The Wheel of Fortune (93 page)

“Oh my dear, no—no, no and again no! I’ve had marriage, thanks very much, absolutely
had
it.”

“I thought perhaps—”

“Yes, I daresay you did, but there’s going to be no third marriage. Twice was quite sufficient.”

“But …” Uncle John seemed to find this baffling. I couldn’t think why. It seemed eminently sensible to me and I was delighted.

The last thing I wanted was a stepfather; it was bad enough trying to survive a bossy uncle. “You mean to go on as you are?” he said confused at last.

“Why not? The present situation suits me very well—although I must say, I do wonder if it’ll remain unaltered now Robert’s dead. It’s as if the journey’s over and one must inevitably drift apart from some if not all of one’s traveling companions.”

“If things do change, might you return to London?”

“Perhaps, but I’m not going to do anything in a rush. I’ve spent quite enough of my life jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, and now I intend to stay where I am until Robert’s been dead a year.”

“That seems sensible, I agree, but all the same … how very unorthodox you are, Ginevra!”

“That makes two of us, doesn’t it, darling? But where we differ is that when I practice my unorthodoxy Kester knows nothing about it—and neither does anyone else.”

Uncle John left soon after this, and as soon as his new Rover had roared off down the drive I rushed back to the drawing room.

“You were marvelous, Mum!” I said hugging her. “As good as Boadicea!”

“Naughty little boy, I hope you didn’t leave the chocolate box among the lavender bushes—oh yes, you did! Go and fetch it at once before I spank you. How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?” said my mother, but she was smiling at me indulgently, and after I had retrieved the chocolate box I rushed upstairs to the schoolroom and tried to look up
UNAUTHORDOCKS
in the dictionary.

IV

“Unorthodox, old chap,” said Cousin Harry some time later, “means not doing the done thing. You’re unorthodox, not going to school. Honestly, how feeble! No wonder your father’s dead—I bet he died of shame!”

This time I was the one who started the fight but before I had the chance to relieve my feelings Bronwen entered the nursery with Gerry, blue-eyed and chubby, in her arms. As Harry and I at once recoiled from each other Bronwen said simply, “Fighting’s wrong.” She made it sound so obvious that I had an absurd urge to kick myself for not having come to this, conclusion before. “Evan!” she called over her shoulder. “Kester’s arrived for tea!

Harry, just hold the high chair steady for me, would you, please—I need both hands to carry the baby at the moment because I mustn’t strain myself.”

That was when I noticed Bronwen was changing her shape again. I had not seen her for some time, because my mother and I had been visiting Aunt Daphne in Scotland.

“Are you having another baby, Bronwen?” I said with interest, just to make sure.

“Yes,” she said with a brief smile, and busied herself with tucking Gerry into his high chair.

My visit to the Manor progressed in predictable fashion until six o’clock when my mother arrived to collect me. Uncle John was at a board meeting in Swansea. Dafydd, who spent most of his time nowadays with cousins in Cardiff, was absent but Rhiannon appeared from the Home Farm, where she lived with her aunt, and stayed to tea. Ghastly Cousin Marian flounced around saying how bored she was and how divine it would be to return to school next week. Harry withdrew to his room to conduct a tadpole experiment. I played with Gerry—an exhausting occupation since he had reached the age when he wanted to destroy everything in sight—but eventually settled down to a more peaceful task, helping Evan to paint pictures. After tea we designed a landscape showing a gorgeous crimson sun setting over Rhossili Bay, while on the far side of the room Marian, Harry and Rhiannon played Monopoly to the accompaniment of remarks like “You cheat!” “I’m not cheating!” “You pig!” “That’s mine!” “Oh no it isn’t!” and “Oh yes it is!” I have always loathed Monopoly and consider it quite one of the most pointless games ever invented.

As the cuckoo clock in the nursery whooped six my mother streamed into the room. “Hullo, pet,” she said to me. “Hullo, everyone. Evan, what a lovely picture! Oh, isn’t that clever of Evan, Bronwen! Bronwen … are you all right?”

Bronwen said in a muffled voice that she was.

“Come and sit down—no, not in here—God, what a noise all these children make! Let’s go into the night nursery for a moment.”

