The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  She had often wished that his wife had died in that accident.

  ‘I’m wicked,’ she said aloud. ‘The wicked get what they deserve.’

  ‘Val?’

  His voice came from beyond the yard wall. She found herself sitting up straighter, stubbing out her cigarette beneath her foot as Peter opened the gate hesitantly. ‘Val… I thought I heard you.’

  Oh, but he was beautiful – not handsome, not even sexy, but so beautiful that if she slept with him it would be excusable and not unfaithfulness at all because he was so extraordinary. It would be like taking a fantasy to bed, the man she had invented as a twelve-year-old when she had first allowed her hand to slip between her legs.

  What rubbish, she thought, and made herself smile at him, a cheerful, ordinary smile to hide behind.

  ‘It’s too warm to sit inside,’ she said.

  He stepped into the yard, leaving the gate open although she wished that he would close it so that it would be just the two of them, safe behind the high walls. He said, ‘It’s a lovely evening.’

  She stood up. ‘Stay – I’ll fetch a chair.’

  ‘Allow me.’

  He went inside and came back with another of the kitchen chairs. Placing it beside hers, he sat down. Looking up at the sky he said suddenly, ‘“Look towards heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them”.’ He glanced at her ‘Genesis’.

  She laughed, surprised. ‘Do you know the Bible off by heart?’

  ‘There are passages I remember, that’s all.’ After a moment he said, ‘I was a prisoner of war, in Burma. One of the very few possessions I managed to keep was a tiny Old Testament. It was confiscated eventually, but not before I’d memorised most of Genesis.’

  She imagined him in the wet heat of the jungle, turning the fragile pages before a Japanese guard snatched the book from his hands. He had never spoken of his war before, and she had never asked. In her heart she had pictured him as a conscientious objector – bravely committed to the cause of peace; her heart often presumed too much, more often lately, since she had met him. Even now she couldn’t imagine him carrying a rifle. She thought of all the raggedy, loin-clothed men filmed as the camps were liberated, and realised it was easier to picture him like this, stripped and vulnerable, but dignified still. Moved by this idea of him, she reached out and took his hand.

  He gazed at her. At last he said, ‘You’re not wicked, Val. And you deserve everything your heart desires.’

  She drew her hand from his, embarrassed that he had heard her – that he had admitted to hearing her. She laughed brokenly; to her horror she realised she was close to tears. ‘Everything my heart desires? You don’t know me well enough to say that.’

  ‘Tell me what you want most in the world.’

  She laughed again, swiping at the shaming tears in her eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because sometimes we should speak our hopes aloud. And look,’ he smiled, glancing at the sky before turning to her again, ‘the countless stars are listening.’ More softly he said, ‘And you need to chase away what you said just now, when you thought there was no one to hear. Break the spell.’

  ‘I think you’ve illustrated too many fairy stories.’ All the same, she looked up at the stars. Quickly she said, ‘A baby.’ She glanced at him, feeling herself colour, recognising that this was the most intimate conversation she had ever had. ‘I want a baby.’

  He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers. At last he said, ‘Is that why you’re marrying Jack?’

  ‘Not the only reason.’

  ‘You love him?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He breathed out heavily. ‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.’

  ‘Except that you’re his closest friend.’

  He laughed emptily. ‘We’re more like family now – not friends at all. The children . . . ’ He trailed off. As if he hadn’t realised it before, he said, ‘You’ll be their stepmother.’

  ‘A wicked stepmother!’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ He frowned at her. And then, as though he was about to break bad news, he said, ‘What if Jack doesn’t want any more children? Would Hope and the boys be enough?’

  Val turned away from him, keeping her gaze on the clouds scuttling across the bright face of the moon. She thought of Hope who had become even colder and more disdainful since Jack had announced their plans, of the boys who were so unruly, so desperately naughty whenever she met them. So far, it seemed Jack thought it best mostly to keep her and his children apart, and she had accepted this with guilty relief.

  Lighting a cigarette, she said, ‘Jack will want children because I do.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t?’

  ‘You remember what you said just now, about it being none of your business?’ She stood up. ‘It’s getting chilly – I think I’ll go inside. Good night.’

  He stood up, too. ‘Val, wait.’ Catching hold of her hand, he repeated, ‘Wait.’

  ‘No, I should go in.’

  He took the cigarette from her fingers and threw it to the ground. They stood facing each other, his fingers tight around hers. She saw how dark his eyes were, frowning with concern for her. No one had ever looked at her like that before, with so much compassion, and she gazed back at him, thinking that of all the times they had shared together she was the one who had talked and he had only listened. The most he had ever told her about himself was a moment ago and she had been filled with a pity that had felt like love; the feeling remained, a confusion of sympathy and desire: he was so beautiful, after all. She thought that if he kissed her, she would respond and allow him to lead her into his house and up his stairs to his room. They would make love and she wouldn’t speak, just as she knew he wouldn’t, keeping silent so that their betrayal would be nullified. She imagined how gentle he would be, and slow, gentle and slow and strong as her want for him. She stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face and he turned, kissing her palm.

