Glittering Images (48 page)

‘And then … she came to me. I’d already heard from the Army but I hadn’t actually told anyone that I wouldn’t be leaving Epsom after all. She came to my house and broke down, broke down utterly, it was very terrible. I wanted to go after him and … But I knew I had to put first things first. He could wait. She couldn’t. She’d come to ask me what to do. I don’t believe she really thought I’d stick to my guns and marry her. She just wanted to know what on earth she was going to do. Romaine –’ My father stopped.

I waited. By this time I was standing, leaning back against the work-bench and gripping the edge with both hands.

My father turned to face me. ‘He was already married,’ he said. ‘He called it a “Jane Eyre” situation. Typical. He was equating his own sordid behaviour with a romantic novel – ugh! It revolted me. Anyway there he was with a wife hopelessly insane in an asylum, and there was Helen, completely ruined – oh, it was all so wrong,
so wrong
, I couldn’t stand to think of it, and I knew at once I had to put things right. Well, what other choice did I have? I couldn’t have let evil win. That would have been quite contrary to all my principles. I thought: I’m going to prove good always does win through in the end … Silly really, I can see that now, but at the time I felt no other course of action was possible, and my decision was strengthened when she said –’ My father stopped again. Then he replaced his spectacles, looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘She told me Romaine had offered her an abortion.

‘I said, “
You will not have an abortion under any circumstances whatsoever.
” Of course I’d realized that she wanted someone to tell her not to do it because she must have known in her heart that it would have been a disaster for her. I told her she’d never get over having murdered her own child – and that was true, I knew it was, I knew Helen, I knew how sensitive she was underneath all that brittle gaiety. I said, “You’ll marry me and no one’s ever going to know.” Oh, how relieved she was, poor girl! She cried and cried and said she’d be the best possible wife to me …

‘I had one interview with Romaine. I made sure I was absolutely sober and utterly in control of myself. Then I went to him and said, “You’re leaving Epsom and leaving England. Forget Harley Street. Forget all those glamorous dreams. You’re going abroad within a month or, by God, I’ll see you struck off the medical register – and if you ever dare come near Helen again,” I said, “you can be bloody well sure you’ll regret it.” I’ll always remember that moment. He was dead white. He’d been drinking, of course. I could smell the brandy. But he was quiet. And suddenly I felt as if I were looking at someone whom no one in Epsom, least of all poor Helen, had ever really known.

‘Well, the next day after he’d pulled himself together sufficiently to strike a glamorous pose, he announced that he felt called to work in Africa and so off he went, the noble young doctor, romantic to the last … and I was left to pick up the pieces.

‘I pretended that I was on the brink of leaving for my military training so we had a good excuse for marrying straight away, but she insisted on having a white wedding and that meant a few days’ delay while the gown was made. I tried to persuade her that we couldn’t afford to wait but she said it would look too odd if she wasn’t married in white and whatever happened we had to keep up appearances. However finally we got to the altar, and that night after I’d consummated the marriage I said: “That’s that. You’re both mine now – which means that you’re never, never under any circumstances going to mention that man’s name again and you’re never, never under any circumstances going to tell anyone that child’s not just as much mine as any future children you may have. That child,” I said, “is going to be my child from this moment onwards and I’m going to bring him up to be a good straight decent man even if it’s the very last thing I ever do.”’

My father paused. Taking off his spectacles again he began to polish them with a grubby handkerchief. ‘So much for the preliminaries,’ he said tersely, ‘but then the trouble really began …’

‘Well, of course,’ said my father, ‘it was all rather different in the end from what I’d expected, but then I’m not sure now what I did expect. I don’t think I’d looked much beyond the honeymoon, but Helen found pregnancy a great trial. Couldn’t face marital intimacy most of the time. I told myself it was just her condition but … I suspected she was pining for Romaine.

