The Would-Begetter (21 page)

‘I’ve got a problem,’ Hector said to Jess. ‘All the company cars are out at the moment, and I need to go and see this dig everyone’s so excited about while it’s still there and before they build the new road smack through it. I’d go in the Jag, but I’m not risking its sump on those drove roads. They’re far too lumpy in the middle.’

‘Heavy hint?’ Jess said. ‘By strange coincidence I’m going out to photograph the trackway this afternoon, and the Chief Archaeologist will be there too, so if you come with me you can interview her while I take my shots.’

‘Lovely job,’ Hector said. ‘Thanks. Let’s take our lunch and eat it somewhere scenic on the way, shall we? I’m fed up with being indoors.’

‘OK.’ Jess glanced at his black eye, intrigued as to how he had come by it. The word going round the Newsroom was that Hector had either been hit by a wayward golf ball, or (snigger) had recently taken up bare-knuckle boxing. Jess waited until they were well out into the countryside and had parked beside a road overlooking the Levels, before she decided to open the subject.

‘You really shouldn’t play rough games, you know.’

‘What?’
Hector’s expression, above a half-bitten ham sandwich, was not encouraging.

‘Nothing,’ Jess said hastily. ‘I’m just worried about you. Your poor eye looks horrible. Does it hurt much?’

‘Probably looks worse than it feels,’ Hector said, chewing. ‘I walked into a door, if you must know.’

‘Oh come on, Hector,’ Jess teased. ‘No one really walks into doors!’

He didn’t reply. Instead he stared out at the grey brown January landscape under its feeble sun. Jess followed his gaze. The rhynes were full, but the fields this year had not flooded. As she watched, a farmer with a tractor and trailer was dumping stone to repair one of the droves, and further off, half a dozen swans were clambering out of the water on to a grassy field. When Hector eventually spoke, it was to talk about his family.

‘You see that ridge over there?’ he said, pointing south-westwards. ‘The other side of that hill, on the southern slopes above the Sedgemoor Levels – that’s where Zoyland Park used to be; the house my father pulled down so that he could build a factory in Woodspring and get rich.’ The bitterness in his voice was heartfelt.

‘What was it like?’ Jess asked.

‘Wonderful,’ Hector said simply. ‘Elegant. Built by my family in the eighteenth century and lived in by them for six generations.’

‘What a sacrilege! Why did your father do it?’

‘Oh, lots of reasons. It was an enormous house, and it had gardens and parklands, all very labour-intensive, and he couldn’t get live-in staff any more, and it needed far too much costly repair work and upkeep.’

‘But why didn’t he give it to the National Trust?’

‘They don’t take on houses that aren’t adequately endowed.’

‘So, why didn’t he open it to the public himself? Places like Chatsworth and Longleat seem to do well enough.’

‘Oh that’s another kettle of fish altogether; you need special insurance, extra security and God knows what. And anyway he didn’t fancy becoming an impoverished museum curator. He wanted to cash-in most of the contents, sell off ninety percent of the land, go into commerce and get rich.’

‘And did he?’

‘Oh yes. To be fair to him, he wasn’t alone in his vandalism. That sort of thing was considered expedient, in those days. In fact I believe about 250 houses of architectural and historic
interest were demolished in this country after the second war, or got burnt to the ground for the insurance money! Zoyland Park went in 1953 when Grandpapa died, just as the stock market was rising and other private houses were beginning to flourish. Had Father waited just a few short years… but no. Sheer wanton destructiveness!’

Jess got out an apple and bit into it. ‘When did your father die? He must have been quite young?’

‘In 1983. Yes, he was only 63; maybe it was retribution for the death of the house!’

‘You and your brother Ifor would have been all for taking it on, then?’

‘I
would,’ Hector corrected her. ‘I still hanker after my grandfather’s days, when the Mudgeleys were in charge; benevolent guardians of the countryside and its inhabitants. As a system it worked very well. But Ifor’s sold out just like our father did. He’s all for egalitarianism, anti-snobbery and equal opportunities. Huh!’ Hector snorted.

‘Is that so bad?’

‘Well what’s the point of being a bloody baronet if you don’t use your title?’ Hector demanded. ‘That’s just perverse
inverted
snobbery! If only I’d been born first…’

‘Well at least Morgan will be “Sir Morgan” eventually?’ Jess said.

‘Yes, that’s some comfort.’

‘So, what happened to the land?’

