The Wheel of Fortune (92 page)

“Oh Lord,” said my mother again. “What do I say, let me think …” She closed her eyes for inspiration, opened them again and took a deep breath. “No,” she said firmly, “living in sin’s not the done thing and having babies when you’re not married isn’t the done thing either, but we have to be kind, we have to be charitable and we can’t condemn people just because they get in a mess.”

“But why’s Uncle John in this mess?”

“Well, he married this simply too dreary American girl, pet, and it was an awful mistake and he should have married Bronwen and he now wants to marry Bronwen but he can’t get a divorce and get unmarried from Constance because Constance wants to stay married to him. So Uncle John’s in this ghastly mess, which goes to prove that even the best people can get into ghastly messes, even heroes like John, and that’s why we must never judge other people too harshly because although they can make awful mistakes they can still be very nice people. Making mistakes doesn’t mean that you’re a villain, you see, it simply means that you’re human. We all make mistakes, all of us, it’s human nature.”

“Yes, I do see that, but Mum, I still don’t understand about this baby. How did Uncle John place the order and get it into the womb?”

“Oh
Lord
!” said my mother, and added in a rhetorical aside: “Can I cope with this? I suppose I’ll have to.” She took another vast breath. “Well, Kester, when two people are madly in love they share a double bed and do something called copulation which you’ll understand better when you’re older and I certainly don’t intend to go into the quite splendid and blissful details now except to say that it’s kissing and hugging and much more besides and it’s absolute heaven and most people are wild about it. Then sometimes after copulation the women finds she’s having a baby and it’s as much the man’s baby as hers because they’ve been copulating together. Now run along to the nursery, there’s a pet, and see if Nanny’s ready with your bread-and-milk.”

After pondering on this information I tried without success to find “copulation” in the dictionary. (I was spelling it
COPPERLAY-SHUN.
) Further meditation followed on Uncle John’s situation, and presently I broached the subject with Cousin Harry during one of our midmorning breaks.

“A bit tricky about this baby Bronwen’s having, isn’t it?” I said as we munched our currant buns. “I mean, everyone knows it’s not the done thing to have a baby without being married—it’s not playing the game at all.”

Harry parked his bun and stood up. “Papa and Bronwen love each other,” he said violently. “If you love each other you have babies—and
that’s
the done thing, marriage or no marriage.”

“But my mother says—”

“Shut up!” Harry shouted at me. “My father says it’s all right so it’s all right, and if you say it isn’t I’ll beat you till your teeth rattle!”

“Oh, how you do drone on!” I said, affecting a yawn as I edged nimbly away around the table. “Why are you so upset? Are you afraid in case Uncle John likes the new baby better than he likes you?”

“You mean-minded, lily-livered, sick-making little sissy—” As he came at me with flailing fists I screamed for help and the next moment Simon arrived to ensure that the incident followed a predictable course. We were each set a grueling exercise in the subject we hated most; that kept us quiet for a while, but as I struggled with my multiplication sums I saw that a tear had blotted the sentence Harry had just written in his English-grammar book. I was amazed. In fact I was so amazed that I did not at first hear Simon ask me to fetch him a glass of water.

Realizing I was being dispatched on the flimsiest of excuses I naturally paused at the door to eavesdrop.

“What’s the matter, Harry?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“No, thank you. Everything’s top-hole.”

Perfect Cousin Harry had his upper lip well starched again after his extraordinary lapse. In disappointment I padded away to fetch the unwanted glass of water.

I would have thought no more about the incident but to my surprise Harry revived the subject the next day.

“Sorry I was so ratty with you yesterday, old chap,” he said as we again sank our teeth into our midmorning currant buns, “but the truth is I can’t stand anyone being rude about my father. As I’m his favorite it’s my moral duty to defend him at all times.”

“Ah.” Deciding I had no desire for another fight I took a second bite of my bun and kept quiet.

“Of course I’ll always be Papa’s favorite,” said Cousin Harry, “not just because I’m the best but because he and my mother were married.”

“Ah,” I said tactfully again.

“Well, it’s simply no good if your parents aren’t married, old chap. Rhiannon told Marian. She heard it at her school. If your parents aren’t married you’re called a bastard and it’s a pretty dreadful thing to be, even worse than being working-class.”

