The Wheel of Fortune (137 page)

“Couldn’t. Not possible.”

“I hope you’re not saying that because you’re afraid of what John would think.”

“No. I just couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t.”

“All right.” Edmund paused for a moment. “I won’t say any more because I know Teddy wants to talk to you about her. Teddy’s determined to move back to London, I’m afraid, now that our house is open again.”

“I’m only grateful to you both for staying so long.”

“Well, I’d stay on longer but Teddy’s right, we’ve got to leave the two of you on your own eventually and it may as well be sooner rather than later. Teddy’s wonderful at making tough decisions like that, but then Teddy’s wonderful at everything. Amazing woman. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

I felt so close to him by that time that I was able to say, “Isn’t it a bit difficult living with someone so powerful?”

“Not at all, old chap. She deals with the things that bore me to tears, like money, and I’m set free to do what I think is really important—growing roses, for instance, or going fishing with my boys. Quite frankly, Harry, so long as I’m the boss in the bedroom I don’t give a hang what goes on outside. Happiness is all a question of getting one’s interests in the right order, isn’t it?”

A remarkable man. A survivor. And in his own modest way a hero. I resolved to take his advice—but not just at that moment.

I couldn’t face my father. Not quite. Not then. Later.

III

“Now, don’t worry, honey,” said Teddy the next day. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you until we’ve got this problem fixed.”

First of all I thought how typical it was of Teddy to assume that the problem could be fixed, but then I realized she had no idea what the real problem was. No outsider can ever know the full story of any marriage.

Teddy was primarily concerned about the survival of the household once she departed. She advised me to retain the first-class but expensive housekeeper and engage a properly qualified nanny in addition to the Welsh nursemaids who appeared and disappeared with bewildering regularity.

“I know Bella wants to keep those boys all to herself,” said Teddy, “but children can’t live on adoration alone, Harry—it’s like living on a diet of cream cakes. Now those kids behave when I’m around, but once I’m gone there’ll be anarchy and I just don’t think that’s fair on you.”

“Yes. It’s really a question of money, Teddy—”

“Sure, and don’t think I don’t realize you’re going to pass out when I show you my estimates for the future. But to my mind it’s money that has to be spent if you and Bella are to have a chance of happiness, and you should make that crystal-clear to John.”

Our glances met. I saw then how much she disliked him but she said at once with all her warmth and charm: “Don’t take any notice of me, honey; I don’t pretend to understand that father of yours, never have. But since he married money—two times out of three—I don’t see why the hell he can’t spread it around where it’s needed.”

I said nothing. She kissed me affectionately. “Never mind, dear, there’s a silver lining to every cloud, and although Bella’s short on housekeeping skills she’s long on love. She just adores you, Harry—you’ll never have to worry about her looking at anyone else!”

That was the problem.

IV

“I’m longing for another baby, Harry—I hoped I’d get pregnant as soon as you came home but I didn’t and then you started using those awful sheaths again so I couldn’t, and now it’s three whole years since Humphrey was born and I feel so horribly out of practice—”

“I think we’d better wait, Bella,” I said but I knew I didn’t want another child. It was bad enough having four little ruffians running wild and wrecking everything in sight. They’d even broken my piano. That disaster had made me so angry that I’d lost my temper, yelling at her for spoiling the boys to death and making no attempt to discipline them, but when she had only cried pathetically in response I’d felt so helpless because
she
was so helpless—helpless and hopeless, not able to cope as other women coped, just playing with the children or thumbing through her mindless magazines or wanting sex whenever she could think of nothing else to do.

“But why do we have to wait, Harry?”

“I’ve got to talk to my father about money,” I said, unable to tell her I couldn’t face a fifth child and knowing this excuse would enable me to postpone the problem. By this time my father had gone on a visit to Canada with Bronwen and the two younger children in order to wind up their North American life. In suburban Swansea the six-bedroomed house with the acre of garden had been left in the hands of the decorators, while in London Gerry and Evan were sharing my father’s flat as they waited to begin their new careers. Evan had applied to read theology at King’s and was filling in time by working for one of the Armstrong charities. Wonder Boy was at the crammers preparing for Oxford.

