Sins of the Fathers (87 page)

‘Oh, but I must!’ I started to cry again. ‘I’m going to help him – save him – everything depends on me!’

‘No, Vicky. Everything depends on him. My God, I hate to have to say this, but I’m going to have another drink. How frightful!
I think I must be scared by you displaying all the symptoms of the redeemer complex. Don’t get hung up on redemption, Vicky.
It’s a dead-end street.’

‘But I love him!’

‘Yes, that seems obvious, but what’s not so obvious is why. I can’t really believe you’re hung up on redemption. You don’t
strike me as being a masochist who falls in love with a man not in spite of his imperfections but because of them.’ Kevin
sighed, added some soda water to the Irish whiskey in his glass and returned to sit beside me on the couch. ‘In some ways
you remind me of your father. You pick the great love of your life and he or she – let’s think of Scott and say he – turns
out to be very buttoned up emotionally and not good at expressing his feelings. However, that doesn’t faze you because you
have this very American attitude that anything damaged can be fixed. You take on the job of fixing the damage – of course
it’s an exercise in power – and then you have the shattering experience of discovering that you’re not such an effective Mr
Fixit as you thought you were. Result: unhappiness, disillusionment and grand passion on the rocks. Am I depressing you? Okay,
try this alternative theory on for size: it’s not love you feel for Scott but guilt. You feel compelled to make amends for
your father’s mistakes.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘No? Then let’s make the theory even simpler and say this whole affair of yours is just one big act of rebellion against your
father.’

‘Kevin—’

‘Yes, home truths are loathsome, aren’t they? Or am I perhaps very far from home?’

‘You couldn’t be further away. Scott’s the only man I’ve ever really been able to relate to.’

‘What a diabolical coincidence. And what a diabolical phrase “relate to” has become! Nowadays it seems to cover everything
from a limp handshake to an orgasm, but of course we’re hardly talking about limp handshakes here, are we? A pity. I only
wish we were.’

‘We’re not just talking about orgasms either. Look, Kevin, why I love Scott doesn’t matter—’

‘Okay, I give up. You want to go back to him.’

‘Yes.’

‘When he’s sober.’

‘Yes.’

‘And only if he swears to give up liquor for good.’

‘Yes.’

‘So be it. I’ve no right to meddle any further. Now let me get the guest-room ready for you – you must be exhausted.’

I stopped him making up the bed. Crawling under a pile of blankets I lay awake shivering for a long time, but at last the
shivers stopped, my eyes closed against the dawn light and I somehow managed to rest.

[11]

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kevin, ‘but I’m not letting you go back to that house on your own. I’m sure that by now he’ll have reached
the stage where he’s more interested in throwing up than in behaving like a psycho, but I’m taking no chances. I’m coming
with you.’

We were sitting by ourselves in the dining area of the old-fashioned kitchen. Charles, whom I seemed fated never to meet,
had left for his office long before I had dragged myself out of bed at ten o’clock. I was feeling calm but was unable to eat.

‘More coffee?’ said Kevin.

‘Thanks.’ I watched him reach for the coffee-pot. The far side of middle age had made Kevin look less of a maverick and more
like a distinguished man of letters. His hair, long at the nape of the neck but carefully trimmed, was the purest shade of
white, and although he was much heavier than in his younger days he had retained his trick of making casual clothes look elegant.
His accent, formerly a curious mixture of Eastern prep school and Broadway theatre, now leaned heavily towards the BBC. He
wore glasses but kept taking them off, as if he suspected they made him look too elderly, and waving them around vaguely while
he talked. The performance only added to his unexpected new air of distinction.

‘We’ll take a cab,’ he said as we left the house. ‘I’ve only driven once in this country and it was a disaster. I have this
incurable urge to drive on the right.’

I could barely smile. I could think only of Scott. Anxiety gnawed at the pit of my stomach.

When we reached the house I could hardly fit the key in the lock and Kevin had to help me to open the front door. We stepped
into the hall. The housekeeper was vacuuming the living-room upstairs, and the normality of the noise came as an immense relief
and gave me the courage to tap on the library door.

‘Scott?’

There was no answer. We looked at each other.

‘My God,’ said Kevin, ‘is it possible that he was able to get himself to work this morning?’

Scott came out of the library.