“Gosh!” I said horrified. “Poor Evan!”

“Yes, poor Evan,” said Cousin Harry benignly. “I really feel quite sorry for him sometimes.”

I still wondered if he would feel equally benign towards the new arrival, but he behaved graciously enough after Gerry was born and Bronwen was very pleased.

“What an adorable baby!” said my mother to Bronwen as soon as she saw Gerry, but later to my father she said, “Yes, it’s a dear little thing, but my God, you should hear what’s being said in the village! There’s bad feeling against Johnny now, as well as Bronwen—it’s interesting, isn’t it, that nobody thinks twice about a gentleman discreetly keeping a mistress but once he starts living openly with a working-class woman and treating her as his wife, everyone, even the working classes themselves, takes his behavior as a personal affront.”

“Especially the working classes, I’d say. What’s the point of having an upper class which doesn’t even make a nominal attempt to justify its privileged position by setting an example the
hoi polloi
can respect? One might as well guillotine the lot and be done with them.”

“Well, Johnny had better look out for the tumbrils, that’s all I can say. … What’s that scrabbling noise at the door? Is that you, Kester? Naughty boy, how often have I told you not to listen at keyholes!”

In fact my habit of eavesdropping, which I readily admit is detestable, was essential for a child brought up in secluded circumstances, and later it seemed to become more vital than ever; I felt I had to do all I could to keep up with my worldly Cousin Harry when he returned home from his prep school for the holidays.

“Copulation, old chap? Oh gosh, yes, everyone knows about that. No, it’s no good me telling you about it now because you’re much too infantile to understand, but believe me, when one goes away to boarding school one learns simply everything there is to know.”

Despite this glowing recommendation I was most mightily relieved when my mother decided after my father died that I was unsuited to boarding school. I had no interest whatsoever in being deprived of all privacy and martyred on the games field in all weathers, but as soon as Uncle John heard that I was not to be packed off to prep school in the autumn of 1928, he came steaming over to Little Oxmoon to make a first-class scene.

It was July when my mother dropped this bombshell on him. My father had been dead for three months. My mother had paid her visit to nasty Darling Declan in Dublin and had returned with innumerable photographs of a cross-eyed infant who, so I was told, was my nephew. I was also shown photographs first of a very pretty Irish girl who turned out to be my sister-in-law with the unspellable name (my mother pronounced it Sh-vawn) and second of a tall dark individual, running rather to fat as Rory was but with a sharp alert look and a subtle sinister smile. “He looks a rotter,” I said at once, and then remembered that in books I always liked the rotters.

“Did he ask lots of questions about me?” I said later to Rory when my mother was out of the room.

“Now, what would he want to do that for? He wouldn’t be interested in any son of Robert’s,” said Rory brutally, and I screamed back, “Good! I’m not interested in any son of …” but I couldn’t think what to call Conor Kinsella. “Mr. Kinsella” seemed too respectful and “Conor” much too friendly. Confused, I rushed out of the room and slammed the door while Rory’s unkind laughter rang in my ears.

I had just recovered from this renewed brush with my mother’s Kinsella past when Uncle John made his big scene. Harry was due to return from school for the summer holidays, and because his arrival was imminent I suppose it was only natural that Uncle John should have remembered me and inquired of my mother—purely as a formality—whether my entry to Briarwood had been confirmed for the autumn term.

“Well actually, darling,” said my mother into the telephone as she lolled on the sofa and plucked a chocolate from the box on her lap, “I’ve decided not to send Kester away to school.”

Several indignant squeaks from the telephone made her jump. I dashed across to the sofa just in time to save the box of chocolates as it slid towards the floor.

“But Johnny—thank you, Kester pet—Johnny, listen—”

An incensed click terminated the conversation.

“Oh Lord!” said my mother, hanging up. “Now we’re for it, darling. Here—help yourself to a chocolate, and then find me a nice gooey one with a soft center to cheer me up. Your heroic Uncle John is just about to make an all-out effort to save you from being ruined by your naughty old mother. My dear, I feel weak with fright!”

“Gosh, Mum, what are you going to do?”

“Oh, I shall be heroic too—two can play at that game. Pet, take these chocolates away before I eat the lot, and wherever you take them to, stay there. I think I must have a teensy-weensy little pink gin.”

