The Wheel of Fortune (55 page)

“He’s postponed his grief by organizing that appalling luncheon,” said Robert acidly. “What a mistake! We should have forced him from the start to face reality.”

“I’m sorry, Robert,” I said, “but with all due respect, I couldn’t disagree with you more. This is Papa’s way of facing reality. It may not be your way but that doesn’t mean it isn’t equally justifiable. He had to go through this charade. It was essential to him to make a ritual of her death so that he could believe in it.”

“Do you understand any of this, Edmund?” said Celia.

“Not a word, old girl, no.”

“I do,” said Ginevra unexpectedly, “but I’m not at all sure who’s right.”

“I am,” I said. “I think he’s done the right thing so far, although I do concede that another breakdown is now a real danger. He’s finished being the perfect mourner at the perfect funeral, and what we now have to do is to help him over the interim that must inevitably exist before he can start playing the perfect widower at perfect Oxmoon.”

They all stared at me as if I were talking some esoteric Welsh dialect.

“Well, isn’t that what life’s all about?” I said, exasperated. “You write the script, pick your role and then play that role for all it’s worth! Papa’s between roles at the moment, that’s all.”

“What’s he talking about?” said Thomas to the others.

“He seems to be saying,” said Robert, “that one must never on any account face reality—either the reality of one’s true self or the reality of one’s true circumstances. I’ve never heard such a recipe for unhappiness in all my life.”

“But what is reality?” demanded Edmund moodily before I could launch myself on a heated protest. “Who knows?”

“Well, I agree,” said Robert, getting into his stride, “that Kant says it’s virtually impossible to know reality. However—”

“Oh darling, surely everyone knows what reality is!” protested Ginevra. “Why do intellectuals always tie themselves into such absurd knots? Reality is—”

“Reality is—” began Celia and I in unison.

“Reality,” said Thomas, “is that Papa’s walking across the lawn towards us at this very minute—what on earth do we do now?”

VII

My father had changed into a black lounge suit and was strolling idly across the lawn in the company of his golden Labrador Glendower. A light breeze ruffled his hair and emphasized his casual grace of movement. Behind him Oxmoon, shimmering in the July sun, heightened the impression of mirage and illusion. I was unnerved, and a quick glance at the others told me that my tension was shared. This, we had agreed, was going to be the moment when my father broke down again, yet never had he seemed more composed.

“Still living in his fantasy,” muttered Robert.

“No,” I said suddenly, “it’s all right, Robert—he’s playing his old self. This is the interim role.”

Robert looked scandalized, but when he refrained from arguing, I realized he was reluctantly coming to accept my point of view. Meanwhile my father had raised his arm in greeting and we were all waving back much too heartily.

“Shouldn’t we be talking?” whispered Ginevra, and added in a normal voice: “It’s a new Glendower, Celia—did you guess? Old Glendower died last Christmas—hardpad, poor darling. We were all devastated.”

“How simply too frightful,” said Celia with nauseous brightness. “Hullo, Papa, how lovely to see you again!”

Ignoring this drivel Robert said crisply, “I do apologize, sir, for my behavior earlier—I’m afraid I chose quite the wrong moment to give way to my grief. And of course I do apologize too for my remarks about the funeral. I’m sure everything was exactly as Mama would have wished.”

My father was by this time on the threshold of the summerhouse. “That’s all right, Robert,” he said with an easy smile. “Least said soonest mended.” His smile broadened as he glanced at the rest of us. Then he said with his most winning charm, “I’ll wager you’ve all been on your knees thanking God I didn’t marry Ethel forty years ago!”

We laughed vigorously. In the deadly pause that followed, my father stooped over the dog. “Sit, Glendower, sit … that’s it. Good boy.” He gave the dog a pat and added without looking at us, “I’ve been thinking things over. Just thought I’d like to say a few words.” Still fondling the dog, he glanced up at Robert as if waiting for encouragement.

“Yes, of course,” said Robert in the mild neutral voice I had heard him use in court to soothe frightened witnesses, and at once looked immensely sympathetic.

