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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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it made no mention of the choice of name and it was rather a cold note. Later on, when Lewis and his wife and the baby went to stay at Wyvis Hall, Hilbert’s only comment on his great-nephew’s name was: “Poor little devil.”
By then, anyway, the baby was always called Adam by everyone.
Lewis, who was no fool, soon saw that in some incomprehensible way he had put his uncle’s back up. He set about rectifying matters, attempting to redress the balance. His uncle’s birthday was noted; he must always have a Christmas present bought and sent in good time. He was invited to London and all sorts of treats were held out to him as to how he would be entertained on such a visit, trips to the theater and concerts, a specially organized tour of “Swinging London,” Carnaby Street, King’s Road, and so on. Lewis knew very well he should not do this, that he was sucking up to someone for the sake of inheriting his property. But he could not help himself, he could not do otherwise.
Of course he continued to take his family to Wyvis Hall regularly for their summer holidays. He had a daughter as well now whom he had been tempted to call Lilian but had seen the unwisdom of this in time and named her Bridget. His wife would have liked to go to Cornwall sometimes or even to Majorca but Lewis said it was out of the question, they couldn’t afford it. Perhaps what he really meant was that they couldn’t afford not to go to Nunes. By 1970 you couldn’t buy a derelict cottage in the Nunes neighborhood for less than 4,000 pounds, and Wyvis Hall would fetch five times that.
One day, soon after he had retired from his legal practice, Hilbert told Lewis he had made a will that was “very much to your advantage.” He smiled in a benevolent sort of way when he said this. They were sitting out on the terrace on the low wall of which stood, in pairs, stone figures from classical mythology of a rather embarrassing kind. Under the drawing room window agapanthus afrianus, the blue lily, was in full flower. Hilbert and Lewis and Beryl sat in old-fashioned deck chairs with striped canvas seats. Hilbert leaned toward Lewis when he told him about the will and gave him a pat on the knee. Lewis said something about being very grateful.
“I finally made up my mind when you named the boy after me,” said Hilbert.
Lewis said more grateful things and about naming his son Hilbert being only proper and suitable under the circumstances.
“ In the circumstances,” said Hilbert.
He was in the habit of correcting minor errors of grammar or usage. Adam must have got it from him, Lewis sometimes thought, or perhaps (he much later and very bitterly thought) a similar pedantry in Adam was among the things Hilbert liked about him.
Lewis did not like being corrected, but he had to take it and with a smile. It wouldn’t go on forever. The Verne-Smiths were not long livers. Lewis’s father had died at sixty and his grandfather at sixty-two. His three aunts were all dead at under seventy. Hilbert would be seventy the following year and Lewis said to his wife that his uncle was beginning to look very frail. He began “running down” to Suffolk at weekends by himself, and that Christmas he had his wife accompany him for four days, taking all the Christmas food with them. The woman who came in to clean and the old boy who saw to the garden had been instructed to call him “Mr.” Lewis and he felt very much the heir. His uncle hadn’t much money, he supposed, but there would be a little, enough to put central heating in, say, and have the place redecorated. Lewis hadn’t made up his mind whether to sell Wyvis Hall after he had smartened it up a bit and with the proceeds buy a bigger and better London house and a country cottage or to keep the Hall and sell off some of the land for agriculture. According to his estimate, the result of perusing real estate agents’ windows in Ipswich and Sudbury, Wyvis Hall by the end of 1972 was worth about 23,000
By then, anyway, the baby was always called Adam by everyone.
Lewis, who was no fool, soon saw that in some incomprehensible way he had put his uncle’s back up. He set about rectifying matters, attempting to redress the balance. His uncle’s birthday was noted; he must always have a Christmas present bought and sent in good time. He was invited to London and all sorts of treats were held out to him as to how he would be entertained on such a visit, trips to the theater and concerts, a specially organized tour of “Swinging London,” Carnaby Street, King’s Road, and so on. Lewis knew very well he should not do this, that he was sucking up to someone for the sake of inheriting his property. But he could not help himself, he could not do otherwise.
Of course he continued to take his family to Wyvis Hall regularly for their summer holidays. He had a daughter as well now whom he had been tempted to call Lilian but had seen the unwisdom of this in time and named her Bridget. His wife would have liked to go to Cornwall sometimes or even to Majorca but Lewis said it was out of the question, they couldn’t afford it. Perhaps what he really meant was that they couldn’t afford not to go to Nunes. By 1970 you couldn’t buy a derelict cottage in the Nunes neighborhood for less than 4,000 pounds, and Wyvis Hall would fetch five times that.
One day, soon after he had retired from his legal practice, Hilbert told Lewis he had made a will that was “very much to your advantage.” He smiled in a benevolent sort of way when he said this. They were sitting out on the terrace on the low wall of which stood, in pairs, stone figures from classical mythology of a rather embarrassing kind. Under the drawing room window agapanthus afrianus, the blue lily, was in full flower. Hilbert and Lewis and Beryl sat in old-fashioned deck chairs with striped canvas seats. Hilbert leaned toward Lewis when he told him about the will and gave him a pat on the knee. Lewis said something about being very grateful.
“I finally made up my mind when you named the boy after me,” said Hilbert.
Lewis said more grateful things and about naming his son Hilbert being only proper and suitable under the circumstances.
“ In the circumstances,” said Hilbert.
He was in the habit of correcting minor errors of grammar or usage. Adam must have got it from him, Lewis sometimes thought, or perhaps (he much later and very bitterly thought) a similar pedantry in Adam was among the things Hilbert liked about him.
Lewis did not like being corrected, but he had to take it and with a smile. It wouldn’t go on forever. The Verne-Smiths were not long livers. Lewis’s father had died at sixty and his grandfather at sixty-two. His three aunts were all dead at under seventy. Hilbert would be seventy the following year and Lewis said to his wife that his uncle was beginning to look very frail. He began “running down” to Suffolk at weekends by himself, and that Christmas he had his wife accompany him for four days, taking all the Christmas food with them. The woman who came in to clean and the old boy who saw to the garden had been instructed to call him “Mr.” Lewis and he felt very much the heir. His uncle hadn’t much money, he supposed, but there would be a little, enough to put central heating in, say, and have the place redecorated. Lewis hadn’t made up his mind whether to sell Wyvis Hall after he had smartened it up a bit and with the proceeds buy a bigger and better London house and a country cottage or to keep the Hall and sell off some of the land for agriculture. According to his estimate, the result of perusing real estate agents’ windows in Ipswich and Sudbury, Wyvis Hall by the end of 1972 was worth about 23,000
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