New World in the Morning (25 page)

“If I come back, there'll have to be a number of changes.” Much emphasis on the ‘if'.

I wasn't going to respond. I stood there in the doorway and looked out on the landing: cream paint, red carpet, polished balustrade—all of it immaculate.

But then I thought of Matt having to take the receiver out of his mother's hands and not knowing what to say; the two of them, not knowing what to say.

“What sort of changes?” Those words weren't just reluctant. They were sullen.

And it was surprising she had even heard me.

“No more talk,” she said, “of spending your weekends away from home—or of disappearing up to London for a job. No more talk of any brilliant future on the stage…not unless it happens to be Matt's or Ella's! And no more strutting round the house like some big he-man having to support the poor weak admiring little woman who can't—I don't know—who can't…”

Perhaps she was struggling to find some exalted metaphor or at least some way of avoiding anticlimax. None of it sounded like Junie. Surely she couldn't actually have been
meaning
any of those things she'd said—with the exception of that confined-to-barracks bit, obviously? It all sounded
so
unlike her that you might have wondered whether she hadn't sections of a script sellotaped to her breakfast tray, worked on by her mother and maybe one or two of her sisters, discussed and polished all day yesterday: an anniversary entertainment, perfect for wet weather. (No, why leave out
any
of her sisters or, come to that, any of her sisters' husbands? I'd already had a taste of how Pim felt. Perhaps even Jake had had a hand in it? Was there anyone, anywhere, who at some level didn't relish the downfall of a hero? Indeed, you had to look no further than Miss Martin at the school.)

“I don't understand,” I answered. “What should I have done? How could I have tried any harder than I did?”

“You haven't listened to one word I've said.”

“But what
have
you said? And why didn't you tell me if things weren't…weren't exactly as you wanted them?”

There was a short silence. When she next spoke, her voice sounded gentler. Much gentler. Practically like Junie's.

“You know, this would be easier if you'd only turn round. How can I talk to you like that? Why don't you just close the door and come and sit down again?”

I thought about it; then did as she suggested.

“Why didn't I tell you?” she repeated, reflectively. “Because we never communicated. We got out of the habit.”

“And what does that mean?” That must have been—almost—the craziest thing I'd heard this morning. Up until about ten days ago I'd always told her everything (with one very recent and self-evident exception). I'd naturally assumed it was the same with her.

“And also because…because I thought you couldn't help being how you were. But that was stupid. If no one tries to make us face up to ourselves…well, how are we ever going to change? Besides—all of this—it didn't happen overnight. Believe me, Sam, it's been a very gradual process.”

What had? All of what? I sometimes wished she
had
worked harder at the County High.

But there was no doubt about it: she was softening. And for the moment I wasn't so much interested in examining the past. Nothing further back than the shock she'd received on Friday night. That was what mattered. She'd been driven to retaliate. I could even understand—just—how she could have let herself get back at me through Susie.

Yet, all the same, I wished I could have been clearer as to where, over the years, I'd been at fault. Apparently—if I'd understood her correctly—she had felt overprotected. How could
anyone
feel overprotected? Unless it were some child complaining about being sent to bed too early, or about not being allowed to climb trees or to walk along high walls—yes, something like that, all right, but otherwise…? I wasn't possessive or anything; wasn't proprietorial; didn't place any check on her movements. It was a woman's role to be protected. It was a man's role to protect. God in heaven! What wouldn't I have given, on occasion, to have had a sympathetic protector?

To have had a father whom I could have hugged?

“I think you ought to go,” she said. “I'm feeling tired.”

Her
? Tired? Lying there in the type of bed the princess got—minus the pea, of course—and being waited on, and cosseted, and told she had to rest; and no doubt having it endlessly brought home to her what a victim she was and how woefully underappreciated.

Whilst I…I hadn't even had a cup of tea.

“Very well.” I stood up. “So when will you be coming home?”