“Well,” said my father, duly encouraged and straightening his back as he faced us all, “I just thought I’d like to say thank you to everyone for being so good to me during these past few days. I’ve got a wonderful family. Don’t know what I’d have done without you. Luckiest man in the world. Especially glad to see you again, Celia,” he added suddenly. “Bury the hatchet and all that. I’ve missed you since you’ve been away.”

“Darling Papa!” cried Celia, much moved.

I wondered what all this was leading up to. Sweat began to prickle beneath my collar.

“And I just wanted to reassure you all,” resumed my father, his mild casual manner masking his unknown but clearly implacable purpose, “that I shall be all right now—I’ve had a little think in the library and I’ve worked everything out.” He moved forward to slip his arm around Thomas’s shoulder. “Sorry I closed the door on you like that, old fellow,” he said, “but I knew it was very important that I should have my little think.”

“And what did you decide, Papa,” said Robert with extreme delicacy, “as the result of your little think?”

My father moved on from Thomas and drifted to the far side of the room before turning to face us once more. “Well, I can tell you this for a certainty,” he said: “I shall never marry again. I shall be loyal to Margaret till the day I die. No one could ever take her place as my wife.” He stood up straight and looked both proud and dignified. “You won’t find
me
following in Oswald Stourham’s footsteps and marrying a platinum blonde young enough to be my daughter!” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing my children and shaming myself before my friends in that fashion. I shall keep up appearances and live exactly as a widower ought to live. Although of course,” said my father, stooping to pat Glendower, “I shall have to have a housekeeper. But that’s not the same thing at all.”

“Of course not, Papa!” cried Celia, blinded by sentimentality.

I was transfixed. I saw Robert dart me a warning glance, but I ignored him. My voice demanded roughly: “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Shut up, John,” said Robert. “Leave this to me.”

“Celia my dear,” said my father with his most exquisite courtesy. “Ginevra—please would you be so good as to excuse us? I’d prefer to be alone with my boys for a moment.”

“Of course, Bobby,” said Ginevra. “Come on, Celia, let’s go and organize tea. Thomas, why don’t you come with us?”

“Why should I?” said Thomas rudely, and moved closer to my father.

Ginevra looked at Robert, who said pleasantly, “Are you sure you want Thomas to be present at this conversation, Papa?”

“Certainly,” said my father. “You can’t treat a fourteen-year-old boy as if he were fit only for the nursery. That would be quite wrong.”

Thomas, who was still very much a child despite his strapping physique, looked smug.

“Nevertheless—” I began.

“No,” said my father, suddenly showing the tough side of his personality. “No ‘nevertheless.’ That’s my decision and you’ll oblige me by accepting it.”

Robert shot me another warning glance. I kept my mouth shut. The two women began to walk away across the lawn.

When they were out of earshot my father said in a low but level voice, “Now I must speak frankly. I don’t think that you boys have faced the—” He fumbled for the right English word. “—the
reality
of your mother’s death. Your mother’s death is, of course, a tragedy—a tragedy,” he repeated, as if greatly relieved he had been able to file the episode away under some comprehensive heading which needed no further explanation. “I know all about tragedies. I’m good at them—sorry, that sounds absurd, wrong phrase. I mean I’m good at surviving them. Done it before. Do it again. Quite simple—just obey a few elementary rules. Rule one: don’t dwell on the tragedy, don’t think about it. Rule two: take stock of what’s left and work out what you need to go on. Rule three: get what you need. Rule four: go on. Well, I’ve spent the afternoon taking stock and I know what I need—I need the best possible woman to manage the house, and it just so happens I know the best possible woman for the job.” He hesitated to drum up the nerve to complete his speech but the pause was minimal. “This evening,” he said, “I shall go to Penhale and offer Mrs. Straker the post of housekeeper. Then—once I have my house in order—I know I shall have the strength to go on.”

He finally stopped speaking. Edmund, Thomas and I all turned automatically to face the wheelchair.

“Thank you so much, Papa,” said Robert with a courtesy that not even my father could have bettered. “I’m sure we’re all most grateful to you for explaining the position and advising us of your plans before you consult Mrs. Straker. I needn’t remind you, of course, how devoted we all are to you and how deeply concerned we are for your welfare at this most crucial and difficult time. May I venture to hope that bearing our concern in mind, you’ll permit me to make one or two observations which I cannot help but feel are pertinent to the situation?”

