The Wheel of Fortune (48 page)

He snatched the ring, shoved me aside and shook his mother by the shoulders. “You filthy, disgusting old woman, how dare you ask any son of mine to wear a ring which belonged to that thief, that blackguard,
that bloody villain Bryn-Davies
who ruined you and robbed me blind and soaked us all in evil—”

“I’ll take the child out, Bobby,” said my mother crisply. “This isn’t good for him.”

“Oh no!” shouted my father. “He stays where he is! He’s going to find out all about this vile old woman who’s singled him out for special attention!” And he began to talk in Welsh in graphic detail about how she had poisoned her husband in order to live a life of debauchery with her lover.

My grandmother went down on her knees and begged him to stop. He hit her and went on. Then she went down on her knees to my mother.

“Send Johnny away, Margaret—spare him—please—”

“No, it must be as my husband wishes,” said my mother without expression, and stood by unmoved as my father hit my grandmother again until she cowered sobbing at his feet.

“… and it was her wickedness which drove me to evil …” He never stopped talking, even when he was hitting her. He was talking all the time. “… and I killed Bryn-Davies, yes, I killed him—I trapped him and drowned him on the Shipway so that Oxmoon could be purged and we could all be saved—”

My grandmother saw my expression and could bear the torture no longer. She began to scream for mercy.

My mother stepped forward. “She’s hysterical, Bobby. You’ll have to hit her again.”

“I daren’t. I might kill her.”

The door opened. Celia was revealed on the threshold. “Mama, what on earth—”

“Celia, leave us at once and keep the little ones out of the way. Very well, Bobby, I’ll deal with this.”

My mother walked up to my grandmother and slapped her firmly twice, once on each cheek. That ended the hysterics, but not the scene. My father, sweat streaming down his face, then took advantage of the silence to shake me as if I were a bunch of rags and shout, “Look at her! Go on, look at her! She picked you out because she thinks you’re like her, but if ever you’re tempted to depravity just you remember this vile filthy old woman, utterly ruined, hated by those she loves, damned through all eternity—yes, just you remember her and never forget—
never forget for one moment
—that insanity and ruin lie waiting for those who fail to draw the line!”

He released me. My mother said to him, “Lock her up in one of the attics. She’s not fit to dine. She’ll have to go back to the asylum this afternoon.”

My grandmother whimpered but was too terrified to speak. “If you behave now,” said my mother to her, “we might let you come back next year. I’ll have to think about it. But if you do come back, you are never, never,
never
to address another word to any of my children. You’re to keep silent and speak only when you’re spoken to. Very well, Bobby, take her away.”

My father removed the object. I could not think of her as a human being anymore. She had become evil personified, a threatening force which had to be perpetually kept at bay. Overpowered by fear I hid my face from her and hurtled blindly into my mother’s arms.

“There, there,” said my mother soothingly as I tried without success to cry. “You’re quite safe, Mama’s here and I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do in order to feel better. First of all, you’re never going to mention this scene to anyone—we’ll draw a line neatly underneath it and then it’ll belong to the past where it can no longer trouble us. Then afterwards you’re going to be a specially good boy so that your poor papa is never reminded of his mother’s wickedness.”

I finally managed to cry.

“There, there,” said my mother again. “Papa’s a good, brave, thoroughly decent man and you must never think otherwise. He was just driven to wickedness by that evil woman, but that’s all over now and I’m in control and there’s no more wickedness at Oxmoon, not anymore—because
here I have my standards,
” said my mother, uttering the magic incantation that warded off all evil, “
and here I draw the line
.”

My grandmother paid six more visits to Oxmoon before her death, but she never spoke to any of her grandchildren again. She was too frightened, and whenever I saw her I was frightened, too, terrified by the sinister possibilities of heredity. I had changed myself as far as possible, rejecting my Welshness, calling myself John and devoting myself to an austere life, but there remained the physical likeness which was beyond alteration, and so often when I saw my face in the looking glass I would fear there might be other inherited traits, now dormant, that might one day burgeon beyond control.

