The Wheel of Fortune (84 page)

I straightened my back to look at him. He was within days of his ninth birthday, and although he took after his mother in looks, he had a bold adventurous personality which reminded me of myself when I had been Johnny long ago, living dangerously with Lion at Oxmoon. After my own experiences as a child I strongly disapproved of parents who had favorites but secretly, in my unguarded moments, I felt Harry was quite perfect. He was very good-looking, very clever, very athletic, very well mannered and very personable, and I often felt sad that Blanche was not alive to share my joy in him.

“I told Kester quite frankly,” he was saying as he munched his apple, “that he hadn’t a hope of inheriting. ‘Tough luck, old chap,’ I said, not wanting to be too beastly, ‘but that’s one yarn you simply can’t spin.’ And do you know what he did, Papa? He laughed! He said ‘I know something you don’t know!’ and he stuck out his tongue at me. Of course, never having been away to school he’s just pampered and spoiled, and he can’t help behaving like an idiot, I realize that. But all the same … I thought it was pretty peculiar behavior. Everyone knows Uncle Robert’s dying, and everyone knows that when Uncle Robert’s dead you’ll be Grandfather’s eldest surviving son. So that means you’ll get Oxmoon eventually, doesn’t it? And then I’ll get it after you.”

I glanced down at the complicated engine of my motor. I glanced at the damp cobbles of the stable yard, at the newly painted water butt, at the oil stains on my hands. I glanced everywhere except at Harry, shining perfect Harry who deserved everything a devoted father could give him. Several seconds ticked by. Then I picked up a nearby rag, wiped my hands and said, “Oxmoon passes from eldest son to eldest son, Harry, so. Kester will inherit from Uncle Robert even though Uncle Robert may die before Grandfather.”

Silence.

“You mean that’s the done thing?” said Harry at last.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the done thing. Grandfather has an absolute moral duty to leave Oxmoon to Kester.”

“Oh, I see,” said Harry. “I didn’t realize.” He stood looking at the apple in his hand. Then he threw the core away, said carelessly, “Well, never mind, I like the Manor much better than Oxmoon anyway” and skipped off across the cobbles.

I remember thinking with enormous relief that at least I had one child who never gave me a moment’s anxiety.

VI

Christmas had become a bad time of the year for my father, and the Christmas of 1927 was no exception. When I arrived on Christmas afternoon with Thomas, Harry and Marian to pay our traditional call, we found he was in bed and seeing no one.

Against Milly’s advice, I went up to his room.

“I’m not receiving you while you live openly with that woman and father bastards,” he said when he saw me. “I don’t suppose my disapproval will bring you to your senses, but I’ve made up my mind I must try and save you. I can’t stand by passively while you ruin yourself.”

Ironically this view reflected my own sentiments about him, but as there was no way the conversation could be prolonged I was obliged to leave.

In the new year Warburton said, “John, I think you ought to know I’ve been hearing rumors that your father’s insane. Apparently there’s a lot of discontent on the estate.”

I had heard similar stories from Thomas, who mixed more with the local population than I could, but Warburton’s words carried more weight with me. “I’ll talk to Robert,” I said automatically. “I’ll see what he thinks I should do.”

“No,” said Warburton. “He mustn’t be worried by your father’s situation anymore—he’s too ill. I’m sorry, John, but the moment’s finally come: you’re on your own.”

The Wheel had become a rack, Fortune was tightening the screws and amidst all my grief I was aware of an overpowering fear that my courage would be insufficient to meet the ordeal that I could now so clearly see ahead.

But I had to conquer that fear. I could not allow myself to be defeated because too many people depended on me.

I struggled on.

VII

Again I saw Freddy Fairfax, the senior partner in the firm of Swansea solicitors who handled the Oxmoon estate. When I had seen him previously he had assured me he would let me know if ever he thought my father showed signs of being legally incompetent, but since then I had heard nothing from him.

Fairfax was in his late forties, a smooth sleek able and not unpleasant individual with whom I played golf occasionally at weekends. His reputation was good. Certainly I had never heard any story that reflected on either his honesty or his competence, and although he might have shunned me during my days as a pariah this was no reason why I should have distrusted his professional judgment.