“I don't know. I'll have to think.”

I hovered for an instant. Ahead of me I had an hour's walk—no, over an hour's. Our car was in the drive. I wondered if I'd be allowed to take it.

“There's something else that perhaps you ought to consider.” I found I couldn't ask about the car. “I know you always gave a lot but I did things for you as well.”

She yawned. “Sam, no one has ever said any different!”

“Right.” I turned towards the door. Turned back again. “Do you feel, then, that it may be tomorrow? Or is it more likely to be Wednesday? Or possibly Thursday?”

“I told you! I've not made up my mind.”

“The children ought to be in school.”

“And do you really suppose they can't reach school from here? No, when I've decided, I'll give you a call.”

“I see. This week?”

She gave a shrug.

“Next week?” I really hadn't meant to carry it through. “Sometime? Never?”

She didn't say anything. Her face resettled into its mask of sullenness and obstinacy. God, how I knew—and hated—that look of placid enmity!

“Anyway, I hear that Ella and Matt are in Folkestone. Give them a hug from me? A warm and loving hug.”

“I can't imagine they'll want it. By now they know just what it's worth.”

“And tell them I'm sorry.”

“Why? What good do you think that'll do?”

“And please—please—come home before Matt's birthday.”

“Gracious,” she said. “I really can't believe this! Are you deaf?”

“All right, then. One last thing. What was it he needed my advice on? What's it all about, this latest project of his?”

“I don't feel you've got the slightest right to know!” She relented—to a degree. “Besides. When I finally remembered to ask, he only said, ‘Oh, forget it, Mum. It doesn't matter.'”

“Damn.”

“And, by the way, another condition. Another thing you'd have to change. Don't make it so very obvious all the time that Matt's your favourite.”

I meant to argue the point but found I didn't have the energy.

Yet still I hesitated—again, with my fingers on the doorknob. How could I leave it there, this whole sad, uncertain situation? I had to make one last desperate attempt.

And forced myself to visualize nothing but the kind and gentle, openhearted Junie, the lovingly considerate wife who… It was a stupid thing for my stupid mind to seize on but I still had that letter folded in the pocket of my jeans, the one she'd written to accompany the food. As I stood there by the door it made me think of notes being slyly passed from desk to desk; of my being chased along the High Street clutching her school hat, laughing, brushing against infuriated, sounding-off pedestrians, contriving to remain always a few steps ahead of her despite being winded by my laughter; made me think of our first, shy, inexperienced kiss behind some bookshelves in the public library.

“Oh, this is all so silly,” I repeated. “This is all so silly. Can't you see? I love you, Junie Moon!”

My back was still towards her but I heard the quick catch in her breath and felt an instant surge of gratitude.

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” she cried. “When
are
you going to grow up? Why the fuck can't you just grow up?”

But even that wasn't all.

“And damn you! Damn you! Whatever happened to my cake?”

26

Then something unexpected occurred. Walking home, I knew I didn't want her back. I knew I'd never quite trust her again. Never feel fully sure that she respected me; that she was thinking well of me.

It was as sudden and as simple and as final as that. I didn't want her back.

I wanted Matt and Ella—yes, all right, I wanted Matt in particular—but apparently I didn't want even them (or him) enough.

I started packing: two expandable suitcases, filled principally with clothes. I had a bath and a shave; washed my hair and used conditioner. I wrote out a list of do's and don'ts and dates and monetary details—“I'll let you have my address as soon as I get one”—and left it on top of the piano, weighted down by a conch which one of the children had brought home from the beach. (Yes…Ella: “Can you hear the sea in it, Daddy? Hold it up to your ear—no, not to your
nose
, you silly!—and listen very carefully. Can you hear it now, Daddy?” My eyes filled. What was I going to do? How was I ever going to get by?) But I didn't eat anything, was almost afraid to. Decided that I'd buy a sandwich on the train.

