The Wheel of Fortune (94 page)

I half-wondered if Declan would come from Ireland, but he merely wrote a letter of sympathy to Uncle John and asked my mother to send a wreath in his name; however I read the letter. Uncle John showed it to my mother and left it carelessly on the hall table as he went off to drink pink gin with her, so it was easy for me to take a quick peep.
Dear Mr. Godwin,
I read.
Please allow me to express my sympathy to you in your bereavement. Your father was a fine man and treated my brother and myself with a kindness and generosity which perhaps we took too much for granted during those happy days we spent at Oxmoon long ago. My wife and
I
send our good wishes to you and your family. Yours sincerely,
DECLAN KINSELLA.

What surprised me about this letter was its Englishness. My picture of Declan as an illiterate Irish barbarian underwent a significant revision.

The day of the funeral dawned and in great excitement I dressed in my new suit. “I think I look well in black,” I said to Nanny, “but I wish I could have long trousers.”

“Not before you’re twelve,” said Nanny. “Only common boys wear long trousers before they’re twelve.”

I wondered who had invented that rule. Who in fact
had
invented all these rules which set out the differences between doing the done thing and behaving like a savage? It was all most mysterious, but as I prepared for the funeral that morning I knew very well that I was approaching an occasion on which the need to do the done thing was absolutely paramount. Proper behavior at a funeral could mean the difference between universal approval and eternal damnation by the People Who Mattered (Uncle John). Clutching my prayer book, I thought what a good thing it was that Grandfather had meant so little to me; thanks to my emotional apathy I felt sure I could be a perfect Godwin, sustaining a stiff upper lip for the duration of the funeral.

But at the church I remembered my mother’s remark “It’s sad Kester has no memory of Bobby as he used to be,” and then in my mind I heard her say, “I do wish you could remember Daddy before he became ill,” and suddenly I felt not only bereaved but deprived twice over, shortchanged by a fate which had cut me off from the two men in my life who should have been of such importance to me. Tears filled my eyes. I bit my lip, but it trembled inexorably. Panic filled me. I snuffled, choked, sniveled in my pew.

Nudging me sharply, my mother hissed, “Stop it!” but that only made me worse. Luckily we were in the front pew so nobody could turn around to observe my humiliation, and certainly no one behind us could see I was awash with tears, but I shuddered at the thought of Uncle John, who was standing next to me. As my mother furiously thrust her black lace handkerchief into my hands I prayed for him not to look aside from his hymnbook, and in praying I diverted myself so successfully that I forgot all about poor little me, shortchanged by fate. My tears stopped but then—horror of horrors—we all withdrew to the churchyard, and when I saw the open grave, the silent crowds and the clergyman looking like death personified, I was struck by the inescapable reality of my grandfather’s nonexistence. I felt that everyone was looking at me. Terrified of breaking down I tried to hide behind my mother’s ample black coat.

“Kester! Don’t be such a little ninny!” My mother was furious again. “Stand up straight this instant!”

The earth looked dark and wet. The sky was gray, the wind was cold and I thought how awful it was that we should all have this hideous fate awaiting us in the future. Tears streamed down my face as I dwelled on the tragic destiny of mankind.

“God, look at that little pansy!” muttered bestial Uncle Thomas.

“Shut up, you brute!” snapped my mother at him.

“Ginevra—Thomas …” It was Uncle John. He was stooping over me, but although I braced myself for his anger it did not come. His arm slipped around me. His voice was quiet and infinitely kind. “Kester, don’t think of your grandfather. Think of Oxmoon and show all these people here that you’re a young man to be reckoned with.”

I gulped, gripped his hand tightly and dashed away my shameful tears as I thought of Oxmoon and my new eminence. But then …

“Ashes to ashes … dust to dust …”

Tears streamed down my face again. It seemed so terrible that anyone, even dotty old Grandfather, should be reduced to dust and ashes, and suddenly I thought, Poor Grandfather; how beastly I’ve been! And I was deeply ashamed. After all Grandfather had left me Oxmoon, a magnificent gesture which must surely have meant that he cared about me in some vague peculiar way, but what had I ever done when he was alive to express my gratitude? Grumbled that he gave me only half a crown occasionally! Wailed that I didn’t want to be bothered to go and see him! How loathsome I was! Hating myself, I wept in utter desolation.