“But your father’s bound to give you money so why can’t we start the baby now? I don’t understand.”

“No,” I said, “you wouldn’t, would you? You’re too damned stupid.”

A ghastly scene ensued in which she accused me of having changed, of not loving her anymore, of hating the boys, of no longer caring about poor little Melody who would have been twelve years old if she’d lived—

“Shut up, shut up,
shut up
!” I shouted. “I never want to hear that bloody silly name again!”

That was the stupidest thing I could have said. She hit me and burst into tears—oh God, I felt so sorry for her, and oh God, how I hated myself for being so cruel.

“I didn’t mean it, Bella, it was a lovely name—”

“I want a little girl—I want my little Melody back again …”

What could I say? I promised to see my father as soon as he returned from Canada.

V

No six cows in a field, no dead antiques on a beige carpet, no Edwardian coronation mug on the mantelshelf of the morning room at Oxmoon. Just my father’s brand-new home where the kitchen was full of gleaming machines and the reception rooms oozed modern Canadian comfort. My father must have found the place a liberation after his years in that lifeless museum on Eaton Walk.

When I arrived he was wandering around in a pair of dungarees and carrying a pail of whitewash. Sian and Lance were busy with tape measures on the lawn.

“Hullo!” called my father brightly. “You’re just in time to help us mark out the tennis court!”

He was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t realize I wasn’t paying a social call. Fortunately Bronwen then emerged from the house, took one look at me and said, “Johnny, leave the lawn and have a cup of tea with Harry.”

That move took us to his study. He had managed to salvage the comfortable armchairs from the library at Eaton Walk and I also recognized various items of
bric-à-brac,
including a detestable photograph of me taken when I had been in my last year at Harrow; I looked like a successful matador who sold shares in the Kingdom of Heaven in his spare time. In contrast next to my photograph was a picture of my four Canadian siblings all looking clean, virtuous and aseptically attractive. Wonder Boy’s teeth, inherited from Bronwen, were formidably white and even.

“Sorry to bother you like this, Father, but I’m afraid I’m in rather a jam again.

And so on and so on. My father, who had been looking like an artisan in his dungarees and checked shirt, slowly began to emanate a miasma which suggested that the dungarees were an illusion of my anxiety-ridden mind and that he was in reality wearing a Savile Row suit and his Old Harrovian tie. I could almost hear the Rolls-Royce purring in the background.

“Well, Harry,” he said abruptly when I had explained my dilemma with as much dignity as possible, “this is really a most unsatisfactory situation.”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”

“A rich man,” said my father, “is under a moral obligation—”

My heart sank. I had to make a great effort not to let my respectful expression slip.

“—not to allow his children to think they can always come running to him if they get into financial difficulties. I refuse to be treated as a blank check. I draw the line.”

“Yes, sir.” I was sunk so deep in despair that I couldn’t even summon the energy to lose my temper.

“However,” said my father, suddenly becoming human once he had relieved his feelings by behaving like a Victorian monster, “of course I must help you solve this dilemma of yours. You needn’t think I won’t bend over backwards to help you but unfortunately”—he sighed—“I don’t think the answer lies in increasing your unearned income. The tax on that can only go up now that the socialists are in power.”

He began to pace up and down the room. I maintained an abject silence and waited for him to try to kick me to Herefordshire.

“It would be better to expand the Penhale Manor estate,” said my father suddenly, taking me by surprise. “If we do that we kill two birds with one stone. With more land you make the estate a better economic proposition and at the same time you create more deductions for yourself so that you wind up paying the minimum amount of tax. I’ll let you have Martinscombe and Little Oxmoon at a nominal rent. The farm’s surprisingly profitable; the sheep do well on Penhale Down. And as for Little Oxmoon, you can let it—the rent should help to pay the wages of the nanny and housekeeper which otherwise you wouldn’t be able to afford.”

I thanked him as effusively as decency permitted but he wasn’t finished. No doubt he thought it was his moral duty not to let me escape too lightly.

“I can’t let this conversation close,” he said coolly, “without saying how much I disapprove of you wasting your very considerable abilities on a small estate which can only become increasingly unworthy of you.”

I explained why I felt unable to move to Herefordshire.