I was frightened of the uncontrollable. I was frightened of myself. As I passed from adolescence into adult life I realized that for my own peace of mind I had to keep my life in perfect order. Nothing, I told myself, must flaw the perfection and any drift towards chaos must be immediately checked. I knew I was jealous of Robert, but I saw how I could master that by pursuing a brilliant career in the one field in which I knew I could outshine him: modern languages. I knew I resented the fact that as a younger son I was unlikely to inherit my family home, but I resolved to do so well in life that I would wind up with a far finer home than Oxmoon—which, after all, was merely a pleasant Welsh country house of no great architectural merit. I knew I had to make some arrangement to neutralize the potential dangers of my sexuality, so I married young. I knew that in order to realize my ambition I had to surmount the handicap of being penniless, so I married money. I had overcome problem after problem, defused danger, after danger, and now here I was, twenty-nine years old, with a perfect wife, a perfect home, two perfect children and a perfect life as a gentleman farmer.

It had been difficult to leave the Foreign Office, even though I had hated working there. How could I continue to equal Robert, I had asked myself in despair, if I abandoned all thought of the diplomatic service? But then Robert, fortunately, had abandoned his own career and soon afterwards his illness had ended our competition forever. I no longer had to be jealous of Robert. I had been set free to love him as I should, and in the relief of this liberation I had found I was also set free to do as I wished with my life.

I knew then what my real ambition was. I wanted—in the most tactful sympathetic way imaginable—and of course for the best possible motives—to take Robert’s place. I knew my father had been greatly upset by Robert’s illness. He had been looking forward to the prospect of Robert following in his own footsteps in Gower, but now Robert was following in no one’s footsteps. Neither was Lion. Edmund was shell-shocked and ineffectual. Thomas was troublesome and appeared unintelligent. That left me, and I …

I was going to be the son my father had always wanted. No more coming second for me, not now. I was going to come first with my father at last; I was going to redeem myself wholly for my unfortunate resemblance to his mother, and we were all going to live happily ever after. I would be the prop of my father’s old age and a pillar of strength to Robert, and by being indispensable I would wipe out the guilty memory of how much I had resented my father for idolizing Robert and how jealous I had been of Robert for being idolized. No more resentment! No more jealousy! My life would be in perfect order at last, and I could relax in the knowledge that I was permanently safe from a moral catastrophe. It was the most attractive and alluring prospect.

I might even inherit Oxmoon in the end. If my father outlived Robert he would certainly turn to Robin, but supposing Robin were to turn out badly, as spoiled children so often do? Nobody took any notice of Kester, so I could discount him. As the next son in line I thought my prospects were promising, but I kept my imagination in tight control because it was safer to believe I would never have Oxmoon than to envisage some possibly chaotic future in which the title deeds fell into my lap.

Oxmoon was the joker in the Godwin family pack, and the joker was circulating as we all played our cards. So far it had not appeared in my hand but I sensed it was coming nearer, and meanwhile I was bunching my cards closer together to leave a gap where the joker could slip in.

Naturally I could not acknowledge my hopes in regard to Oxmoon. That would have been a breach of taste while Robert lived and quite definitely not the done thing at all. Nor could I actively pursue my ambition to be master of the estate. That would hardly have been the done thing either. But I saw no reason why I shouldn’t be a good son and a good brother and secretly hope a little. That appeared to be well within the bounds of civilized behavior, and it was of course unthinkable that I might ever step beyond those bounds. That way chaos lay.

I drew the line.

2

I

I
T TOOK ME SOME TIME
to recover my equilibrium after the disastrous scene with my parents in the billiard room at Oxmoon, but I concealed my distress from Blanche. I felt better after I had written my parents letters of apology. To my father I regretted behavior which he had justifiably regarded as lacking in filial respect, and to my mother I wrote that although I could not condone my father’s conduct, I was willing to keep up an appearance of amity by continuing to bring my family to Oxmoon on Sundays for tea.

My father wrote back by return of post:
My dear John, Least said soonest mended. I remain always your affectionate father,
R.G.

My mother did not reply.

