The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  She linked her arm through his and he patted her hand as he led her along the corridor crowded with their fellow workers heading for the canteen. All at once she realised he wasn’t wearing his suit and tie, but his weekend clothes. ‘Haven’t you been working today?’ she asked.

  ‘Day off.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I’ve arranged with Davies for you to have the rest of the day off, too. There – am I a wonderful husband-to-be or not?’

  A sudden sense of freedom made feel exhilarated. ‘Very wonderful. So – where are we going?’

  They’d reached the front offices where Stanley Davies himself leaned against the receptionist’s desk, watching Jack’s sons run around. Davies called out when he saw Jack, ‘Two fine boys you’ve got there, Jackson.’ Then he leered at Val, looking her up and down in that lecherous way he had. ‘Are we going to see a couple more like them in nine months or so, Miss Campbell?’

  Jack squeezed her hand. To the boys he said, ‘You two, didn’t I tell you to sit quietly and wait for me?’ Glancing at Davies he said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Davies.’

  ‘Good afternoon!’ He clapped Jack on the back. ‘And I hope it’s a productive one with your lovely lady.’

  Outside, the boys running ahead of them, Jack stopped to light a cigarette. Looking back at the sprawling building that was Stanley Davies & Sons, he said, ‘Old bastard. I’m going to leave.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m going to tell him to stick his job and his dirty-minded bloody comments where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  Returning his grin she said, ‘And then what will you do?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He drew her into his arms, kissing her mouth lightly. ‘I think I’ll find enough to occupy me in the short term.’

  ‘And in the long term?’

  He stepped back from her, his voice more serious as he said, ‘Maybe I’m wealthy enough now not to have to work for a while. Maybe I can have a think about what I really want to do with my life – our lives, seeing as we’re in it together.’ He laughed self-consciously. ‘Come on. Before the boys get too far ahead of us.’

  Jack thought that what he most wanted to do with his life was take Val and his children and move far away. He’d thought about Australia, and then about Canada, a place that seemed somehow less foreign to him. And he had flown with Canadians; he remembered how they talked about the huge open spaces, the glorious summers at the lakes. He thought that Canada was a country where the boys would seem less contained than they were in England. He thought too about all the sadness he would leave behind, and how he could begin again where no one knew him and no one would look at him as if they were so sorry for him and his poor, motherless children. In Canada, Val would be their mother, no questions asked.

  Only he wasn’t sure if Val would want to leave England; in truth he wasn’t sure if she loved him enough to give up everything familiar. He knew she half-loved someone else still, that fat, hail-fellow-well-met friend of Davies, Harry Dunn. He remembered the night of the Christmas party two years ago now, how Val and Dunn had danced and laughed together, how they had left together, provoking so much gossip that she just didn’t seem to care about. Whenever he thought about Dunn and what he had put Val through with such lack of regard for her reputation, he wanted to go round to the man’s office and smash his teeth down his throat. And now he knew exactly where his office was: the address was printed in fancy, self-important print on the letter he’d received from him, advising him just how much his inheritance from Peter’s father was worth. Ironic, really, that it should be Dunn who was the bearer of such news – news that had once and for all made up his mind about accepting his inheritance.

  Her arm linked reassuringly through his, Val turned to him as they walked towards Peter’s house. ‘Where are we going?’

  The boys ran towards a junction and he called to them to wait, the note of panic in his voice making him sound too harsh. They ignored him, as usual, and ran into the road so that his heart almost stopped. When they were safely on the other side, he gave a sigh of relief before turning to her.

  ‘Peter’s house,’ he answered Val. ‘I’ve decided that if he really doesn’t want it, well . . . the old man left it to me. He wanted me to have it.’ He glanced at the boys; they’d reached the house and had run into the garden. Seeing that they were safe, he stopped and turned to face her. ‘If you like it, we’ll live there. If not . . . ’

  ‘If not?’

  He smiled, hooking a strand of her hair back from her face. She was so lovely, and so straight with him. He thought of Carol, a woman he had come to believe lately he’d barely understood; Carol had kept too much back from him, he’d been sure of that since he’d known Val, since he’d started to compare the two of them.

  Unable to resist her, he kissed her mouth. ‘I love you.’ He felt himself grinning, and wondered if he had ever been this happy in his life. Taking her arm he said, ‘All right – let us go and inspect our estate!’

  Jack felt his grin slipping when he saw Peter in the garden, and he had to force himself to be civil to this man he had known for almost as long as he could remember. He wished only that Wright would clear off, leaving him to show Val the house in peace.

  Already the boys were throwing themselves on Peter. Jack called to them but Peter was scooping them into his arms, kissing first Martin and then Stephen as he carried them towards the side gate where he stood with Val. Jack was reminded how strong Peter was – he doubted if he could lift the boys up like that and walk with them without an embarrassing show of breathlessness. Peter had always been stronger than him. When he came home from the POW camps and everyone else wondered how he’d survived, Jack knew that he was tenacious and strong enough to live through almost anything.

  As Peter set the boys down, Jack said, ‘Is it all right if I show Val around?’

  ‘It’s yours, Jack. You don’t need to ask my permission.’

  Jack laughed, knowing how forced it sounded. ‘Is the key still under that plant pot outside the back door?’

