The Wheel of Fortune (62 page)

But when I went into the drawing room I found the white roses were wilting on the piano, and the next moment Blanche was moving to meet me in my memory. I saw her clearly, very very clearly. I saw her standing by the white roses on the evening of my mother’s funeral. I heard her talking about my father.

“I’d like to think I’d always try to be compassionate, even if the fault were very hard to understand …”

The memory became unendurable. I heard John Godwin, hard and selfish, smug and insufferable, commenting rudely: “No understanding’s possible in this case and I’ve used up all my compassion.”

I thought, I cannot be that man anymore.

The truth caught up with me then, but I found there was nothing I could do but face it because this particular truth could not be erased like a semen stain with soap and water and a pumice stone. I had betrayed my wife on the very day of her funeral, and now, as my mind turned back towards her, my one memory was of her talking of forgiveness.

Sinking down on the piano stool I bowed my head over the silent keys, and at last I was able to grieve.

VII

The car responded to my first attempt to start it. The rain had stopped. It was a cool morning, and I felt not only cool too as I drove down the lane but curiously older, as if I had grown up overnight instead of aging from adolescence to maturity over the conventional period of years.

As I headed south I drove into open country where stone walls intermingled with the hedgerows to enclose the fields of the valley. The road curved, the moorland drew closer and above the long line of the ridge that marked the summit of Rhossili Downs I could see huge white clouds billowing in from the sea.

The high wall of the grounds had already begun on my left. A moment later I was turning in at the gates, and there before me Oxmoon lay in an enigmatic challenge, goading me on to the end of my now inevitable mission.

It was seven weeks since my mother’s funeral but I felt as if I had been away seven years or longer. As I parked the car I wondered if my nerve would fail me but I was conscious only of a fanatical determination to do what had to be done.

I rang the bell.

A new parlormaid, young and crisp in a spotless uniform, opened the door and said, “Good morning, sir” with a little bob of respect, but when she showed no sign of recognition I realized she was a stranger to the district, one of the untrained girls who had been recruited from Swansea.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m John Godwin and I’ve come to see my father.”

The parlormaid displayed her inexperience by looking flustered. To spare her I stepped across the threshold without waiting for the invitation to enter, and as I paused in the hall a woman emerged from the passage at the far end. I took off my hat, she moved forward with a smile and the next moment I found myself face to face at last with my father’s mistress Milly Straker.

6

I

I
HAD SEEN HER ONCE OR
twice in Penhale but never at close quarters, so although I could recognize her, the details of her appearance had remained unknown to me. I controlled my immediate antipathy by telling myself that I of all people had no right to rush to judgment.

“It’s Mr. John, isn’t it?” she said courteously in a limpid voice. It was the voice of a Londoner, but not of a Cockney born within the sound of Bow Bells. I heard the inflections of the London suburbs—Wandsworth, perhaps, or Clapham—where drab little villas lined “respectable” streets, their windows festooned with lace, their parlors filled with obese furniture, and suddenly I felt I had stepped back fifty years into some erotic Victorian world where forbidden rites were enacted in secret rooms in which heavy blinds were perpetually drawn. Mrs. Straker was wearing a plain black dress with a cameo brooch pinned to her flat bosom. Below the severely parted black hair I saw a sallow face, sharp eyes and a foxy look. She gave the impression that she had seen a lot, done more, and what she had neither seen nor done she could intimately describe with the help of a bottomless imagination.

“This
is
a surprise, sir!” she said, still speaking in a well-modulated voice. “May I take the liberty of introducing myself? I’m Mrs. Straker.” Dismissing the fascinated parlormaid, she added tranquilly: “Mr. Godwin’s breakfasting, in his room, but I’m sure he’ll be ever so pleased to see you. If you’d care to follow me, sir, I’ll take you up to him myself.”

I wanted to tell her I could find my own way upstairs, but I knew I could hardly burst in on my father unannounced. In fact I would hardly have been surprised if Mrs. Straker had asked me to wait in the morning room while she found out whether or not my father wished to receive me. I decided I had no right to quibble about an escort.

