The Good Father (19 page)

I saw that there was a mark on her neck, a dark, ugly bruise of a kiss. Her eyes flickered, her hand going to the mark, and for a moment she looked like a child again, but then she met my gaze. She stepped closer still so that I could smell her, feel the warmth radiating from her. I could see that she was trembling. Her fingers brushed mine. ‘Peter, I'll do whatever you want . . . '

‘Hope . . . ' I made a noise between a sob and a laugh. The child whose nose I had wiped, the little girl I had bathed and watched over as she brushed her teeth, read to until she slept, who had always loved me so easily and innocently, looked at me now as though she believed all I wanted from her was what any man could get from any whore. And I laughed because it was horribly absurd, as though my sweet three-year-old had covered her face with rouge and smudged her mouth with lipstick and tried to dance in her mother's high-heels. And I also knew for certain what I had been trying to ignore until then – that we could never be close again, the distance between us growing only more impassable with each boy who kissed her. I had lost her, and the pain was made worse by her suspicions, laughable as they were.

I stepped back from her. ‘Hope, all I want is that you respect yourself.'

I lied. I wanted her to be ten again, and interested only in childish things. I tried to think of the right words to express what I felt for her, but the lie between us was too fundamental. Everything I said to her would be interpreted by her naïve suspicions into the language of a seducer. I wanted to hold her because she was trembling still; impossible now, although I ached to, although it took all my strength to turn away.

‘I won't say anything to Jack,' I said. Closing her bedroom door behind me I ran downstairs and out of the house.

Chapter 22

Harry said, ‘Please don't marry him.'

Val reached across the table. She touched his hand, only to draw away again as though she didn't want to seem to encourage him. ‘I want kids, Harry. A proper family.'

‘
I
could give you children! We could be a proper family!'

‘No. You know that's not true. I want to be respectable . . . to have what other women have.'

‘What do they have? Nothing! Nothing that's worth marrying a man you don't love!'

‘I do love him.' Suddenly exasperated, she said, ‘What makes you think you know anything about it?'

‘Because you love me – just as I love you. Nothing has changed – nothing!'

‘Exactly, Harry. Nothing has changed. You're still married.'

‘I'm getting a divorce.'

For a moment it seemed she believed him. Something in her expression softened, something like hope troubled her eyes. Encouraged, allowing himself to hope, Harry leaned across the table towards her and grasped her hands. ‘I'll divorce Ava, and I've found a decent home for her – a good place, run by nuns.'

She pulled her hands away. ‘Nuns?' She laughed shortly. ‘Oh Harry, I almost believed you.'

‘It's true.'

‘You would never do that to her.'

‘She'd be better off.' He thought about the incident in the park's café that afternoon. ‘She's worse; lately she's become worse – since Guy came home, I think.'

Val stood up. The back door was open, Harry could see the tubs of geraniums her father had planted, a cat sunning itself on the outhouse roof; there was a smell of warm tar, mixed with the curious, garlicky scent of the flowers. In the alley beyond the yard gate, children were playing; a football slammed against the cobbles. Val stood in the open doorway, fumbling in the pocket of her slacks for her cigarettes. She rarely smoked, but when she did it seemed she needed the nicotine more desperately than most.

Blowing smoke out into the yard, she said, ‘You won't divorce her, Harry.' She glanced at him. ‘You won't put her in a home.'

‘Val . . . ' He got up, standing a little way from her. ‘I love you.'

‘Do you?' She spun round to face him, tears of anger in her eyes. ‘I know you love
her
. And if you do love me, you love her more purely. Maybe with me it's just sex!'

‘No, that's not true! How can you say that? The times we've had together –'

‘The
sex
we've had together! Was there ever a time when we didn't go straight to bed? Did you ever take me to the pictures, to the theatre, to dinner in a place that didn't have a bedroom waiting upstairs?'

‘I loved you! It wasn't just sex. It wasn't like that at all,' He sat down heavily; he felt drained – it had taken all his courage to come here, knowing that this was his last chance. After today, if she couldn't be made to see how much they were meant to be together, he would have nothing left, not even the hope that had barely sustained him these last few months. He gazed at her; she was so sexy, perfect. It was unthinkable that she wanted to be with another man. Heatedly, he said, ‘Listen, you can come with me to my solicitor. I'll prove to you that I'm getting a divorce.'

‘No.' She tossed her cigarette down and crushed it beneath her foot. ‘It's too late. I'm going to marry Jack, I promised him.'

‘He doesn't matter – can't you see that? So what if you promised him?'