My mother then administered the
coup de grâce.
Bending over me she whispered savagely, “Look at Harry! And pull yourself together at once!”

I looked at perfect Cousin Harry, tearless at his father’s side. He looked back pityingly and lowered his bone-dry lashes over his velvet-brown eyes in an expression of utter contempt.

I stopped loathing myself and loathed him instead. My tears of grief were now tears of rage. I could hardly wait to beat him up and sure enough, as soon as we reached Oxmoon, the opportunity quickly presented itself.

All the family were assembled in the drawing room and drinking champagne, both in memory of my grandfather and in the hope of staging a rapid mass recovery from the unspeakable ordeal at Penhale Church. Canapés were being circulated by Lowell, the butler who had replaced the Venerable Bayliss (died a martyr after suffering many years of Mrs. Straker’s tyranny), and by a strong silent parlormaid called Caradoc (promoted by Mrs. Straker on account of her ability to hold her tongue). Harry and I, the only children present, had been provided with our own little dish of sausage rolls and were drinking lemonade.

“A bit weepy, weren’t you, old chap?” he said, snatching the largest sausage roll before I could grab it. “I suppose that’s because your mother keeps you at home and lets you get soft.”

“If you had a mother like my mother,” I spat, inwardly burning with humiliation, “and if you had a home like Oxmoon, you’d jolly well want to stay at home too. But all you’ve got is a rotten old manor house which no one ever visits and a father who
lives in sin
!”

He hit me. I hit him back. We fell writhing to the floor amidst a shower of sausage rolls.

“Kester! Harry! Stop that at once! Oh God, where’s John? Thomas, stop them, for goodness’ sake!”

“Why bother? Let them beat each other up! Do the little pansy good!”

“Thomas, next time you call my son a pansy, I’ll—”

“Now, you listen to me, Thomas Godwin!” bellowed Rory, who had been drinking steadily since breakfast. “Next time you insult my mother by calling that little nitwit a pansy I’ll smash your face in!”

“My, look at that dustup! Edmund honey, your nephews are trying to kill each other!”

“I say, chaps, we can’t have this,” said Uncle Edmund. I was dimly aware of his hand wavering above us before clutching ineffectually at Harry’s collar.

I took advantage of Harry’s loss of concentration to land a perfect right to the jaw.

Harry yelped, wrenched himself free and spun round on Uncle Edmund in a rage. “Leave me alone, you stupid old fool, and get out of my way!”

Everyone gasped and suddenly I saw that Uncle John had returned to the room. I immediately felt sick. Scrambling to our feet Harry and I stood trembling before him.

At first he had eyes only for his son. “How dare you behave like this and disgrace me!”

Urbane worldly Cousin Harry was suddenly a stammering little boy of ten. “I’m very sorry, Papa.”

“Apologize at once to your uncle Edmund.”

“I’m very sorry, Uncle Edmund.”

“That’s all right, old boy,” said Uncle Edmund awkwardly. “Upsetting things, funerals.”

“Go out into the garden,” said Uncle John to Harry, “and wait there till I send for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, and stumbled away.

“Kester,” said Uncle John, abruptly terminating my enjoyment of Harry’s discomfort, “you’ll come with me to the library.”

I glanced automatically at my mother to make sure she would be there to protect me, but my mother, champagne glass in hand, regarded me with a bleak eye and made no move to accompany us.

“Come along, Kester,” said Uncle John, seeing my hesitation and perfectly understanding it.

I shot my mother a reproachful glance and tramped miserably out of the room.

“So much for the new master of Oxmoon,” said vile Uncle Thomas as the door closed.

I was still boiling with rage and shame as I entered the library. “I’m sorry, Uncle John,” I burst out, “but Harry was beastly to me, and—”

“No,” said Uncle John. “No telling tales, please. No sneaking. If that mother of yours would only see sense and send you to school, you’d soon discover there are some things one simply doesn’t do.”

“But Harry—”

“Never mind Harry. Harry at least had some excuse for behaving like a jealous child, but you had none—and at least Harry conducted himself decently at the funeral! But you! You made no effort at all to behave properly. You humiliated your mother and you appalled me. All those tears were quite unnecessary. It was sheer histrionic self-indulgence, an unpardonable display of emotion.”

