gain her trust. Not that she ever had any shortage of offers or opportunities. She was just never very enthusiastic about any of the boys she met; until she met Peter.
He was classically good looking, even pretty in a boyish kind of way with wavy brown hair, deep reddish brown eyes and an athletic physique, having always been an enthusiastic sportsman and Rugby player. She was painfully pretty in a fragile elfin way with long light brown hair, cool grey eyes and an immaculately clear skin of pure alabaster.
When he first made love to her he was overwhelmed at the sight of her slender yet shapely body and the whiteness and translucence of her skin. He was also surprised to find she was still a virgin. He was shocked at first to think what a big thing this must be for her, then flattered that he should be the first.
But it was special for him too and they had both been on seventh heaven for some weeks afterwards. He wondered if this was real love. He had always believed that love just filled the space between desire and fulfilment, and if that was so, could love survive? He certainly believed that with Anna, it could. He was wrong.
He now understood that there was, being alone, and that there was loneliness, and that they were hugely and distinctly different. He had been alone many times, but this was the first time he had been lonely; really lonely. The space where Anna had been, was now just an empty desolate void; an aching, yearning emptiness.
He sat swathed in the sumptuous upholstery, warmed by the large ornate open fire place where manufactured logs burned with a constant flame; indistinguishable from the real thing had it not been for the fact that the flames never changed and that the logs never burnt down.
He even considered getting on a plane to New York and spending Christmas with his Father rather than be all alone in London.
He thought of the lavish New York apartment with its views over Central Park.
He thought of the food, wine and entertaining, the warmth and the companionship.
Then he thought how he had felt the last time he was there; more than a year ago now.
Pernia, his father’s new wife, and their three children Lillian, Maxine and Tristan; his half bothers and sister. How spoiled they were and how they seemed to resent the intrusion of this strange grown up half brother from some distant and unknowable past.
Then there was Pernia’s constant artificial attempts to make him feel part of the family; of getting him to join in and clearly feeling hurt and annoyed when he didn’t. Pampering him, but making him feel self conscious and preposterous in the process.
True, the penthouse apartment was enormous and he had plenty of opportunities to be alone, but somehow being apart in the same house just made him feel even more lonely; and guilty.
No, he thought to himself. Best stay put, visit his club, have a swim and then contact a few friends to see if anyone was around.
He was beginning to feel a strong urge for a pick me up, but fighting the dull gnawing ache deep within him, switched on the TV to the synthetic insistent sounds of Christmas adverts pumped out at double volume. He muted the unwelcome intrusion and lay back watching the flickering mesmeric screen when Kishori, Andrew’s statuesque middle aged Indian house keeper, entered the room.
She was solid, rather than fat, unnaturally tall and very light in colour, olive rather than chocolate, and Peter often wondered about her exact ethnic origin.
“Is it you will be wanting anything now please and will you be eating your dinner here tonight or you will go out?”
Kishori, meaning young girl, had been around for almost as long as Peter could remember. She was efficient, polite, but never could she be persuaded to drop her formality, even when Peter was stoned or dead drunk. She maintained that deference at all times, proper in her eyes, between master and servant. Even when neighbours had called the police during one of Peter’s more outrageous parties, she had maintained that respectful subservient manner to both the police and the son of her employer. Her loyalty was never in question.
“I think I’ll eat in tonight Kishori... what’s on the menu?”
“It is possible please that you can have lamb casse...role and also there is the... the fish ceke.”
“The fish cakes sound fine, can you do something with them?” Peter suggested, suddenly feeling hungry.
“You can have please the salad with the tomatoes and the cous-cous.”
“That sounds just fine, thanks.”
Kishori left the room to start the preparations and Peter begun to think about what he would do with himself after dinner.
He desperately tried to fight the strong insistent urge to go out and party, anaesthetise the wounds and drown the loneliness, plugging the anger that was relentlessly turning in against himself and excavating his guilt, piece by painful piece.
He thought of some of his friends—perhaps not friends but at least company of a sort—in the seedy London haunts that had become his preference of late. At least they were always there, ready with a story, an anecdote, a joke. His partners in crime who understood his yearning; never judging (after all who were they to judge), his weakness, his shame, his guilt. The way Anna made him feel; just by being Anna.
Defeated, he knew he would require funds and he was cleaned out after paying off debts; including Anna’s. What sort of Christmas would this be, skint and alone?
His thoughts begun to focus on his father’s safe.
A big old fashioned affair stuck in a corner of the second floor room, that had always been as long as Peter could remember, his father’s office. Peter had hardly ever been in there since childhood when his father invited him in to play or do homework, helping him from time to time with things he was stuck on or just found challenging.
He had happy memories of his Father in those childhood days. Somehow that had all stopped when his mother died and his father started spending longer periods away from home, leaving Peter with a series of nannies, some of whom he had grown to love and stricken when they suddenly disappeared without further explanation.