‘Oh a lot got built on, but most is still in agriculture. Part of it is a nature reserve; the low moors bit, and I’m fairly happy about that. I’m on the management committee in fact, and we’ve made a lot of positive changes to the place. I suppose that’s the only good thing about the whole sorry story.’ He got out a flask and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘I just wish I could get more campaigning articles into the
Chronicle
. In the good old days when we owned it…’ He took a gulp of coffee and sighed.

‘They mightn’t have been good old days for everyone.’ Jess suggested.

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Hector said. ‘At least they all had work then, a regular paypacket, proper housing and their own front doors to close at the end of the day.’

‘Or to walk into, if the fancy took them?’

‘If you
must
know,’ Hector said, tidying up the remains of his lunch, ‘Wendy threw a mug at me.’ He stared at her challengingly.

‘What?’
Jess began to laugh.

‘Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have told you,’ he said with mock irascibility. He looked at his watch. ‘Christ is that the time? We’re going to be late. Come on, start her up and let’s get going.’

As she drove off, Jess felt in unsually buoyant mood. She tried to analyse why, and concluded that it must be because Hector had begun to confide in her again. In her experience, this was rare, and therefore very beguiling. Most men were famously reluctant to discuss their problems. Her own Dad certainly didn’t; for him to do so would have been a sign of weakness and incompetence. Yet here was Hector revealing things about himself and his family, things perhaps he didn’t even share with Wendy? Jess felt privileged,
special
. Maybe, she thought, it’s more rewarding to be friends with a man than to marry him (unless of course you want his children). Poor Wendy doesn’t appear to be getting much fulfilment as a wife. Is it possible that I’m getting the best of Hector? It was a happy thought and Jess drove on, smiling.

But the next day he was avoiding her, she was sure of it. He didn’t go over to the pub at lunchtime, and when she went into the Newsroom to deliver photographs or to discuss stories with Nigel, he barely acknowledged her. Jess felt hurt. She tried to think how she might have offended him, but couldn’t remember anything bad enough. He surely wasn’t sulking because she had laughed at the mug-throwing episode. He wasn’t that petty… was he?

Just as well I’m not married to Hector, she thought crossly. I never know where I am with the wretched man!

In mid-January, the weekend arrived when Jess was due to go up to London to see Caroline, but she wasn’t sure whether she was looking forward to it this time. Over the years she had grown very fond of her, but their friendship was changing inexorably and Jess wanted it to stay the way it had begun. She had always enjoyed Caroline as a mentor: approving, encouraging, laughing at her jokes and drinking wine late into the night putting the world to rights, but these days her friend was permanently distracted and exhausted.

Of course it’s necessary to grow up and take on responsibilities, Jess thought, but is this the right way for women to go about it? Isn’t this modern feminist ethos for juggling several lives at once every bit as much of a deprivation as being expected to stay brain-dead at home, hoovering behind the furniture? Aren’t they simply opposite sides of the same coin?

She didn’t envy Caroline and her ilk one bit. They never relaxed. They never had time for trivial pleasures such as putting photographs into albums, writing letters or picking flowers. They were mothers when they were supposed to be bosses, but were obsessed with problems at work whilst playing Happy Families. Whichever role they occupied, they felt guilty. They had holidays certainly, and expensive ones to boot, but even these were high powered. Hannah had to be ‘entertained’, so Caroline took her to Disneyland, or they went skiing, or they hired a canal boat in France with five other single parents and a few token men, so that the children would learn cooperation, discipline and social skills. It was all such hard work!

Jess worked hard too, but at least she felt that her life was her own some of the time. Did that precious sense of self have to vanish? Did having children inevitably mean a complete derogation of identity? If so, it was to be avoided at all costs.

She remembered the few family holidays she had been on, at Hannah’s age. She had made sandcastles, collected shells or investigated rock-pools whilst her parents had read books or gone for walks. The tranquil days had stretched out ahead of her, and hours had elapsed serenely, devoid of any programmed or supervised activity. She supposed her parents must be old-fashioned as well as elderly. It had never occurred to them to entertain her; the very concept would have been anathema.

It seems to me to be totally counterproductive, Jess thought, this raucous trivia which (as current orthodoxy has it) must be drip-fed into children throughout their every waking hour. It’s supposed to stimulate their tiny minds, but I think all it does is to make everyone conform to fashionable but intellectually vapid stereotypes. It stifles all creativity.