After a moment my father said, “Very well.”

“I think we’re all a little troubled,” said Robert, “by the effect of any immediate visit of yours to Mrs. Straker. While we perfectly understand that you should wish to see her, we can’t help but wonder what people will think when they find out, as they inevitably will, that you visited your mistress on the day of your wife’s funeral. Would it not be possible for you to postpone the visit for a day or two?”

My father considered this carefully and said, “No.”

“My God!”

“John,
you must leave this to me.
Now, Papa: is it possible for you to explain to us why you have to see Mrs. Straker tonight?”

My father brooded on this but finally said, “I’m afraid I’ll go mad if I have to spend another night utterly alone. If I see Milly tonight then perhaps she can move to Oxmoon tomorrow.”

“Jesus bleeding Christ!” said Edmund, and sank down on the nearest chair.

“He’s out of his mind,” I said rapidly to Robert. “This is it—he’s lost his mind.”

“Just a minute.” Robert was still calm. “Papa, don’t listen to them, just listen to me. I understand every word you’ve said but now you must try and understand me because I’m going to tell you a very simple but very vital truth: you cannot bring your mistress into this house, in no matter what capacity, within a week of your wife’s death. That wouldn’t be sticking to the rules, you see, and terrible things happen, as you well know, to people who fail to stick to the rules.”

“I’ve drawn up some new rules,” said my father. “I’ve spent all afternoon drawing them up. I won’t marry her. Nor will she be just a nominal housekeeper. She’ll occupy a genuine position in the household, with her own room in the servants’ wing, and she’ll call me Mr. Godwin and I’ll call her Mrs. Straker whenever we’re not alone together.”

“But my dear Papa—”

My father suddenly shouted with great violence, “Margaret would have understood!”

That silenced even Robert.

I had to speak. It was beyond all my powers of endurance to keep quiet a second longer. “How dare you say such a thing!” I cried in fury. “How can you conceivably think she would forgive such an insult to her memory! What you propose to do is absolutely unforgivable!”

“I agree,” said Edmund, scarlet with emotion as he struggled to his feet. Until that moment I would have judged him incapable of opposing my father, and his blast of rage stunned us all. “I don’t give a damn whom you sleep with, Papa, I don’t believe in God or religion anymore and I can’t stand people who preach about morality, but John’s right for once, this is vile, this is the worst possible insult to my mother—on the very day of her funeral …” His voice broke. He turned away.

“You bloody fools, both of you!” said Robert angrily. “It’s no good being emotional here—that’s the worst course you can possibly take!”

“Robert,” said my father, “just explain to them that I can’t be alone. If I’m alone I’ll have to drink to stop myself remembering the past, and if I drink I’ll end up like my father—yes, tell them how frightened I am, Robert, always so frightened that I’ll turn into a drunkard and start seducing boys as my father did—”

“Oh, my God—”

“Christ Almighty—”

“Get that child out of here—”

“Thomas, leave us at once—”

“
Quiet!
” shouted Robert. “Good God, there’s no need for two grown men to throw a fit of hysterics just because they’ve found out their grandfather’s hobby was seducing boys! Pull yourselves together! Now Papa, let’s just try to be rational for a moment. Your father may well have been a drunken pederast who made a mess of his life, but he’s been dead for well over forty years and in the meantime you’ve proved
beyond dispute
that you’re a very successful man who’s sustained a very successful marriage and shown himself to be a very successful father to six children. You never touch alcohol except on social occasions, when you spend the entire evening imbibing half a bottle of champagne, and bearing all that in mind, I can only say that if you see any similarity whatsoever between yourself and your father I’d very much like to hear about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” whispered my father. “I can’t think of the past, I daren’t, and that’s why I’ve got to have Milly here as soon as possible.”

“But that’s irrational, can’t you see?” cried Robert in despair. “It’s quite irrational!”

“Of course it’s irrational,” I said violently. “He’s mad.” I swung round on my father. “Sir, if you bring that woman into this house either now or at any other time, neither I nor my family will ever cross your threshold again. And if you’re depraved enough to sleep with your mistress on the night following your wife’s funeral, all I can say is that I’ll never forgive you. I feel thoroughly revolted by your behavior and I condemn it from the very bottom of my heart.”