The Wheel of Fortune (45 page)

Robert asked me once if we could recapture the magic of Oxmoon and I just said brutally, “I can’t work that particular miracle for you.”

But that in fact is what I now have to do. I somehow have to lead us back into the world we knew as children because that’s the one world which no tragedy will ever be able to annihilate.

How do I do it? We’ll go back to Gower, but as I’ve already realized, that removal by itself means nothing. I have to re-create something intangible, a world that exists only in our heads but a world that is as real to us as Mount Everest is to a mountaineer.

It’s all a question of friendship in the end, isn’t it? The marriage can’t help us. That’s dead, and our present friendship is such a maimed pathetic affair that it’s small wonder I’ve been tempted to discount it. But we gave friendship a unique meaning at Oxmoon, that lost Oxmoon of our childhood, and if that old bond’s recaptured we’ll go home again at last.

“Are you asleep?”

“No, come in, darling, I’m about to get up. I must have a word with Cook about dinner.” As he entered the room I rose from the bed and drew back the curtains. It had turned into a beautiful evening and below us in the courtyard the daffodils were blooming in the jardinière.

“Are you better?”

“Yes. Sorry I collapsed like some feeble Victorian heroine.”

“Unlike a feeble Victorian heroine you had good reason to swoon. Ginette, can we have just one honest conversation before we go on?”

“Why not? Life’s so awful at the moment that the prospect of an honest conversation doesn’t even send a shiver down my spine.” I straightened the bed and we sat down on it. “Where do we begin?”

“Where we left off. With the illness. Ginette, I do think I’ve got it. What’s more, I suspect this is going to be a far worse experience than anything we can begin to imagine, so what we should do now is try to work out how we’re going to face it.”

All I said was “Go on.”

“You loathe illness; it repulses you. You enjoy physical love; the prospect of you being tied to a cripple is ludicrous. You love London; the thought of a country life appalls you. To sum up, I can’t believe you want to continue with this marriage and therefore I think it’s only right that I should offer to release you from it.”

“Robert—”

“Wait. I haven’t finished. You must hear me to the end. Our marriage has been a failure. You know that—I know that. We’ve both been very unhappy, but at least I still love you enough to do all I can to put matters right. I can’t drag you through this ordeal that lies ahead of me—well, to be frank, I don’t think you could stand it, so if we’re going to part it’s far better that we should do so now. We’ll forget about Martinscombe. I’ll live at Oxmoon with my parents and that’ll mean I’ll have sufficient funds to maintain you in London—in a flat, though, I’m afraid, I couldn’t afford a house. As for Robin, he must be with you while he’s young although I do hope you can bring him to visit me. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to come often, as I know how you hate seeing my parents, but the occasional visit would mean so much to me, and—”

“Darling—”

“No, you must let me finish, I’m sorry but you must let me have my say. The occasional visit would mean so much to me, and I would find it easier to bear the divorce if I knew I wasn’t going to be entirely cut off from you both. Now, it’ll be awkward about the divorce, because neither of us have any grounds, and even if I manufacture some infidelity you can’t divorce me on the ground of adultery alone, but once we’ve lived apart for two years you could claim both adultery and desertion and then you’d be entitled—”

“No,” I said.

He stared at me. “No what?”

“No divorce.”

“But surely—”

“No divorce, Robert.”

“Well, I admit it would be far less messy if we merely entered into a legal separation, but—”

“No. No legal separation.”

He was dumbfounded. “No legal separation either? Oh, but I think you should consider it for your own sake. It’s best to tie these things up formally—you should see a solicitor, have the legal situation explained to you.”

“That’s unnecessary. I want to remain married to you.”

“For Robin’s sake, you mean? But … how could we sustain a normal marriage?”

I said nothing. We went on sitting on the bed, he looking at me, I staring at the rings on my wedding finger.

“It would be impossible for me to be a conventional husband to you,” said Robert. He paused to consider the logical deductions which could be drawn from this fact. Then he said with his characteristic simplicity, “Therefore I couldn’t expect you to be a conventional wife. That wouldn’t be fair at all. That wouldn’t be playing the game.” And as he paused again, frowning as he tried to imagine the complex relationship which lay far beyond the bounds of the marital game as he perceived it, I covered his hand reassuringly with mine.