“I’m worried about my father again,” I said after we had exchanged preliminary greetings in his office. “Have you seen him lately?”

“I was over at Oxmoon the other day, old boy. Couple of new tenancy agreements needed. He seemed very much in the pink. Not quite the man he used to be, of course, but old age gets to us all in the end, what?”

“Have you heard rumors of trouble on the estate?”

“Rumors, old boy?”

“Well, you are the estate’s solicitor, Fairfax! I assume you have your ear close to the ground!”

“Old boy, I hate to say this because I know you’re well intentioned, but I really don’t think I can discuss my client’s affairs with you.”

I persisted but got nowhere and eventually, profoundly skeptical, I left him and drove to Oxmoon.

VIII

“I won’t receive you,” said my father. “Please leave at once.”

“I only want to help.”

“I don’t want your help. You’re not to be trusted—you broke your word to me. You swore you wouldn’t live openly with her.”

“Surely despite my private life you can accept that my affection for you is genuine?”

“What if it is? My mother’s affection for me was genuine too, but my God, what hell she put me through! Her spirit’s possessed you, I can see that clearly now; you’re her, you’ve come back to torment me, you’ve got to be kept out—”

“Papa—”

“
Stay away from me!
”

I left.

IX

“What can I do, Ginevra? Fairfax swears he’s normal. He won’t see Warburton, won’t talk to me. Obviously he’s mentally ill but how the devil do I get him certified?”

“My dear, what horrors, but I can’t cope. I’ve got a mountain of horrors of my own.”

“Oh, God, forgive me, I’m so sorry—”

“He can’t bear being blind, he simply can’t bear it. …”

She broke down, I took her in my arms and the darkness seemed to close over us as if we had been walled up alive in a tomb.

X

Five days later on Lady Day a band of tenants from the Oxmoon estate marched to see Robert to protest at the new steep increases in their rents. Treating my father as incompetent they had turned to his heir for justice, and when they found Robert was too ill to see anyone they refused to disperse. The telephone call came from Ginevra just as I returned to the Manor from the Home Farm, and taking Thomas with me I drove immediately to Little Oxmoon.

We found about thirty men encamped before the bungalow. They appeared peaceful enough at first glance, but as I halted the car they surged forward to surround it and I saw their mood was ugly.

“Keep your mouth shut,” I said to Thomas, “and leave this entirely to me.”

I noticed that the majority of the men were farm laborers who lived in my father’s Penhale cottages, but when I saw that my father’s foremen too were present, I knew the rise in rent was merely the straw which had broken the camel’s back. Clearly this was the climax of years of increasing maladministration.

I got out of the car. The hostility seemed to thicken. I experienced a moment of acute uneasiness, but told myself their hostility could not be directed against me personally.

The next moment I was disillusioned.

“Here comes the adulterer!” said someone, and that was followed by the comment “We finally managed to get him out of bed!” There was contemptuous laughter. Someone spat at me. Flicking the spittle aside I pushed my way through the crowd, reached the doorstep and turned to address them. Cold sweat was inching down my spine.

“Good afternoon,” I said strongly, projecting my voice to override the hostile mutterings. My mind, sharpened by shock, was darting in a dozen different directions at once. I was remembering the bullies at school and the necessity of displaying no fear which would heighten their pleasure, but I felt shattered, vulnerable and, most ambivalent of all, enraged that I should be judged in this fashion by men who should have been doffing their caps to me with respect. A second later, however, I saw that the class system could work in my favor and that this time all the bayonets would be on my side.

“If you want the justice you deserve,” I said, “you’ll treat me with the respect to which I’m entitled. I’m well intentioned but I refuse to negotiate with a rabble.”

They stared at me. I saw their faces, young and old, still hostile but recognizing an age-old authority which the twentieth century had so far been unable to destroy. Mentally congratulating myself on this successful assertion of my strength, I thought with a bitter humor, That’s the spirit that built the Empire! And I was still savoring my restored confidence when someone threw a clod of mud which hit me in the chest.

That was undoubtedly the spirit which had led to the General Strike. It occurred to me that the age-old authority was wearing thin after all.

