A Matter of Honor

But Mother was a daughter of the regiment and wouldn’t complain, she never did. If God ever announced the saints, as opposed to some Pope in Rome, Saint Susan of Appleshaw would be up there with Mary and Elizabeth. All through his life Pa, as Adam always thought of his father, had set such high standards for the family to live up to. Perhaps that was why Adam continued to admire him above all men. He only hoped that if he ever had a son those standards would be passed on to another generation. Sometimes the very thought made him feel strangely out of place in the swinging sixties.

Adam began to shift in his chair, assuming that the proceedings were now drawing to a close. The sooner they were all out of this cold, drab little office the better, he felt.

Mr. Holbrooke looked up once more and cleared his throat, as if he were about to announce who was to be left the Goya or the Hapsburg diamonds. He pushed his half-moon spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose and stared back down at the last paragraphs of his late client’s testament. The three surviving members of the Scott family sat in silence. What could he have to add? thought Adam.

Whatever it was, the solicitor had obviously pondered the final bequest several times, because he delivered the words like a well-versed actor, his eyes returning to the script only once.

“‘And I also leave to my son,’” Mr. Holbrooke paused, “‘the enclosed envelope,’” he said, holding it up, “‘which I can only hope will bring him greater happiness than it did me. Should he decide to open the envelope, it must be on the condition that he will never divulge its contents to any other living person.’” Adam caught his sister’s eye, but she only shook her head slightly, obviously as puzzled as he was. He glanced toward his mother, who looked shocked; was it fear or was it distress? Adam couldn’t decide.

Without another word, Mr. Holbrooke passed the yellowed envelope over to the colonel’s only son.

Everyone in the room remained seated, not quite sure what to do next. Mr. Holbrooke finally closed the thin file marked Col. Gerald Scott, D.S.O., O.B.E., M.C., pushed back his chair, and walked slowly over to the widow. They shook hands and she said, “Thank you,” a faintly ridiculous courtesy, Adam felt, as the only person in the room who had made any sort of profit on this particular transaction had been Mr. Holbrooke, and that on behalf of Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne.

He rose and went quickly by his mother’s side.

“You’ll join us for tea, Mr. Holbrooke?” she was asking.

“I fear not, dear lady,” the lawyer began, but Adam didn’t bother to listen further. Obviously the fee hadn’t been large enough to cover Holbrooke taking time off for tea.

Once they had left the office and Adam had ensured his mother and sister were seated comfortably in the back of the family Morris Minor, he took his place behind the steering wheel. He had parked outside Mr. Holbrooke’s office in the middle of High Street. No yellow lines in the streets of Appleshaw—yet, he thought. Even before he had switched on the ignition his mother had offered matter-of-factly, “We’ll have to get rid of this, you know. I can’t afford to run it now, not with petrol at six shillings a gallon.”

“Don’t let’s worry about that today,” said Margaret consolingly, but in a voice that accepted that her mother was right. “I wonder what can be in that envelope, Adam,” she added, wanting to change the subject.

“Detailed instructions on how to invest my five hundred pounds, no doubt,” said her brother, attempting to lighten their mood.

“Don’t be disrespectful of the dead,” said his mother, the same look of fear returning to her face. “I begged your father to destroy that envelope,” she added in a voice that was barely a whisper.

Adam’s lips pursed when he realized this must be the envelope his father had referred to all those years ago when Adam had witnessed the one row he would ever see his parents have. Adam still remembered his father’s raised voice and angry words just a few days after he had returned from Germany.

“I have to open it, don’t you understand?” Pa had insisted.

“Never,” his mother had replied. “After all the sacrifices I have made, you at least owe me that.”

Over twenty years had passed since that confrontation, and he had never heard the subject referred to again, and the only time Adam ever mentioned it to his sister she could throw no light on what it might have been over.

Adam pressed his foot on the brake as they reached a crossroads at the end of High Street. He turned right and continued to drive out of the village for a mile or so down a winding country lane before bringing the old Morris Minor to a halt. Adam leapt out and opened the trellised gate, whose path led through a neat lawn to a little thatched cottage.

“I’m sure you ought to be getting back to London,” were his mother’s first words as she entered the drawing room.

“I’m in no hurry, Mother. There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Just as you wish, my dear, but you don’t have to worry yourself over me,” his mother continued. She stared up at the tall young man who reminded her so much of Gerald. He would have been as good-looking as her husband if it weren’t for the slight break in his nose. The same dark hair and deep brown eyes, the same open honest face, even the same gentle approach to everyone he came across. But most of all the same high standards of morality that had brought them to their present sad state.

“And in any case I’ve always got Margaret to take care of me,” she added. Adam looked across at his sister and wondered how she would now cope with Saint Susan of Appleshaw.

Margaret had recently become engaged to a London stockbroker, and although the marriage had been postponed, she would soon be wanting to start a life of her own. Thank God her finance had already put a down payment on a little house only fourteen miles away.

After tea and a sad uninterrupted monologue from their mother on the virtues and misfortunes of their father, Margaret cleared away and left the two of them alone. They had both loved him in such different ways, although Adam felt that he had never let Pa really know how much he appreciated him.

“Now that you’re no longer in the army, my dear, I do hope you’ll be able to find a worthwhile job,” his mother said uneasily, as she recalled how difficult that had proved to be for his father.

“I’m sure everything will be just fine, Mother,” he replied. “The Foreign Office has asked to see me again,” he added, hoping to reassure her.

“Still, now that you’ve got five hundred pounds of your own,” she said, “that should make things a little easier for you.” Adam smiled fondly at her, wondering when she had last spent a day in London. His share of the Chelsea flat alone was four pounds a week, and he still had to eat occasionally. She raised her eyes and, looking up at the clock on the mantelpiece, said, “You’d better be getting along, my dear, I don’t like the thought of you on that motorbike after dark.”

Adam bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he said. On his way out, he stuck his head around the kitchen door and shouted, to his sister, “I’m off. I’ll be sending you a check for fifty pounds.”

“Why?” asked Margaret, looking up from the sink.