The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  ‘Maybe Danny should see a doctor.’

  Esther smiled shyly and touched the doll’s black wool hair. ‘Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just put a few stitches in him when Mrs Dunn has gone to bed.’

  ‘Perhaps I should buy a pram for them. Do you think Ava would like to push a pram?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her face became closed, as though she thought that actually this was a very bad idea, crass and insensitive. Because it was, of course. Harry sighed, wishing he hadn’t volunteered to accompany them here. He hated parks; he hated the way people looked at Ava. He hated most of all the fact that he had nothing whatsoever to say to this timid girl who took such great care of his wife. But the sun was shining and he had no work to do and he had thought it might be pleasant to be out in the fresh air. He’d had an idea that he would start up a conversation with Esther, questioning her about her family, her childhood. Now, in the face of her stoic quietness, such questions seemed impertinent.

  Then, her voice brighter than he had ever known it to be, Esther said, ‘Look, there’s Guy!’

  Sure enough, he saw his son walking towards the park’s main gates, too far away to be hailed. He was hand-in-hand with a girl, a blonde who was almost the same height as him, her shapely figure emphasised in a tightly-belted, full-skirted dress. They reached the gates and disappeared from sight, and Esther turned to him, laughing a little to hide her obvious, surprising disappointment.

  ‘We won’t catch them up.’

  ‘No.’ Harry imagined that being caught up by them was the very last thing his son would want. He would have to explain this odd threesome to his girl. Wildly, Harry imagined only speaking German as he was introduced, forcing Guy to translate for the benefit of his friend. Esther, understanding every word, would be embarrassed, of course, but all the same it would be interesting to see Guy’s reaction. At the very least it would teach him not to be so secretive about what went on in his life.

  Turning to Esther he said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be very nice, thank you.’ Sotto voce, she added, ‘And I think Mrs Dunn needs to go to the toilet.’

  He smiled bleakly, wondering why he should care that she said toilet instead of lavatory. Perhaps if he sat down and thought about it for long enough he wouldn’t care at all; perhaps his snobbishness was all surface and knee-jerk.

  ‘Tea then,’ he said, hating the teeth-grinding cheeriness in his voice. ‘Tea and cake, I think.’

  The park’s café was a bottle-green, half-timbered chalet looking out over the boating lake. There was a long counter the length of one wall with glass cases displaying slices of fruit cake and scones, and ham or cheese sandwiches made of very thin white bread cut corner to corner. A box of Blue Ribbon chocolate biscuits stood beside the tea urn that lent the place its peculiarly war-time smell, a smell of over-boiled water Harry associated with train stations and sturdy women in Red Cross armbands. Minus their armbands, the same breed of women manned the café’s urn and were rushed and flustered because the sun had brought everyone out, everyone wanting tea and a sit-down at the same time. With no unoccupied tables, customers were carrying out trays of tea and sitting down on the grass verge surrounding the lake.

  Joining the end of the queue that snaked outside the café’s double doors, Harry smiled encouragingly at Esther and his wife. Quietly he said, ‘Esther, do you want to take Ava if you think she needs to go to the lavatory?’

  ‘Will you hold on to these?’

  She thrust the two dolls at him. He and Esther were the only people allowed to touch them, but all the same he turned to Ava. ‘Is it all right if I take care of Danny and Martha?’

  She gazed at him and he reached out to touch her cheek. ‘Go with Esther,’ he said softly. ‘When you come back we’ll have some tea.’

  He watched Esther lead Ava towards the back of the crowded café, heard her repeated, shy excuse me. Her accent wasn’t anywhere near as broad as some in Thorp, although she had been born and brought up in the town; in fact, it was quite difficult to assess where Esther came from by her voice, even which class she belonged to – which rather disconcerted the few people he knew who had met her. If he had taken the trouble to explain to them that both of her parents were Austrian Jews, he was sure that a look of smug knowingness would cross their faces, a look that came with the reassuring pleasure of having their snobberies left unchallenged.