“Paint another flower just here, Evan,” I suggested casually, pointing to a blank spot on our masterpiece, and drifted to the playpen to retrieve a brick which Gerry had just thrown beyond the bars. As I stooped to pick it up I found the hinges of the open night-nursery door were a foot from my left ear.

“When is it due?”

“February.”

“Is
…
is it perhaps not quite what you want?”

“It’s not what Johnny wants.” A stifled sob. “It was an accident.”

Gerry roared for his brick but I ignored him. The hinges of the door were too alluring.

“And you?” my mother was saying.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Oh, if only Constance could see what she’s doing to us—”

“If this were a detective story,” said my mother, “somebody would murder that woman.”

But nobody did murder Aunt Constance, and nobody was able to change her mind either on the subject of divorce. Bronwen gave birth to her third illegitimate son early in February, but I barely noticed because at that moment, even before all the gossiping tongues could sink into an exhausted silence, the great miracle happened, my grandfather dropped dead and at nine years old I became master of Oxmoon.

2

I

T
O SAY THAT MY GRANDFATHER
dropped dead is perhaps a slight exaggeration, as he did live for several hours after the stroke, but the hours were passed in a coma and he never regained consciousness.

“What a merciful release!” said my mother to Uncle John when he brought the news, and added: “Too bad it didn’t happen immediately after Margaret died.”

My mother’s experiences had left her outspoken on the subject of death. “Death’s all right,” she said with shattering directness to my uncle. “It’s dying that’s the nightmare. When I pop off I hope to God it’s quick. Keel over—bang—out. That’s what I want. No fuss, no mess and lashings of pink gin for everyone after the funeral. You will remember that, won’t you, Johnny darling? As I’m twelve years older than you I’ll probably pop off first.”

But my uncle looked as if he thought these remarks were in bad taste and said stuffily that she should put her wishes concerning her funeral in writing and attach the document to her will so that there would be no risk of a misunderstanding among her heirs.

The gossips declared that Mrs. Straker had stolen even the ring off my grandfather’s finger as he lay dying, but everyone hated her so much that people would willingly have believed a story that she grew horns and vanished in a puff of smoke. It was true that the Godwin family signet ring was missing, but poor old Grandfather was so dotty that he could easily have thrown it away in a fit of absentmindedness. The stroke overtook him when he was in bed, a fact which both my mother and Uncle John thought implied the presence of Mrs. Straker, but although my mother was convinced Mrs. Straker had stolen the ring Uncle John believed in her innocence.

“That woman could twist any man around her little finger,” said my mother darkly, a remark that conjured up the most extraordinary pictures in my nine-year-old mind, but Uncle John said, “At least she left him tidy and dignified and removed any humiliating evidence.”

“You mean she delayed calling Gavin, packed her bags and skipped off at first light! I think it’s absolutely disgusting that she walked out immediately like that …”

As they argued irrelevantly about Mrs. Straker I edged closer and closer to my mother until finally I could tug at her sleeve.

“… so my dear, you’ll simply have to give him a lavish funeral, no choice. … Yes, what is it, Kester?”

“Am I … now that Grandfather’s dead …”

“That’s right, pet, we’ll go and live at Oxmoon now. Johnny, there’s absolutely no need to have a ghastly formal lunch afterwards—throw open the ballroom for a champagne reception and even Aunt Ethel will be lost in the stampede!”

Uncle John groaned at the thought of Aunt Ethel, who was a family legend and synonymous with complete awfulness. She was my grandmother’s sister, and I had long pictured her as a snake-headed Medusa who lived in a pottery kiln in Staffordshire. She was fond of my Uncle Thomas (by far the most awful member of the Godwin family) and sent him a pair of hand-knitted socks every Christmas.

“… and anyway,” my mother was saying, “with any luck the Staffordshire crowd will refuse the invitation. Yes, what
is
it, Kester? Don’t tug at my sleeve like that!”

“Am I very rich now?”

“No. You’ll go on having your sixpence-a-week pocket money and that’ll be that. How’s the mortgage, Johnny?”

“Not so bad. We’ll have the estate back in good order by the time Kester’s eighteen.”

“What happens when I’m eighteen?” I said.

“That’s when you come into your inheritance,” said Uncle John. “Your grandfather became legally responsible for Oxmoon when he was eighteen, even though he didn’t gain control of it till he was twenty. He always treated eighteen, not twenty-one, as the time we all came of age.”