‘Then you arrived and she worried herself to death about what people would think – she’d convinced herself you’d be conveniently late but no, there you were on time. She wouldn’t go out for a while, wouldn’t see anyone, cried in her room – and it wasn’t just because she was afraid people were talking about her. It was because she had finally woken up to the realization that she’d jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire – she’d avoided ruin but now here she was tied to a husband whom she … well, she wouldn’t have married me if she’d had a choice. She never loved me as much as I loved her, and all the time … well, I felt increasingly sure she was pining for Romaine.

‘She decided to have another child as soon as possible, and I knew why. It was because she couldn’t stand the guilt, the guilt that she couldn’t love me as she should, and she wanted to make amends but although she became obsessed with the thought of another baby she didn’t conceive straight away. More tears, more unhappiness, more awful guilt – however finally, thank God – she had Peter and that put everything right for a while, but the marriage never really ran smoothly. She tried hard, but … I knew she didn’t love me and I started to get resentful. And of course all the time there you were, growing up, the constant reminder, the cuckoo in the nest … poor little chap, not your fault. You were a nice little fellow too. I said to myself: I’m not going to take it out on him … But I’d look at you and I’d remember Romaine.

‘Then suddenly one day I realized that my own boy was getting overlooked because you were such an exceptional little chap. You really did have great charm. Everyone used to pat you on the head and dote on you, and no one doted more than your mother. But finally I woke up and saw you were getting very spoilt and pampered with ideas quite above your station so I knew there had to be no pampering from
me
, not if I wanted to be a good father, but of course your mother didn’t understand, silly woman, thought I was taking it out on you. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want you growing up like him and I thought I saw all the ingredients there … So I got very strict and your mother called me a brute and we started having bloody awful rows, always over you, but I won, I shut her up, I even hit her sometimes, terrible, very wrong, shouldn’t ever strike a woman, but I wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from anyone in my household, not after all I’d been through, and anyway the net result of all this was that I wound up keeping you down with one hand while I paid special attention to Peter on the other. Not a good situation, but I didn’t want my boy growing up thinking himself inferior because he had this exceptional older brother. Of course you hated me paying attention to Peter, you hated anyone paying attention to Peter, you liked the whole world revolving around you so that you could preen yourself in the limelight. Silly little fellow, but not your fault. You couldn’t help everyone cooing over you, but I knew I had an absolute moral duty to keep the balance, and besides … I was so afraid you’d turn out like Romaine.

‘However as time went on I got both you and your mother under control and you really did begin to show exceptional promise. Very gratifying. But naturally I never believed it would last. I found myself becoming haunted by the worry not only that your heredity would triumph despite all my efforts to muzzle it but that you’d somehow succeed in discovering the truth about your paternity and go straight off the rails. You gave me a nasty moment when you realized you’d arrived so soon after the wedding, but I’d been prepared for that crisis so I was able to knock it on the head straight away. There’s nothing more unstable than a moody adolescent, and I was sure you’d have gone to the dogs in no time if you’d found out then that I wasn’t your natural father after all.

‘You looked like Romaine by then. I used to see your mother gazing at you and I knew she was remembering, just as I was. I’d feel so angry then, so bitter, but I’d cheer myself up by thinking: if that boy turns out well at least there’ll be something redeemed from the mess. So I kept on at you, urging you to keep to the straight and narrow, until finally there you were, safely up at Cambridge reading law, and I thought: I’ve done it. That boy’s turned out properly and he’s all set to lead a thoroughly decent life, no glamour, no playacting, no fantasy. But then – my God! You sidled home and told m
e you wanted to go into the Church
! No wonder I nearly had a fit. I didn’t think you were in touch with reality. You’d always been a bit of a romantic idealist – thank God the War ended before you could throw away your life dying gallantly in action! I thought this Church nonsense was just a pose, like Romaine telling everyone he’d felt called to be a doctor in Africa, and my God, that was the closest I ever came to letting the cat out of the bag about your paternity.

