The Sons of Adam (46 page)

‘It’s not a question of ignoring it, dear,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it. That’s all.’

‘Perhaps not, but we haven’t tried.’

Alan looked at her. She had the blooming skin of pregnancy, as well as the misty look in her eyes that showed that a part of her attention was always somewhere else. He stroked a length of short auburn hair from her cheek and raised his eyebrows.

‘I have the name of a doctor,’ she said. ‘He studied with Dr Freud in Vienna, but apparently he’s not in the least intimidating. A friend of mine saw him and said he was very helpful, very understanding.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dr Westerfeld. John, I think. He has a practice in Harley Street.’

Alan nodded. ‘A doctor? A psychiatrist, I suppose? I’m not sure. I really don’t think –’

‘Darling, you’re being a nincompoop.’

‘I’d go if I thought there was any real –’

‘Why is it that men are so brave about some things and such cowards about others? If it doesn’t help, then don’t go back.’

Alan swallowed. His blond hair was gummed to his scalp with the sweat of the dream. She was right, of course. It was only his discomfort at the idea that stopped him going. And if he was being absolutely honest, there were times, even during the day, when he felt inexplicably out of sorts. Even that morning when Reynolds had so splendidly burst in on them, Alan had felt it. For the most part, he’d been happy, full of joy at seeing Reynolds again, full of excitement for Alanto’s progress in Persia. But, even as they’d built refineries out of mustard pots, he’d felt oddly disconnected, a kind of weary disenchantment with everything. With Reynolds, with Alanto, with oil, even with Lottie.

‘Very well. You’re right. I’ll see him, but I’ll also move into the dressing room. I won’t have you disturbed.’

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’

Lottie nodded. Alan kissed her, saw her snuggle back down, then padded silently to the single bed in his dressing room next door. He got into bed, turned the light off, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came.

His lips were caked in clay. The bitter, mineral taste filled his mouth. He raised his eyes. A short distance ahead, Tom moved purposefully towards the enemy.

Ten wasted years.

Tom didn’t kid himself. There are different ways you can succeed. You can make money. You can build a career. Or if you’re a bust at work, you can always find love, start a family, be content.

But Tom had failed in all ways, all dimensions. He had watched the rise of Alanto Oil in Persia, and resented it bitterly. He read about other men’s successes in America and resented them too. Wherever he turned, he saw happy families and loving couples, and he resented them all.

More than a decade since the war ended, Tom had nothing to show for it, nothing but loss.

Take that day in April 1922. Tom had been left penniless on the steps of the Long Beach courthouse. He’d had two bucks, a little change, and a loving white mongrel. He’d felt desolate and shattered. Then came the voice: ‘Tom? Is that you?’

It had been Rebecca. She’d paid off her debts in Wyoming and come out west to Los Angeles. With her debts cleared, she was starting out afresh, working as a typist for some Hollywood studio. She’d read in the papers about Tom’s story – that awful headline about the only man to lose his shirt on Signal Hill. She’d at once wanted to come and find him.

It had been a shock to see her. She was instantly familiar. Olive-skinned, thin, angular, Tom (despite his prior doubts) had found her deeply attractive without quite making it to beautiful. Until he’d got to her eyes. They were different from anything Tom had known in a woman. They were dark, perceptive, piercing but never hostile. It was her eyes that Tom recognised at once, as though he’d seen them just yesterday.

She’d come as a friend, but by the time Tom had spent the best part of his two bucks fifty-five cents on buying her lunch, they were well on their way to becoming lovers. The months passed. They lived together. They slept together. They were very nearly happy.

Yet Tom found it almost impossible to settle. He had to take jobs as a lowly rigger, when just a short time before he’d been on the verge of millions. He was living in a one-bed apartment paid for by his ex-prostitute lover, when his one-time twin was the Managing Director of the world’s youngest and most exciting oil company. The land that he’d drilled on – old Ma Hershey’s twenty-seven sandy acres – had turned the Faries brothers into multi-multi-multi-millionaires. Tom blamed his luck incessantly. He became angry and vengeful towards the world. He resented Rebecca’s contentment. He resented her.

The strain showed.

He spent too much money on idiot oil ventures. He stayed out drinking. He occasionally (just occasionally) slept with women other than Rebecca.

And so it finished – or should have done. But one evening, in spring 1923, just about one year from their meeting on the courthouse steps, Rebecca had an announcement to make. She was pregnant. Tom was shocked, but honourable. He asked her right away to marry him, and he did it graciously and even gallantly. They were married quickly and quietly, and their baby – Mitchell – was born six months later.

Mitchell was a strong little lad, with powerful lungs and his parents’ dark hair. Tom was extremely fond of ‘Mighty Mitch’, but his feelings for his son didn’t compensate for a difficult relationship with the boy’s mother. Tom somehow felt that a shotgun wedding wasn’t the same as a real wedding, and his womanising grew more frequent. Meanwhile, his work life went from bad to worse. Up and down the Californian industry, Tom was known by his nickname of ‘Twenty-Seven Acres’ or just plain ‘Twenty-Seven’. Each time he heard the name, he fought the man using it. He fought with fists and bottles and, once, even a rigger’s handspike. Within the space of twelve months, he’d been fired by Standard of California twice, Union Oil twice, Shell and Gulf once each.

