Stroking the Flame - 4. Milton's Grandkid

One minor upside to the traumatic events that occurred at Jeremy Winterbourne’s estate earlier this year is that I made some new friends—almost by chance. Juliette Clanniston is one, the former political columnist for the Chronicle, until they fired her for supposedly haranguing high ranking nobility to get an exclusive. Maybe she had. A smart woman, and a tenacious yet principled reporter, nobody would have been above her scrutiny. Once the press furore died down about Morgan and his shenanigans—Clanniston no longer being privy to the minutiae of major cases such as those—and with the full support of Hugh, she agreed to pen an article about Denny’s life and death for a gay publication, with a ‘tragic life of a small-town gay tailor’ angle. More as a favour, actually, because there is little to get her well-seasoned investigative teeth into. Hence we have met for lunch on one or two occasions.

By contrast, my other new friends are retired General Sir Hamilton Shannonworth—who allows me to call him Milton—and his wife, Deborah. In his early eighties, Milton has clearly looked after himself, sporting a full head of white hair, short and trim, and only the deep lines around his clear blue eyes hinting at his true age. They recognised me four months ago while visiting Croxburgh High School for Boys during an autumn term open evening. We had chatted only briefly at the business dinner party Jeremy hosted, and quite honestly, after the events that followed, I had all but forgotten the couple. One thing I do remember is that Milton used to move in the same circles as my late Uncle Dominic and talked about him fondly. Not just that, but before the dinner had begun, he’d had a serious disagreement with Morgan. I have yet to question him about that.

Since the school visit, we have become firm friends. And since Uncle Dom’s passing, having someone older and informed with whom I can hold a decent conversation has felt like something of a reprieve. I feel sure I have mistakenly referred to as him Dom on a couple of occasions, but if so, he has never once corrected me. Odd really, because unlike Uncle Dominic, Milton, with his long and illustrious military career, has a very different take on world events—past and present—than mine. But what we do share is a love of history. And while I quote textbook facts about mid to late twentieth century military history, he listens with good humour before pointing out inaccuracies or filling in gaps with real life experience, something I find utterly fascinating.

What I also discovered, mainly from his wife, is that not only does the Shannonworth lineage originally herald from Croxburgh but their son, Simon, lives in Holmwood Heath, a neighbouring town, with his wife and young son. In various subsequent discussions, I also learned that the grandson, James, a ‘sweet but sensitive soul’—Deborah’s exact words—was homesick and unhappy at a prestigious boarding school along the south coast. Hence the appearance of the whole family on the open evening.

Which is also why I personally volunteered to show young James and his mother around the school that night, to see if the atmosphere might be more conducive. Which apparently did the trick and, even though Christmas break term is soon upon us, I managed to pull a few strings with Dorothy Humphreys—our newly appointed principal. James joins us today.

Dorothy is delighted to have the grandson of a former high ranking dignitary at the school—another feather in her cap. She finally took over the role of head of school when our previous headmaster died peacefully at home after two month’s convalescence.

Today, the first Monday of December, Milton has agreed to accompany James and his mother to school on his first day, and also to observe some of the classes and activities.

“Deborah’s right, of course. He is a sensitive boy. But you must not, under any circumstances, allow him to be mollycoddled,” says Milton, strolling next to me. Ever the military man, he moves crisply from one classroom portal to the next, hands clasped behind his back, stopping as if to inspect the troops. If rumours are true, in active service the man had been a fierce warrior, unafraid of anything, something I find hard to get my head around. Then again, British campaign medals—of which, Derek tells me, Milton has an impressive collection—were not dished out without due cause or merit. Despite the commanding body language, Milton speaks softly, precise and with clarity, but during the few times I have met him, I have never heard him raise his voice. In my view, he is a gentle man in the true spirit of the expression.

“You don’t need to worry about that. We may not be as uber-strict here, but we are far from lax. Academically, we’re more than on a par with his previous school and, trust me, he’ll be put through his paces. We also promote physical activities—our field hockey and rugby teams are top of the borough—and encourage our boys to join student clubs after school, to exercise their social skills. I’m sure James will find something to fire his imagination.”

“Good to hear,” says Milton, stopping to appraise a notice board. “So do you still keep in touch with Winterbourne junior? The boy has a promising career ahead of him, I hear.”

