The Carousel (11 page)

"I started to say something trivial, but Annabelle interrupted me. It was then that she told me she was having a baby. She said, 'It's your child, Daniel.'

"You know, when I was young, growing up, I used to scare the pants off myself by imagining just such a situation. A girl, pregnant by me. A girl I didn't want to marry. Paternity suits, furious fathers, shotgun weddings. Nightmarish. And now it had happened, only it wasn't happening that way. She went on talking, and it gradually sank into my paralysed brain that she wanted nothing of me. She didn't want me to act as corespondent for a divorce; didn't want me to elope; didn't want me to marry her. She didn't want money.

"I felt there had to be a catch in it somewhere. Finally, when she stopped talking, I said, 'What about your husband?' and Annabelle laughed and said that he wouldn't ask any questions. I told her I couldn't believe this; no man would accept another man's child. But Annabelle said that Leslie Collis would, to save his own face and his pride; he hated more than anything else in the world to be made to look foolish. He minded what his colleagues thought of him, what people said about him. He'd built up for himself this hard-headed image, and he would let nothing destroy it. And then she looked at the expression on my face and she laughed again, and she said, 'Don't worry, Daniel, he won't come gunning for you.'

"I said, 'But it's my baby,' and she threw her cigarette away and pushed her hair out of her face and said, 'Oh, don't bother about the baby. It'll have a good home,' and she made it sound as though she were talking about a dog."

He was still now, the restless pacing stopped. He stood in the middle of the room, looking down into his glass. There was still some whisky left in the bottom, and with a quick movement of hand and head, he tipped the last of it down his throat. I hoped that he would not pour himself another. He seemed to me, in this frame of mind, a man happy to drink himself into oblivion. But he went and put the empty glass back on top of the refrigerator and then, noticing that it was now dark, moved to the window and drew the heavy curtains, shutting away the dismal night outside. 

He turned to face me. "You're not saying anything."

"I can't think of anything intelligent to say."

"You're shocked."

"That's a ludicrous word to use. I'm in no position to be shocked. I'm in no position to take up any sort of attitude. But for your sake, I'm sorry it happened."

"I haven't told you everything yet. Do you want to hear the rest?"

"If you want me to hear."

"I think I do. I ... I haven't talked like this for years. I'm not sure if I could stop now, even if I wanted to."

"Have you never told anyone before?"

"Yes. I told Chips. At first I thought I wouldn't. I couldn't. For one thing, I was too ashamed. Leslie Collis wasn't the only man who hated to look foolish. But I was never much good at hiding my feelings, and after a couple of days of idiocy, shambling around Chips's studio and dropping things, he lost patience with me and came out with it, and said what the hell was the matter with me, anyway. So I told him then. I told him everything, and he never interrupted; never said a word. Just sat there in his saggy old chair, smoking his pipe and listening. And when I'd finished, got it off my chest, the relief was so great that I couldn't think why I hadn't told him straight away."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say anything for a bit. Just went on smoking and gazing into space. Mulling things over. I didn't know what he was thinking. I half-expected to be told to go and pack my bags and never darken the doors of Holly Cottage again.

"But finally he knocked the ash out of his pipe and put it in his pocket and said, 'Young man, you are being taken for a ride.' And then he told me about Annabelle. He said that she had always been amoral, openly promiscuous. That summer was no exception. As for the baby, there was another man, a farmer from over Falmouth way, married and with a family of his own. In Chips's opinion, there was every likelihood that he was the father of Annabelle's baby. And Annabelle must know this.

"When he came out with this, I was in more of a quandary than ever. Half of me was relieved. But, as well, I felt cheated. My pride was badly bruised. I knew I was deceiving Leslie Collis, but it gave my newly found manhood a kick in the teeth to be told that Annabelle had been two-timing me. That sounds despicable, doesn't it?"

"No. It's understandable. But if it was true, why did she say the baby was yours?"

"I asked Chips that very question. And he told me that that had always been Annabelle's way. It was no fun creating havoc if she couldn't leave behind her a trail of guilt and remorse. Unbelievable, isn't it?"