My father listened without expression. When I stopped he said, “I see,” but made no further comment.

The silence yawned between us. When I felt my face becoming hot I said rapidly, “I admit Bella and I have our difficulties, but there’s absolutely no question of a divorce.”

My father said nothing.

“I love her and I’m going to stand by her,” I said. By this time I was frantic for a word of approval. “It’s the right thing—the only thing—to do.”

“Of course,” said my father politely, and after that the conversation closed.

There was just nothing left to say.

VI

“Oh Harry,
please
—once I have Melody back I’ll never ask for anything else, I swear I won’t …”

Poor Bella. I didn’t have the heart to remind her that we could so easily wind up with a fifth boy. I just looked at her, saw the tearstained pink-and-white cheeks, the heavy bosom sagging beneath a coffee-stained blouse, the once-slim hips straining the seams of the shabby trousers I detested. I knew her disordered appearance reflected the inner disorders of her personality and that she was bleeding in her mind just as I had bled in mine during the war.

“The experience will almost certainly scar her for life,” my father had said long ago in the field with the six cows. “I hope you now realize what a terrible thing you’ve done.”

I realized. And I realized too that the knowledge had become unendurable. I could bear it no longer and could see only one escape from the pain.

I said: “I want Melody back too. I want the guilt to finish.” So I stopped using contraceptives and she got pregnant straightaway.

As soon as the pregnancy was confirmed I regretted it but Bella was radiant, started eating sensibly, going to the hairdresser again, taking an interest in clothes. She couldn’t understand my emotional withdrawal which too often manifested itself in bad temper, and she was angry when she finally realized I wasn’t as delighted as she was.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Why don’t you want to fuck anymore?”

“Oh, stop using that sort of language! I’m fed up with my wife talking like a bloody tart!”

“My God, anyone would think you wanted me to be some kind of bloody virgin!”

“I want you to be some kind of bloody wife, not an old bag who sits around getting fat and lets those bloody kids murder my piano!”

Slaps. More slaps. Screams. Tears. Christ, what hell marriage can be.

It all rubbed off on the children. I could see they didn’t like me, but I wanted peace and order, not affection. That was why when I caught Hal banging at the piano in defiance of my orders I lost my temper and beat him.

“I hate you!” he screamed when I’d finished. “I wish you’d got killed in the war!”

That horrified me. I hated myself, tried to comfort him, but he pushed me away. Failure slugged me with the force of a sledgehammer and later the skin broke open on my back as my rash returned.

I couldn’t face my father to confess another child was on the way so I told Bronwen instead. Bronwen was very sympathetic. I realized then that she knew about Melody, but I wasn’t surprised because it was obvious my father would have no secrets from her.

“Oh, you mustn’t think your father won’t understand,” she said quickly when I confessed my mixed feelings about the pregnancy. “He knows all about fathering children for the wrong reasons.”

And when I boggled she explained: “He wanted me to be happy—he was afraid I’d leave him.”

This was horrific. “And eventually you did leave him—because of the children!”

“True. But,” said Bronwen, trying to cheer me up, “think what a lot of pleasure the children give us now!”

I couldn’t imagine getting any pleasure from my children, and such was my trust in Bronwen that I was even able to say so.

“A little girl will be quite a different matter,” said Bronwen.

I tried to believe her.

My father eventually offered some suitable comment on Bella’s pregnancy but I was sure he was thinking: More irresponsible behavior—that boy’ll never make a success of his life. And I felt more bitter than ever.

Meanwhile up at Oxmoon, poor old Kester, poor old sod, was recovering very nicely from his prewar debacle as he luxuriated with his charming, intelligent, well-educated wife in his beautiful home where no little ruffians broke pianos, wrecked furniture and trailed dirty fingers all over the walls. I rarely went to Oxmoon, but Bella was always popping in and out to bore Anna to tears. She reported that Kester was haunting the salesrooms again although this time he was more careful how he spent his money. Since the war he had employed an agent to run the estate so that he could return to his writing, but although I expected my father to be disappointed he turned out to be merely resigned. Kester could now be dismissed as too old to change his ways. My father had done his best to turn Kester into a perfect Godwin but he had failed. Poor old Father, poor old Kester. Very sad.