‘Go home, Harry.'

‘No! Not until you see sense!'

At that moment, Matthew came in through the back-yard gate. Putting his fishing tackle down, he said, ‘Well, I've had a grand day,' then caught sight of Harry and frowned. ‘What's
he
doing here?'

‘He's just leaving, Dad.'

‘Aye? Good. He knows where he's not wanted, at least.'

Harry groaned. ‘Matthew – you know she doesn't really want to marry this other man.'

‘Oh? Why doesn't she?' Matthew demanded. ‘Do you think he's too good for her, being single and that?'

‘I know he's the kind of man who would take his friend's home away from him. Do you know about that?
Do
you?'

Val sighed. ‘He hasn't taken it.'

‘As good as. What kind of bastard would do that?'

‘What kind of bastard wants to live in sin with my daughter whilst his sick wife is shut away?'

Harry wanted to weep in frustration. ‘Please don't marry him!'

Matthew took his arm. ‘Come on you, out. You've had your chance.'

Shaking him off, Harry turned to Val. ‘You know I love you more than he does. Remember that. Remember when you look at him that I love you far more.'

Harry went home. He thought that he would write Val a letter, a long letter reminding her of everything they had ever done together, and it wouldn't be just about sex – they had made love often but that wasn't everything, not all they had together. She was wrong about that. He would show her how wrong she was – how she had twisted her memories so she could convince herself he hadn't loved her enough, that it would be all right to marry someone else. He began to compose the letter as he walked home; it helped to calm him a little, but only a little. The words were too slow in coming because he still felt so angry – so full of rage at her, at this other man, this
Jack Jackson
– that he could barely contain himself. He wanted to smash his fists into walls, to kick and bellow and tear about like a lunatic.

At his front door he thrust his key into the lock. Slamming the door behind him, he went straight to his study and poured himself a large Scotch. The window was open, letting in the wallflower-scented air, the birdsong, and he banged it shut, cursing at nothing, or perhaps at the sun that made everywhere look so bright, so cheerful. The world should be dark; the sun should respect his terrible loss.

As he sat down at his desk and began to search through the drawers for writing paper, there was a knock on the study door. He looked up. ‘Yes? What is it?'

Esther came in. She stood just inside the door. Timidly, she said, ‘Mr Dunn, please may I talk to you?'

‘What is it, Esther? Can't it wait?'

‘No, I'm sorry.' She took a step towards the desk. ‘It's important.'

He motioned that she should sit down, trying to suppress his impatience. As usual, she avoided his eye, but she looked more anxious than ever and despite his anger Harry had a dreadful premonition. He tried to laugh. ‘Esther, you look so worried that you're making
me
worried.'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Dunn.'

‘What about?'

She managed to look at him. Quickly she said, ‘I've been offered another job.'

Oh, how clever he was to have guessed! He almost laughed, and it would have been a harsh, deranged noise; he would scare this little mouse of a girl to death. As evenly as he could, he said, ‘Have you accepted this other job?'

She looked down at her hands again. ‘No. Not yet.'

‘Would it help your decision if I offered you more money?'

Jerking her head up to look at him, she said immediately. ‘It's not about money.'

‘No? I find most things usually are.' Money or sex, he thought. He stood up, too agitated to keep still. He thought of the Home he had found but never truly considered. Val had been right – the nuns could just as well have been angels, he still couldn't bring himself to shut Ava away with them. The guilt he'd never been able to escape when she lived in that last Home had been too great. He swung round to face the girl. ‘Esther, I know today was rather difficult . . . '

‘It wasn't just today.' After a moment she repeated, ‘Not just today.'

‘Then what is it? What's made you want to leave us?'

She was silent for a while. Eventually, shifting in her seat, she said, ‘I'm too young, I think.'

He thought how delicate she was, small and plain as a wren, and young, very young. He had hardly thought of this since she'd consented to work for him because she was so quiet and capable, and in truth he didn't think about her much at all, just left her to get on with the things he least wanted to do. All his anger, all that rage that had puffed up his pride so preposterously and made him feel he could change Val's mind with no more than a letter, left him. He sat down again. He covered his face with his hands.

‘Mr Dunn?' She sounded frightened.

Harry dropped his hands. Painfully he said, ‘You're right, Esther. Of course you're too young to be stuck in this house day after day, night after night. Do you need a reference from me? I shall give you one, of course.'

‘I am sorry, Mr Dunn.'

‘Don't be.'