It was strange: for the second time in twenty-four hours I had to drop a doorkey through a letterbox. Twice in twenty-four hours…when I couldn't remember, over thirty-six years, so much as one other instance. But apart from this—and the fact of my being burdened with two large suitcases—I tried to behave as if my present departure was in no way different from any of my innumerable others.

I crossed to the gate without looking at the antirrhinums which I'd helped to plant. Closed it as carefully as if Susie had still been a creature to consider. Outside it, with a similar sense of purpose, picked up my cases again, turned right and walked briskly to the main road.

But on arriving at the corner—and realizing I would never mail another letter from the pillar box which stood there—I allowed myself, mistakenly, to glance back. I remembered the cheerful kindnesses of neighbours and the hospitality of friends.

I also remembered that I'd left yesterday's underpants on the carpet in the middle of the sitting room. This could almost have induced a wan smile. “Please give me something to remember you by…”

And I hadn't packed my diary.

Who cared?

Grow up
, she'd said. My story wasn't that important.

Anyway, I supposed she could always send it on—
would
always send it on, if I asked her very nicely. Diplomatically. Remembered to enclose the postage. But I'd never told her I had bought it—or for what purpose. I had tended not to mention my wilder moments of extravagance.

When I got to the station, I found there wouldn't be a train till two-fifteen, nearly half an hour away, so partly for the sake of having something to do I went to draw some money from Cashpoint.

Suddenly, lingering by the bank, I had an image of Hal as a teenager…and briefly experienced an all but overwhelming pang of longing. Of longing and regret.

Plus, a strong desire for security, which was obviously tied in with it.

To get away from such a very unexpected form of torture—to escape it just as quickly as I could, allowing for those heavy cases—I then did what I hadn't intended. I went along to
Treasure Island
and stared for several minutes through its window.

And even before I reached it I was forcing myself to think about Mavis. Poor Mavis: on Saturday, how she must have floundered! Not being able to contact Junie, having to see to everything on her own, needing to go without her lunchtime break! I wondered if she'd yet begun to realize she had signed on with an ill-starred crew serving aboard a leaky vessel. Serving under a captain who—king rat—would be the first, not last, to leave his post. Hadn't there been any albatross discernible?

I resolved to ring her at ten the following morning to offer what I could in the way of apology and to share my hope of the right buyer soon being found—one who, no question, would want to keep her on. Was there even a slim chance
Junie
might decide to run the business?

From where I stood I could see Action Man watchful on his table. Turning away, I felt almost as if here was yet another friend I was deserting.

I bought a book for my journey from a souvenir shop on the front. Commiserated with the owner on his disappointing day. My commiserations were sincere. I knew what he'd be going through.

Without any such direct knowledge, I also empathized with the hero of the paperback I had chosen: a book still fitfully holding my attention when I arrived at Victoria…when I arrived at West Hampstead. Mangam's wife and children had been blown up by the Mafia and he himself was on the run—although all the time preparing for the tough and arduous fight that lay ahead.
His
loss,
his
problems, spasmodically made my own seem easier to bear.

His outlook affected me, as well. I was stirred by his integrity, his persistence, and even by the set of his shoulders and his clean-cut jaw—both depicted on the somewhat lurid cover.
Exterminating Jack Mangam
. His qualities were those endorsed by Kipling. Mangam reminded me I should never lose sight of the fact that you had to accept whatever life might dump on you. More difficult—whatever life might dump on those you loved. (Even though, in this case, that happened to be death.) But Mangam had a faith and was able to convince himself his wife and children were now better off.

And if that appeared glib…well, at least it helped him cope with his bereavement.

Mine, too, was a little like bereavement. I tried to convince myself that such bereavement would be good for all of us: for me, my wife, my children. In fact I honestly wasn't thinking so much about me. Junie and Ella and Matt, I hoped, would grow stronger because of their experience, more self-reliant, more aware of the hitherto unfelt realities. Matt would soon become a man.