The Wheel of Fortune (121 page)

“Is all the work contracted for, Harry?”

“Looks like it, yes.”

“Damn, that means endless negotiations with the decorator while we try to get out of what hasn’t yet been done.”

The three of us dined alone, a circumstance which made Thomas suggest that perhaps Kester and Anna had committed suicide, but this wishful thinking was terminated by my father who had seen them upstairs before dinner was served. Thomas and I had already telephoned our wives to warn them we would be returning late but my father made no effort to phone Constance. She was the one who telephoned when she realized he wasn’t going to call.

“Oh hullo, darling,” we heard him say pleasantly as he took the call in the hall.

“The old girl’s checking up on him!” whispered Thomas. “She doesn’t trust him an inch!”

I said nothing.

“Christ, it’s odd about John,” muttered Thomas who had by this time had a large amount to drink. “What the devil made him go back to that bloody cunt, Harry? Any idea?”

“Not a clue, old boy. Absolutely none.”

“Of course I can see him telling himself it was the right thing to do but even so … Anyway John doesn’t do the right thing with women, does he? That’s the whole bloody point. Where women are concerned he does what he likes and I’m all for it, I hate to think of him being bogged down in Belgravia with that bitch … How many mistresses does he keep? Or does he just sleep with anyone who happens to be convenient?”

“Why ask me? He doesn’t send me a telegram every time he has sex.”

“Thought he might have confided in you—”

“Good God, no.”

“—because after all, you’re very close to each other, aren’t you? Never knew a father and son get on as well as you two do, it’s bloody marvelous, I take my hat off to you both.”

“… yes, all right, darling,” my father was saying casually. “No, I’ll be back by then. … What? … No, he hasn’t installed central heating. I doubt if the aesthetics of plumbing would interest him. … I said I doubt if—oh, never mind. Look, darling, I’m afraid I really must ring off now. … Yes, I will. Yes yes, of course. Yes, I’ll ring you tomorrow. All right, darling, love to Francesca—and to you. … Yes. … ’Bye.” He finally managed to sever the connection, and when he returned to the library he was glancing at his watch. “Well,” he said abruptly, not bothering to comment on the call, “I think we’ve done all we can do today. Thomas—” He took care to smile at his brother to disguise the fact that he was getting rid of him. “—I can’t thank you enough for all your hard work and loyal support—I don’t know what I’d have done without you. You’ll be back at nine tomorrow?”

“On the dot,” said Thomas, greatly pleased by these obligatory words of praise, and turned, beaming with good humor, to me. “Can I give you a lift, Harry?”

I declined, saying I fancied some exercise after sitting down all day, and he departed. As the front door closed, my father and I eyed each other in exhaustion.

“My God, Father,” I said at last when I could dredge up the energy to speak, “are you sure you know what you’re doing, giving that bastard free rein at Oxmoon?”

“Come into the drawing room, Harry,” said my father. “I want to talk to you.”

IV

“What I can’t understand,” mused my father as we lit cigarettes, “is why you and Kester both seem to regard Thomas as a modern Frankenstein. It’s extraordinary. I realize, of course, that Thomas can be difficult and that his bombastic manners aren’t to everyone’s taste, but if you look beyond his idiosyncrasies you must surely see he’s a thoroughly good chap.”

“I concede he’s good at his job.”

“It’s not just that. He’s honest, trustworthy, loyal—and he leads, when all’s said and done, a very decent sort of life. Oh, I know he drinks a bit but he has it in control and God knows I don’t expect everyone to be perfect. He’s happily married—Eleanor thinks the world of him—and he’s really the most devoted father to little Bobby—”

“He’s always on his best behavior for you, Father.” My God, aren’t we all.

“Well, I daresay, but if he shows me his good side at least that proves there’s a good side to show. I can’t understand the problem here. Dislike—yes. I could understand it if you and Kester merely disliked Thomas and found him boorish. But this rabid irrational hatred—”

“I don’t hate Thomas, Father. He’s just someone I’d be happy never to see again.”