“Thank you, Mrs. Straker,” I said.

She led the way upstairs. She was thin, with narrow unfeminine hips, but her ankles were good. She moved well too, neither elegantly nor seductively but with a smooth unhurried self-confidence. It was impossible to guess her age but I doubted if she was younger than thirty.

“An unexpected visitor for you, Mr. Godwin!” she called mellifluously as she knocked on the door of my parents’ bedroom.

“Come in!” was my father’s cheerful response.

She opened the door. I heard her say “It’s Mr. John,” and the next moment I was moving past her into the room. Then she left us, and as the door closed behind her I found myself alone once more with my father.

He was sitting at the table by the window with the remains of his breakfast in front of him, and in his hands was a copy of
Country Life.
He was wearing the spectacles he used for reading, but when he saw me he pulled them off as if he feared they were deceiving him.

“John?” He struggled to his feet. His cup rattled in its saucer as he knocked it accidentally. The magazine fell to the floor.

“Good morning, sir,” I said formally, but found myself so paralyzed with emotion that I was unable to embark on my prepared speech.

“But what a wonderful surprise!” said my father in a rush. “Please—sit down.” He gestured towards the chair opposite him and nearly knocked over his cup again.

I managed to do as I was told but before I could make another attempt to speak my father said anxiously, “How are you? I’ve been so worried, I hardly slept a wink last night. Have you had breakfast? No, I don’t suppose you have, you wouldn’t feel like eating, but you must eat, that’s important.” He raised the lid of the silver dish in front of him and peered inside. “Yes, there’s plenty here and it’s still hot. I’ll ring for an extra plate and some cutlery and a fresh pot of tea.”

I somehow declined food and drink. I still could not remember my prepared speech, but now I no longer cared. “Papa,” I said, “I’ve come to apologize. I was very cruel to you after Mama died. I don’t expect you to forgive me straightaway, but perhaps in time …” I could say no more but it did not matter, for as soon as I stopped he began to talk to me in Welsh.

“My dear John,” he said, “if only I had had just one-half of that courage which has brought you here this morning.” He stooped, picked up the magazine from the floor and began to smooth the cover with his fingers. “I was just as cruel to my mother,” he said, “but I never had the courage—or the humanity—to say later I was sorry. And after she was dead I regretted it.”

I said, “You’re giving me praise I don’t deserve. I’m not showing nobility of character, just a shamefully belated understanding of what you must have suffered.”

“Understanding’s one thing. Having the courage to display it is quite another.”

“But you don’t realize—you don’t know what I did last night—”

“Oh, I think I do,” said my father, and when I looked at him I knew there was nothing else I needed to say.

After a while he said, “Your wife was a dear little girl but perhaps not entirely right for you. I daresay you feel guilty now that you weren’t able to love her as she deserved. Guilt is a very terrible thing,” said my father, staring at the rain which was falling again on the tranquil garden. “Believe me, I know all about guilt and how it can torture you when you’re alone.”

My fingers were interlocked on the table in front of me. Reaching out he covered them with his hand.

“It’s strange,” said my father presently, removing his hand and pouring himself some more tea, “how Margaret’s absence has enabled me to see my children more clearly. I suppose it’s because I keep looking for her in you all. Robert’s the one who’s most like her, of course, but do you know, I don’t believe I ever really conceded that until Margaret was dead. I had a great need to idealize Robert always—to see him as myself, the self I would like to have been. It was all mixed with the fact that his birth gave me the courage to deal with Bryn-Davies and build a better world at Oxmoon. Robert was my justification, you see, and the more brilliant and splendid he was the more I felt justified in what I’d done—in fact I do believe that even if he hadn’t been brilliant and splendid I’d have made myself believe he was. It was necessary to me. Very wrong, though,” he added severely as he sipped his tea. “It did Robert no good to spoil him, and it was hard on you other fellows—and particularly hard on you. But you see, I didn’t want to look at you and be reminded of myself. I only wanted to look at Robert and be reminded of the man I fancied myself to be. Very silly,” said my father, watching the rain again. “But there we are. No parent’s perfect. We all make mistakes. The great trick is to recognize them and put them right. Not always possible, of course. But one can try.”