The troubled family moved to Texas, hoping that Tom could leave his reputation behind and settle down. The nicknames grew fewer, but Tom still found a settled life impossible. News of Alan’s growing successes followed him round and gnawed at him. An ordinary life with ordinary successes and failures was impossible when Alan was living an extraordinary one in England. Even the name Alan had chosen – Alanto; Alan and Tom – seemed to Tom like a carefully chosen insult. He followed news of the company’s growth with obsessional care, and everything he learned pushed him further into anger and self-loathing.

He drifted away from the big companies, preferring to work for the little guys. He was paid less and he squandered more. Each failure fed the fire for another attempt. Each attempt led directly to another failure.

Twice Rebecca had moved away, taking Mitchell with her. The first time she’d been away for just five weeks, the second time for eight months. On both occasions she’d taken herself off to a farmer’s widow who’d been kind to her when Tom was working the oilfields of the Gulf Coast. She’d stayed there, helped out the old lady, looked after her growing boy.

Both times, Tom had hesitated between an angry restlessness and the hope of rescuing something valuable from his disintegrated family life. The second time especially, during that long eight-month gap, he’d stormed around, taken jobs and lost them, stuck more capital than he possessed into the most wild-eyed and even fraudulent oil schemes going. He’d begun drinking more than he should and ended up brawling in moonshine joints where the men he brawled with were big fisted Texan cattle ranchers who gave every bit as good as they got. But eventually, both times, Tom had become sickened at his own attempts to ruin his life. Twice he had crawled out to Rebecca to woo her back with promises of reform and pleas for patience. Twice she had accepted.

But just two months earlier, as Tom’s reforms had evaporated again, Rebecca’s patience had finally snapped. She’d left him once again, for the ‘absolute last and final time’. She wanted to save Mitch from his father. She wanted Mitch to be proud of his parents, not ashamed. Tom was on his own now, bitter and despairing.

Ten wasted years.

The car dropped Tom in the dirt yard, beeped a farewell, and was about to swing off into the night. Then, on a sudden impulse, Tom leaped forward, forcing Harrelson to stop the car.

‘Jeez, bud. You don’t want to jump out like that. I almost ran into you.’

‘One question. Just one question, Titch. You promised some money to that boiler guy. When did you make your promise?’

‘The boiler guy? Who cares? He’s nothing. You leave the business to me and I’ll –’

‘Just tell me. When?’

‘It’s no big deal. I promised him just now. Just before coming down to pay you and the boys.’

‘How much?’

‘For God’s sake, pal! What is this? You worried the boiler guy is trying to take a topslice off of our profits?’

‘Quit stalling.’

‘Jesus! He’s asking a coupla hundred, but he’ll take less. We haven’t shook on anything. Hey – get a good night’s rest and we’ll see you tomorrow. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Tom, hollowly.

The car beeped again and vanished into the night. Behind Tom, the little wooden house stood empty, when it ought to have contained a wonderful wife and a healthy sleeping child. Tom had no reason to go inside. He had no reason to do anything at all.

‘Well?’

‘Well?’ echoed Alan. ‘Do you examine me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Should I take off my jacket?’

‘If you like.’

‘You don’t need to listen to my heart or anything?’

‘Yes, but not with a stethoscope.’ Alan looked puzzled, and Dr Westerfeld hastened to end the mystery. ‘This is your first encounter with a psychiatrist, I take it?’

‘I saw some nerve specialists during the war, but nothing like this, no.’

‘And you’re both a little nervous and wondering whether you’re being had?’

‘Yes.’ Alan laughed with the first start of relief.

‘Yes, well, I wonder that myself at times … I will examine you, or rather I will ask you to examine yourself, your heart. All we do here is talk. You will wonder how on earth talking can bring about any change and I’m not entirely able to answer you. I can only tell you that with some of my patients, our little talks have brought about profound changes. I hope that they will do the same for you.’

Alan nodded. ‘Even so,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I even have a problem. In my waking life, I’m as sound as a bell. I work hard, I have a splendid family, I enjoy my life.’

Westerfeld’s Harley Street room was furnished like a gentleman’s drawing room. He had offered Alan the choice of reclining on a chaise longue or sitting upright in an armchair. Alan had taken the chair without hesitation. Outside the shuttered windows, there was a burr of traffic rolling up Harley Street.

‘And?’ said Westerfeld. ‘You are perfectly happy, have a splendid family, but you have come to see a psychiatrist.’

‘And …’ Alan sighed. ‘It’s only dreams, but –’

He was interrupted by Westerfeld vigorously shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. Not “only”. Not “only”. We believe – that is, Dr Freud and his followers believe – that dreams are a clue to our unconscious selves. Selves more powerful than us, more primitive, less civilised, more passionate. I am a doctor of dreams. Please tell me about your dreams, but never describe them as “only” dreams.’