That upset me. It made me remember that dislike in her eyes; it made me remember my grandmother saying how hard my mother was and how unforgiving. I had suffered many nightmares about my grandmother but the one that never failed to horrify me was the nightmare in which the traditional roles were reversed. Supposing my grandmother were the tragic heroine of the story and my parents were the villains of the piece? This was a horrific thought indeed. I could not endure to think that my grandmother had loved me but that I had repudiated her as a vile and loathsome object in order to please my parents. Neither could I bear to think that my parents were villains, unjustified in their cruelty to a pathetic old woman, because if this were the truth then their high standards were a mockery and chaos had remained unconquered. These ambiguities tormented me, and after my quarrel with my mother I found the torment deepening. I felt my mother had to approve of me in order to put the situation in order and be the mother I needed her to be. If she continued to dislike me I might feel driven to turn for consolation to the memory of my grandmother, who had loved me so much, and once I started to embrace this symbol of evil, God only knew what might happen.

When I next saw my mother after church the following Sunday I said, “I trust your failure to reply to my letter doesn’t mean we’re estranged,” but she merely replied, “If any estrangement exists, John, it’s entirely of your own creation,” and then my father joined us so that further opportunities for private conversation were curtailed.

I spent some time analyzing my mother’s reply but I could not make up my mind what to think of it, and finally I was in such confusion that I appealed to Robert for help. I found him unsympathetic about my continuing moral stand against Mrs. Straker but he was willing enough to help with my mother, and presently I received a note which ran:
Dearest John, Robert tells me you’re quite tormented by our little difference of opinion. I’m sorry. I would not wish any of my children to be tormented. Our best course would seem to be to consider the matter entirely closed, but I am sad to find you still so lacking in humanity in regard to your father’s predicament. Never doubt that I remain always your most devoted mother,
MARGARET GODWIN.

I disliked this note so intensely that I burned it on the spot. Then I began to feel angry, an unacceptable emotion for a devoted son to feel towards a devoted mother. I finally controlled myself to the point where I was able to behave in her presence as if nothing were wrong, but I felt I had suffered some profound injury. I longed to confide in someone, but Robert, echoing my mother’s sentiments with monotonous regularity, was clearly unsuitable, and naturally I would never have burdened Blanche with my complex resentment. In my misery it became more important to me than ever that no hint of trouble marred the perfection of my home, for at least when I was with my family I could pick up the script of my life, which I had worked out so painstakingly in my teens, and resume my familiar, comfortingly unflawed role of the perfect husband and father.

Fortunately several matters at this time conspired to divert my attention from my mother. The most obvious was the state of the nation, which was dire. We had survived the miners’ strike and the threat of a general strike, but as far as I could see revolution was only a stone’s throw away and the class war was about to begin. I had always leaned towards the conservative in politics. While wishing to alleviate the sufferings of the working classes I believed that the only way to keep Britain well ordered was for it to remain exactly as it was. God only knew what would happen if the Labour Party came to power but I had no doubt chaos would immediately ensue.

This air of political crisis was diverting enough but I was diverted still further by the problems of my new estate which I had acquired a year ago, soon after Robert and Ginevra had established their own home in Gower.

It was now the May of 1921, two years since Robert’s illness had been diagnosed and seventeen months since the Christmas of 1919, when he had awoken at Oxmoon to find his right leg was paralyzed. Before that the illness had been a secret between him and his wife; after that no concealment had been possible.

They had been making their plans for some time. My father had already given Robert Martinscombe, the sheep farm below Penhale Down, but the farmhouse was now let once more to a foreman, and a bungalow, specially designed for the future wheelchair, had been built a quarter of a mile away. As the result of Ginevra’s dubious taste, this most eccentric new home consisted of a single-story block sandwiched between two towers, and had been nicknamed “Little Oxmoon” by the baffled villagers of Penhale. Pursuing a course of unflagging diplomatic tact whenever my opinion was sought on the structure’s aesthetic qualities, I made every effort to ensure that Robert never guessed how sorry I was for him having to live there.