The Wheel of Fortune (69 page)

“You know what I told you after Robin died: Kester’s going to benefit. It’ll make sense of Robin’s death.”

“Yes, don’t worry, Robert, I absolutely understand.” I revolved the empty glass in my hands to give the impression it was still half full.

“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand, not yet, but I’m equally afraid that I’m going to have to make sure you do. It may result in us being permanently estranged, but I can’t help that. I’ve got to save you from messing up your life as the result of a misapprehension about the future of Oxmoon.”

“Whatever you say we couldn’t wind up permanently estranged.”

“I wonder. Very well, listen to this. You think everything will still come right for you because I don’t have a mild case of this illness and with any luck I’ll be dead in ten years.”

“My dear Robert—”

“Shut up. You think Papa’s bound to outlive me and that once I’m out of the way he won’t hesitate to make you his heir—but you see, John, that’s where you make your big mistake. I’m going to tell Papa that he has to make Kester his heir and Papa’s going to do what I say. There’s no question about it. I’ve got him by the balls.”

I stood up, took a clean glass from the salver and poured myself some brandy. “How?”

“He did something once that was so bloody frightful that it had a profoundly adverse effect on my life. He’s been racked by guilt ever since, and he’ll see my blackmail as a chance to cancel his guilt and finally be at peace with himself.”

“I see.” I drank some of the brandy. “I knew something had gone wrong between you,” I said, “but I didn’t realize it was so catastrophic. What happened?”

“It’s not necessary that you should know that. All that’s necessary is that you should believe that Oxmoon will never be yours.”

I was silent.

“I’m sorry,” said Robert, “but all I can say in my own defense is that I don’t believe the loss of Oxmoon will ultimately matter to you. In my opinion you’re not suited to the life of a country gentleman. You’re like Ginette. You’re drawn to the city lights and the glamour of worldly success; you enjoy money and power and smart women and smart cars. Your recent past with Armstrong proves that to the hilt. Have you ever enjoyed life more than during these last eighteen months in his employment?”

I drank some more brandy and said, “My recent past shows the worst side of me. But I do have a better side.”

“There’s nothing bad about thriving on a smart London life, John. You’re in the company of numerous charming and talented people. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You make me sound contemptible.”

“Not at all. You’re only saying that because you want to deny your true self; but let me reintroduce you to your true self, John, the true self I’ve been watching so intently from this wheelchair since 1921. Why did you really go to London after Blanche died? ‘To build a new life away from my tragic memories,’ you say, but I say you went because you knew you’d made a mistake trying to play the country squire and after the novelty had worn off you were bored, restless and frustrated. In fact I think you ran to London gasping with relief, and what happened when you got there? ‘I’ll find some quiet civilized sort of work,’ you say with charming modesty, but within a month you’re hobnobbing with Harley Armstrong. ‘I can’t bear Americans!’ you used to say at the F.O., but in fact Americans excel at being successful on a vast glittering seductive scale, and of course you now allow yourself to be seduced. Are you horrified by your new employment? No, you’re thrilled and stimulated. You look well, sound cheerful and everyone remarks how splendidly you’ve recovered from your bereavement. ‘I couldn’t consider remarrying for at least five years!’ you say earnestly at regular intervals, but when Armstrong plays the matchmaker do you laugh and tell him to go to hell? No, you most certainly do not. You—I’m sorry, do you want to comment?”

“No. Go on.” I set down my empty glass.

“You start seeing a good deal of this girl and you even decide to marry her—and why? Because she’s the symbol, isn’t she, John, the flesh-and-blood symbol of your way, your truth and the life which you not only long to lead but which quite frankly I don’t think you can do without. Forget Oxmoon, John. You’d only find it was an unnecessary and tedious drain on your increasingly valuable time. And forget Mrs. Morgan too—or if you can’t forget her at the moment, then make some sensible provision for her until you’ve exhausted her possibilities. But what you mustn’t under any circumstances forget is the life you deserve, the life that’s owing to you and the life which can satisfy you as no other life can. Now go up to London, make your peace with Armstrong and slam that ring on his daughter’s finger, because believe me, any other solution to your present crisis can only end in misery.”