  Esther had been the answer to a prayer he hadn’t prayed simply because it had never occurred to him that he could ever find a German-speaking woman who would be willing to do what was required. Preparing for Ava to come home from her last nursing home, he had set out only to find a kind, competent woman to be Ava’s nursemaid – the most accurate job description he could come up with; even if he found the description demeaning, at least it was accurate.

  He had advertised the position in The Lady magazine and of the few replies he received, none of the women he interviewed seemed to him to be right, being too old and either too timid or too domineering. Then one day Esther applied for the job of secretary in his office and during the interview he had asked about her Germanic surname. Nervous with hope, he had asked if she spoke her parents’ language. Then he had told her about Ava, a little at least, as much as she needed to know. He told her that he would pay her three times the amount he was offering for the position of secretary, and that she would have free board and lodging – her own lovely room, the run of his large house, a beautiful garden she could sit in whenever she wanted to – everything he could think of to entice her. And it did feel as though he was enticing her, baiting his trap so she might be coaxed into leaving her beloved parents.

  He knew that she loved them; they most certainly loved her. He knew because he had invited Esther and her parents to tea the following Sunday afternoon in order that they might meet him and see for themselves his impressive, well-managed home, the light and spacious room that might be their daughter’s if she would only come and work for him. He thought it expedient not to mention Guy, who at any rate was away at school for most of the year, and tried to impress on this wary couple that Esther would be happy in his peaceful home, even though it was obvious that the job wasn’t what they wanted for her. Her father had told him that Esther had been the best student in her year at secretarial college, the brightest of the bright girls. ‘And she speaks German, Mr Dunn,’ her father said, ‘and French. She is not a maid, not at all.’ Her mother, sitting on the edge of his sofa, her tea-cup and saucer rattling slightly in her hands, had managed to overcome her nervousness to ask, ‘How poorly is your wife, Mr Dunn?’ Coming straight to the point was, Harry conceded, her duty as the girl’s mother.

  Finally though, it was Esther’s decision. While he tried to convince her parents, she had taken Ava out into the garden and he had become distracted from explaining Ava’s condition as he caught glimpses of Esther pointing out a robin to his wife. He heard her laugh, heard her say in German, ‘See – he’s flown into that tree up there? Perhaps he’ll come down again if we’re quiet.’ Harry stopped talking to watch surreptitiously for the bird, telling himself that if it flew down, Esther would stay. He held his breath. The robin landed in a flash of red a few yards from the two women.

  The queue for tea shuffled forward and Harry became aware of two small boys staring up at him; he smiled at them awkwardly, never comfortable with children, hoping that this response would snap the pair out of their staring and they would go away. But they only smiled back at him in uncanny unison. One of them reached up and touched Danny’s dangling leg.

  ‘Why have you got two rag dolls?’

  The other boy said, ‘Are they twins? We’re twins.’

  Harry sighed. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Most people can tell.’ Just as his brother had, he touched Danny’s leg. ‘Can we see? They’re very odd.’

  ‘Boys!’

  Harry turned to see Peter Wright stand up and edge hastily through the packed café to reach him. Smiling apologeticall
y, a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders, Wright said, ‘Mr Dunn – hello. The boys were curious, I hope you don’t mind. Martin, Stephen, this is Mr Dunn. He helped me when my father died.’

  The boy called Martin looked up at Wright. ‘How did he help?’

  ‘He told me what I had to do with all the things my father owned.’

  It was hard to tell whether the child was satisfied with his answer or merely utterly bored by it. The explanation seemed unnecessary to Harry; he had always believed that children should be ignored, on the whole. To him the boy said, ‘They are very ugly, your dolls. Why are you carrying them about?’

  ‘Martin, I don’t think that’s any of our business.’ Wright glanced back at the table he had just vacated and saw that it had been taken. ‘Oh, I should have saved it for you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, I was thinking of sitting outside.’

  ‘Well, it is a lovely day.’ Wright smiled suddenly. ‘And they do very good teas here. Once again I can recommend the fruit cake, if you ever reach the front of the queue.’