"It sounds unbelievable to me. But if Chips said that, then it has to be true."

"I knew that, too. He went and saw Annabelle that very evening. Had it out with her. He walked up to White Lodge and got Annabelle on his own. At first she tried to bluff it out, insisting that it could be nobody's child but mine. But then he faced her with what he had told me. About the other man. And when he came out with his name, Annabelle broke down and admitted that he was right. It wasn't necessarily my child. She just liked to think that it might be. I never saw her again. She went back to London a couple of days later, taking the little boy and his nanny with her. And Chips and I agreed that it was time that I went, too. I'd been marking time for far too long."

"Does Phoebe know about all this?"

"No. I didn't want her to know, and Chips agreed that it would be better if she didn't. Hopefully, there would be no repercussions, and there was no point in upsetting her or creating any sort of trouble with Mrs. Tolliver. Penmarron is a small village. They had to go on living there, both of them part of a fairly tight community."

"What a wise man Chips was."

"Wise. Understanding. I can't begin to describe to you his kindness to me at that time. Like the very best sort of father. He fixed everything for me, even lent me some money to see me through till I found my feet. He gave me letters of introduction to friends of his in New York, but most important, he sent me off with a letter of introduction to Peter Chastal in London. In those days the gallery had been going only for a couple of years, but he'd already earned something of a name for himself in the art world. I took a great folio of my work for him to look at, and by the time I left for America, he'd agreed to exhibit for me and act as my agent. And that's what he's done ever since."

I thought of the ecstatic review I had read on the train. "He's done well for you."

"Yes. I've been fortunate."

"Chips used to say it was no good having a talent if you didn't work at it."

"Chips used to say a lot of sound things."

"Was it working that kept you away for eleven years?"

"I like to think so. I don't like to think I was trying to escape from what had happened. But perhaps I was. Running. Further and further away. New York first, and then Arizona, and then San Francisco. It was while I was there that I first became interested in Japanese art. There's a big Japanese community in San Francisco, and I found myself involved with a group of young painters. The longer I worked with them, the more I realised how little I knew. The traditions and disciplines of Japanese painting go back for centuries. It fascinated me. So I went to Japan, and there I became a student again, sitting at the feet of a very old and famous man. Time ceased to have any meaning. I was there for four years. Sometimes it seemed like a few days. At others, eternity.

"This exhibition at Peter Chastal's is a direct result of those years. I told you I didn't want to come back for it. Opening days do genuinely terrify me. But as well, I was afraid of coming back to England. On the other side of the world it was possible not to think about Annabelle and the child that might be mine. But coming back ... I had nightmares about being in London and seeing Annabelle and my child walking up the pavement towards me."

"Wasn't coming to Cornwall something of a risk?"

"It all seemed predestined. Meeting a stranger in a pub, being offered a lift. I very nearly didn't come, but I wanted so much to see Phoebe again."

I thought back to yesterday. I remembered how quietly he had sat at the bar downstairs while I chattered on about Mrs. Tolliver and Charlotte. "Daniel, when I told you Charlotte was here, at Penmarron, staying with her grandmother, you must have realised that she was the baby."

"Yes, I realised. And I knew, too, for sure, inevitably, that I was going to meet her. It was all part of some extraordinary pattern, out of my control. When we got to Phoebe's this afternoon and got out of the car and went into the house, I knew that Charlotte was around, somewhere. I knew even before Lily told us. And as I walked out of the house and down the hill and along the seawall to fetch them back for tea, I kept telling myself that after all these years of uncertainty, I was finally going to know.

"They didn't notice me coming. They were both far too engrossed in their work. And then Phoebe caught sight of me and said my name. And Charlotte looked up, too. And there was that little face. And I knew then that, without knowing it, Annabelle had told me the truth."

So that was it. I seemed to have been standing forever, listening to Daniel's voice. My back ached, and I felt drained and exhausted. I had no idea what hour it was. From downstairs, from the busy heart of the hotel, came sounds and smells. Voices, the distant clash of dishes, the thin strains of an orchestra playing something undemanding out of The Sound Of Music. Sometime I had to return to Holly Cottage, to Phoebe and the chicken casserole. But not yet. 