My father, who had never quite lost his sense of humor despite the years with Constance, gave an exasperated laugh and moved away down the room in search of an ashtray. I waited for him to sit down but he didn’t. He seemed restless, troubled. God knows he had plenty to be troubled about but instinct, finely honed by my past experience, whispered that he was at present disturbed not by Kester but by me.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Father?” I said, nervous enough to take the bull by the horns. As always when I scented a confrontation with him, the dread was sinking like lead to the pit of my stomach.

My father took his time in replying but at last he looked me straight in the eyes and said flatly, “I’m disturbed by your apparent dislike of the idea that Thomas should be given a free rein at Oxmoon. I hope you’re not implying that you should be appointed in his place.”

“Me!
Me?
My dear Father—”

“No, don’t bother to remind me you haven’t the experience to run Oxmoon. A young man with your brains and ambition would find it all too easy to learn.”

“I … Father, I think I must be imagining this conversation. Do you seriously think I’m dreaming of some fantastic
coup d’etat
?”

“God knows what you’re dreaming of, Harry, but let me make it clear once and for all that I don’t want you involving yourself in Oxmoon’s affairs. I’m grateful to you for helping out today, but I don’t want this to set any kind of precedent.”

“But Father, I assure you I have absolutely no intention of—”

“Just get this into your head, Harry: Kester will never, never give this place up. And if you continue to regard Penhale Manor as a stepping-stone to Oxmoon you’ll be making a very big mistake.”

“I regard the Manor as my home,” I said. “
My home
!” Steady on, Harry. Voice level. Upper lip ramrod-straight. Kester’s the only one in this family who’s allowed to shout in a shaking voice. “I’m sorry, Father, but you’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick here—”

“I’ve come to the conclusion I’d be happier if you left Gower now, Harry, instead of waiting for the expiration of your lease on the Manor. You’ve had your basic training in estate management and now I’d like to put you in charge of your mother’s lands in Herefordshire—it would be best not only for you but for Kester. You give that boy what Constance would be pleased to call an inferiority complex. How do you think he’ll feel now if you continue to flourish—as you inevitably will—on his doorstep? Can’t you see it’ll only add to his current humiliation?”

“But damn it, Father, why
should
I be dispossessed just because bloody Kester can’t stand the sight of me flourishing at his gates? It’s bloody well not fair!”

“I assure you I have only your welfare in mind—”

“All right, turn me out, go on, turn me out, I know damn well I’m only living there on your charity! Just you go ahead and deprive me of my home all over again and wreck my happiness a second time!”

There was a deep painful silence. I was appalled, and not only by what I’d said; I was stricken by the expression on his face. We stood there in that beautiful room but for a moment it was as if we were both standing in hell.

“Father—oh God, forgive me, I didn’t mean it—”

“Harry, if you only knew what I’ve gone through in order to ensure your happiness—”

“I do know, I do—oh, Christ—”

“Believe me, all I want is for you to be happy—”

“Then let me stay at the Manor. Please, Father, please let me stay.”

“But I’m just so afraid that it’ll lead to a disastrous situation—”

“All I want is to live there peacefully without causing trouble. I’ve no sinister motive, I swear I haven’t. Let Kester keep bloody Oxmoon. I don’t care.”

There was another silence. My father stubbed out his cigarette. His face was in shadow.

When I could bear the silence no longer I blurted out, “You’re angry, because I’m defying you—not doing the done thing—”

“Angry but not surprised,” said my father. “After all, I’m well accustomed, aren’t I, to your failures in that direction. Very well—stay at the Manor. But if ever I hear you’re not making every effort to get on with Kester, I’m terminating your lease. Remember that.” And bidding me a curt good night he walked out of the room and left me damned nearly obliterated by the weight of my guilt and my shame.

2

I

I
WALKED BACK TO
Penhale Manor through the country night. At first the lane was bounded by dry-stone walls, but later the hedges began, hawthorn and beech mingling with blackberry, elderberry and honeysuckle. In the fields yellow wild irises were still blooming amidst the buttercups. The occasional tree was bent sideways like the hedgerows, sculpted by the prevailing sea wind, but there was no wind that night, only a stillness broken periodically by a hooting owl. The sky was a mass of stars.

I loved the country. As far as I was concerned London’s only redeeming feature was the Queen’s Hall.