The boy. I almost laugh. Hugh is in his late thirties now. Satisfied with my answer to his question about his grandson, James, we continue to stroll down the long familiar corridor.

“Sort of. My main friendship is with Hugh’s husband, Derek. But he keeps me informed about Hugh’s rise through the ranks.”

As a friend of Sir Jeremy, Milton will undoubtedly know about Hugh’s successes, but we have yet to broach the subject of same-sex relationships.

“Ah, yes,” says Milton, gently shaking his head, a hint of levity in his tone. “The husband. Heavens, how the world has changed since my day. We even have an openly homosexual politician serving as The Taoiseach—the Prime Minister of Ireland.”

Although he clarifies the title of Ireland’s head of government in English, I am sure his pronunciation of the Irish Gaelic word—‘Tea-Sherks’—is correct. In the school at the moment we have two Irish brothers, Oisin and Cathal, pronounced Oh-Sheen and Ka-Hal respectively. I pride myself in taking great pains to correctly pronounce their names.

“First gay prime minister of the British Isles,” I add, “Thoroughly deserved, too, if you want my personal opinion.”

“Dear boy,” he says, turning stiffly to observe me with a humoured expression. “Don’t misread me. Yes, I am of a bygone era, but I do not, in any way, discriminate against those of a different persuasion. I wholeheartedly approve of Winterbourne junior’s rise to fame and of the appointment of The Taoiseach. But I doubt the latter would be the first gay prime minister in parliament in the British Isles, just the first openly gay one. Your generation did not invent homosexuality, you know. Some things were simply not discussed in my day.”

Yes, because to do so would have equalled a prison sentence. Uncle Dom and I had often argued the topic. Although he praised advances in civil rights and liberalisation in the country, he also mourned the loss of danger and excitement during his days of clandestine liaisons with like-minded men, what he called being a member of the ‘naughty boys club.’ After Pollards recent conversation with Ben, I sometimes wonder how far we have really come. But Milton is not paying attention to me and continues on.

“As an ex-military man, my views may lean towards conservatism, but not radically. Yes, I believe in institutions and tradition—being taught self-discipline is one of the greatest lessons in life for both sexes—but not where it’s clearly archaic and frankly, farcical, or where the system is merely there to provide old boys with an income. Take this school, for example. I am of the opinion that well-ordered and well run learning institutions such as these turn boys into well rounded men and, in turn, help to build lasting nations.”

My own opinions are not wildly dissimilar, although I do know some fellow teachers who see Croxburgh all-boys school as an anachronism in a world filled predominantly with co-ed institutions.

Almost ironically, we reach a part of the corridor where, in an effort to promote more cultural and religious tolerance and sensitivity, boys from all backgrounds are encouraged to create displays for their own customs. This section is reserved for all observed festivals—whether deemed religious or not; Chinese New Year, Diwali, Eid al-Fitr, Christmas. At this time of the year, of course, Christmas is the central theme, but this is also shared with Hanukah, some of the boys having created a beautiful nine candle menorah out of gold and silver mosaic tiles, and the Buddhist Bodhi Day, with a clay painted golden and red Buddha. Milton pauses for a moment to observe and absorb, but does not pass judgement.

We finally reach the last doorway on the right before the heavy double doors leading to the outside playground—Dorothy’s room. At the moment, she has the red occupied sign showing on the door. Much to my amusement, Milton lowers himself onto one of the empty seats arranged along the wall, usually reserved for boys who are waiting to be reprimanded by the head.

“When you lived in Croxburgh, did you ever visit my late friend’s tailor shop on the high street? Harrison’s?” I ask, not even sure why I ask the question.

“To be perfectly honest, I’d have difficulty giving directions to the high street newsagents. And I’ve actually been in there four or five times during my life. Probably driven past the tailor shop. But you must remember that I joined the army on my sixteenth birthday and was posted overseas at seventeen which is pretty much where I stayed. So apart from the few times I spent at home on leave, I’d hardly call Croxburgh home. Why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest. Thought you or maybe your family might have known him. So did you ever consider settling abroad?”

“Now you must never tell Deborah this, but I rather took a fancy to southeast Asia. Would have been happy to spend my final days in Malaya or Singapore. But then, of course, I’d never have met Deborah or your uncle.”

“One day, you’ll have to tell me all you know about him. I miss him dearly.”