‘You sound just like my grandmother!’ Caroline teased after supper on the Friday evening, when Hannah had gone unwillingly to bed and Jess was trying to propound an edited version of these ideas. ‘At least today’s children have access to everything that’s going and have a good social sense and global awareness.’

‘True,’ Jess agreed, ‘and solitary rock-pool gazing certainly doesn’t seem to have been much of a foundation for vivid, gregarious encounters, in my experience!’

‘No luck with men then?’

‘No,’ Jess made a face. ‘I only attract lame ducks.’

‘I never seem to have time to meet new blokes,’ Caroline said, ‘but I’m bound to admit that it doesn’t bother me overmuch.’

‘Is work going well then?’

‘Not bad, but ageism is beginning to creep up on me. I’m thirty-seven, in my prime, but I’m getting the distinct impression that I’m about to be elbowed out of the way by the “young”. It’s an uncomfortable feeling; makes me quite manic at times. Insecurity is a high octane fuel for us workaholics. How about you?’

‘I keep wondering whether I should make a move,’ Jess said, ‘but I like it at the
Chronicle
and there’s no particular reason…’

‘Well,’ Caroline offered, ‘if you ever want to come to London, you’re welcome to rent my basement flat. Since
Hannah grew out of her last live-in nanny, we haven’t needed it. I’ve got a student occupying it at the moment, but he’ll be leaving soo…’ The telephone rang. Caroline got up to answer it and Jess overheard her one-sided conversation.

‘Hello? Oh… hello. So, what is it this time?’

‘No, absolutely not. It’s out of the question.’

‘She’s fine, and she’s nothing whatever to do with you, OK?’

‘I’m sorry Hector. Listen carefully, because this is my final word on the subject: NO!’ Caroline banged the receiver down and turned, frowning, to Jess. ‘Guess who.’

‘Does he often phone?’ Jess felt something uncomfortably like jealousy.

‘Not for years and years,’ Caroline said, ‘but in the last week, twice, well three times now. He says he wants to see Hannah. What’s the matter with him, seven year itch?’

‘Well,’ admitted Jess, ‘I suppose you could call it that, but actually in his case it’s more like heir-line cracks. H-E-I-R, that is.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Caroline raised an eyebrow in amusement. ‘Having trouble with young Morgan, is he?’

‘Yes, he seems very worried about him. Is Hannah reading well?’

‘Fluently. It’s wonderful when the penny drops, you know. A whole new world opens up to them.’

‘Well apparently Morgan is totally clueless about the written word, but bright enough verbally.’

‘Probably dyslexic, poor child. It’s all the rage,’ Caroline said, ‘but I can’t somehow imagine Hector being very supportive under those circumstances.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he would be,’ Jess said at once. ‘If he knew it was genuine. I don’t think he’s considered that possibility though…’

‘If you want my advice,’ Caroline said, ‘keep well out of it. No parent welcomes any suggestion that its darling child is anything less than perfect.’

‘Oh I’m sure Hector wouldn’t be so touchy,’ Jess said defensively. ‘He’d always want what was best for Morgan.’

‘Lucky man – he’s got a good champion in you.’

‘On the contrary,’ Jess snapped. ‘If you must know, we don’t even seem to be on speaking terms, these days.’

On the Sunday evening, travelling home from Paddington, she wondered whether she would want to see quite so much of Caroline in future. She regretted speaking sharply to her. It hadn’t been a row, nothing so dramatic, but it was enough to ruffle Jess’s composure, as the conversation re-ran itself irritat-ingly inside her head. She wished she had kept quiet. There was no point in arguing – they had so little in common these days. There was a time, Jess thought, when I assumed that Caroline the High Flyer was about to leave me behind, but now the opposite seems more likely to be true. How strange.

Wendy managed to convince herself that it was because Hector
cared
for her that he was insisting on her having the operation privately, and once this idea had taken hold she felt better able to square it with her conscience and arrive at a less uncomfortable acceptance. She had worried about Morgan and how he would get on whilst she was in hospital. It wasn’t so much that Hector couldn’t cope with the daily chores. He wouldn’t, but that hardly mattered. It was more the fear that in her absence he might demoralise the boy. Morgan was at an impressionable age, and she didn’t want him upset. (Any day now, they would have to discuss special schooling… but not quite yet…) She decided to approach Ifor and his wife June, and was pleased when they cheerfully offered to have him for the eight or nine days that she would be away, or even longer if necessary to allow her to recuperate.