A Rather English Marriage (28 page)

‘I dunno,' said Billy.

‘I'm going to tell him I want him to come home,' said Joe. ‘I miss my Nana too, but she can't ever come back. Mum told me. She's gone away for ever and now she bakes cakes for the angels in heaven.'

Roy interrupted. ‘Billy? What you going to say to your Dad?'

‘Tell him you got in the under-thirteens swimming team,' said Joe.

‘Tell him I've took up boxing, more likely,' said Billy.

Roy, keeping an eye out for the signs to the prison, only half-heard. ‘What's that?' he asked.

‘Wham! Kerpow! Boxing!' said Billy. ‘So I can go to football matches and smack people, support my team. Or get my own back by giving those Pakis hell what won't let us have stuff on tick.'

‘Language,' said Roy. ‘Don't say that. They're as good as you are.'

‘They're cowards,' Billy insisted.

‘Why fight them, then?' asked Roy.

Billy didn't answer, but slumped sullenly back against the rich leather of the rear seat.

In prison, despite the constraints surrounding them, the two boys were talkative. It must have been their mother's presence which had inhibited them rather than that of the warders, for after the first awkward minutes they competed, leaning eagerly across the table, to give Alan news of themselves and their neighbours.

At one point their father interrupted and said, ‘Has your Mum talked to you about Sheila?'

Roy felt his heart gather itself up and stop in its tracks.

‘No,' said little Joe, pausing in a headlong story. ‘Who is she? Do we know her?'

‘No, not yet,' said Alan. ‘But I hope you'll meet her soon.'

‘Who is she, Dad?' asked Billy.

He knows, thought Roy. Look at the way he's watching Alan. June's told him, and now he's testing his father, to see if he'll tell the truth. He glanced at Alan. Alan held Billy's eyes steadily for a long moment and then Joe resumed his story and Roy's heartbeat moved on. Alan did not make a second attempt to talk about Sheila. He did not mention June again, either.

At the end of the visit he fished in his pocket and brought out some carved wooden chessmen. ‘Here you are,' he said. ‘I made them for you. Present. Learn to play chess and I'll do you some more.'

‘Honest, Dad? You made 'em yourself?' asked Billy. ‘Cor, they ain't half good. You do woodworking classes, or what?'

‘Yeah,' said Alan, bitterly. ‘Only it's called “vocational training”. But it's woodwork, all right. Ought to get your Grandpa to show you. He's the expert, aren't you, Dad?'

He remembers, thought Roy, touched almost to tears.

‘That right, Grandpa? Can you make things? Could you teach us?'

‘You show 'em how, Dad,' said Alan meaningfully. ‘They're going to need you …'

‘And will you teach me setch?' asked Joe.

‘Chess
, wanker!' said Billy, but it was such a relief to see them all three laughing that Roy kept quiet about the bad language. Alan hugged both his sons. First time he's done that in months, Roy thought. He touched Alan's arm, and Alan patted his father's shoulder uncertainly.

‘See that warder over there?' said Alan to the boys. ‘He's not a bad bloke. Go over and say hello, tell him you're my kids. Tell him your names.'

Billy took the hint, and hauled Joe off after him.

‘ You
tell 'em for me, Dad,' said Alan, in a desperate undertone. ‘You got to,
got to
, do you hear? I've made up my mind about Sheila, I'm not going to change it now. But I can't be the one that tells them.
You've
got to for me. I'm asking you, Dad. Please.'

Oh my son, my son, thought Roy.

‘It's no good,' he said. ‘I would if I could, but I can't. What you're doing is wrong, leaving 'em. They're your sons, they love you. Look how happy they were to see you. You can't do that to kids. Change your mind, son. That's all I can say. For your Mum's sake. For theirs.'

‘I love her, Dad – Sheila. You haven't met her. You don't know what she's like. If you did, you'd understand. We're made for each other. I've told her I'm divorcing June. June knows as well. I've had a helluva lot of time to think and I've worked it all out. The boys can come and stay with us, Sheila and me, maybe come and live with us when they're older. Might even have a little sister for them by then. I'll have done my time by the end of the summer, with luck. I've done good behaviour, I'm going to the other place next week, more of an open prison it is, and I got my parole board coming up soon. I'm going to have Sheila meet me when I come out. You've
got
to tell the boys. I tried just then, I meant to do it, but I can't.'

