The Wheel of Fortune (189 page)

Even the kitchens had been transformed. The main kitchen had been restored to its original Georgian design, but the scullery, the stillroom, the laundry rooms, the larders and the pantries had been converted into a restaurant and shop. An army of cleaning ladies was cleaning up after the builders. Mops, pails and scrubbing brushes seemed to be ceaselessly on the move.

“The exterminator’s paid his last call,” said the land agent of the Trust. “All the rats have gone.” And his colleague said, “We’re almost home.”

I drove straight to my father’s house in Swansea.

“If you’d only come and see it, Father—you’ve never seen anything like it—you couldn’t imagine such a resurrection!”

“I can’t travel. I can’t go out.”

“But you must! Please! Be with me on the day of the opening!”

“I can’t.”

“Be patient, Hal,” said Pam afterwards in private. “You’re only upsetting him by haranguing him like this.”

“But how can he refuse to be there at the opening? I know the Trust owns the place now but he’s still the master of the house!”

“No, Hal. He was never the real master, was he? Kester passed it on to you, and this triumph is yours and yours alone.”

VII

And so the great day dawned and
everyone
came to Oxmoon—or so it seemed—all Wales, all England, all the world made the pilgrimage from Swansea into Gower to that “little house on the road to nowhere.” The celebrities came from London with the BBC and ITV news crews; the journalists and photographers swarmed at my heels; the tourists, the sight-seers and the well-wishers streamed through the gates and among them were the members of my family, all of them except Geoffrey whom I’d ordered to stay away. My aunt Francesca came from Boston, my unknown cousin Erika emerged from Germany, Sian came with her viscount from a holiday at Juan-les-Pins, Aunt Marian breezed along saying everything was too divine, Richard arrived in a psychedelic helicopter with a crowd of Beautiful People, Gerry came with his latest sexy mistress, Lance turned up with his wife and two little girls, Evan appeared in his clerical collar and my three brothers, trying not to look jealous, all presented themselves to me to pay their respects.

Haunted by the memory of Pam’s story of sibling rivalry I made a great effort to be friendly. Charles talked rubbish about Kester’s collection but I made no attempt to contradict him; Jack made idiotic remarks about the media coverage but I merely smiled kindly; Humphrey said with deceptive cheerfulness: “I suppose you must feel as if you’re God, old chap—issued any trendy commandments lately?” but I reminded myself he was probably aggrieved that he had been usurped as The Favorite. I shook his hand and patted him on the back and told him how glad I was to see him, but although he returned my smile I could tell he was skeptical. My brothers were going to demand hard work on my part in the future, but I refused to regard our relationship with pessimism. If I could conquer America I could conquer my siblings; all that the conquest required was the right attitude of mind.

At that moment I was diverted from my family, for Royalty had come to Oxmoon to declare the house open to the public. Royalty was very gracious, saying all the right things, but I think Royalty was genuinely impressed by Oxmoon, so many centuries of Anglo-Welsh history encapsulated in that little house on the road to nowhere.

“… and so,” said Royalty at last, addressing the television cameras, the celebrities, the Beautiful People, the sight-seers, the tourists, the natives of Gower and all the other people within range of his microphone, “it gives me the greatest pleasure …”

Oxmoon was declared open.

Royalty shook my hand and said, “Well done!”

My loyal friends at the National Trust followed suit, and after them came the rest of the world, shaking my hand until it was swollen at the joints.

“So what are you going to do now, Hal?” shouted NBC-TV’s news correspondent, thrusting a microphone under my nose.

“Get married and live happily ever after.”

Everyone cheered.

“And after that?”

“I’m going to write a rock opera called
The Saving of Oxmoon,”
I said to shut them up, but for the first time I wondered if I might go into the Church.

VIII

Oxmoon was opened on a Saturday, and to allow both Caitlin and me time to recover the wedding had been arranged for the following weekend. The day after the opening we went to church and lunched at the farm with a crowd of Llewellyns, but eventually, longing for seclusion and impatient with the never-ending questions about our wedding plans, we withdrew to my father’s house in Swansea.

“How are you, Hal?” said Pam who now lived in terror that I might crash into depression after the all-time emotional high of seeing my dream come true, but before I could reassure her my father came out of the living room with the. Sunday paper in his hands.