  ‘Val . . . Oh Christ . . . ’

  She touched his mouth. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘You shouldn’t marry Jack. It would be wrong –’

  She stepped back from him, ashamed now that he had broken the silence so resoundingly. Still feeling his eyes on her, hating the glibness in her voice, she said, ‘I must have got carried away with all your talk about stars, eh?’

  ‘Val . . . ’ He held her by the shoulders, forced her to look at him. ‘Please think about whether you really love Jack, whether you really want to marry him.’

  She was angry now because it seemed he had encouraged her to behave as she had; it crossed her mind that all his soft looks and words were a test for her to pass or fail. Perhaps Jack had put him up to it. But then surely he would look triumphant or at least self-righteous; he only looked sad, afraid of the hurt he might have caused. Wearily she said, ‘You’d best go home. Good night, Peter.’

  As she turned to go inside he said quickly, ‘Would you marry me, instead?’

  She laughed, astonished.

  ‘Is it so funny?’

  ‘No . . . ’ More gently, she said, ‘No. But I love Jack.’

  ‘What if he can’t give you what you want most in the world?’

  There was something unnerving about his intensity; she thought how jealous he must be, and how lonely. She should have been more careful of him; his strength was no more than an illusion. She wished now that she hadn’t opened her heart to him, that she had realised how vulnerable he was. Jack had warned her about him, after all. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her how strange Peter could be, thinking only that he was jealous.

  She heard the back gate close, heard her father singing softly, a little drunkenly, under his breath. Relieved, she said, ‘It’s Dad – he’s been to the pub.’

  Peter turned away; ignoring her father’s greeting, he let himself out into the alley.

  Chapter 25

  Esther had known about Hans from the first week she had gone to work at the Dunns’. Not that she
had meant to pry; she had only been putting away Mrs Dunn’s underwear when she came across the diary in her drawer. She had lifted it out, thinking that it would be better taking up space somewhere else, when a photograph fell from between its pages. An SS officer gazed at her from the floor. Quickly, she had picked up the photo and put it back inside the diary, her hands shaking a little with the shock of seeing that uniform. For days she tried not to think about the diary or the photograph. But the next time she was putting laundry away her hand strayed against it. She had lifted it out, opening it at random. Unable to stop, her heart beating furiously, she had begun to read.

  The diary was kept safe in her own drawer now. She sometimes thought that she should throw it away, bury it in the bin beneath the potato peel and newspapers and ashes from the fire. Or burn it perhaps, although she thought that would take too long; the cover was thick card, and it had a tiny silver lock – broken before she found it. Metal and card would be difficult to dispose of in the grate and she dreaded Mr Dunn or Guy finding her at such a task. Guy especially would ask too many questions, smiling and teasing but determined to get to the truth as always.

  Guy. She wondered if he knew how his stepmother had adored him, how much she’d compared him to her beloved brother Hans the SS officer whose picture she kept in her diary, the man who had stormed through Poland and Russia, stopping only to force Jews to dig their own graves. On the back of his photograph were written the words, To my darling sister Ava – take care of Rudi for me! Rudi was a dog, an Alsatian like Hitler’s. Ava had written about this dog in the diary, how he had been killed by British bombs alongside her parents.

  The diary lay on Esther’s bed now. She was packing, having decided that she wouldn’t stay here another two weeks, even if it was in her contract. Mr Dunn could deduct money from her wages if he liked but she wouldn’t stay, not after today. Today she realised she couldn’t go on ignoring the idea she had that, in her mind, Mrs Dunn still lived with her brother in Berlin, that she still worshipped him despite everything she knew, that she would protect him no matter what.

  Today Mrs Dunn had set upon that stranger who had driven them home from that humiliating outing, flinging her arms around him as he helped her out of his car. ‘Hans,’ she’d said. ‘Hans.’ She had begun to cry, silently, and the stranger who was kind and gentle had allowed her to hold him, had even put his arms around her, holding her quite close, although she stank of pee, was soaked in it. He had caught her eye over Mrs Dunn’s shoulder, had smiled sadly. ‘Let’s get her inside, shall we?’

  The stranger had looked like Hans; she could understand why Mrs Dunn had believed it was him. He had the same blue eyes and blond hair, the same perfect, symmetrical features. She had felt embarrassed for him, not that he seemed in any way perturbed; he had behaved as if that kind of thing happened to him every day.

  Esther picked up the diary from her bed. It was from the year 1946, an eventful year for Mrs Dunn, the year she met Mr Dunn, the year she married him and came to England and fell in love with Guy – because it was like a falling in love, the way she described it, writing with far more joy and excitement than she ever wrote about her new husband. Meeting Guy, loving him, seemed to help with all the grief she felt over the loss of her brother, although sometimes it seemed Guy only helped a little. Some of the diary’s entries were only about Hans, the childhood they’d spent together that was so idyllic, so full of picnics in summer and sleigh rides in winter. There was only a year’s difference in their ages – they could have been twins, wished that they were. Ava missed him terribly; she dreamed of him at night. She tried to imagine what it would have been like for him when the executioner – one of his English murderers – had put the noose around his neck.

