The Wheel of Fortune (78 page)

XI

“Of course I know why you want to see me,” said Thomas, flinging himself down in the best armchair and swinging his feet insolently onto my desk. “You’ve heard I’m refusing to go back for a final year at that bloody school and you want to give me some bloody lecture about the glories of education.”

“Oh? Then let me set your mind at rest; I don’t give lectures, bloody or otherwise. I say, would you mind very much if you took your feet off my desk? Try the fender; it’s a far more comfortable height. … Thanks.”

“I’ve had enough of school. I think education’s a load of balls.”

“I’m sure many people would agree with you. Too bad Papa isn’t one of them. Cigarette?”

He grabbed the cigarette with such alacrity that he nearly pulled the case out of my hand. With compassion, I realized he was nervous, and in the knowledge that he was vulnerable I looked at him more closely. He was as tall as I was by that time but built differently. He was broader, heavier, more like my mother’s side of the family than my father’s, and he had a square, mulish jaw which reminded me suddenly of frightful Aunt Ethel in Staffordshire.

“Well,” I said when our cigarettes were alight, “what do you plan to do now?”

“Raise hell, get drunk and fuck every woman in sight.”

“Oh yes? Well, I agree that takes care of the nights. But what are you going to do during the day?”

Thomas immediately assumed his most belligerent expression. “Why do you want to know?”

“Sheer mindless curiosity.”

“What are you after?”

“Why do I have to be ‘after’ anything?”

“Most people are,” said Thomas, and I heard an echo of Milly Straker’s cynicism in his pathetic attempt to appear worldly.

“I’m not most people, I’m your brother and I’m sorry that you and Papa should be at loggerheads. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“How about minding your own bloody business?”

“Certainly—if that’s what you really want.”

There was a silence while we smoked and eyed each other. Then in a gust of embarrassment Thomas stubbed out his cigarette. “Well, if that’s all you want to say I’ll be off. Unless you intend to offer me a drink.”

“No. Just help.”

“But what do you get out of helping me?”

“Abuse and bad language, apparently.” I stood up and opened the door of the study. “Goodbye, Thomas.”

He hesitated. He looked very young, and suddenly I was reminded of the scene in the summerhouse after my mother’s death when he had been a frightened fourteen-year-old whose world had collapsed overnight.

I closed the door again. “What’s it really like at Oxmoon,” I said abruptly, “with Papa and Milly Straker? And how do you think you’ll get on living there all the year round in their company?”

“Mind your own bloody business,” said Thomas, and elbowed his way past me into the hall.

“Well, when you’re ready to talk,” I shouted after him, “remember that I’m always ready to listen!”

But the front door slammed in my face.

XII

Ten weeks later in October I received a letter from Constance, and as I ripped open the envelope at the breakfast table I found myself praying that after the news I expected, I would find the promise of a divorce.

My
darling John,
Constance had written,
our daughter was born yesterday at six o’clock in the morning and weighs exactly seven pounds. As we agreed earlier, she will be called Francesca Constance unless I hear from you to the contrary.

Of course you may see her whenever you wish. Indeed you may see me whenever you wish, and perhaps when you see the baby, who is so lovely and so perfect, you will realize that divorce is not the answer for us, either now or at any other time.

Ever your loving and devoted wife,
CONSTANCE
.

I looked up. At the other end of the table, Bronwen was watching me. Around us the children were chattering, Marian and Rhiannon on one side, Harry and Dafydd on the other and the baby in his little portable cot by the window. It was a Saturday morning and the children, free from lessons, were in good spirits.

“… and turtles live to be three hundred years old …”

“… and it’s called a six-shooter because …”

“… although as I said, to my governess, how do they know turtles live for hundreds of years when no one can live long enough to watch them? … What’s the matter, Papa?”

Dafydd and Harry paused in their discussion of guns. All eyes were turned in my direction.

“Nothing,” I said. I left the room. A second later I realized this had been the wrong thing to do, but I could not make myself go back. I was still hesitating when Bronwen slipped out of the room to join me.