I knew this was true, and as the shame overwhelmed me I found to my horror that I wanted to cry again.

“Women,” said Uncle John, “are permitted a certain amount of latitude in exhibiting grief; they’re the weaker sex and allowances must be made for them, but men are expected to behave like men and that means controlling your emotions and behaving in a manner that won’t be a source of embarrassment to everyone around you. Women look to men to display strength and men look to their leaders to provide an example for them to follow. When you’re grown up you’ll be the first man in this parish and everyone in Penhale will look to you for leadership. You’re going to have to provide that and you’re going to start learning how to provide it today. Now we’ll have no more tears, if you please, and you’ll come out with me into the garden to make your peace with Harry.”

Rage once more annihilated the desire to cry. “I think Harry should make his peace with
me,
sir!” I said stubbornly. I was careful not to sound rude, merely burning with the desire for justice. “It was he who spoke the first insult,” I said, ruthlessly casting aside any puerile convention against sneaking, “and it was he who struck the first blow, and I’m jolly well going to stand up for myself by making that clear.”

I think Uncle John was startled by this show of strength. Perhaps he had expected me to collapse meekly into an abject heap after his stern reproofs, and when I remained defiantly upright he fell silent. At once I was terrified. Supposing he decided to beat me? I knew Harry was never beaten but then Harry was perfect. In contrast I was a long way from perfection, and I thought Uncle John would be sure to approve of corporal punishment.

I began to stammer an apology but he interrupted me.

“Kester,” he said, “you can afford to be generous to Harry today. Just do as you’re told, make your peace with him and stop arguing.”

Something in his tone cut deep into my consciousness. He sounded so very bleak and cold, and suddenly I was aware of all my secret fears that he despised me and found me a terrible cross to bear.

“You’re wishing it was Harry who had Oxmoon,” said a small high unsteady voice which I dimly realized was mine. “You hate me and wish I was dead like Robin.”

“Oh my God!” said Uncle John, and heaved one of his vast sighs. Then, most unexpectedly, he laughed. “I’ve never before known a child,” he said, “who plays every scene in his life as if it were the final act of a Victorian melodrama! My dear Kester, if you really want to cast me in the role of the wicked uncle there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but I do assure you that the performance is all entirely in your mind.”

He slumped down in one of the old leather armchairs by the fireplace and drew me to him. Then he smiled. Instinctively I leaned against him for comfort, anxious for any gesture which would negate my nightmarish suspicion that I was despised, and as if he knew exactly what I needed, he put his arm around my shoulders.

“If I’d wanted Oxmoon for Harry,” he said gently, “I could have got it. I was my father’s favorite at the end and he would have given me anything I asked. But it would have been wrong, Kester. It would have meant cheating your father, my favorite brother. It would have meant making your mother unhappy. It would have meant depriving you of something which by tradition was rightfully yours. How could I ever have wanted something which would have involved me in so much wrongdoing? One can’t go through life grabbing everything without regard for the consequences, you know. That’s the road to hell, and the people who wind up in hell are the people who don’t know when to say ‘Stop!’ and draw the line.”

I was entranced. A picture flashed into my mind of a broad golden line with a black pit marked
HELL
on one side of it and a pastoral vista marked
HEAVEN
on the other. “Gosh!” I said, my fondness for melodrama well satisfied, and leaned a little closer to him. I was greatly enjoying my first lesson in metaphysics.

“Terrible things happen,” said Uncle John, “to people who fail to draw the line.”

“Is that why we all have to stick to the rules and play the game and do the done thing?”

I was proving an apt pupil. He smiled at me again, patted my head and stood up. “Yes. Now let’s go into the garden and find Harry.”

I clasped his hand and decided I would impress him by being thoroughly magnanimous to poor old Cousin Harry, whom Uncle John had so delightfully described at the start of our conversation as a jealous child. Obviously it would be the done thing to be magnanimous. I began to feel much better.

“You do like me a little in spite of everything, don’t you, Uncle John?”

“My dear Kester, what an idiotic question!” said Uncle John, sounding as irritated as my mother undoubtedly would have been in the circumstances. “You know perfectly well I think of you as my own son now your father’s dead.”