“Very well,” I said calmly, heart thudding like a sledgehammer. “If you’re determined to be a rabble I can’t help you. Good day.” I stepped down from the doorstep and tried to walk away, but Thornton, the foreman at Cherryvale, intervened.

“Wait, Mr. John.” He turned to the others. “We must deal with him; there’s no one else.” And he thrust a list of grievances into my hand.

Immediately a confused babble broke out, during which I heard the words “extortion,” “bare-faced robbery” and “that witch Milly Straker.”

“We mean no disrespect to your father, Mr. John,” said Thornton hurriedly, “but the old gentleman’s well known now to be at the mercy of others, and One Other in particular.”

I returned to the doorstep, and when everyone was quiet I said, “My brother’s dying. I must ask you to leave him in peace. But if you can elect three men to come to Oxmoon at sunset, I’ll examine these grievances one by one and see what can be done.”

They were satisfied. Thornton, who was evidently one of nature’s diplomats, pulled off his cap and thanked me with a humility which both appeased and nauseated me. Someone in the crowd said, “How’s the wife in London?” but a dozen other voices said furiously, “Shhh!” and I pretended not to hear.

Seconds later I was driving away.

“My God, you were wonderful, John!” said Thomas, who was enjoying himself immensely. “As good as Jesus Christ!”

I said nothing. I was suffering from a nervous reaction, and I had to grip the wheel hard to stop my hands trembling. Nausea churned spasmodically in the pit of my stomach.

As soon as we reached Oxmoon I knew something was wrong, and when I saw the stigmata of violence I found I was bathed in a cold sweat again. Evidently the loutish sons of the disgruntled tenants had not been idle. The windows of the library had been smashed and a slogan had been daubed on the wall by the front door.

“ ‘WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE,’ ”
mused Thomas. “Haven’t I heard that before somewhere?”

I told myself that I had wanted class war and now I was getting it. In a detached manner which sprang from shock I realized that my primary emotion was again rage. I wanted to shoot every socialist in sight. So much for my intellectual radicalism. Apparently in a crisis reason and humanity counted for nothing and man’s instinct was to return to the pack that had bred him. I knew then that at heart I was never going to change. I was what my class had made me; I was the victim of my education, the prisoner of my privileged life; all else was illusion and self-deception.

“My God!” cried Thomas, who had just seen the broken windows. “Look at that! Wait till I get my hands on whoever did it; I’ll smash the bastards to pulp!”

I thought how pleasant it must be to have such a simple outlook, untroubled by any intellectual doubts or emotional complexities.

“Calm down, Thomas. We’ve got enough bulls in this particular china shop without you trying to join them.” I was wondering if the mob was inside, wrecking everything in sight, but as we jumped out of the car the front door was opened by the village constable.

“Oh Mr. John, thank God you’ve come—”

“Where’s my father?”

“I don’t know, sir; he seems to have disappeared, but Mr. Bayliss summoned me half an hour ago when the windows were smashed—”

“Where is Bayliss?”

“He came over poorly, sir, and had to lie down. All the other servants have locked themselves in the kitchens and won’t come out.”

“And Mrs. Straker?”

“They say she’s gone, sir—slipped out at first light. Maybe she knew there’d be trouble, sir, today being the quarter day and people so upset with the new rents.”

“Very well, go with my brother, search the grounds and make sure all the vandals have gone.”

I went into the house. The servants, cowering in the scullery, unlocked the door when they heard my voice. I asked if anyone had seen my father. No one had.

“Very well.” I turned to the cook. “Make some tea.” I swung round on the footman. “See how Bayliss is and if necessary telephone for Dr. Warburton.” I faced the parlormaid. “Send word to the glazier. I want those windows replaced immediately.” My glance fell on the daily housemaids. “Clear up the mess in the library at once.” At the door I stopped to look back. “I authorize a finger of brandy for everyone,” I said, “and once that’s been taken and the tea drunk, I shall expect everyone to go about their business as usual.”

Leaving them all bobbing and curtsying, I returned to the hall and ran upstairs. The bedrooms were all empty but as I reached the back stairs I suddenly knew where he was.