One thing that had always stuck in his head from this seemingly distant past was the safe. His father used to go over to the corner of the room and punch in the combination. Whether his father told him the numbers or he saw them, he could not remember. He only remembered being pleased as punch when he realized that the numbers corresponded to his birthday. It made him feel so important; so loved.
He wondered if by some tiny infinitessimal chance the numbers were still the same. Probably been changed to the birthday of one of the new children; but on the other hand, none of the other members of the family ever came to this house.
This was Peter’s and his father’s private domain, so just maybe...! Then again, he had no idea if his father ever kept any money in the safe, but there was a strong chance that he did. If so it would be extremely unlikely that he would know how much he had. So why shouldn’t he borrow some. He would of course pay it back.
Peter half ran up the stairs and on up to the second floor.
His father’s office was a large room at the back of the house. He pushed open the door and was surprised to see that the room was much as he remembered it; clean, tidy, everything in it’s place.
The weak winter sunlight filtered through the deep windows and sliced into sharp zebra stripes by the dark wooden blinds, crept across the carpet, climbing relentlessly up to the holy of holies; the large solid old fashioned leather topped writing desk.
The safe was still in the same corner, heavy, belligerent but somehow smaller than he remembered.
Peter knelt down to get a clearer view of the key pad. He felt a surge of excitement and apprehension as he punched in the code.
The mechanics made a slight rasping noise as the bolts withdrew and with a twist of the handle the contents of the safe lay exposed before him. Neatly stacked papers, boxes and files.
He couldn’t quite believe it had been that easy. His mouth felt dry. What if Kishori heard him and came to investigate. Or she might hear him rummaging around and report it to his father. Or worse; call the police.
Be quick, don’t get caught!
He would have to make sure he put everything back exactly as he found it. His father was bordering OCD and would be sure to know if anything had been tampered with.
On top of the piles of papers and files was a very ancient shoe box stamped with a crest and lozenge, ‘Church’s English Shoes, Northampton, England... Burton Brogues-(tan).’
Peter pulled the box carefully out. As he did so the contents stayed behind, the back of the box being rotten and quite unable to support the weight of the assortment of papers and photographs contained within.
“Damn, blast and hellfire,” Peter cursed, attempting to put back in some kind of order the contents haphazardly spewed out into the rear of the safe.
As he did so he his eyes were drawn to an old black and white photograph, faded, crumpled and torn. Curious, he took it to the window.
The face, the hair, the stature, the expression were all pretty much those he knew. A little more hair, a little less lined, definitely lighter around the midriff; but no, it was definitely his father.
The figure standing, legs apart, beaming one of those cheesy professional photographer smiles and proudly grasping a huge silver trophy in one hand and an inscribed winner’s rosette in the other. All England Club Winner Dr Andrew Ruddle - 1958.
Being a keen sportsman himself, Peter knew the kudos attached to such a trophy and was amazed that his father had never bragged about it as he himself would have done, or alluded to it in any way. It may only be as an amateur, but even so. A stupendous achievement. And he didn’t even know his father played tennis.
Peter, remembering the reason for his raid in the first place, went to put the picture back in the box and begin an urgent search for ready cash. Gently looking through the contents of the safe, he found a small bundle of notes rolled up with an elastic band. Dad’s inevitable emergency fund, Peter thought. Won’t be missing that for a while.
About to close the safe, Peter, becoming curious, re-opened the door, drew out the box and started slowly looking through the many old photographs, browned with age, crunched and torn with many yellowing bundles of papers held together with elastic bands in which any trace of elasticity had long since departed.
He was just considering whether to risk trying to unbundle the papers, knowing full well that the bands would snap at the slightest provocation, when he heard Kishori’s voice calling from the hall.
“Peeeeter, are you up there? You must be coming down now please, while the fish ceke is still hot.”
Cursing under his breath, Peter stuffed everything back into the box, locked the safe and descended the stairs.
As he did so he thought about the photograph of his father and the other faded and yellowed pictures he had glimpsed tied up in the bundle. Most of the pictures appeared to be of his father, some on his own and some in groups, and at least one he saw with children and what looked like other family members. He didn’t recognise any other faces other than that of his father.
Peter entered the large dining room dominated by the massive French polished table big enough to seat 20 people.
At the far end was cutlery, napkin, wine glass and candleholder with a slender yellow tapered candle lit by Kishori just a few moments before. She always liked to take care of these little touches that she thought important to her employers. But the kindness and thoughtfulness of this loyal servant, only went to highlight his loneliness, making him think of the love he had squandered and the guilt that he felt.
Peter made a mental note to get back into the safe and take a closer look at the contents of the shoe box, but for now his thoughts were on dinner and the tight role of bank notes stuffed into his jeans pocket.