“Have you seen the pictures of Oxmoon?”

“Uh-huh.” I’d decided to be reticent on the subject in his presence so a neutral comment was all I was prepared to offer in response to his question.

But Caitlin said to him, “It’s such a very lovely place—and so quiet and peaceful once the crowds have gone.”

“It looks well,” said my father. “Kester would have been pleased.” He disappeared again into the living room.

We all looked at one another. Pam whispered to me: “Don’t press him. Let him work his way round the problem by himself.”

“Are you saying he might—”

“Why are you all whispering in the hall?” shouted my father furiously.

“We’re not sure how far you want to discuss Oxmoon, darling,” said Pam, leading the way into the living room. “It’s perfectly natural that Hal should want to know.”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Okay.” Pam turned back to us. “Do you two want to stay for supper? I’ve got a large shepherd’s pie I can heat up.”

Before we could reply my father said, “When does Oxmoon close its gates to the public?”

“Six.”

We all looked at the clock above the fireplace. The time was quarter to seven.

“I’m not hungry,” said my father.

“Never mind,” said Pam. “The pie will keep. We don’t have to eat it now.”

“Are you two hungry?” said my father.

Caitlin and I denied hunger.

My father turned to Pam. “I want to get dressed. I’m tired of this bloody dressing gown.”

“Fine,” said Pam. “I’ll find a clean shirt for you.”

They disappeared. We sat down and waited. He took a long time to dress and when he came back we saw why. He was wearing his best suit, which smelled faintly of mothballs. A venerable silk tie glowed in faded splendor against his snow-white shirt. Pam had polished his shoes. He had trimmed his beard. He looked neat, ordered—but not composed. He was in such a state that I saw at once that speech was beyond him.

“You go on ahead of us,” said Pam to me. “Your father’s taken some medication and it needs time to work.”

I drove Caitlin back to Oxmoon and while we waited I began to pray.

IX

So in the end we all came home to Oxmoon, resurrected Oxmoon, which belonged now to neither Kester nor my father nor me but to everyone who chose to turn to the symbol which the National Trust had intervened to preserve. The Sunday crowds had long since departed by the time Caitlin and I reached the stable yard, and after a word with the caretaker we savored the pleasure of having the place to ourselves.

Oxmoon basked in the summer-evening light, ravishing Oxmoon, still a fairy tale and perhaps in the late twentieth century more of a fairy tale than even Kester in his most romantic dreams could have imagined. Caitlin and I sat down to wait on the front steps and eventually Pam’s mini brought my father home.

His pallor had a grayish tinge but he was better as soon as he stepped indoors. He sat down for a moment to recover from the ordeal of the journey and as we allowed him the time he needed Pam and I chatted idly about the attendance figures.

Finally he said, “I’m ready now. Let’s have the guided tour,” so I took him through the main rooms slowly while Pam and Caitlin followed at a distance. I noticed that Pam always made the right casual comment whenever the silence threatened to become too deep.

“Very nice,” said my father awkwardly at last, but he managed to add in a more natural tone of voice: “Not what I expected.”

I was surprised. “What did you expect?”

“Kester’s 1939 renovations. But the Trust have gone beyond that, haven’t they? Much of this is new.”

“It’s new yet it’s old. Robert Godwin the Renovator would have recognized this as his Oxmoon.”

“That’s right. Eighteenth-century Robert Godwin. No one we ever knew. All quite past.”

“And all quite present.”

“It’s like a miracle,” said my father as we recrossed the hall on our way to the ballroom. “No, I’m sorry—what a stupid thing to say. It’s not like a miracle, it
is
a miracle.”

I opened the double doors into the ballroom and saw myself in the long mirrors, a tall lean figure in my jeans and my
OXMOON LIVES!
T-shirt, a man of the Nineteen Seventies, an anachronism in that room which was so very symbolic of the past. But my father in his formal dark suit looked less out of place. He stood silent, spellbound, gazing up at the chandeliers.

Pam tapped in, smart and conventional in her blue linen suit. Caitlin followed, less precise in her movements, dreamier. She was wearing flower-patterned slacks and a white blouse.

