The
smell of lavender wax hung in the air. The servants had polished the
railing and the steps of the staircase into gleaming perfection. The
carved columns of the railing shone with the loving attention
bestowed on them, the steps glistened with the depth of several
layers of wax. It was a wonderful piece of carpentry, he reflected,
winding gracefully up to the next floor, an elegant curve teased out
of the wood, the columns turned just so, with taste and a cunning
hand.
It was
an old staircase, it had seen generations of people walk up and down;
seen their first ventures on all four, their first wobbly steps, the
trampling of young schoolboys off to their first hunt with their
fathers, the sweeping of young women in their finest dresses, hearts
pounding at the prospect of seeing their lovers, the impatiently
hurrying feet of young husbands, eager for their brides, the slowed
down tread of matrons in mourning, the three legged struggle of the
old and infirm, and that last leaving, the pallbearers walking
sedately, carrying down the coffin.
He set a
foot onto the first step, wriggling it around. It moved with ease on
the shiny steps. Only yesterday had he remarked to his wife, “Those
steps are dangerous. There should be a carpet on them. How easily
could someone slip on it and have an ugly accident”.
She had
laughed and patted his knee. “It would be a shame to hide the wood.
And a carpet is so difficult to keep clean. The staff would rightly
complain about the additional work it would cause.”
He had
left it at that.
At the
top of the staircase he could hear shuffling steps. Above the railing
the grizzled head of his father appeared.
“There
you are. I've been waiting for you. Have you prepared everything?”
“Yes,
Father. Everything is ready. The documents are in the library. Mr
Trevelyan should be here shortly.”
“Very
well. I know, you are not happy with my decision, but considering the
financial problems I think my decision is for the best. The house has
to be sold.” The grizzled head began to move towards the stairs.
The son went back into the library. On the long oak table was a tray
with a decanter and several glasses, and a briefcase. He opened the
briefcase and took out the document that would rob him and his family
of their home.
Out in
the hall he could hear the tapping of the stick his father used these
days. It had been a long time before he finally conceded to use it.
His proud spirit accepted only slowly that his body was giving out on
him. He would use it, but only because holding on to the furniture or
other people was even more loathsome to him.
The son
looked back at the document and his throat tightened. Losing the
house was worse for him than losing the business. He had grown up in
it, his past was intimately linked to it. His father couldn't
understand that he preferred the house to the business. And he had
never really understood or forgiven his son's indifference towards
the business he had built up.
The son
laid the document back onto the table and sighed.
There
was a sudden, dreadful clatter out in the hall, a shout and then a
terrible thumping noise. It seemed to go on forever.
“Father!”The
son ran out into the hall. At the foot of the stairs his father lay
in a crumbled heap. A dark stain slowly spread across his grey hair.
The son hurried over and touched the side of the throat. The skin
under his probing fingers was silent, not even the flutter of a
pulse. A servant came running into the hall.
“Run
for the doctor. Quick!” The servant dashed off. The son hurried up
the slippery stairs, while alarmed and questioning calls echoed
through the big house. He unwound the trip wire and pushed it into
his pockets before returning to his father's silent form.
“I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry. But I couldn't allow you to sell the house.”