‘No,' said Roy. ‘I won't. You hear me, Alan? Marriage is for ever and the reason is the children. Till death us do part.'

‘No,' said Alan. ‘No. No. No.
No
!'

As they were escorted out at the end of visiting time, Roy managed to buttonhole the warder whom Alan had indicated. Waving the boys ahead, he said in an urgent whisper, ‘Keep an eye on him for the next week, won't you, until he's moved? He's a bit upset. Don't let him try anything.'

The man nodded and winked at him. He's a good bloke, thought Roy with relief, a decent man. There's good and bad in every walk of life.

It was late June, just after summer's peak, the longest day. Week succeeded week of clear blue halcyon days. Heat hung suspended in the still air at dusk. The garden spilled over with fat perfect blooms: dark red peonies weighing down their stems, climbing roses spiralling downwards in lush abandon. Delphiniums formed up in tall columns of violet and blue with fragrant purple lavender massed in front of them, and against the red brick wall were the tall spears of foxgloves. More than a year had passed since Mary and Grace had died, the one quietly, the other fighting against death and the emergency procedures which hampered her last moments. As the anniversary had come and gone, Roy was guiltily aware that he had reached a resignation, had adjusted to her absence. Life had not stopped dead. It impelled him forward. He decided to give his own house a spring-clean and to organize a spectacular display of flowers around her shrine. That at least was something he could do for her, to show his continued love and remembrance.

He woke earlier than usual one morning. The sun was already up, the sky streaked with rose-pink pennants. It was going to be another hot day. Sooner I get going the better, thought Roy. Got all my best energies in the morning. After lunch I'm flagging, could do with a nap. He left a note on the kitchen table for Aggie, asking her to wake Reginald and take him his cup of tea, and set off as soon as he had listened to the seven o'clock news.

He caught a bus as far as St John's Church, where he got off and walked down John Street and into his own familiar road. It felt cramped after Nevill Park, the doll-sized houses jammed tightly together, but his heart tightened as he walked up his front path again. The rose bush in the tiny front
garden which he had omitted to prune earlier in the year was pushing out pale pink roses. The tiny squares of grass on either side of the pathway needed trimming. Roy felt choked by its neglect. He unlocked the front door and stood for a moment inhaling the faint remembered smell of his own home. The telephone on the hall table beside him rang, making him jump.

Instinctively Roy looked at his watch. It was nearly twenty to eight. I don't want to hear, he thought. I know what it's going to say and I don't want to hear. The phone would not stop ringing. I won't answer. Don't tell me. He counted. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. On thirteen he picked it up.

Reginald woke with another headache, and in a bad temper. It was nine-thirty and Mrs Owsyerfather had knocked loudly on the door and waddled in with a pot of tea on a tray.

‘Where is the name of blazes is Southgate?' he grumbled.

‘And a very good morning to you, too!' she said equably. ‘He left a note on the kitchen table saying I was to bring you your early-morning tea, which I'm doing, not that it's particularly early morning by my standards, but the good Lord made us all different. Unfortunately Roy didn't inform me where he was going.'

Reginald scowled.

‘Now then, Squadron Leader, how can I sweeten your temper this lovely shiny morning? Is it by running you a bath or should I offer you a fine healthy breakfast? What is your pleasure?'

Reginald rubbed his eyes. ‘My pleasure,' he said, still half asleep, before he could stop himself, ‘would be for you to lean over so that I could give that big black bum and those huge great tits of yours a good feel.'

She stood up and folded her arms. Her face had slammed shut like a door. ‘And my pleasure is to tell you,
sir
, that I'm giving notice. Not a week. On the spot. Here and now. I don't take that dirty talk from nobody. You should be ashamed of yourself.'

Christ! thought Reginald, now what have I done? He sat
up in bed and tried to look contrite. She was already walking out of the room, the offending bum moving with deliberate dignity.