  There was a knock on her door and Esther put the diary down, quickly hiding it beneath one of her sweaters. Guy poked his head around the door.

  ‘Hello. I couldn’t find you – or Ava. Is she in bed already?’

  ‘Your father’s seeing to her tonight.’

  ‘Is he?’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise, making her blink because sometimes she couldn’t bear to see how handsome he was, how unattainable. She heard him close the door. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Packing.’

  ‘Yes – I can tell that much.’ He ducked his head to frown at her. ‘Esther? What’s going on?’

  She managed to look at him. ‘I’ve decided to leave.’

  ‘Why?’ He sounded horrified. ‘You can’t! We can’t manage without you.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ She brushed past him to fetch the few items of clothing left in the wardrobe.

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’s just letting you go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t he offer you more money? He will – he was probably too shocked to think straight.’

  ‘He did offer. But I’ve got another job.’ She took her winter coat from its hanger, realising that it was too bulky to be packed and that she would have to carry it home over her arm. Home. She could almost cry at the thought of her parents’ welcome. Her father would be so pleased that she had left this place and its German woman. As she put her coat on the bed, Guy caught her arm.

  ‘Esther, come downstairs. I’ll make you some cocoa – you like my cocoa – and we can talk.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ She shrugged off his hand even as she wished he would hold her as that stranger had held Mrs Dunn today, tenderly. But she had seen him in the park this afternoon with that blonde girl, that beautiful, tall, princess of a girl. Few girls could compete with that – especially not someone like her.

  Desperately Guy said, ‘Please, Esther. Please don’t leave.’

  She frowned at him. Surprising herself with the harshness of her voice, she said, ‘Why do you care so much? Your father will find someone else to do your dirty work.’

  ‘Dirty work? Is that how you see it?’

  He looked so hurt, as though she had slapped him. Immediately she said, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I thought you liked Ava.’

  She snorted, not really meaning to but unable to conceal the scorn she felt so suddenly. ‘Liked?’

  Stiffly Guy said, ‘Cared for, then. I thought you cared for her.’

  She thought of Ava, how she had bathed her and dressed her and coaxed her into eating, how she would sometimes sit and brush her hair for ages because it seemed to soothe her. And sometimes Ava would look at her as though she had just woken from a deep sleep and couldn’t understand who this stranger was who was talking to her as if she was a child. At first Esther had been excited by these apparent awakenings; she would begin to ask Ava if she knew where she was, if she remembered her name. Soon enough she realised that the looks were nothing, no more than an imitation of life.

  The only thing left to pack was the sweater that lay on the bed, hiding the diary. She said, ‘I’d like to get on now.’

  ‘Esther . . . ’ Guy sighed. ‘Stay, at least until we find someone else.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because of Hans, she thought. She didn’t even know his surname, enforcing the feeling the diary had given her that she was far more intimate with him than she would ever have wanted to be. She sat down on the bed wearily. ‘I miss my family.’

  This at least was true enough. Looking up at Guy she said, ‘My father never wanted me to come here.’

  Guy shifted, obviously uncomfortable. He knew her family’s history, how her parents had only just escaped Vienna with their lives, leaving behind their own parents, their brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. They never saw any of them again. He knew because she had told him, one sunny afternoon a few weeks ago when he had offered to help her peel potatoes for supper and he had asked how it was she spoke German so well. She had wondered then if he knew about Hans, believing that Ava would have found it impossible not to talk about him to this boy she loved so m
uch. Looking at Guy now she was more certain than ever that he knew all about his stepmother’s brother.

  He sat on the bed beside her. ‘I suppose we should thank you for staying as long as you have.’ Turning to face her he said suddenly, ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘I will.’ He searched her face. Softly he said, ‘I think you’re lovely – you know that, don’t you?’

  She stood up, outraged that he should pretend like that just to try to make her stay. The suddenness of her move sent the diary slipping from the bed to land at his feet.

  To her shame, Guy picked it up. He opened it, closed it again. He laughed harshly. ‘You’ve read this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s it doing in your room?’

  She felt herself colour darkly.

  ‘You’ve read it.’ He shook his head, gave that same ugly laugh. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t say anything. After all, I’ve read it. All Hans this and Hans that.’ Holding the diary by its spine, he shook it so that its pages fanned out. He looked up at her. ‘Where’s his photo? I left it between the last week of June, the first of July. Her birthday week.’

  Unable to look at him she said, ‘I left it in her drawer.’

  ‘This is why you’re leaving, isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  Gazing at her, he said, ‘She used to tell me that he was the best brother anyone could have – the kindest, the most loyal. When everyone else had left her alone he came back to find her, to take care of her. That’s how he was caught; he could have escaped like so many others, but he cared about her too much.’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to finish your packing. Goodbye, Esther, good luck in your new job.’

  Ava had said, ‘I wish you could have known him, my darling. You would have loved him so. Everyone did. He was so handsome, so full of life.’ She sighed wistfully. Gazing out of the cottage window at the sodden English countryside she said, ‘Perhaps you and I should escape – go home to Germany. I’ll show you where we were born, where we had so many happy times . . . ’