There was a silence as he continued to sip his tea.

“Yes,” he said as if he had at last completed a satisfactory meditation on some particularly convoluted subject, “I was afraid, that was the trouble—afraid that you might be like me—and my mother—but now I can see how foolish my fears were. I don’t care what brought you here this morning—all I know is that long ago I couldn’t bring myself to do what you’ve done today. So the truth is, isn’t it, that the likeness isn’t all-important. What’s all-important is that even if two men are dealt similar hands of cards they’ll always play those cards in different ways.” He smiled at me. “You’ll play your cards far better than I ever have,” he said. “I know you will. I know it.”

I could not speak but we were at peace with each other. Indeed I thought perhaps I was at peace for the first time in my adult life. And then, before I could begin to absorb the full meaning of this new freedom, the door opened and in walked Mrs. Straker.

“Well, dears,” she said as soon as the door was closed, “had a nice little chat? I’ve brought some extra dishes in case John was faint with exhaustion and longing for food—God knows, staging a reconciliation at breakfast is enough to beat anyone to their knees, but look at you both, dry-eyed and poker-faced, I don’t know how you gentlemen do it, I really don’t! Here, move your hands, John, and I’ll set your place.”

I kept my hands exactly where they were on the table and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Straker, but I don’t require breakfast.”

“Call me Milly, dear, all your brothers do except Robert but of course I don’t see much of him, poor man. What ghastly things happen to people in this world, which reminds me, dear, let me offer you my condolences—you won’t want them, but I’ll offer them anyway for what they’re worth. Well, there’s no subject that kills a conversation like death, is there, so let’s talk of something else. Bobby, is that all you’ve eaten? What’s left in this silver dish? Oh, look at that, you’ve hardly touched it, you
are
naughty! Eat up at once before I get cross!”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said my father, smiling at her, “I do feel hungrier now.”

I stood up abruptly. “I must be on my way.”

“Oh, but you can’t go back to that empty house!” exclaimed my father in distress. “Stay here!”

“That’s very kind of you, Papa, but I’ve realized I must join the children in London.”

This was a decision he could accept. “Very well, but when you come back—”

“I’ll call on you,” I said, “naturally. No, Mrs. Straker, you needn’t see me out. Good day.”

“And good day to you, John!” she said pertly, giving me a tough shrewd look with her amoral black eyes.

Somehow keeping my face devoid of expression I left the room and retired, profoundly shaken, to my car.

II

I was too disturbed to return home immediately. Instead I drove to Rhossili, parked the motor on top of the cliffs and stared through the rain at the windswept sands far below. Long lines of surf ceaselessly battered the black stumps of the shipwrecks. A mist hid both the Worm’s Head on the left and the top of the Downs on the right, and above the three-mile beach in the fields of the rectory the sheep seemed pinned to the grass by the gale.

I realized, as I smoked several cigarettes, that I was trying to recover—and not merely from my rage, which was considerable. I was trying to recover from my shock that the scene at Oxmoon, in one respect more satisfying than I had dared hope, had evolved into a nightmare which I had no idea how to assimilate. How did one deal with someone like Milly Straker? As far as I knew, no book of rules had yet been written on the subject of how a gentleman could coexist in amity with his father’s mistress, but I doubted if any book of rules could have solved the dilemma in which I now found myself. It looked to me as if I were going to be cut off from my father at the exact moment when we had finally come to understand each other.

I knew very well that my shock sprang from my naivety; I had had some sentimental notion that in forgiving my father I would automatically discover that Mrs. Straker was the most charming and delightful woman who would be only too willing to help us all live happily ever after. Because of this I had gone to Oxmoon prepared to bend over backwards to be civil to her; indeed I had felt almost under a moral obligation to like her, and so when she had revealed herself in her true colors I had been even more appalled than I would have been if I had arrived at Oxmoon expecting to meet a monster.