Having gone to an all-boys school, there had been little female influence for Reynard until he’d met and married Sylvia in his thirties – again, mostly to please his father by hopefully producing another generation to carry on the family firm. Reynard had known very little about Sylvia before marrying her, but they’d got on well enough, and in a fairly short time Alfred and Johnny had been born.
But now Sylvia was sadly no longer with them and on a sudden whim Reynard had decided to leave London with all its sad memories and continue his money-making activities in the West Country. After due consideration, he had decided that Bath looked a reasonable bet, added to which the smaller town would be a better place for his sons to grow up.
He’d soon deduced that amongst the glitter and glamour of Bath’s well-to-do in their magnificent Georgian houses, there was extreme poverty. The sweeping, imperious Crescents – Royal Crescent, Lansdown Crescent – and the more smug and cloistered Circus, all looking down their noses over countless ranks of small dwellings, many of which were practically derelict and unfit for human habitation. All waiting for rebuilding, for renovation, for someone with money to invest. Someone like Reynard McCann, giving him another opportunity to increase his wealth and prosperity. And so it had proved. Well, he seldom put a foot wrong. One bad decision is one too many, his father had always declared.
In the fourteen or more years since his arrival, Reynard had made a name for himself all right. He’d bought and redeveloped countless ranks of terrace dwellings – let out at vastly increased rents – and restored many dilapidated shops at the edges of the town. He was also the undisputed lender of money which made many people afraid of him because he was not known for doing anyone any favours. He knew that, generally, he was hated and he didn’t care. Why should he? He was in business to make money and if that made him unpopular – too bad.
Now, strolling along the streets towards the centre of town, and passing all the crowded pubs and private beer houses spilling out their loud, inebriated customers onto the pavements, Reynard’s mouth hardened. How much of their money – perhaps his rent money – was being wasted on such passing pleasures? Many apparently lived from hand to mouth, yet they seemed to have no problem with squandering what little they did have.
His thoughts made him lift his head up as he walked on. He’d had the wisest training for life that anyone could have, and he was passing that wisdom on to his sons. He hoped they appreciated the life he was giving them. Biting his lip thoughtfully, Reynard wondered what they really thought of him … did Alfred and Johnny like him? As far as he could remember, he had never particularly liked his own father who had often beaten him unmercifully when angry … and Reynard had soon learned that if he made no sound, the beating would stop more quickly. There’d certainly never been any warmth in their relationship, none at all, and his father had only ever greeted him by the occasional shake of the hand.
As for love – Reynard didn’t know what that word meant, and Sylvia had been a shy, introverted little thing and had probably only married him for his money. Perhaps she, too, hadn’t known what love was. They’d certainly never discussed it.
Stopping for a second to give his leg a rest, he frowned as he tried to hold on to a sudden, distant, fleeting memory of something … of someone … a memory of soft arms around his neck, of sweet words whispering in his ear, of a heart beating next to his own. Where was it … when was it?
Then he walked on with more determination. None of that had happened. It was not a memory, it was a figment of his imagination. Or, maybe, a recall of being held to his mother’s breast? That could have been it. Human memory is an unknowable thing. Who knows what lies hidden deeply in the recesses of the subconscious? Perhaps hidden so deeply that it never rises to the surface to be identified.
Exasperated by all this unusual introspection, Reynard increased his step. It was already ten o’clock – he should have been there by now. But as he rounded a corner he came across a gaggle of men brawling, shouting, swearing, and clustering around a bedraggled creature cowering there on the ground.
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, Mary, Mary daft as a bloody fairy,’ one of them started chanting, and soon the rest all began to join in, poking and pushing at the old woman who stared up at them, her eyes rolling. Then she grinned up stupidly, and began to screech and scream along with them.
‘I’m Mary Mary, daft as a fairy,’ she wailed while holding out a grubby hand in the hope of some cash. “Money for Mary, please, money for poor Mad Mary.’
For a few moments, Reynard stood there transfixed as he watched that crowd of brutes overpowering the old crone … yet as he looked closer he realized that this was not an old woman. She was quite young, but clearly demented and unable to fend for herself. Totally dressed in rags, her long, black hair hung in damp, dirty strands around her thin shoulders, and her teeth were broken and black as she grinned and grimaced.
Reynard raised his cane, thrusting himself forward. ‘Leave her alone!’ he thundered, ‘leave her alone! Do you hear me?’
The biggest man among them lurched over to Reynard. ‘Wha’s the matter wi’ you, gaffer?’ he shouted rudely ‘Yer ol’ woman not givin’ you any? Well don’t blame us for that!’
The others all laughed and jeered, turning now on Reynard. ‘Try yer luck down the brothels!’ one of them shouted. ‘They’ll show you a trick or two to put a smile on yer miserable face! But don’t waste yer time with a mad woman, not with Mad Mary! You won’t get far with ‘er!’
Incensed at being caught up in this ugly business, Reynard was about to raise his cane again and give them a hiding when he thought better of it – the wily fox was too clever for that. There were five of them, and he was alone.
The men, now tired of this, stumbled away, still cursing amongst themselves. Reynard stared down at the woman, not wanting to meet her eyes, not wanting to look into that unwashed, pathetic face. Then, glancing around quickly – he didn’t wish to be observed, people might think he was going soft – he reached into his pocket and took out a half crown piece.
With her eyes fixed on the money, the woman knelt up and grabbed at it, then crawled away into the night, gibbering away to herself as she went. ‘I’m Mad Mary, Mad Mary, poor Mad Mary …’
Turning away, Reynard retraced his steps. He couldn’t go to the club, not after that. He was going home. Increasing his pace, he got back to the house, let himself in and shut the door quietly behind him. Everywhere was silent, though he could see a light under the basement kitchen door, so Anna, his housekeeper, was obviously still up.
Noiselessly, he made his way up the stairs to the first floor where his rooms were. His was the largest bedroom in the house, with a dressing room next to it, and beyond that his bathroom. At the far end of the long corridor was his study which overlooked the back garden. This room was his domain, where he could work uninterrupted, though the boys sometimes came in. Not so much Alfred, who, anyway, was only home during the holidays, but Johnny seemed to like being in the study. Johnny knew where everything was, where all the important papers were filed, and in which drawer to lock away the rents he’d collected. His younger son was beginning to act like his secretary, even refilling the ink well when it was needed.
Slowly, Reynard began to undress, feeling deeply disturbed at the memory of that bedraggled creature grovelling in the gutter. It had shaken him up. Presently, he would have an extra large brandy and soda – which sometimes helped him to get some sleep.
In his red velvet dressing gown and slippers, he left his bedroom and went along to the study. Switching on the desk lamp, he crossed over to the mahogany cabinet which contained wine and spirits and an array of expensive glasses and decanters. He was not a heavy drinker, seldom taking anything during the day, but this room was where he had meetings with his accountant or other business associates, and he liked to offer them quality refreshments. His father would say that apart from a tenner, nothing talked like a good tipple.
Reynard poured himself a drink, added the merest splash of soda water, then sat down heavily on the huge leather chair in front of his desk. Swivelling gently from side to side, he took