“Is the baby all right?” she said rapidly.

“Yes.” I handed her the letter. As she read it the color faded from her face until the freckles stood out starkly on the bridge of her nose. Handing the letter back she said, “Would you like me to tell the children?”

“No. I must.”

We went back into the room. Bronwen picked up the baby, said briskly, “Rhiannon—Dafydd—I want to talk to you” and led the way out again into the hall.

Her children trooped obediently after her, but although Marian tried to follow I held out my hand.

“Wait, Marian, I want to tell you about the baby.”

“What baby? Oh, that one. Did it come?”

“Yes. It’s a girl. She’s going to be called Francesca.”

“What a perfectly frightful name,” said Marian, “but never mind; I shan’t see her so what does it matter?”

She shook off my hand and headed for the door.

“Marian—”

The door slammed. I was reminded of Thomas. I thought again of Dr. de Vestris saying what happened when parents went off the rails, and for a second my blood ran cold.

“The baby won’t make any difference, will it?” said Harry suspiciously. “I don’t want to go back to London and live with Constance. I want to stay here with Bronwen and the piano.” The thought of the piano cheered him. He wriggled off his chair and ran to the door. “I’m going to have my practice now,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared. I smiled, mercifully diverted from the memory of Dr. de Vestris, but then sighed at the thought of the music. Urged on by Bronwen I now allowed Harry to play the piano daily, though for no more than half an hour; I had no wish to spoil his fun but without a time limit he would have wasted all day at the keys.

I thought briefly of Blanche playing the piano, but Blanche seemed to have existed so long ago that I could not connect her with my present life. I thought of Constance and shuddered, though whether with rage, guilt, grief or shame I hardly knew. Leaving the table I went upstairs to Marian’s room. Bronwen looked up as I came in.

“I was promising that of course you’ll take her to visit Constance and the baby,” she said, “but she tells me she doesn’t want to go.”

“I just want to forget it all,” wept Marian as I sat down on the bed and put my arm around her. “If I remember it’ll only make me miserable, and I can’t bear being miserable anymore. …” Sobs overwhelmed her, and when I pressed her closer she clung to me. Bronwen began to tiptoe towards the door, but I motioned her to stay. “I want Mama,” whispered Marian. “Every night I ask God to make her come back to life, like Lazarus, but He doesn’t listen, I pray and pray but nothing happens.”

“Marian …” I tried and failed to frame a response, but Bronwen said in the heavily accented English which sounded so soothing, “I was wondering if you thought of her often now that you’re back in the house where she used to be. I think of her often too. She may not be here herself anymore, but the memory’s here, isn’t it, and memories are so precious, such a comfort, because no one can take them away from you, and although she’s dead yet in a way she’s still alive, alive in your mind, and that’s how God can bring her back for you. And although that’s not as good as having her here alive and well, it helps to look across at the past, doesn’t it, to look at her and know that she’ll be there always in your memory to be a comfort to you when you want to remember.”

Marian rubbed her eyes and gave several little gasps as if the sobbing had left her out of breath. I found a handkerchief for her, and at last she whispered to Bronwen, “Do you really think of her?”

“Oh yes, she was such a lovely lady, and so kind to me. When she was alive I wished that there was something I could do to repay her for her kindness, and that’s why I was so pleased when Papa suggested I should look after you and Harry. It was something I could do for her, a payment of the debt, and that made me happy.”

Marian thought about this.

“We must talk about her,” said Bronwen. “It’s such a waste to shut away precious memories and never speak of them. We’ll talk about her and by talking we’ll bring her back to you and then you’ll feel better.”

Marian gave another little gasp and blew her nose before turning to me. “Is Bronwen here forever? Or might you fall in love with someone else, do you think, and leave her as you left Constance?”

“No, I could never leave Bronwen. Impossible. Out of the question.”

I felt her relax in my arms. “I don’t want anyone else going away,” she whispered to me.