But I loved music even more than I loved the country. I had no formal musical training but I loved music better than anything else on earth.

God, or what passed for him, had like an erratic tennis player lobbed me into this incredible family who thought famous sobriquets like
The Eroica
or
The Pastoral
referred to tours of the Bavarian Alps. How had my mother stood it? A glance at the titles in her collection of sheet music had told me that she had had a talent which had apparently brought even the most difficult pieces within her range. I knew they were difficult because when I tried to play by ear the ones I had heard on the wireless, I found myself improvising all the time, making up the notes which I couldn’t hear clearly in my mind.

What could it have been like for my mother to be married to a man whose one supreme musical achievement lay in recognizing “The Blue Danube”? Well, I knew what it was like. Bella’s musical limit was Jack Buchanan. Obviously one can still live happily ever after even if one’s spouse doesn’t share one’s most important interest, but nevertheless I wondered what my parents had found to talk about. Maybe they had talked very happily without saying anything. I knew all about those conversations with my father when words were dutifully and affectionately batted back and forth but no communication whatsoever took place.

“Of course I don’t want piano lessons, Papa. I wouldn’t be so sissyish.”

“I’m glad you’re being so sensible, old chap.”

“But … if I had lessons at school I’d have access to a piano there. Of course I’d rather be playing cricket, but—”

“Yes, I’m delighted by your progress at cricket! Nothing could please me more!”

And so on and so on. My father listened to me but he couldn’t hear what I was saying. Would my mother have heard? Perhaps, but perhaps not. We tend to idealize the dead. But at least my mother would have understood how much I longed to play the piano.

I could not quite remember her. I could see a dark graceful figure seated at the piano in the drawing room but I couldn’t see her face; I could only hear the Chopin polonaise that she was playing. But so absolutely did I connect her with music that when my father told me we were going back to Penhale Manor after three years in London I had said at once, “Is there still a piano in the drawing room?” Of course I’d known there was; we stayed at the Manor every time we returned to Gower to visit my grandfather, but what I had really meant was “Is Mama there? Has she come back?” I had been two when she died, and although my sister had said no one who died ever came back I had not entirely believed her. Even when I was five the disbelief had lingered, and I had returned to the Manor convinced I was going to find my mother again.

And so I had, in a way.

I so clearly remember going back. My father, who had just left Constance, looked wrecked. My sister Marian, puffy-eyed with weeping after being severed from Aunt Daphne, Elizabeth, Nanny and the governess, was at her most obnoxious. I didn’t know what was happening but whatever it was I wanted it to stop—I remember misbehaving in protest until my father lost his temper with me. After that I cried, which was just about the most debasing thing I could do, and sucked my thumb, a gesture that was even beyond debasement. My father looked so miserable that I was scared to death. Marian whined on. What a journey. My father must have thought it would never end.

But it did end. The car drew up outside Penhale Manor, the front door opened and a magic lady came out.

I knew straightaway she was magic. She was slim and pale and had fiery hair that floated over her shoulders, and green eyes which read thoughts before they could be spoken. She said, “Harry, how lovely to see you again!” and when I heard that word “again” I knew I had always known her; I knew she was my mother, looking different from the photographs but still my mother, and after that I no longer minded losing Nanny and leaving Aunt Daphne. In the end even Marian was appeased. Marian had developed a morbid cult of mother worship, but gradually all the photographs but one were put away and Marian said, “Mama liked Bronwen. I can remember.”

Penhale Manor began to shimmer with happiness. Bronwen, as Kester once put it, waved her magic wand and suddenly my father, who had always been so serious, was laughing and joking, a different man altogether. After living a dreary well-regulated existence with Nanny and Constance I suddenly found myself tossed into a joyous family life. Bronwen had three children of her own. Marian giggled with Rhiannon. Dafydd and I went on expeditions together. Only the baby was left out, but as he grew up I appointed him my serf. He passed me my tools as I serviced my bike. He assisted in my test-tube experiments in the potting shed. He scoured the grounds for the best conkers for me every autumn. He even braved the hostility of the village shop to spend his pocket money on a birthday present for me. I remembered to pat his head occasionally to let him know what a nice little serf he was. It was a good life.