The Sons of Adam Read Free Page B

that.’
    ‘And? What about me? What do I get?’
    Sir Adam licked his lips. Tom’s directness often came across as insolence. What was more, it was detestably ill-bred for anyone to talk this bluntly over breakfast – let alone a boy of eight. But, just as he was ready to speak a sharp rebuke, Pamela interrupted.
    ‘Well?’
    She barely whispered the word. She did little more than shape her lips and breathe it. But Sir Adam heard it all right. He exchanged glances with his wife. The issue that Tom had raised was one that the two of them had often enough spoken about in private. Pamela wanted Tom’s share of the estate to be every bit the equal of Alan’s. Sir Adam, on the other hand, knew that his assets weren’t unlimited. Every penny he gave to Tom would have to be cut out of Alan’s or Guy’s inheritance. As he saw it, there was the issue of justice towards his sons. In his heart, he was unable to feel that his adopted son had the same rights as the children of his own flesh and blood.
    ‘Well?’ said Pamela again. ‘Or are
you
intending to drill there?’
    Tom stared, as though the most important thing in the world had walked into the room and might be lost for ever if his concentration flickered even for a second.
    ‘Tommy, you wish to be an oilman, do you?’
    ‘Yes, Uncle.’
    ‘It’s no easy business.’
    ‘No, Uncle.’
    ‘It’s not enough to have a patch of land to drill on, you know. You need money and men and machines and –’
    ‘I know, Uncle. I know.’
    Sir Adam gulped down his tea and stood up. He rumpled Tom’s hair. ‘An oilman, eh?’
    ‘I hope so.’
    ‘Well, good for you, Tommy. You’ve a fine piece of land to begin with.’

6
    Tom had his concession.
    Not legally, of course – the boy was only eight, after all – but his all the same. For the first time in his life, he felt he had something equivalent to what Guy had, to what Alan had, to what Sir Adam had.
    And not just equivalent. Better.
    Because, young as he was, Tom had understood something from the very start. He couldn’t have put his understanding into words, but he understood it all the same. And he was right.
    Because oil isn’t just oil, the way cabbages are only cabbages, or steel is only steel. Oil is more than a liquid. It’s more than another commodity. Oil isn’t precious, the way gold is, because it sparkles nicely and looks pretty on a lady’s neck.
    Oil makes the world go round. Even in the opening decade of the twentieth century, its massive power was becoming visible. Cars ran off it. Ships burned it. Factories needed it. On land and sea, the world went oil-crazy. Navies were converted to burn oil. Armies packed their shells full of high explosive made with oil by-products. And every day chemists found new uses for it; speed records were being shattered with it; men dreamed of powered flight with it.
    But even that wasn’t the reason why oil mattered.
    The reason was this. Man doesn’t make oil; God does. If you’ve got a big enough field and a big enough bank account, you can build yourself an auto factory. Don’t like cars? Then get a bigger field and build yourself an airplane factory. Or start an airline. Build a store. Open a bank.
    Oil isn’t like that. Not anyone can start up in the oil business. To start in oil, you’ve got to have some land that sits over an oilfield. No matter how rich you are, if you don’t own the drilling rights, you don’t have squat. And that’s the reason.
    Oil isn’t just fuel, though it’s the best fuel in the world.
    Oil isn’t just money, though it’s the closest damn thing to money that exists.
    Oil is power, because everyone wants it and there’s only so much to go round.

    ‘Talibus orabat dictis arasque tenebat,’
said the schoolmaster,
‘cum sic orsa loqui vates.’
    He walked around the schoolroom at Whitcombe House tapping out the rhythm of the Latin with his hands. Tom and Alan sat with their schoolbooks lying closed in front of them.