  Harry thought how much he seemed to have changed in the months since he’d last seen him, as though he had lost ten years. Because he wasn’t quite as gaunt, Wright looked less like a scarecrow – even almost ordinary in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off his tanned, surprisingly muscular forearms. His hair was neatly cut, his trousers pressed, shoes polished. It struck Harry that no matter how much he tried to impersonate a run-of-the-mill ex-Army officer, he still looked like one of the angels ordered back to earth to check up on the struggling mortals. And the twin boys were his small apprentices, by the looks of it. Knowing that Wright had no brothers or sisters, Harry asked too jovially, ‘And who do these two boys belong to?’

  Wright squeezed the children’s shoulders as though claiming them. ‘They’re my godsons.’

  Esther returned from the ladies’ lavatories, leading Ava by the hand. Flustered, not noticing Wright or the children, she said, ‘There was such a long queue and she wouldn’t wait nicely – but now I’m not sure how long she can hold on . . . ’ She glanced at Wright and her face flushed darkly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  Harry smiled at her to try to lessen her embarrassment. ‘Mr Wright, this is Esther, my wife’s companion. And this is my wife, Ava.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Dunn, Esther.’

  One of the boys said loudly, ‘What’s wrong with that lady, Uncle Peter?’

  Wright took the boy’s hand. ‘Perhaps Mrs Dunn is feeling unwell, Stephen.’

  The boys began to giggle, hands over their mouths, and Harry saw Esther look down, horrified. Ava had urinated on the floor.

  Holding their noses the boys said, ‘Phew! Look what’s she’s done! How stinky.’

  ‘Be quiet, boys.’ Wright frowned at Harry sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you take your wife outside, Mr Dunn? I’ll let the staff know there’s been an accident.’

  Outside the café, in the bright, blinding sun, Harry thought how wonderful it would be if he could run away. Run and run to a place where no one knew him, where he couldn’t be found. He would start again. There were other lives he could live, he was sure, other far less complicated lives, the kind that other men lived, with sweet, contented wives and untroubled children. He closed his eyes against the disorientating brightness, saw the dark spots on his eyelids explode and burn out. Esther went on apologising. Wearily he said, ‘It’s not your fault Esther, please – don’t say any more.’

  The twin boys ran around; it seemed they found it impossible to stand still to wait for their godfather. Brats, Harry thought. He could never remember Guy behaving so badly. In his memory, Guy as a small child was always a model of good, quiet behaviour. He sighed, profoundly miserable, and tried to imagine how Wright could possibly be explaining the fact that a woman had pissed on the café’s floor. But he had faith in him; he would know how to deal with such an event. Wasn’t he an angel, after all? Harry smiled, despite himself. He turned his smile on Esther and said, ‘It will be all right. Everything is going to be all right.’

  Just then, Wright came out of the café. He said, ‘There, no harm done. Listen, my house – my father’s house – is just the other side of those gates. The car’s parked in the garage. If you wish, we could all go there and I could drive Esther and Mrs Dunn home – if you wouldn’t mind looking after the boys until I get back.’

  Harry thought just how long and miserable the walk back to his own home would be, and how uncomfortable for Ava in her soaked skirt and underclothes. Gratefully he said, ‘That would be very kind of you.’

  Wright smiled and touched his arm lightly. ‘Not at all.’ To the boys he called, ‘Come on, you two. We’re going to the old house. Run on ahead – you can be my reconnaissance party.’

  Chapter 19

  Harry sat in Wright’s garden. The boys he was supposed to be minding were up in a tree-house and at least were being quiet, perhaps worryingly quiet, although he wasn’t inclined to get up from the garden bench to investigate. A few minutes ago, they had run out from the house where they’d been for some time. He noticed when they ran past him that their clothes were dusty and that old cobwebs clung to their backs.

  Harry was smoking a cigar, for consolation he supposed, indulging his unhappiness. He rested his head back, savouring the taste of the fine tobacco, and, now that he was alone, he allowed himself to think about Val. Today was her birthday, her thirty-first.