I said, "If I don't sit down I shall die." And I went over to the fireplace and collapsed in one of the chintz-covered armchairs. All the time we had talked the little fake flames had licked cheerfully around the pretend logs. Now I sat back, with my chin buried in the collar of my sweater, and watched them flickering busily, getting nowhere.

I heard Daniel pour himself another drink. He brought it over and sat facing me in the other chair. I looked up, and our eyes met. We were both very solemn.

I smiled. "So now you've told me. And I don't know why you told me."

"I had to tell someone. And for some reason, you seem to be part of it all."

"No. I'm not part of it." It was about the only thing of which I was certain. Otherwise the situation in which Daniel now found himself seemed to have no solution. I thought about it for a bit and then went on. ". . . and I don't think that you're part of it, either. It's over, Daniel. Finished. Forgotten. Water under the bridge. You thought that Charlotte might be your child; now you know that she is. That's all that's changed. Charlotte is still Charlotte Collis, Leslie Collis's daughter, Mrs. Tol-liver's grandaughter, and Phoebe's friend. Accept that and forget about everything else. Because there really is no alternative. The fact that you've discovered the truth is irrelevant. It alters nothing. Charlotte was never your responsibility and she isn't now. You have to think of her as a little girl you met on the seawall who happens to share your talent for drawing and whose face reminds you of your mother's."

He did not answer me at once. And then he said, "If that were all I had to come to terms with, it wouldn't be so bad."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean exactly what you observed in the train, and what Lily Tonkins, who is nobody's fool, instantly put her finger on. Charlotte not only has to wear spectacles, but she bites her fingernails, she is lonely, she is unhappy and apparently neglected."

I looked away from him, turning to the fire for diversion. If it had been a proper one, I could have filled in the difficult moment by some small business with a poker or a fresh log. As it was, I found myself at a loss. I knew, and Phoebe knew and Lily Tonkins knew, that everything Daniel had just said was in all probability true. But to agree with him now could do no good for Charlotte and would only make the situation even more difficult for Daniel to accept.

I sighed, searching for words. "You mustn't take everything that Lily says quite literally. She's always been inclined to overdramatize things. And you know, little girls of Charlotte's age aren't always very easy to understand. They become secretive and withdrawn. As well, I think she's rather a shy child . . ."

I looked up and met his gaze again. I smiled, making my face cheerful and matter-of-fact. ". . . And let's face it, Mrs. Tolliver would never win a competition for the world's cosiest granny. That's why Charlotte's so fond of Phoebe. And anyway, I don't suppose she's having a bad time staying at White Lodge. I know there are no other children to play with, but that's because all the other children in the village are back at school. And despite what Lily said, I'm sure Betty Curnow spends a bit of time with her and is kind. You mustn't let things exaggerate themselves in your mind. Besides, tomorrow we're taking her out for a picnic. You haven't forgotten that, have you? You said you'd take us to Penjizal and show us the seals . . . you can't back out now."

"No. I won't back out."

"I understand why you were reluctant to come with us. It won't be very easy for you."

He shook his head. "I don't see that a single day is going to make much difference, one way or another, taken in the context of two separate lifetimes."

I tried to work this out. "I don't know what that means, but I'm sure you're right."

He laughed. Downstairs the orchestra had switched from The Sound Of Music to The Pirates of Penzance. I could smell delicious food. 

I said, "Come back with me. To Holly Cottage. Phoebe would love it so much. We'll eat Lily's casserole, the way we planned. She's cooked enough to feed an army."

But he said that he would not come.

I looked at the empty whisky glass on the floor between his feet.

"You promise me you won't sit here all evening and drink yourself into a coma?"

He shook his head. "How little you know me. How little we know each other. I don't drink that way. I never have."

"But you'll get something to eat? You'll have dinner?" "Yes. Later. I'll go downstairs."