“There are all kinds of marriages, Robert. Ours will simply be a little different from most marriages, that’s all.”

“Yes, but … well, it wouldn’t be a marriage at all, would it, because it would be absolutely essential to me that you lived entirely as you wished—”

“It would still be a marriage, Robert.”

“—because, you see, I couldn’t bear it if you came to hate me for blighting your life—”

“I understand.”

“—and that’s why I shan’t mind if you can’t bring yourself to visit me much—I couldn’t bear you to look at me with loathing—or repulsion—or worst of all pity—I’d rather set you free altogether, no matter how much I came to miss you—”

“Very well. Set me free. But set me free within the bounds of our marriage.”

He still did not understand. He looked at me trustfully, waiting for an explanation, and when I saw that trust I knew time was completing its circle at last and we were moving back to where it had all begun.

I thought: Nearly there now, nearly home. And as I clasped his hand in mine I could see in the distance the strawberry beds and the mellow walls and the sunlight streaming down upon the kitchen garden long ago.

“But are you sure,” said Robert when I remained silent, “that you’ll wish to stay married once you’re living apart from me in London?”

“I’m not staying in London,” I said. “I’m coming with you to Gower.”

I saw the trust in his eyes eclipsed by the blackest despair. He said in a shaking voice, “That’s just sentimentality! You’re being stupid, emotional and unrealistic! You’re embarking on a charade you’ll never be able to sustain!”

But I could see the strawberries, large and juicy among their thick leaves. I could feel the sun blazing down upon us, and at that moment the circle was completed, time was displaced and
we were there,
side by side in the kitchen garden at Oxmoon with the magic past recaptured and the strawberries in our hands.

“No, Robert,” I said. “This is no charade, no illusion and no lie. There’s one absolute truth in this situation, and it’s the truth I intend to prove to you till the day you die.”

“But for God’s sake, what truth can that possibly be?”

Speaking in a voice that never faltered I completed the reformation of our marriage which he himself had had the courage to begin. “Robert,” I said simply, “I could always walk out on a husband. But I could never turn my back on a friend.”

PART THREE

John
1921

WHY THEN DO YOU
mortal men seek after happiness outside yourselves, when it lies within you? You are led astray by error and ignorance. I will briefly show you what complete happiness hinges upon. If I ask you whether there is anything more precious to you than your own self you will say no. So if you are in possession of yourself you will possess something you would never wish to lose and something Fortune could never take away …

BOETHIUS

The Consolation of Philosophy

I

I

“SHE SAID, ‘I COULD
always walk out on a husband, but I could never turn my back on a friend.’ ”

“What an extraordinary remark.”

“She’s an extraordinary woman.”

“Quite.”

I moved restlessly to the window. The spring sun, shining on Ginevra’s chaotic garden, emphasized herbaceous borders crammed with a variety of unsuitable shrubs, most of which had failed to survive the winter. A group of vulgar stone cherubs, part of a dismantled fountain acquired at an auction, were grouped beyond the swing where Robin was playing, and his nanny was staring at them as if she were wishing she had a supply of fig leaves. A wail from a nearby rug indicated that the baby was as usual oppressed with his peculiarly vocal variety of unhappiness.

“Shut the window, would you, John? I can’t stand the way that child cries all the time. It gets on my nerves.”

It was not one of Robert’s better days. He was sitting in his favorite armchair by the hideous modern fireplace and fidgeting with his crutches as if he longed to break them in two. Ginevra had gone to London for a week, but when I had ventured to suggest that a wife’s recurring absences from home could hardly be in the best interests of her husband, he had become angry. In vain I had tried to explain that I merely wished to sympathize with him in his depression; that had made him angrier than ever. He had said he loathed sympathy. Again I had tried to apologize and again I had been shouted down. Grudgingly conceding that my intentions had been good, he had said he had no alternative but to show me that my sympathy was misplaced, and the next moment, to my embarrassment, he had launched himself upon an explanation of his relationship with his wife.