“Come over for dinner. Saturday evening. Deborah is insisting and she never takes no for an answer. She’ll probably spend most of the evening grilling you about James, but on the plus side, she is a magnificent cook.”

“I’d love to.”

“Nothing formal, you understand. Just the four of us.”

“Four?” I ask, hesitating.

“Don’t you have a long term partner? I’m sure Hugh mentioned that you live with a lawyer.”

“Ah, yes. I used to. But he’s in Asia now. We parted company.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“These things happen. I live with someone else now, but I’m not sure he’d be free.”

I wonder for a moment what Ben would make of Milton. Actually, they would probably have a grand old time, Ben mesmerised by Milton’s tales of military heroics. Might be just the thing to get Ben out of the melancholy funk he has been in of late. Sunday’s little visit by the woman who turned out to be his ex-wife, now with a new baby to care for, seems to have made him worse. He says she wanted to give him a gentle nudge about pushing the divorce along, maybe because she wants to remarry. He never said and I never asked. I wonder if he sees her as another person in the world he has disappointed or let down, along with the families of the colleagues who were killed. Maybe a night of listening to war stories would be right up his street.

“Actually, I think you two would get along really well. Let me check with him. I have your number, so I’ll let you know later today.”

“Excellent. If not, just the three of us. Now I imagine you need to go and educate young minds, while I need to get back home for lunch.”

“This is a free period for me. And then it’s lunch break so I’m fine right now. I think Dorothy was going to provide some tea for you.”

“Politely decline for me, will you?” he says, beginning to rise from his seat.

“Of course. But before you go can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“At the Winterbourne gathering, you seemed to be having rather a heated disagreement with Constantine Morgan. I just wondered what had happened, if you’re at liberty to say?”

Briefly, he looks off into the distance, but the hardening of his features is not difficult to read.

“During my military career, and even into retirement, I have met with a lot of powerful men and women, often on the other side of a conflict. With very few exceptions, they have been driven—some ruthlessly so—but in each case have been both courteous and honourable. I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but that man was neither. Everything about him made me seethe. A braggart and a bore to boot. One-upmanship and filling his pockets at any cost were all he cared about. I’d warned Sir Jeremy on many occasions that he should watch his back around the man, should definitely not go into business with him, and did so again that night. Reliable friends of mine had hinted at dubious dealings in the Morgan camp. What you saw at the party was that heathen publicly tearing me off a strip, telling me to mind my own business. In front of my wife, of all things, which in my book is intolerable and why I retaliated. Of course, after the events of that evening and the subsequent publications in the press about him getting his thugs to threaten or dispose of ex-employees and suppliers—even your poor friend, the tailor—I felt entirely vindicated. Unsurprised, if I’m going to be totally honest, but most certainly vindicated.”

Morgan’s hand in the silencing of former contacts had been proven beyond any doubt. Anonymously, someone—most likely Nichole Schwartz after her sudden disappearance—sent reams of emails and other incriminating documents by post to the CID and the press. However, only a few of us know that Denny, my tailor friend, was not one of those targeted by Morgan’s henchman, Kominsky. Carter and Nichole Schwartz had been behind his death, as well as the murders of Tony McDonald and Roland O’Keith, and the motive remains unclear. Both have disappeared from the face of the earth, so we may never know. Still, I share Milton’s assessment of Morgan’s character, had experienced Kominsky’s brutal tactics first hand.

As always, Milton shakes my hand firmly and with genuine warmth.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Colin.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re honoured to have your grandson here.”

“Nevertheless, if you ever find yourself in a corner, let me know. I may old but I am not without influence. Without going into detail, I have faced more difficult situations and been in more tight spots than any of my living counterparts and most of the dead ones. I also know a lot of people, if you know what I mean, and am not adverse to calling in a favour or two.”

This time, he taps a waxen forefinger on the side of his nose and winks—a gesture that has me wondering exactly how influential the man still is—before he pulls out a card from his inside pocket.

“Now, here’s our address. Deborah will probably try to impress you with her trademark Beef Wellington, so if you’re bringing wine, make it a full bodied red. Let me know if your partner can come. Either way, I’ll see you next Saturday. And if you twist my arm—our arms—we might even divulge a few salacious tales about your uncle.”

While I scratch the back of my knuckles with the card, I watch him move away confidently, wonder at the kind of dangers he mentioned and how he managed to survive seemingly intact, while I still have nightmares about my one brush with death.