‘I say, Mrs um, Aggie, I'm frightfully sorry. I do apologize. I take it back. You're quite right…'

He heard her heavy step descending the stairs. Damn and blast the woman! he thought. Silly old Nanny. Big fat Nanny. Great big huge fat enormous Nanny. Bum. Tits. Don't care. Lying down again, he tried to go back to sleep.

A few minutes later he heard the front door being unlocked. Had she changed her mind, seen sense and come back? He swung his legs slowly out of bed, creaked to his feet and unhooked his dressing-gown from the door. He peered over the landing balustrade. It was Southgate who was shuffling about down there in the hall.

‘Southgate! Where the hell have you been? Bloody nuisance!' he complained. ‘Mrs Owsyerfather's given notice.'

Roy lifted his head and looked up as though he hadn't heard.

‘I need the car,' he said. ‘My son is dead. I have to go and tell his wife. Her phone's out of order. I must hurry. I need the car.'

Reginald grimaced at him, cupping his ear. ‘What's that? Come on up here and address me properly. I can't hear a bloody word you're saying.'

Roy tipped his head up to where Reginald stood. His glasses glinted. He paused as though to gather strength, then spoke in a crescendo, ‘I said, Squadron Leader, MY SON IS DEAD AND I NEED THE CAR. I have to leave at once to tell his wife. NOW CAN YOU HEAR ME?'

Reginald clutched the wooden railing tightly. His head and heart were pounding. Entire bloody world's falling to bits around my ears, he thought.

‘Take it,' he said. ‘Awfully sorry. Rotten luck, old chap.' He turned round and lurched back into his bedroom, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head.

*

Roy drove the great car as fast as he could along the winding, narrow road to East Grinstead and picked up the A22 into London. It would take him along the Brighton Road through Purley, amidst whose suburban streets his married life had begun. He tried to keep his head clear so as to concentrate on driving, but the words flew into his mind like darts. ‘Deeply regret to inform you … your son found dead … every precaution taken … a very determined attempt … absolutely no hope of resuscitation … will of course be a post-mortem … no blame can be attached to prison staff…'

The man would divulge no details beyond confirming that Alan had not hanged himself. So what was it? thought Roy: drugs, glass, a knife? Did he slash his wrists, my strong handsome son, and watch the lifeblood ebb out while he crouched secretly over his dreadful deed, fearful of interruption and rescue? Or was it his throat he cut, to make death quicker and more certain? What strength and desperation he would have needed to slice into his own flesh. Oh my God, the agony!

Hurtling through time and place, in the swishing silence of the car, Roy howled aloud. Oh Absalom, my son, my son! I wish it was me that was dead and with my Grace; me dead and Alan alive. The car's padded interior absorbed his howls and only a few passing motorists noted that the face of the small man behind the wheel of the imposing car was clenched with tears. He hauled savagely on the wheel to overtake a dawdling caravan. As he swerved back into his lane, he saw another car approaching at speed, and the man's panic-stricken expression as he flashed by. Roy pressed harder on the accelerator.

As the thickening conurbation of south London slowed him down and traffic lights brought him to a halt, he struggled to regain self-control. How shall I break the news to June, he wondered, if she hasn't yet heard? Her phone must have been out of order, or cut off, for the governor of the new prison had read back her number correctly, but said he had been unable to get through. It was nearly noon: they wouldn't have it on the news, surely? He switched on to listen just in case; but the
news was all of recession and opinion polls, or events in the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia; nothing about a prison suicide.

When he drew up outside her house and rang the bell, she opened the door to him immediately with a face as stricken as his own.

‘I know! I know!' she said.

She stumbled ahead of him to the kitchen, where an ashtray spilled over with acrid cigarette stubs. From an open packet she extracted and lit another. He held her free hand tightly with his own and stared at her.

‘The prison rang the boys' school,' she said. ‘Alan must have made sure they had the number. I tried to ring you, but you'd gone. Oh Roy, I can't believe what he done … He cut his throat. Drowned in his own blood.'

Her self-control had been rigid, her voice steady, but on the final words she collapsed into a wailing, gulping struggle which Roy could not bear to watch. He noticed several torn paper tissues Sellotaped across her arms.

‘What's that for?' he asked. ‘What happened? You burn yourself?'