The Wheel of Fortune (46 page)

As soon as Bennett had left the room Robert said, “John, I hope you didn’t abandon a promising career at the Foreign Office because you thought you had some repellent moral duty to be my unpaid companion.”

“Don’t be absurd! I hated the F.O. and was only too pleased to begin a new life in Gower for reasons which had nothing to do with my moral duty!”

“I still find your decision surprising—and to some extent hard to explain. Why did you really come back here? You’re a dark horse, John! I sometimes wonder if even you yourself have any idea of what’s really going on in your head!”

“Good heavens, how very sinister you make me sound! I assure you I’m just an ordinary, simple sort of chap—”

“A touching description—but I suspect hardly a truthful one. Never mind, let it pass. Personally I’m only too glad that when Papa’s senile and I’m a vegetable there’ll be someone in Gower who’s capable of ruling the Godwin roost—and now you’re going to fling up your hands in diplomatic horror! My God, is it really so impossible to have an honest conversation with you?”

“Damn you, I
am
being honest! As you well know, I came back here because I was unhappy in London. Naturally I was influenced in my decision by the fact that Papa isn’t getting any younger and your health isn’t what it should be, but—”

“A truly magnificent euphemism. Go on. I can hardly wait to hear what you’re going to come out with next.”

“—but above and beyond my moral duty to give my father and brother any assistance which may become necessary in the future, I was concerned primarily with my family’s happiness and welfare—which I feel will be better served if I live the life of a country gentleman in Gower than if I pursue a life of ambition in a career which means nothing to me.”

“It all sounds most implausible,” said Robert mildly, lighting a cigarette, “but since I benefit so profoundly, why should I start worrying that you’ve gone off your head? Very well, I accept what you say. You’re a saint who yearns for the simple life. Very nice. I congratulate you.”

I was silent. This was evidently one of Robert’s more difficult days not only physically but emotionally as well, and I had no wish to continue a conversation which could so easily become acrimonious. I too lit a cigarette in order to provide an excuse for my continuing silence, but I was still wondering how I could turn the conversation towards the subject I wished to discuss when Robert said, “Forgive me. I know you genuinely believe in what you say and that means I’ve no right to treat you as a
poseur.
I suppose I’m cynical about your decision because I know you enjoyed the glitter and glamour of London far more than I ever did, but I must say you’ve given no indication that you miss your old life—and that in turn, as I said to Papa the other day, makes me wonder how well I ever knew you in the first place.”

I saw my chance. “Talking of Papa, Robert,” I said swiftly, “I’ve reached the stage where I can no longer condone his disgraceful situation—in fact I feel so embarrassed by him nowadays that I hardly like to take my family to Oxmoon every Sunday. Something’s got to be done. His conduct is absolutely beyond the pale.”

“I agree it’s regrettable. However—”

“Regrettable! What an odious understatement! For Papa to keep a mistress in London is one thing; for him to keep a mistress in Gower is quite another—and for him to keep a former Oxmoon parlormaid in a tied cottage in Penhale is simply beyond the bounds of all permissible behavior.”

“I do see it must be awkward for you and Blanche. But if Mama can tolerate the situation then I think you should too.”

“I’m afraid I’m finding that old argument of yours increasingly unsatisfactory. Obviously Mama can no longer cope. She needs active assistance, not tactful silence.”

“When Mama wants assistance she’ll ask for it.”

“Obviously she’s too proud to do so. Robert, in my opinion it’s your moral duty as the eldest son to tell Papa—”

“Any reprimand from me would be futile because unfortunately a man as troubled as Papa can rarely be cured by censure.”

“But how dare he break all the rules like this!”

“I agree it’s tragic. But try to remember the mitigating circumstances.”

“What mitigating circumstances?”

“His sufferings in adolescence.”

“How can they be mitigating circumstances? They should have taught him that the wages of sin are death!”

Robert sighed as if praying for patience.

“Well, look what happened to Owain Bryn-Davies!” I shouted, maddened by his obtuseness.

