Sages are, sadly, in short supply on the present-day Bench. Their replacements are stooges, as Judge Flower proves with his opening remark that he is sure that the proceedings need not detain us long and his instructions to Counsel to be brief … which provokes a pun from mine that he would have been well advised to resist. In the event, with neither side calling witnesses, the pace is fast (although I fear that the plot contains too few twists to sustain the ratings). The only frisson occurs during my cross-examination, when Digby-Lewis deliberately provokes me into repeating my fears about your father with his wheedling ‘Not a shred of evidence, is there? … You say you realise now that it was all a mistake?’ Max looks wretched, while Rebecca’s junior seems to suggest that, if this is drama, he would rather remain in revue.
As Max warned, the Judge takes against me … although, if he turns, it is by the full 360 degrees. After rebuking me for my offensive and unsubstantiated conjecture, he makes an order that a new welfare report be prepared on Pagan and adds that, in the interim, she is to be kept from me.
We leave the Court and face the cameras. I fail to see why the newspapers go to such expense, when they might just as well use library pictures; it is only when I see my reflection in the windscreen that I remember my beard. Even my return home is deemed worthy of record, although the solitary photographer is a welcome indication that my star has waned.
His lens is the closest that I come to human contact. The house is as mournful as a morgue. Consuela has gone back to Spain. She left only garbled word with Max, but it seems that the events of the past few months – faecal parcels, abusive phone calls, abrupt disappearances – have reconciled her to the matriarchal bosom. Even Trouble has deserted me, although I suspect that, in her confusion, Consuela forgot to make arrangements for his food. I like to think that he may have been adopted – or rather, picked up – by more responsible owners, and yet, given the financial incentive, they would surely have returned him. So I fear that he must have been run down. Still, his departure removes one source of grievance from my mother, who is making her first trip to London for years.
‘I had to come,’ she says, as I collect her at Euston, ‘when I saw a picture of you in a beard. You looked the very image of your father’s cousin Norman: the one who went to the bad.’
‘He went to Australia.’
‘Well he never wrote.’
‘Anyway, you know you’re always welcome.’
‘You don’t have to put on a brave face for me, son; I washed you and dressed you for ten years.’
‘What? You’d have had me changing my own nappy if you could.’
‘You’ll have to speak up; I’m getting hard of hearing.’ Her elaborate mime underlines her obvious lie. ‘Mrs Coombes is looking after your father. She always says that, if I ever decide to trade him in, I must be sure to give her first refusal. She’s joking, of course,’ she is quick to reassure me. ‘Who could feel anything for your father? He’s like a child.’
Trouble may have gone, but, the moment that we reach home, she is seized by a fit of coughing. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I had tests at the hospital. They found it isn’t cats I’m allergic to, after all, but dust.’ I call in the contract cleaners. Their efforts fail to allay her fears. She snipes at everything (‘I’m a plain woman; I speak as I find’), while reserving her heaviest fire for the kitchen. It is as if she projects all her resentment of my deviance from heterosexuality onto my cooking with electricity rather than gas. ‘I’ll never get used to it; I like to see what I’m dealing with. I need a flame.’
In a desperate search for alternative targets – boys with long hair; girls with short dresses; anyone wearing purple – I propose an excursion.
‘Would you like to visit Buckingham Palace? They’ve opened it to the public for the first time. They say you can’t move for the queues, but I’m sure I can pull some strings.’
‘No, not now.’ She is horrified. ‘You must do nothing that draws attention to yourself. Ask favours of no one. You never know when you’ll need them for something important.’
‘Mother, I’ve done nothing wrong; I’m not going to place myself under house arrest.’
‘If you’ve done nothing wrong, why has the phone stopped ringing? Whenever I call, it’s always engaged.’
The silence is suddenly tarnished. ‘It’s July,’ I flounder. ‘Everyone’s in Italy.’
‘Keep yourself to yourself. People will respect you for it. Remember Mr Profumo – you’re too young – but his life was in ruins. He took himself off to the East End … ten years later, he was hobnobbing with the Queen.’
‘Then there’s hope for me yet. I must find myself a good cause. I rather fancy the Boy Scouts.’
‘It’s not a joke, Lenny. I’ve had to take your photographs down from the hall. There’s been muttering. It’s a family hotel.’
‘And I’m a family man. I was trying to protect my family.’
‘When have you ever spared a thought for your father or me?’
‘I mean Pagan. She’s my family now … at least she was.’
‘That poor little mite: she’s brought you nothing but trouble.’
‘Do you like me, Mother?’
‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘A very simple one: do you like me?’
‘One thing I don’t like is playing games.’
‘I remember, when I was a kid in primary school, asking Miss Shelley to explain the difference between “love” and “like”.’
‘You were always one for words. We could never keep up with you.’
‘Please listen to me. She replied that we had to love everyone, because that was what Jesus taught us, but that we only needed to like the people we chose, which struck me as strange, since loving seemed far more special and intimate than liking. Now, of course, I know that she was right. So do you like me?’
‘All this talk! You can always say anything with talk. I’m here, aren’t I? “By their fruits ye shall know them.” Matthew chapter seven verse twenty.’