She went on sitting there, and he wondered if she was waiting for him to say something, but there seemed nothing more to say: she wanted to leave, he couldn't blame her, goodbye and thank you. Although he did feel like weeping in despair, now all that boiling anger had gone so suddenly cold. He smiled at her, the kind of smile he used to bring meetings to a close, but Esther remained sitting where she was.

Finally, looking up at him, she said, ‘May I say something?'

‘Yes, of course.'

She hesitated, then in a rush said, ‘I think that if you spent more time with Mrs Dunn, talking to her, just being with her, I think maybe she wouldn't be as . . .
unhappy
as she is now.' She looked down. ‘Sorry. It's none of my business, really.'

Harry stood up. He walked to the door and held it open. ‘I think in your contract we agreed on two weeks' notice. Two weeks from today then. Thank you, Esther. I think it's Mrs Dunn's supper-time now, isn't it?'

At the door, Esther stopped. ‘She misses you,' she said, and her face coloured. ‘That's what I think, anyway. Ava misses you.'

Harry closed the door softly behind her. He went to his desk and picked up his Scotch, only to put it down again, untasted. He shut his eyes tight, squeezing out the bloody tears; the pain was no more than guilt and he had no right to cry, no right at all.

Ava had said, ‘He's dead, isn't he?'

He had nodded, taking off his cap, holding it in his hands in front of his body like a true mourner as this pale, stricken young woman turned away and led him down a narrow corridor into her little room. Standing at an upturned crate that served as a table, she had seemed to regain most of her composure. ‘Is it all right for you to visit me, Major Dunn? Is it allowed?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I thought perhaps there were rules about fraternising with German women?'

‘Rules have become slack.'

She looked away. ‘Not slack enough.'

Holding out Hans's letter, he said, ‘Your brother wanted me to give you this. It's why I'm here – he wanted me to deliver it personally.'

‘And you always do what your condemned prisoners want, of course.' She took the letter and thrust it into the pocket of the men's trousers she was wearing. The trousers were loose on her, gathered at the waist with a belt; they made her appear even thinner than she was. For the whole time he was with her, her hand kept returning to the trouser pocket and her brother's letter; he knew she ached to read it, that she couldn't wait for him to be gone so that she could, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. He wanted to understand her and her brother – the whole German people, in fact. The newsreels were still too fresh in his memory, those horrors he had seen with his own eyes fresher still. Impossible to understand a whole race, these two would be its representatives.

He sat down on the only chair. Ava sat on the narrow bed which was pushed up against the wall lengthways to take up less space. The room was part of a building damaged by bombs and fire, somehow shored up; from the rubble-strewn street it was hard to believe that anyone lived here at all, but the place seemed teeming with life. He could hear a baby screaming, two women shouting – there were few German men left in Berlin; the building creaked alarmingly and he glanced up at the cracked ceiling, half-expecting it to fall down on him. He sensed Ava watching him and turned to her.

She said, ‘I shan't be staying here much longer. There's no reason for me to stay now.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘Home.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Hanau, in central Germany. It's where the Grimm Brothers were born. Have you heard of them, Major Dunn?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I have been thinking about their stories a good deal, how they were so full of cruelties. I wonder why we ever needed such stories. We won't any longer, I think.' Glancing towards the sound of the baby crying, she said, ‘My mother read the fairytales to us – she was very proud of our connection to the Brothers – distant cousins, she believed. Hans would have bad dreams, sometimes, after the story of Snow White and the witch dancing herself to death in her red-hot shoes. I'd go to him, climb into his bed to comfort him. He was a very gentle little boy – I suppose you find that difficult to believe?'

He shrugged, not wanting to say anything that might silence her.

She smiled slightly. ‘I've never met an Englishman before, Major. Where do you live in England?'

‘The north. A town called Thorp. No one's heard of it.'

The baby stopped crying. With a final burst of expletives the women became quiet, too. Ava went on regarding him coolly, this specimen of unfamiliar English manhood. Harry found himself sitting up a little straighter in his hard, wobbly chair. A joist creaked and he laughed uncomfortably. ‘I think you should leave sooner rather than later – before this place collapses on you.'

‘I'm going soon enough.'

At once he regretted his words. He didn't want her to leave at all; he realised he felt something change in him when he was with her There was something about her calmness, her direct gaze, that made him feel easier. He thought how strong she must be to have survived so much, and his heart softened towards her, although he had determined to be hard, to hand over Hans's letter and leave. Hadn't everyone in the world survived so much over the last six years? Everyone but him, Harry Dunn, the onlooker, the listener, the sifter and repeater of other men's words, making enemies intelligible to each other. He sometimes wondered whose side he was on.