“Ah yes,” said Robert blandly. “Mr. Owain Bryn-Davies and his little accident with the tide tables.”

I looked away but not quickly enough and Robert saw the expression in my eyes. I heard his quick intake of breath. Then he said, “So you know. How the devil did you find out?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“My dear John—”

“I know nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“Then why don’t you demand that I explain myself? For someone who’s asserting ignorance of the past you show the most remarkable lack of curiosity!”

There was a silence. I tried to speak but nothing happened, and at last Robert said mildly, coaxingly, as if I were some peculiarly difficult witness, “You’ve known for some time, have you? Who told you? And why did you never confide in me? It’s the devil of a shock for a man, as I well know, to discover that his father’s committed—”

I found my tongue just in time. Before he could utter the unutterable I said with all the force I could muster, “I’m sorry, Robert, but this is a matter which I refuse to discuss either now or on any later occasion. I also refuse to be diverted from the subject of Papa’s present behavior, so let me now ask the vital question again: Do you or do you not intend to tell him he must pull himself together and mend his ways?”

“I most certainly do not. It would only exacerbate a situation which is already quite painful enough.”

“Very well.” I rose to my feet. “Then if you won’t tell him, I shall.”

“Oh for God’s sake, John, don’t be such a bloody fool!”

“I hate to contradict you, Robert, but I absolutely deny being a fool, bloody or otherwise. I’m a man intelligent enough to have high standards—and here I draw the line.”

II

“What an odd boy you are,” said my father. “Impertinent too.”

“I’m not a boy, sir. I’m a man of twenty-nine.”

“Then behave like one.”

We were in the billiard room at Oxmoon shortly after six o’clock that evening. I had found my father and Edmund between games, and when I had asked for a word in private, Edmund had drifted away before my father could suggest we withdraw to the library, the room where he usually chose to conduct private conversations.

There was a superficial physical resemblance between us but this was muted by a difference in manner. My father, unmarked by the stamp of an English education, concealed his Welsh shrewdness behind an informal, almost indolent charm. So appealing was this charm that one tended to underestimate his strength, which was considerable. He was not a weak man. He had strong feelings, strong opinions and a strong inclination to be stubborn in the face of opposition. Although gentle and affectionate with his children he was capable of violence if his temper was roused, and the moment I finished speaking I knew I had roused it.

I was already nervous but now I became more nervous than ever. I did love my father but the love was confined in a straitjacket of fear because whenever I looked at him I could never forget that I was seeing a man who had committed murder and got away with it. I knew that the murder had been justified. I knew he was a good man. But always I was aware that he was capable of anything, and that was why I felt it was so important that he stuck to the rules of a civilized society when conducting his private life.

“Sir, please believe me when I say I speak only out of respect and concern—”

“I don’t know what the devil you’re speaking out of, but I doubt if respect and concern have much to do with it.” He turned away from me, flung open the door and shouted, “Margaret!”

I was horrified. “Papa, for God’s sake—you can’t drag Mama into this conversation!”

My father lost his temper. As I backed away, automatically keeping the table between us, he shouted, “How dare you try to tell me what I can or can’t do! How dare you have the insolence to preach to me in this hypocritical fashion!”

“I’m no hypocrite. I’m just doing what I honestly believe to be right.”

“Your trouble is that you’d like a mistress in Penhale yourself but you know your wife would be a lot less understanding than mine!”

I was so angry that I forgot my fear of his violence and walked right up to him. “That’s a bloody lie!” I shouted. “You may have no more morals than your bloody mother, but at least
I
have the bloody decency not to follow in your footsteps!”

A plump little hand closed on my arm. My mother said in a voice cold with fury, “That’s a disgraceful thing to say to your father. Apologize this instant,” and her manner shocked me into composure.

I said, “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, I—” but even before I could finish speaking my father was addressing my mother.

“Margaret, I can’t manage this boy, I can’t talk to him, he makes me too angry.”

“Yes, don’t worry, dear,” said my mother, “I’ll straighten out this little difficulty for you.”