  A year ago today he had driven her to the Lake District, to a hotel he knew on the banks of Ullswater where they’d had lunch on the terrace looking out over a garden that sloped down to the still water. He had ordered champagne to be waiting on ice by their bed, along with two dozen red roses, and he had bought her a gift, secret in its velvet box in his pocket, his fingers returning to it time and again, worrying its soft pile so that he was afraid when he finally presented it to her that it would be sweat-stained and shabby-looking. When she was in the bathroom, he placed it on her pillow and the box only looked dark and expensive, impressive against the white counterpane just as it had in the jeweller’s shop. He moved it a little to the left so that it was more central, only to snatch it up and return it to his pocket as she came out from the bathroom. She was wearing the black silk negligée he had bought her; it clung to her hips, her thighs; her breasts spilled pale as milk from the low-cut bodice.

  She’d teased him. ‘I thought you’d be in bed by now. You haven’t even taken your tie off.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’ He stepped towards her. Holding her face between his hands he kissed her tenderly, tasting the port they’d drunk after lunch. ‘I love you.’

  She frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing! What could possibly be the matter when I’m with you?’

  But his tone was too vehement and he was sweating, a film of perspiration on his face caused by the rich food and wine, the midsummer heat, the idea that he might be about to change his life for ever, one way or the other. She searched his face, concerned: he was perfect heart-attack material, after all, and she made his heart work too hard, she knew that. Touching his cheek she said, ‘Lie down. I’ll undress you.’

  The jeweller’s plush box stayed in his pocket; Val thought that the roses, the champagne, the weekend in the hotel with its expensive smell of polish and pot-pourri were her birthday present. He didn’t propose to her until months later. He thanked God for those months, the extra time he wouldn’t have had if he’d kept his nerve in that hotel room.

  The twin boys dropped from the tree-house’s rope ladder and ran towards him. He steeled himself, sitting up straighter, having an idea that they might climb all over him. But they stood a few feet away, looking at him as though he was an exhibition in a museum; he half-expected them to begin talking about him as if he was a not very realistic waxwork. He thought how beautiful they were. He thought too of how Ava would have adored them; she would have laughed at his idea that they were too naughty to be loveable, she would have told him
that he had a cold, wicked heart, that all children were easy to love. She had loved Guy, after all, but Guy was supremely normal compared to these peculiar little boys.

  Smiling at them, in the faux enthusiastic voice he seemed to use on all children nowadays, he said, ‘That’s a fine tree-house.’

  ‘Uncle Peter built it.’

  ‘We helped.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’

  ‘Where are the funny dolls?’

  ‘They’ve gone home.’

  ‘See?’ Martin turned to his brother. ‘I told you they weren’t his! That would be just stupid.’ He looked at Harry as though he expected him to agree.

  Stephen said angrily, ‘Whose were they then?’

  Harry sighed. ‘They belonged to the lady I was with.’ At once he was ashamed that he couldn’t bring himself to tell these children that Ava was his wife. When Martin asked if he meant the lady who had wet her pants, he said too sharply, ‘Run along, now. Go and play.’

  Behind him, Peter Wright said, ‘Yes, boys. Go on, off you go. No more questions.’

  He sat down beside Harry. Watching the boys run back across the lawn, he said, ‘I’m sorry, they can be quite brutal.’

  Harry laughed shortly. ‘Quite.’ Turning to Wright he said, ‘You got Ava home all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Esther even stopped apologising – but then she started thanking me instead.’

  ‘She believes everything is her responsibility – her fault.’ After a moment he said awkwardly, ‘Ava didn’t ruin the car’s upholstery, I hope?’

  ‘No. There was an old blanket in the boot. Esther folded that . . . ’ He trailed off, and Harry suspected he was as embarrassed as he was, but it seemed he was merely frowning at the boys who were swinging perilously on the rope ladder. When they jumped to the ground he said, ‘Anyway, they’re home now, safe and sound.’

  Stiffly Harry said, ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at him, feeling he ought to say more, offer some explanation, but he felt too weary.