I had always accepted that despite their recent adversity Robert and Ginevra had the happiest and most perfect of marriages, so it came as a considerable shock to me to hear that the marriage had been highly unorthodox for over two years.

I did not care for unorthodoxy. When Robert told me he had not pursued his marital rights since the onset of his illness, I was uncomfortable enough to rise to my feet; when he added that Ginevra was the kind of woman who would find intimacy with a diseased man repulsive, I hardly knew where to look and when he told me neither of them cared anyway that this aspect of their marriage had ceased, I found myself moving aimlessly around the room to cover my extreme distaste for the conversation. Robert completed this Bohemian marital portrait by declaring that he had no idea what Ginevra did in London, but he hoped she drank plenty of champagne, visited Harrods every day and had at least three lovers.

“… because if that’s the price I have to pay for having a good friend at my side, then by God I’m more than willing to pay it,” he concluded truculently.

My diplomatic training ensured that I answered: “Quite so. I entirely understand,” but I was appalled. I did not blame Robert. Obviously for the children’s sake he had no choice but to be a complaisant husband, but I felt that Ginevra, never noted for either her decorum or her good taste, had sunk even lower than I had always feared was possible.

“I must make a move,” said Robert. “Ring the bell, would you?”

I did not offer to assist him to the cloakroom. His man Bennett had been a hospital orderly during the war and was more adroit than I was at giving the help necessary when Robert was finding his crutches a trial. As Bennett entered the room I said, “I’ll just say hullo to the children,” and then I escaped through the French windows into the bungalow’s untidy garden.

Robin came running to meet me as I crossed the lawn. He had recently celebrated his fourth birthday and was tall for his age. Since neither Robert nor Ginevra had any talent for parenthood he had been abominably spoiled, but he was a good-looking intelligent little fellow who with luck would survive his upbringing. Meanwhile he was merely precocious and tyrannical.

“Hullo, Uncle John! Mummy sent me a postcard from London!” And pulling a crumpled picture of Buckingham Palace from his pocket, he read the message in order to show off his formidable reading ability.

I knew people thought Blanche and I were old-fashioned, but we still preferred the dignity of “Mama” and “Papa” to the mediocrity of “Mummy” and “Daddy.” However as usual Ginevra had no taste in such matters. Her Kinsella sons actually called her “Ma” although allowances had to be made for their New York background.

I inspected the picture, commented admiringly on the gushing message and paused to bid the nanny good afternoon before turning my attention to the baby, who was sitting moodily on his rug. He was eighteen months old but backward, disinclined to walk or talk. His pale blue eyes looked up at me fearfully; his large nose quivered; he was very plain.

“Silly Kester!” said Robin, trying to tug me away.

The baby had been named Christopher after the patron saint of travelers because Robert and Ginevra had felt they had such a difficult journey ahead of them, but although I liked the name it was never used. Ginevra had adopted this coy rustic abbreviation because she claimed to find it “romantic,” and Robert was too indifferent to the child to object.

To divert Robin, I gave him my watch and asked him if he could tell the time. Then I knelt on the rug and tried to encourage the baby to take a few steps. He managed three and fell down. Howls ensued. “Pernicious infant,” said Robin, showing off the vocabulary that Robert taught him as a jest, and handed me back my watch. “It’s quarter past four. Are you staying to tea?”

But I had planned to be home for tea. Extricating myself from a situation that threatened to become increasingly noisy, I patted both children on the head and retreated to the drawing room. I was very much aware that I had not yet disclosed to Robert the main purpose of my call at the bungalow that afternoon.

Bennett was helping Robert into his chair again as I closed the French windows.

“Will you be staying to tea, Mr. John?” said Bennett as he prepared to leave the room.

I glanced at Robert but he said nothing. I knew he was too proud to ask for fear I might think he was begging for company.

“Yes, I will,” I said abruptly, “but could you telephone my wife, please, Bennett, and say I’m staying on?”