There was a long silence. I walked to the window and looked out at the garden. Then I began to roam around the room until I stopped by the brandy decanter. Removing the stopper, I poured myself another measure.

“Everything you say is absolutely right,” I said at last, “and yet everything you say is absolutely wrong.”

“But you must surely concede that I’m presenting a rational argument!”

“There’s more to life than being rational.”

“Not much more.”

“I disagree. All the most profound mysteries of life are inexplicable in rational terms.”

“My dear John, I hope you’re not going to dive from Celtic mysticism into full-blooded Neo-Platonism!”

“God knows what I’m going to do.” I drank my brandy and headed for the door. “I’ll telephone you from London.”

“We’re parting friends?”

I had opened the door, but I abandoned it and moved back to his chair. “Yes. Friends. Always,” I said, taking his hands in mine, and saw his poignant look of gratitude before he masked his feelings with a smile.

Utterly confused, thoroughly miserable and well-nigh beside myself with jealousy and rage I left him and drove to Oxmoon.

IX

“It’s Mr. John, sir,” said Bayliss, showing me into the library where my father, was writing letters. To my relief there was no sign of Mrs. Straker.

My father looked up startled. Then he rose to greet me and we shook hands as Bayliss withdrew.

“Would you like a drink?” said my father, hospitable as ever, but he seemed relieved when I declined. No doubt I reeked of brandy.

Making a great effort to appear stone-cold sober, I said in a neutral voice, “I’m in a spot of trouble, Papa, and I’ve come to you for help.”

“Delightful county, Cornwall, I believe,” said my father, closing the blotter on his unfinished letter. “Wish I’d traveled more when I was younger, but Margaret never fancied it and we were always so busy at home.”

“So Robert’s been keeping you informed.”

“No,” said my father, “Mr. Armstrong telephoned to inquire where you were, and afterwards I telephoned your house and spoke to the children to make sure they were well. Marian said they were so pleased with all your postcards.”

Unsure what to say next I sat down opposite him, and we faced each other across the writing table. My father, behaving like a model parent, made no attempt to pry or criticize but merely waited for me to confide.

“I’m supposed to be proposing to Armstrong’s daughter,” I said, “but after three weeks in Cornwall with another woman I don’t see how I can.”

“When in doubt, don’t,” said my father with what Robert would have described as Welsh hardheadedness and good sense.

“Yes. Quite.” I was silent.

“Suppose that would put you in difficulties with Armstrong,” said my father at last, helping me along.

“Not only me. Edmund.”

“Edmund’s old enough to fend for himself. And as far as Armstrong’s concerned—”

“He’s offering me such extraordinary prospects.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt you can live with the prospects, John. But can you live with the woman?”

“Oh, she’d be a perfect wife, I’m certain of that.”

“But if that’s true then what were you doing in Cornwall with someone else?”

I was unable to reply. My father suddenly leaned across the table. “What good are extraordinary prospects if you can only get them by making yourself miserable?”

“I’m afraid I’d be even more miserable without them.” Out of his sight, below the surface of the writing table, my fists were clenching. I stared down at them and said, “I’d give up my prospects in London tomorrow if I knew I had prospects here. But Robert tells me I have none.” I raised my eyes to his. “I’ve come to find out whether that’s true. I’ve got to find out, I must know—”

“I don’t understand.”

“Robert says he’s going to use your old quarrel with him, whatever that was, to insist you leave Oxmoon to Kester. Is that true? Or is it just a story Robert’s invented because he feels it’s his duty to drive me back to London?”

My father’s face was at once painfully fine-drawn. Several seconds passed before he was able to say: “Robert’s said nothing to me.”

“But would you make Kester your heir?”

“Ought to. Tradition. Eldest son to eldest son.” He was now so white that his face had a grayish tinge.

“But that’s rubbish. There’s no entail. And there’s not even a strict tradition of primogeniture. What about the eighteenth century when Robert Godwin the Renovator took over from the cousin who turned out to be an imbecile? You’re under no obligation at all to leave Oxmoon to Kester!”