‘But of course I didn’t do it. Well, I couldn’t have done it, could I? It would have been like hitting a man when he was down. There you were, wallowing in emotion, talking drivel about God – how could I have done anything but kept my mouth shut? You needed to be protected, not disowned, and besides … if I’d said to you then: “You’re not my son,” it would have been a lie because by that time you
were
my son.
I’d
brought you up,
I’d
knocked my values into you,
I’d
made you what you were … But now you were telling me that what I’d made you was a bloody clergyman! God, what an irony! I hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.

‘Well, I battered away at you to try and save you from yourself, but you dug in your toes and wouldn’t budge. I had to admire you for sticking to your ideals, and finally I thought: well, at least it’s a good straight decent life. But then I thought: how’s he ever going to stand it, living as a curate, unable to afford to marry, he’ll go to the dogs, start drinking too much, get in a mess with some woman, and then all my hard work will have been for nothing and my marriage will be more of an unredeemed disaster than ever. But I’d underestimated you, hadn’t I? You weren’t the average ineffectual young padre who gets stuck in some remote rural hamlet preaching sentimental mumbo-jumbo. You were special. You had grand ideas. You name-dropped. And of course you wound up as the Archbishop’s favourite poodle. Typical. Couldn’t help admiring you. But oh my God, how you reminded me of Romaine …

‘I couldn’t believe it would work out. I kept waiting for you to get in a mess, but you didn’t – you landed that amazing post at St Aidan’s and you married that thoroughly nice girl. Wonderful. But then I started worrying in case the marriage went wrong, thought she might perhaps have been a little
too
nice for you, thought you might later fancy someone tougher and more alluring … No peace, you see, not even then. When I married your mother and took you on I thought fatherhood would end promptly on your twenty-first birthday, but it didn’t. Parenthood only ends with the grave. I went on worrying myself silly about you, but there you were, still doing well, and I could always cheer myself up by thinking: never mind, I did at least make a success of that boy. You were like a symbol in the end, a symbol that my ideals had triumphed over all the tragedy …

‘But then last year … that awful row … I felt so depressed. I thought: maybe I’ve failed after all. I did cheer up a bit when you sent us that invitation to visit Cambridge for Easter, but the whole letter was much too smooth and I knew some old clergyman had been getting at you during Lent. I can always spot insincerity a mile off. So I wrote back that stiff reply in the hope that I’d needle you into writing something genuine, but no, you got up on your high horse and stayed there.

‘Then I suddenly felt very old. I’d just retired. I had no work to go to any more, nothing to distract me from my unhappiness. You were estranged from me, Peter was too busy enjoying the life I’d once led to pay me much attention … I felt rather jealous of Peter, being young, leading the life I still wanted to lead … I was a bit sharp with him once or twice. Mistake. He took offence. Silly boy, henpecked by that awful Annabel of his … I suppose he’s happy. Maybe he’s miserable. Who knows? All I know is that
I’m
bloody miserable stuck in Epsom day after day with your mother, but poor Helen, I do feel sorry for her in so many ways. She’s had a disappointing sort of life, not the life she had in mind. She would have liked a more glamorous husband, someone romantic, someone … well, someone like Alan Romaine.

‘We never mentioned him, never, not even during all our rows over you, but he’s always been with us. He’s still with us. He’s here now, invading my conservatory, smashing everything up … And after this, I suppose,’ said my father turning on me fiercely, ‘you’ll want to trace him! I can just see you going all sloppy and sentimental, thanking God you’ve found your real father at last – so much for God! I slaved for years and years to be a decent father to you and now bloody Romaine will saunter along and reap the benefit! Disgusting! But that’s typical of life, isn’t it? The real bounders always bounce along into a happy ending while the decent fellows get trodden in the dust. Good doesn’t triumph over evil, not in real life, good gets ground down and spat upon. Law of the jungle. No God. Nothing. Beats me how anyone can believe otherwise.’

He sank abruptly on to the stool again and groped to remove his spectacles for another polishing. I waited to allow him time to steady himself; I bent my head so that he would think himself unobserved as he furtively wiped his eyes on the grubby handkerchief; but then I sat down at his side once more, and leaning forward I gently covered his trembling hands with my own.