He was freshly shaved and immaculately dressed, and when I realized the supreme effort he must have made to master his appearance
I felt the tears spring to my eyes. He looked very ill. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was bleached of colour. He made
no effort to speak but merely stood looking at me, and the wordlessness of his pain drew me instinctively towards him.

‘Scott … darling … we thought … we wondered …’

I saw him swallow but still he was unable to speak. I turned to Kevin.

‘It’s all right now,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for everything.’

Kevin just said: ‘Call me later,’ and left quietly. The front door closed behind him.

The first words Scott said were: ‘Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t go on.’

‘Darling, I’m not leaving you. I’m not.’

‘I couldn’t live if I didn’t have you, I’d rather die. I don’t deserve to live. I do such terrible things.’

‘Shhh.’ I took him in my arms and stroked his hair as he clung to me.

‘I thought you wouldn’t come back,’ he said. ‘I thought it was all over. I even ran the bath and got the razor ready—’

‘Come and sit down.’

We went into the library and sat down quietly on the couch. Far away as if in another world, the housekeeper continued to
vacuum the living-room.

‘Scott,’ I said, ‘you must have help. Will you please see a doctor?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘I’ll get some pills. They’ll help me over the first few days. I’ll never drink again, never, I swear
it.’

I kissed him and held him close. ‘I wasn’t just referring to the liquor. I want you to have help in handling all those violent
feelings that are buried inside you.’

He looked puzzled. ‘So long as I don’t drink I have no violent feelings.’

‘Scott, alcohol isn’t a creative force. It doesn’t manufacture these violent feelings out of the blue. They’re there all the
time but you keep them locked up. All alcohol does is open up your mind and let them out.’

He sat thinking about this. Once he put his hand to his forehead as
if his head was hurting so much that thinking was difficult, but he never complained of feeling ill. Finally he said: ‘Well,
perhaps. Yes, maybe. But the cure doesn’t lie with psychiatrists. It lies with me. Once I’ve repaid my father what I owe him
I’ll be at peace with myself and then all my violence will be a thing of the past.’

There was a slight pause. Then I said: ‘I think your father would have felt long ago that he’d been repaid. I think he would
have wanted you to look after yourself now. If you were to talk to a doctor—’

‘A psychiatrist, you mean.’

‘Yes. A psychiatrist. It’s not that I think you’re crazy—’

‘I’ll bet that’s exactly what you think. And after last night I don’t blame you either.’

‘It’s not that I think you’re crazy,’ I said again, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But I do think you’re living daily with too much
pain, and why go on suffering when maybe, just maybe, a doctor could help alleviate the distress? Isn’t seeking help at least
worth a try?’

‘Well, I’ll do anything you want, of course,’ he said. ‘Anything at all. If you want me to see a psychiatrist, I’ll see one.’

I was very much aware that he was consenting to see a doctor for all the wrong reasons. I took a deep breath and made a new
effort to reach him.

‘You’ve got to want to be cured, Scott,’ I said. ‘If you don’t a psychiatrist can’t help you.’

‘I do want to be cured. I’ve spent my whole post-war life trying to cure myself by the only method which is ever going to
be successful.’

We seemed to be going round and round in circles. With reluctance I decided I had no choice now but to be very blunt indeed.

‘There’s something you should understand,’ I said evenly. ‘If you can’t control this violence, you won’t be able to keep me.
I used to think nothing could ever come between us, but that was just me being arrogant and thinking I was some kind of superwoman
who could fix anything if she tried hard enough. But I’m not a superwoman – and I’m not a masochist either. I loathe violence
and I won’t stand for it in my private life. I think you should know that. It’ll help you to believe me when I say that if
you ever try a rerun of that scene last night—’

‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘I swear to you that last night’s scene will never, never, never happen again.’

‘I know you’ll give up liquor. I’ve every confidence in you as far as that’s concerned.’

‘Then you can relax. You’ve got nothing else to worry about.’

I was silent.

‘I’ll see a psychiatrist too, of course,’ he said after a pause, ‘but not here. I’ll wait till I’m back in New York. I wouldn’t
trust a European psychiatrist to relate to my American background.’

This I could understand. I thought of the psychiatrists I had seen years ago in London, and remembered how foreign they had
all seemed. I had felt quite unable to communicate my feelings to them.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Fair enough. Wait till you come home.’