After five days, I feel as though I have lived on a diet of crab apples and sour grapes. The relief of her departure is tempered by tedium. Time hangs as heavily on me as a hand-me-down suit. I have nowhere to go but Television Centre, where I am greeted by the consolatory smiles which irked you so much in your illness. Colleagues racing down corridors are suddenly free to stop and chat, which might be cheering if it were not so sinister. In a bid to discover where I stand, I confront Kaye Blake, who has just flown back from three weeks in Goa (‘No meal cost us more than a pound … the poverty’s horrendous’). I confide my worries, competing for sympathy with her fading tan.
She welcomes me to a ‘bullshit-free zone’ and scratches her peeling shoulder. She explains that some of our masters – the irony is unconvincing – have serious reservations about starting the new series while I remain under a cloud. When I object, she looks pained and moans that she does not find this at all easy. I am stunned … I stand there with a knife in my back and she expects me to feel for her bleeding heart. She asks what I want her to do. I make it very plain; she must back me … back me, as she would put it, a hundred and fifty per cent. I am fighting for my life. If they axe me now, people are bound to think that they – that is I – have something to hide. She retreats into a frenzy of scratching, detaching a large piece of skin. Her phone buzzes. She answers and turns to me.
‘I’m sorry, Leo. First day back. I’m late for a meeting.’
I thought that she was having a meeting with me.
My appearance on Jackanory has been cancelled. I was due to read five stories from Peter Makeson’s Dougie the Dormouse books; but Ianthe Snowdon rings to say that they have run into a problem with the rights. I offer my wider services and boast of a zoomorphic range that extends from prickly hedgehogs to cuddly bears. She replies that they have decided to programme a week of repeats. ‘Fave raves. Golden oldies for the under-fives.’ She giggles, as though she had a feather under her nose. ‘K
ids love the familiar. I’m sure you understand?’ … Oh yes, I understand very well. I know what it means to be faceless. I shall resist their attempts to blank me off the screen.
‘Is this the kind of man we want corrupting the nation’s youth?’
‘No, he’s not nearly adept enough. Find someone better.’
My only diversion is to answer my mail. My postbag is heavier than ever, but its contents have changed. Nitpicking is replaced by vitriol. I am amazed that such sophisticated tortures can be devised by such unsophisticated minds. Castration would appear to be the least of my worries. One particularly inventive correspondent proposes that I be used in laboratory experiments instead of rats … and yet he does not sound like an animal-lover; he simply hates me. Most write anonymously and, to judge from both style and paper, in conditions of extreme constipation. I make a point of replying to all who enclose their addresses, hoping by a show of reason to put their lack of it to shame.
The one person to whom I yearn to write, I cannot. Tomorrow is July 26th, and I hardly need to remind you of the significance. But, when I ask Max about sending her a card, he advises against it. He can see no harm himself but feels that we will do best to stick to the letter as well as the spirit of the Order… I am struck by a remark that your mother – your real mother – made about the pain that she felt on your birthdays and wonder if mine is the same. For the first time, Pagan and I will be apart. I try not to think how she will spend it. Surely they must give her a party … in letter if not in spirit? I picture your mother issuing strict instructions against dropping crumbs on the carpet, while your father plays hunt-the-thimble with a houseful of seven-year-old girls.
My first thought, when Susan rings in the morning, is that, remembering the day and suspecting my mood, she is on a mission to cheer me up. In the event, the call does quite the opposite. She describes how she has received a visit from two Brighton police officers investigating allegations of child abuse against me. I correct her; she must mean my allegations against your father. No, she insists, against me. Her indignation is intense. She reports how she told them that the charge was an outrage: she had never known so devoted a father. I thank her, but my words are detached, for I am already making a call to Max in my mind. When, a few minutes later, I do so in earnest, he promises to inquire informally. Damn informality, I say, this is not a discreet examination of my eligibility for a club! He advises me to remain calm and promises to ring back as soon as he has news.
I sit by the phone, waiting for hospital results, exam results and word from a lover, all rolled into one. At four thirty, it arrives. ‘Susan was right. It appears that the Mulliners have confided their suspicions to the police.’
‘Surely that man must realise that, in the course of any investigation, his own guilt is bound to come out?’
‘He may be running scared. If what you say is true –’
‘If … if!’
‘I’m your friend, Leo …! I repeat; if what you say is true, he may be afraid of what Pagan will tell the Welfare Officer and want to get his own story in first. Attack is the best form of defence … don’t forget he was a soldier.’
‘But his wife wasn’t. And I’m sure she suspects him. She wouldn’t be so rash.’
‘Maybe she’s afraid of the welfare report too, though for different reasons. If it exonerates you, then we’re back at square one. She’ll do anything to prevent your gaining access to Pagan.’
‘Well this time they’ve gone too far. I shall sue for libel!’
‘You’ll accomplish nothing by overreacting. Whatever their motives, you know that you’re innocent. You have nothing to fear.’