“But if that’s what Robert wants,” said my father, “then that’s what Robert must have. That’s only fair.”

“
Not to me
!” I shouted, springing to my feet. Somehow I managed to get a grip on myself. Sinking down in my chair again I said in a level voice, “I’m sorry. Please do forgive me but the main reason I’m so distressed is because I find this quite impossible to understand. If you could only tell me what happened between you and Robert—”

“I can’t,” whispered my father. “I would if I could, but there are other people involved besides me and Robert, people I can’t possibly betray.”

I waited till I was sure I had myself well in control. Then I said, “Very well, I’ll say no more.” And leaving him abruptly I returned in desperation to Little Oxmoon.

X

“Do you understand, Robert?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me?”

Silence.

“If I know,” I said, “I’ll be all right.”

Another silence.

“You’ve got to tell me, Robert. You must. You owe it to me. Please—I beg of you—”

“Yes. Very well. Sit down.”

I obeyed him. I was rigid with tension and so was he, but his face was expressionless and his voice was unemotional. When I was seated he said, “It concerns Ginevra,” and the name he never used made his statement sound flat and impersonal. “He seduced her when she was sixteen.”

Some seconds passed. I began to wonder if in my disturbed state I was hallucinating. “I’m sorry, Robert, but obviously you can’t mean what you seem to be meaning. Perhaps if you could be a little more specific—”

“He fucked her.”

That was certainly specific. Several more seconds trickled by. Finally I said, “I don’t believe it.”

“I found out in 1913 when I wanted to marry her. Naturally Mama made sure I knew the truth.”

“My God. Oh my God, my God—”

“He wrecked Ginette’s adolescence and in wrecking hers he wrecked mine. Of course after the seduction she was prepared to do anything to stay away from home, and so I lost her because of him—and even later when I got her back the past … soured everything. I wanted to forgive and forget but I never could. I used to look at him and hate him. Sometimes I still do. I came back to Gower because it suited me financially to do so, because I wanted Robin to grow up on the estate and because if one’s going to spend a long time dying one may as well do it in the place one loves best, but that father of ours has been a continuing blight on the landscape. Fortunately he doesn’t come here too often. He knows I prefer him to stay away.”

“But Robert …” I searched for the words to express my revulsion, and when they eluded me I could only say in despair: “How
could
he have done such a thing?”

“Oh, he’s so bloody muddled up he’s capable of anything! Christ, what Mama must have suffered!”

“Don’t.” I covered my face with my hands. Then I said, “Right. That solves that. Of course there’s nothing else that can possibly be said on the subject. Oxmoon goes to Kester to atone for what Papa did to Ginevra—and to you.” I stood up to go.

“Promise me,” said Robert, “promise me—”

“Oh, of course I’ll never tell a soul. That goes without saying.”

“—promise me you won’t think any the worse of Ginette.”

“How could I? For the first time I feel I’ve come within a thousand miles of understanding her.” I stooped to cover his hands with mine and said, “I’m very grateful to you, Robert, for telling me. Forgive me for being such a bloody nuisance and putting you through hell.”

All Robert said was “Make it up to me by proposing to Constance as soon as you arrive in London.”

But I could not reply.

XI

I was in the library of Armstrong’s house on Eaton Walk. Armstrong was shouting at me. He was a heavy man of medium height with silver hair, which gave him a look of spurious distinction, and a mouth like a steel trap. The scene was such a nightmare that I had ceased to be upset and was regarding him with detachment, as if he were a stranger who was determined to embarrass me by making an unpleasant exhibition of his bad manners.

“… and sure I always knew you’d be the kind of guy who’d keep some woman or other on the side, but Jesus, what a way to behave, leading Constance on, leading me on and then vanishing without trace for three weeks in order to get an ex-mistress out of your system …”

I let him rant away for a while. When he finally paused for breath I said, “Look, sir, I still admire Constance very much but I’m in a great muddle and I speak with her best interests at heart when I say that I must have more time to consider whether or not I want to marry her.”

“Your time’s expired, sonny! Marry or quit! What kind of a man do you think I am? I don’t let any man on earth mess me around like this and get away with it!”