He kissed me and I held him close again as I stroked his hair. For a long while we were silent but at last I heard him say
in a low voice: ‘And now I want to say something about Sebastian.’

I drew back sharply. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Sebastian’s name is never to be mentioned between us again. I’ll write and say I can’t
visit him.’

‘But that would be the greatest possible mistake!’ Scott sounded on the verge of despair. ‘Of course we must inevitably refer
to Sebastian from time to time, and of course you must go to see him while you’re over here – yes, you must! I insist! There’s
no question about it! I’ll never forgive myself for what happened last night, but at least it’ll be easier to live with the
memory if I know I didn’t after all keep you from seeing someone who has such an important place in your life. Please call
him right now and fix a day.’

Tears filled my eyes again because I sensed how hard he was straining to reach me. I felt his mind brushing clumsily against
mine, reminding me of the two circles which met without intersecting, and I wanted to hold it in place and soothe it and stop
it slipping away again into isolation.

I couldn’t look at him but I took him in my arms and at last I was able to say gently: ‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll call him right
away.’

[12]

‘Here’s my car,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t laugh.’

I laughed. It was a mini, bright red with tiny wheels and a body like a lunchbox.

‘How do you fit into it?’

‘Jack’s Beanstalk’s Giant could fit into it. Hey, you’re on the wrong side – unless you want to drive.’

We scrambled in, Sebastian folding himself improbably behind the wheel, and as the car roared off at a fierce pace through
the narrow streets of Cambridge I saw rows of tiny houses and glimpses of green trees and distant spires.

‘Oxford’s okay,’ said Sebastian, ‘but this is better. We’re not going
through the main sight-seeing areas at the moment, but later I’ll take you around and you can clap your hands and say “gee
whiz” and make all the noises an American tourist is supposed to make.’

Sebastian was dressed like an Englishman in baggy grey flannels, which were clearly the relic of some bygone era, a shabby
tweed jacket patched with leather at the elbows, and a sports shirt which might once have been white but had faded to a mild
grey. He was going bald at the crown and made no effort to conceal it. He drove with great skill and cursed a lot under his
breath whenever a bigger car forgot to give him a wide berth.

‘How’s New York?’ he said. ‘I hear that kid Donald Shine’s still busy terrorizing Wall Street. What’s his next target going
to be? Does anyone have any ideas?’

‘The rumour is he’ll go gunning for another insurance company, but nobody’s sure.’ I was too busy admiring the scenery to
talk of Donald Shine. Ahead of us a wide stretch of grass was reminding me of an English village green, and a second later
Sebastian said as he navigated a traffic circle: ‘That’s Midsummer Common and there’s my house on the edge – the black one
with the white front door.’

The house, one of a row, was small and square with a satisfyingly symmetrical façade. Since the tiny front garden bordered
the common we had to leave the car in the alley at the rear and approach the house through the back yard.

‘What does Alfred think of it?’ I couldn’t help asking. Elsa had a fondness for large luxurious modern homes and her new husband’s
taste obviously reflected her own. They had a mansion in Westchester and a fifteen-room penthouse in Manhattan.

‘Alfred wants me to ship it all back to the States brick by brick. He wants it for a play-house in his garden.’

He took me into a snug little living-room and while he fixed the drinks I wandered around looking at his pictures, his prints
and his books. We were silent but the silence was comfortable. I had long since become accustomed to Sebastian’s silences.

‘How’s the book?’ I asked as he handed me my martini.

‘No good. I’ve decided that my style of writing isn’t suited to a work about investment banking.’

‘You mean you’re going to give it up?’

‘Probably.’

‘What are you going to do with yourself instead?’

‘Don’t know. I think I’m going crazy. I find myself yearning not only for banking but for the plastic society. Still—’ He
glanced out of
the window at the pastoral tranquillity of Midsummer Common ‘— it’s been a great rebellion. Everyone ought to have at least
one chance in life to quit and ride off into the blue like the hero of one of those old-time cowboy movies who’s just lost
the girl he loves to the guy who used to be his best friend … I’ve often wondered since what happened to all those old-time
cowboys. Did they die of a broken heart under some far-off cactus? No, probably not. I’ll bet they ended up back on the range
again, earning their living in the only way that appealed to them and seeking out the only environment, repulsive though it
might appear, which offered them the chance to be themselves.’