I kissed her and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.” But as I spoke I thought of Constance, alone with her stubborn pride in London, and I knew the happy ending I was promising Marian was still far beyond my reach.

XIII

Three days later I journeyed to London and bought a toy rabbit at Selfridges. At the Carlton Club I consumed a whisky-and-soda before telephoning Constance.

“It was thoughtful of you to call,” she said, “but there’s no need for you ever to make an appointment to come here. This is your home and you can come and go entirely as you please.”

I consumed a second whisky, this time without soda, and took a taxi to Chester Square.

Constance should no doubt still have been in bed but she had put on the emerald-green negligee which she knew I liked and had arranged herself not unattractively on the drawing-room sofa. I found that this pathetic attempt to look her best made me feel angry. I was too angry to analyze the anger, but I hated myself for giving way to it. Sheer misery overwhelmed me. I felt as if my consciousness were being hacked to pieces with a hatchet.

Giving her the carnations which I had forced myself to buy, I inquired formally after her health.

“I’m better now,” she said, “but it was rough. I hope Teddy has an easier time.”

“How is she?”

“Fine. But longing for it to be over.” She sniffed the carnations. “Will you ring the bell? These ought to be put in water right away.”

I did as she asked before departing for the nurseries.

It seemed a long way there but that was because I had to pause on the landing until I felt calmer. When I arrived the new nanny gave me a hostile stare but I got rid of her and moved to the cot.

The baby was so new that it still had a red face. Swathed in clouds of white linen and lace, it lay sound asleep, oblivious to luxury, in its expensive little resting place. Touching its small bald head with my index finger, I remembered Evan as I had first seen him in his wooden box on wheels, and I thought of my new daughter growing up to envy him. No money could ease emotional poverty. No material comfort could provide a substitute for an absent father.

I undid the toy rabbit from its gay wrapping, tucked it into the cot and turned away, but I was in such a state of grief and shame that I could not remember where I was. But when I looked back at the cot memory returned to me. I was on the far side of the line I had failed to draw when I had married Constance in the pursuit of avarice and ambition. I had wronged Bronwen, wronged Constance, and now I was wronging my child but there was no way back. The line could not be recrossed even in the event of a divorce. Constance and the child would still exist, and nothing could fully make amends to them for what I had done.

After a long while I reentered the drawing room and found Constance was still busy with the carnations; the arrangement was looking glacially formal.

“Isn’t she lovely?”

I nodded. Constance offered me a drink but I declined. “I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

“But you’ll come again soon? Do bring Harry and Marian—I’d love to see them!”

“I’ll have to write to you about it.”

“Remember,” she said, “that everything will always be waiting for you here. You can come back at any time.”

“It’s never going to happen, Constance.”

“ ‘Never’ is a long time, isn’t it? I’m going to go on hoping.”

There was nothing left to say.

I walked out.

XIV

“Was it awful?” said Bronwen.

“Yes. Bloody awful. I just want to go to bed and forget about it.”

We went to bed and for a while I did forget, but even when I was physically exhausted I was unable to sleep. Eventually Bronwen lit a candle and said, “Talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“You must. You know what happens when you can’t talk. You get all muddled and lie to yourself and end up doing something which makes you and everyone else miserable.”

This was such an accurate description of my talent for making a mess of my life that I could only groan and bury my face in the pillow, but finally I managed to say, “I despise myself, how could I have married that woman, how could I have turned my back on you, how could I have fathered that child, I feel as if I’m split in two, half of me wants to lead a good decent life but the other half does these terrible things, and supposing the other half wins? It’s not impossible. I’ve known from childhood, ever since I found out the truth about my grandmother and my parents, that absolutely anyone is capable of absolutely anything—”

“Yes,” said Bronwen. “Absolutely anyone is capable of absolutely anything.
But not everyone has to do it
.”

“I know, I know, one draws the line, but supposing I draw the wrong line again, supposing I get in a muddle about what’s right—I’m so weak, so contemptible, I’ve done such terrible things, how I can trust myself, I don’t, I can’t—”