Harvest of War by Hilary Green Page A

been sold – and some other things as well?’
    She bent her head closer to her sewing and answered indistinctly, ‘I believe your father needed some money. He owed it to some bookies.’
    â€˜He’s still gambling, then. How bad is it?’
    She shook her head. ‘I don’t know about these things.’
    Tom reached out and took her hands, stilling the obsessive movement of her needle. ‘When was father last here?’
    â€˜I . . . don’t remember. It was Christmas, I think. Yes, there was a party . . . a lot of noise.’
    â€˜A party! Up to his ears in debt, and he’s still throwing parties! And he hasn’t been down here since then?’
    â€˜No, I . . . I don’t think so.’
    He leaned closer, gripping her hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘Mother, how bad are things really? You must have some idea.’
    She closed her eyes, as if trying to shut out a thought. Then she said, almost in a whisper, ‘John Standing was here the other day. He wanted to talk to me about selling off some land. He was saying something about the bank, and a mortgage. I told him there is nothing I can do. Your father is the only one who can deal with these things.’
    Tom sat back and took a deep breath. He knew Standing, the estate manager, for an honest, sensible man. If he was worried enough to want to sell land, affairs must have reached a critical state. He looked at his mother, seeing her now not as the cold, unloving figure of his childhood but as a pathetic woman who had shut herself off in order to escape from an unhappy marriage. He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see Standing in the morning and then I’ll go up to town and talk to father.’
    At a meeting the next day with the estate manager and Mr Featherstone, the family solicitor, Tom was made fully aware of how desperate the situation was. His father had mortgaged the estate to fund his alcoholism and his gambling and now the bank was threatening to foreclose on the debt. Bills for wine and groceries remained unpaid, staff had been dismissed and for those that were left wages were months in arrears. And to add to that there was the unknown amount that might be owing to bookmakers.
    â€˜I’ll be frank with you, Lieutenant Devenish,’ Featherstone said. ‘Unless something is done soon we shall have the bailiffs in.’
    As soon as the meeting was over Tom took the train to London and made his way to his father’s club. A steward informed him stiffly that Sir George was not on the premises at present but was expected back that evening. Meanwhile, he suggested, the club secretary would like a word with him.
    It was just as Tom expected: a catalogue of complaints about unpaid bar bills and drunken confrontations with other members.
    â€˜To be frank with you, Lieutenant,’ the secretary said, ‘unless you can see your way clear to settle the outstanding bill I am afraid we shall have to ask Sir George to leave – and it may even come to a matter of involving the police.’
    â€˜I understand,’ Tom said. ‘How much is owing?’
    The secretary handed him a bill and Tom reached for his cheque book with a sigh. It was almost exactly the same amount as the general had paid him for his picture.
    â€˜Do you know where my father is at the moment?’
    â€˜He has gone to Newmarket for the races, I believe.’
    Tom shook his head in disbelief. He knew, from conversations in the mess, of the crazy conviction of the inveterate gambler that one last lucky bet would solve all his problems, but he found it hard to credit that any sane man could believe it. But then, he was beginning to wonder if his father was sane. He waited in the bar for him to return. Sir George came in just before dinner and from the tone of his voice, heard from the hallway before he entered the bar, and from his face when he appeared, it was plain that no such stroke