“They’ve been clever with this room, haven’t they?” said Pam. “They haven’t meddled too much. My God, look at those chandeliers! I wonder how long it took to clean them?”

My father’s eyes shone with tears. He was beyond speech again; but as I watched he drifted like a man in a dream towards the piano at the end of the room.

Pam opened her mouth to make another of her casual remarks but nothing happened. It was the first time I had ever seen her at a loss for words. She seemed to be holding her breath as she watched my father, and as Caitlin halted at my side I knew we were both holding our breath too.

My father sat down at the piano, opened the lid and stared at the keys. Pam at once moved to the side of the room and pretended to examine one of the curtains, but Caitlin and I remained transfixed in the middle of the floor.

My father said suddenly: “I can hear.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can hear!” he called dazed. “I can hear all the notes again, every one of them. …” And he raised his shaking hands above the keyboard.

Pam was still unable to speak but I said laughing to Caitlin, “Shall we dance?” and Caitlin, her eyes shining, said, “Why not!”

The piano began to play but in my mind I heard the violins of the nineteenth century and saw the final gap closing in the great circle of time. Caitlin’s hand touched my shoulder, my arm slipped around her waist and then we danced at last beneath the chandeliers at Oxmoon as the orchestra played “The Blue Danube.”

Author’s Note

T
HE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
is a re-creation in a modern dimension of a true story in which the following people played leading parts:

EDWARD OF WOODSTOCK
(1330-1376), known to history as The Black Prince; His wife and cousin,
JOAN OF KENT
, whom he called Jeanette;

His brother
JOHN OF GAUNT
;

His younger son,
RICHARD OF BORDEAUX
, later King Richard II;

John of Gaunt’s legitimate son
HENRY OF BOLINGBROKE
. later King Henry IV, and

Henry of Bolingbroke’s eldest son, later
KING HENRY V
, who restored England to her former military glory and completed the full circle of the Plantagenet family’s wheel of fortune.

While paying tribute to the National Trust, which saved the Yorkes’ home of Erddig in North Wales during the 1970s, I should nevertheless make it clear that Oxmoon is not Erddig—or indeed any other house in the British Isles. The Gower Peninsula does exist in South Wales beyond Swansea and any visitor can cross the Shipway to the Worm’s Head, but there is no parish of Penhale and no Oxmoon in the valley between Cefh Bryn, Harding’s Down and Rhossili Bay.

A Biography of Susan Howatch

Susan Howatch is a bestselling British novelist who has published twenty books ranging from murder mysteries to family sagas. Her work deals with complex relationships in a range of settings and explores themes revolving around sex, power, ambition, forgiveness, redemption, and love.

Howatch was born in a small town in Surrey, England, on July 14, 1940. Her father was a stockbroker who was killed in World War II. She grew up an only child in an era of post-war austerity, but had a happy childhood, particularly enjoying her time at Sutton High School in the London suburbs. In 1961, she obtained a law degree from King’s College London, then a part of London University, but dropped out of a law career in order to write. She had started writing novels when she was twelve and had been submitting manuscripts since the age of seventeen.

Eventually Howatch despaired of being published in England, and in 1963 she emigrated to New York, where—almost at once—her novel
The Dark Shore
was accepted for publication. In 1964, she met and married Joseph Howatch, an American artist and writer. (He passed away in 2011.) They had one daughter, Antonia, who was born in 1970.

The Dark Shore
was followed by five other short novels, which, with one exception, were all twentieth-century whodunits or suspense stories. Then, in 1971, Howatch published
Pennmaric
, a family saga that became her first international bestseller. Using multiple narrators, Howatch follows the fortunes of the Castallack family from 1890 to 1945 and shows what happens when a grand passion leads to dire results for all concerned. This novel was based on the true story of the early Plantagenet kings of England, a story that Howatch updates to modern times.

She took another Plantagenet slice of history for her second family saga,
Cashelmara
(updated to the mid-nineteenth century). This novel was followed by
The Wheel of Fortune,
based on the last Plantagenets and updated to the twentieth century. However, although the Plantagenet history concerns only one family, the three novels are not interrelated and describe different families in different settings and eras.