He kissed her and left the room. My mother’s hand was still gripping my arm, but as his footsteps receded she released me, stepped back a pace so that she could more easily look me in the eyes and then said with a coarseness which shocked me to the core, “You damned fool—why in God’s name couldn’t you come to me if you wanted to complain about Mrs. Straker? For an intelligent man you seem to have behaved with the most unforgivable stupidity.”

III

I had anticipated neither my mother’s anger nor her attitude to my father’s behavior, and for a moment I was too distressed to marshal my defenses. I was very fond of my mother. Lion was supposed to have been her favorite, but it seemed to me I had been favored too because I sensed she made special efforts to be loving towards me. In early childhood I had taken this warmth for granted but later when I was all too aware that my resemblance to my grandmother might make me repulsive in my parents’ eyes, I had gratefully interpreted my mother’s marked affection as a sign that I was not to be condemned to a low place in her esteem.

But this resolute determination of hers to be just was characteristic behavior. What I admired most about my mother was her infinite capacity for rejecting wrongdoing, and whenever she said, “I draw the line,” I felt an overwhelming relief and gratitude. My mother was the bastion against madness, chaos and catastrophe. In a world where I had known from childhood that absolutely anyone was capable of absolutely anything, my mother offered an infallible recipe for normality: one set oneself high moral standards, one drew the line against what was wrong—and one survived with one’s sanity intact. My fear of my father had long been ameliorated by the knowledge that my mother would always stop him if ever he began to breach his own rules too flagrantly.

I thought she would stop him now.

“Mama, please do forgive me but I came here this evening with the very best intentions—”

“Your father is not to be upset like this! He needs compassion and understanding, not pigheaded intolerance!”

“Well, all I can say is I think it’s time
he
showed some compassion and understanding! What about us? What about his family? I can’t stand Blanche being exposed to scandal like this—”

“Have you told her?”

“What about?”

“The past.”

“What past?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, John! Sometimes I think this Welsh evasiveness will drive me mad!”

“I’m not Welsh, not at all, I’m English by education, inclination and temperament.”

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll now practice the Anglo-Saxon virtue of calling a spade a spade. Have you or have you not told Blanche that your father was driven to kill his mother’s lover and shut his mother up in an asylum for the rest of her life?”

“Good God, no! Of course I’ve never told Blanche that!”

“Then may I suggest that you should? Quite apart from the fact that she’s your devoted wife and deserves your confidence, she’s also a compassionate intelligent girl, and I think if she knew the full tragedy of your father’s past she would be willing to forgive him now for putting you both in such a difficult position.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, making a great effort to remain calm, “we’re ostensibly conversing with each other but I’m beginning to think no communication’s taking place. Are you trying to tell me that you’re refusing to draw the line against Papa’s immorality despite the fact that this is an occasion when the firmest possible line should be drawn?”

“I do draw the line,” said my mother. “I draw the line against your un-Christian, uncharitable and unforgivably priggish behavior. I find it repellent.”

“But it’s his behavior that’s repellent! How can you tolerate him keeping Mrs. Straker in Penhale—Straker the parlormaid whom you had to dismiss from Oxmoon because he couldn’t keep his hands off her! I think the entire episode’s disgraceful, and how you can stand there and criticize me when all I’m trying to do is prevent innocent people from suffering as the result of his despicable conduct—”

My mother slapped me across the mouth. As I gasped, I saw not only the rage but the dislike blaze in her eyes.

The world went dark. The past began to suppurate. Chaos had come again.

“I don’t pretend to understand you,” said my mother. “I never have. I’ve always made a special effort not to be prejudiced, but really it’s very hard not to be prejudiced when I see Bobby upset like this. I know just what’s going on in his mind—he used to lecture his mother about her immorality and now he must feel as if her ghost has crawled out of the grave to lecture him in return!”

“But I had no idea I’d remind him of—”

“Oh, be quiet! Can’t you see how you’re tormenting Bobby by treating him as if he’s in danger of ending up like his mother?”