I pattered outside with the chocolate box and took up a comfortable position behind the lavender bushes beneath the open drawing-room windows. Then I ate an orange cream, a Turkish delight and a caramel as I waited for Uncle John to launch himself on his crusade.

He arrived ten minutes later.

“Johnny, how divine to see you! Have a pink gin!”

“No, thanks, not before six.” Uncle John, shorn of Bronwen, was at his stuffiest and most English. I could imagine the exact pattern of his Savile Row suit and felt certain he would be wearing his Old Harrovian tie. “Ginevra, I won’t beat about the bush. Am I to understand that you don’t intend to send that boy to prep school at all?”

“That’s right, darling. No boarding school.”

“But—”

“I’m not opposed to boarding school,” pursued my mother. “I’d have been keen for Robin to go because I know he’d have enjoyed boarding-school life as much as Harry does, but Kester’s not Robin and he’s not Harry and he’d hate it. He’s a sensitive, solitary child—”

“Very much too sensitive,” said Uncle John nastily, “and very much too solitary—and that’s exactly why he should be sent away to school! He must be toughened up, he must be put in the company of other boys, he must be made to play games so that he can learn about leadership and team spirit—”

“Johnny, that’s all simply lovely and absolutely the spirit that built the Empire, but it’s got nothing to do with reality. The truth is Kester would be bullied to pieces, and I’m sorry but I’m not going to let my child be tortured like that!”

“My dear Ginevra, I’ve never heard such melodramatic exaggeration in all my life! The truth is that you’re a woman and you’ve no idea what goes on in boys’ schools—you’ve heard a few horrific stories and so you assume the places are all dens of sadism—”

“And aren’t they?” said my mother.

“Certainly not! Briarwood’s a splendid school—I’ll have a talk with the headmaster about Kester to make sure the boy gets exactly the care he needs, and then you can rest assured that he’ll be well looked after from his first day to his last—and what’s more, he’ll enjoy his school days and be grateful for them! You simply can’t keep him at home, Ginevra! A fatherless boy needs—”

“I’ll be the judge,” said my mother, “of what my son needs.”

“But what would Robert have said? I can’t believe he would have approved of the boy being tied to your apron strings like this!”

“Some apron strings!” said my mother with a little throaty laugh. I could imagine her knocking back the pink gin, and sure enough a second later I heard the gurgle of the bottle as she mixed herself another drink. “Sure you won’t join me, Johnny?”

“No. Oh, all right, yes—thanks. Ginevra, I’m quite sure Robert would have wanted Kester to be toughened up in a masculine atmosphere. I mean … well, for God’s sake, do you want your son to be a man or don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” said my mother, “but I happen to believe there’s more to being a man than wearing an Old School tie, knowing one end of a cricket bat from another and indulging in that homosexual horseplay known as rugby football!”

The word “homosexual” bounced aimlessly off my brain but none of the other words did. I nearly expired with ecstasy. Clutching the lavender bush to steady myself I wondered if I dared peep over the windowsill but my nerve failed me as Uncle John said from somewhere close at hand, “I give up.”

“Thank God,” said my mother. “Look—here’s your pink gin—let’s drink and be friends. You know how much I rely on you and how marvelous I think you are!”

Uncle John heaved such an exasperated sigh of resignation that I could picture the stream of air rushing through the open window above my head. Finally he said, “I’ve certainly no wish for a quarrel. But I just can’t tell you how wrong I think you’re being—in fact I think your decision is bound to mean that you’ll have trouble with Kester one day.”

“Do you?” purred my mother in her richest, most dangerous voice. “How interesting! I rather think you’re going to have trouble with Harry. You see, my domestic situation is so boringly straightforward that Kester can only yawn and feel secure. But your domestic situation, romantic and thrilling as it is, isn’t quite so restful as mine, is it? In fact sometimes I think I can hear a time bomb ticking, but if any bomb goes off in the Gower Peninsula it won’t be here at Little Oxmoon. It’ll be at Penhale Manor.”

There was a silence before Uncle John said evenly, “Perhaps your domestic arrangements won’t be so dull now that Robert’s dead. I can see that Kester’s best hope lies in acquiring a sensible stepfather.”