My confidence sags as soon as I put down the phone. The one person who can boost it is your mother. I wait for banking hours and make my appeal. I explain that it is no longer just Pagan who is in danger. I describe your father’s tactics, my position and her options … if she will only tell her story – your story – I will be cleared and the true perpetrator exposed. Her voice drops so low that all I can hear is her fear. I ask her to speak up; she begs me to leave her in peace. She reminds me of my promise and adds that it is not as though she has any written evidence … only memories; and she has grown increasingly forgetful. So she cannot be sure of what she told me. It is quite possible that she has muddled the two stories … And I realise that I am on my own.
My isolation becomes self-perpetuating. Such invitations as I do receive I refuse, and those which I cannot avoid I regret … none more so than that to Lily de Trivelle’s memorial service, where, after a dreary piece of Haydn and a misjudged address, I gaze across the nave to find Duncan Treflis striving to catch my eye. His repertoire of nods, winks and nudges would be more suited to an auction room … although its flagrance might prove to be costly. I decide that a wan smile is the safest compromise between his determination and my distaste. To my annoyance, he takes it as a licence to waylay me on the way out. After chiding me for failing to reply to his letter, he asks me to lunch. I explain that I am otherwise engaged.
‘Come now, you forget that I am a master of the diplomatic excuse: white lies and half-truths a speciality. Yours I attribute to a well-meant but misguided desire not to impose on me.’ Neither his vanity nor his loquacity permit of correction. ‘I should warn you that, if you refuse, I shall collapse comatose at your feet – since we last met, I have had a nodding acquaintance with diabetes – leaving you duty-bound to rush to my aid, which will be far less amusing for both of us. So, where’s it to be? My club?’
‘The Stallion?’
‘Ha!’ His laughter rings around the portals of St Paul’s, Knightsbridge. ‘This time, I think the Garrick.’ I shrug and loosen my tie.
I shrink from his peppery proximity in the taxi. He rests his hat on my knee as though it were his own. We arrive at the club after a jittery journey … ‘I’m not altogether sure that they allow beards in the building. Do you, Hedley?’ The porter’s smile gives nothing away.
‘If there’s a problem, I’m happy to go elsewhere.’
‘I jest. I’m an old man; why can’t you humour me?’ He mixes petulance with pomposity. ‘Besides, it suits you. It supplies an air of mystery. It reminds me of the one I myself grew during the war.’
We move up to the dining room, where he makes the most of the waiter’s hand on his chair.
‘Poor Lily …’ I have no chance with the menu. ‘Not the most impressive of turnouts. If you remove all her husbands, there was practically no one there. You, I take it, knew her professionally.’ He makes it sound as though I shone her shoes.
‘She appeared on my show several times. The viewers loved her.’
‘They didn’t know her. You’d have heard a very different story from her friends. I was amazed to see Davinia Rutland … her sister. She was disowned by the entire clan in the forties, when she abandoned everything for an Irish jockey … though I’m told he was hung like a horse.’
‘Perhaps you’d warn me when I should start taking you seriously?’
‘Always.’ He bares his yellowing teeth. ‘You may not take me accurately, but that’s not the same.’ He breaks off to flatter the waiter, who fails to respond. ‘I understand that you’ve recently returned from Crierley.’
‘Did Lady Standish tell you?’
‘I haven’t spoken to Evelyn Standish for years.’
‘May I ask why?’ I contain my surprise.
‘Her pride. That ridiculous caravan. It’s as though she’s trying to park it on all our consciences. Well, believe me, there’s no room on mine.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘I offered to help her, provided that she moved away from that deadly house; as did her sister. But she’s stubborn. It’s a family characteristic’
‘It’s a characteristic of anyone who’s used to having his own way.’
‘Was that last remark aimed at me?’
‘If the barb hits …’
‘It barely scratches.’ We eat. ‘It may be that I deceive
myself, but I’ve never understood why you took so violently against me. I’ve always thought most highly of you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I suppose it’s because we’re so similar. I look at you and see so much of myself when I was young.’
‘Do you mean the beard?’
‘Way beneath the beard …’ Only his solipsism saves me from panic. ‘I suspect that you must also see yourself in me – shall we say forty years on? – sinking slowly in the quicksands of time.’
‘I’d say that you’d kept your footing with uncanny ease. Anyone would think you’d made a pact with the devil.’
‘Why thank you.’ He picks up the blunt edge of the compliment. ‘It’s true that I may no longer be under guarantee, but I’m still in full working order. Of course, I’m dogged by that disagreeable new acquaintance I introduced in church. And my gait is not all that it was –’
‘Do you mean that you suffer from stiff joints?’
He smiles and leaves me to speculate on the extent to which his verbal convolutions reflect his moral turpitude. This is the man who once described Robin’s insensitive father as having ‘a multi-layered epidermis’ and then added insultingly that it was an allusion to his thick skin.
I turn my attention from his speech to his person. As I contemplate the pampered, too-well-preserved face and the hands that bear witness to a lifetime of manicures, I am satisfied that there is not the slightest resemblance between us. I have been saved from a life of such sterile futility by Pagan … At which point, the truth hits me like a swing-door and I remember that she has been taken from me. Posterity is now a thing of the past. I have fallen for the most insidious of all illusions: hope.
Pagan and her parents Page 36