“But do you mean Oxmoon won’t really be mine for another nine whole years?”

“Of course it’ll be yours, silly-billy,” said my mother exasperated, “but you’ll have to have people looking after it for you while you’re growing up. What did you think was going to happen? Did you see yourself sitting on a throne in the hall and issuing orders to your servants?”

This was in fact exactly what I had visualized. I tried not to look mortified. As usual, reality was proving a very poor second to my fantasies.

“You and I are the trustees, aren’t we, Johnny? Thank God Bobby didn’t include Thomas—my nerves wouldn’t have stood it. … No, Kester, I’m not answering any more questions—run off and ask Nanny to take you for a walk.”

I retired in great humiliation. The master of Oxmoon was to ask his nanny to take him for a walk! And no increase in pocket money! As I went for a walk by myself, trudging drearily through the March drizzle, I saw all my dreams of grandeur dissolve one by one. I wouldn’t have the leading role among the mourners at the funeral. I wouldn’t have Uncle Thomas fawning at my feet in the dining room, and as there was to be no formal lunch I would have no chance to sit in my grandfather’s great carved chair at the head of the table. Instead I would be wholly overlooked during the reception in the ballroom, trampled underfoot and suffocated by the reek of pink gin. Tears came to my eyes. I cried.

My mother, seeing me return red-eyed from my walk, became crosser than ever. “
Now
what’s the matter, for goodness’ sake! I thought Grandfather meant no more to you than half a crown occasionally!”

“I feel sad for
me.
”

“You!
Good God, you’ve just inherited Oxmoon—you’re the luckiest little boy in all England and Wales! How dare you be sad! There’s your heroic Uncle John, keeping a stiff upper lip and being simply wonderful as usual, and here am I, grappling with all kinds of upsetting memories of poor Bobby but trying my best to be calm and sensible, and
you have the nerve to stand there and be sad
! Oh, I could slap you!”

It was an Anglo-Saxon tradition in our family that children below the age of puberty did not attend funerals, but as my grandfather’s heir I naturally had to be present, and as soon as he heard that I would be there Cousin Harry, not to be outdone, said he wanted to be there too.

“You’re just trying to impress your father,” I said scornfully on the day before the funeral.

“Not at all, old chap,” said urbane Cousin Harry. “I’m going because it’s the done thing. After all, I’m the eldest grandson, aren’t I? And,” said Cousin Harry very nastily, “I was the favorite grandson too.”

“A fat lot of good that’s done you!” I said wittily. “I’m the one who’s inherited Oxmoon!” And I skipped out of his way feeling in very high spirits indeed. In fact, soon my tears were quite forgotten because I heard that Uncle John had decided to give a formal luncheon after all; he had been helped to this decision by the news that dreaded Aunt Ethel and her cohorts had decided not to attend the funeral, and as soon as I heard that the reception in the ballroom had been cancelled, I began to dream urgently again of taking my seat in Grandfather’s great carved chair.

The family began to assemble at Oxmoon where Mrs. Wells, Uncle John’s housekeeper, had once again temporarily replaced the wicked Mrs. Straker. The first guests to arrive were Uncle Edmund and Aunt Teddy with their two little boys Richard and Geoffrey. Uncle Edmund was subdued, maundering on and on about how guilty he felt because he hadn’t visited his father more often, but Aunt Teddy did her best to cheer him up. Aunt Teddy was bright and bouncy, like a rubber ball, and looked as if she were constantly on the verge of dancing the Charleston. But I noticed she was very cool to Uncle John, never speaking to him if she could avoid it, and I remembered that she and Aunt Constance, who so badly needed to be murdered, were sisters.

My brother Rory, who was between jobs as usual, turned up in his red two-seater and surprised me by saying sentimentally what a wonderful man my grandfather had been. “Bobby was very good to Rory and Declan when they were boys,” my mother explained, seeing my astonished expression, and added with a sigh to Rory: “It’s sad Kester has no memory of Bobby as he used to be.” This struck me as an interesting remark, but before I could ponder on it further my Aunt Celia arrived from Heidelberg with her daughter Erika and I was faced with the ordeal of being sociable to an unknown cousin who spoke no English. Erika was eight, blond, blue-eyed and very, very fat. We gazed at each other in mutual horror before I escaped to my room to try on my new black suit.