  ‘The door’s open,’ Peter said. He glanced at Val, his voice brisk as he said, ‘I’m afraid I had to break in this morning – I must have mislaid that spare key. I was just about to repair the damage.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ Jack took Val’s hand, wanting only to get away, but also wanting to show Peter that Val was his; he had noticed how the two of them looked at each other. He couldn’t blame Val, most women looked at Peter like she did, their eyes big with surprise that someone like him even existed, their mouths smiling independently of their brains. He blamed Peter. Even though he knew he would never take Val from him, he believed he should keep his bloody eyes off.

  Jack led Val towards the house. He called to the boys but as usual they preferred to stay with Peter. But it seemed that for once Peter didn’t have time for them.

  ‘Go on, boys,’ Jack heard him say. ‘Go inside with Daddy. Show Val your new house.’

  Jack watched Val’s expressions as he showed her around. She didn’t give very much away. For his own part, he had forgotten how gloomy the house was, how much in need of modernisation. It seemed the place hadn’t changed since his childhood, when he had first visited Peter here. He remembered how frightened he had been of Peter’s father in those days. The old man had such a nasty tongue and seemed to know exactly what to say to cause the most hurt. He wondered how Peter had stood the old bastard for so long.

  He led Val upstairs, the boys racing ahead. In the largest bedroom at the front of the house he turned to her, suddenly exasperated by the house, realising he would never want to live in it, that it tied him too much to a past he wanted to escape. Quickly, afraid she might disagree, he said, ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  To his relief, Val laughed as though she had been thinking the same thing. ‘Maybe if we redecorate . . . ’

  ‘Maybe if we knock it down and start again . . . ’

  The boys ran in and began bouncing on the bed, the metal frame creaking and rattling beneath their combine
d weight. Val smiled at them, and he tried to read what her smile might mean – if she loved his sons or only found them amusing for the short time she was with them. He knew they were a handful and he would never have dared – never have dreamed – of behaving as naughtily when he was their age. His father would have thrashed him. He had spoiled the boys since Carol’s death, everyone had. Watching Val watch the twins, he had to suppress the urge to ask her what she thought of them, just as he had asked her about this house. But some questions couldn’t be asked, their answers only to be found in looks and gestures and the tone of her voice; he would have to go on studying her, looking for clues.

  Stepping towards the bed, Val held out her hands to the boys. ‘Hop down now, come and show me your favourite room.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy, isn’t it, boys?’ Jack smiled at her. ‘The toy room.’

  They followed the twins into the room Peter had set aside for the children. Val looked around. ‘It’s as if this room belongs to another house. Like stepping into sunshine from the gloom.’

  Going to the picture of the prince on the wall above the fireplace, she took her time studying it. At last she said, ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’

  ‘You think so?’ Jack went to stand beside her. ‘I suppose he is. Never really thought about it.’

  ‘Uncle Peter’s father said that his drawings were silly.’ Martin frowned up at him. ‘Are they silly, Daddy?’

  ‘No.’ He glanced at Val. Quietly he said, ‘You might have gathered that Uncle Peter’s father was an SOB.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like it.’

  From the rocking horse Steven said, ‘Uncle Peter’s father said that we were very clever boys, too, so there.’

  ‘Did he? Now I know you’re telling fibs.’

  ‘I am not! He said we were very clever and he knew we could find buried treasure if he gave us a clue about where to look.’

  Martin glared at his brother. ‘We said we wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘So – it doesn’t matter if you break a promise to a dead person. Besides, it’s only an old box with a letter in it.’ Stephen got down from the horse, pushing it hard so that it knocked a dent in the wall, only to meekly slip his hand into Jack’s. ‘I think the letter’s for you, Daddy. You’re Mr John Jackson, aren’t you? That’s what proper people call you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. So, you found a letter addressed to me. Where?’

  ‘In the cellar.’ Stephen looked guilty. ‘We didn’t read it or anything. The writing was too hard.’

  ‘In the cellar? This isn’t one of your stories, is it?’

  He looked affronted. ‘No.’

  Val said lightly, ‘Where’s the letter now, Stephen?’

  Martin said, ‘If we tell you, can we have some proper treasure?’

  ‘No! Really, you two – you’re the limit.’

  But Val only laughed. ‘Oh, Jack. They were promised treasure. Here,’ she went into her purse and held up two shillings. ‘One each, once you’ve given Daddy his letter.’

  ‘No, Val, that’s too much. They don’t deserve it.’

  She smiled at him with such warmth and tenderness that all his irritation with the boys was forgotten. He shook his head, pretending despair. ‘All right. But the money will exchange hands only when the letter is delivered to me. Now, off you go and fetch it.’

  When they’d run off downstairs, Jack pulled her into his arms. After he’d kissed her he said, ‘You know this letter doesn’t actually exist, don’t you?’

  She gazed at him. Softly she said, ‘This is a lovely room for children, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, although the boys have almost grown out of wanting to play in here.’

  ‘But for younger children, babies . . . ’

  ‘Oh.’ He laughed a little at his own slow-wittedness. ‘Yes, I see, for babies.’ Kissing her again he said, ‘Of course.’

  Hesitantly she said, ‘Of course?’

  He stepped back from her. ‘Of course. Unless you think I’m too old to be a father again?’

  She laughed. ‘No!’

  He reached out, pressing his hand against her cheek because she had blushed suddenly. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see where those little monkeys have got to.’

  The boys were up in the tree-house, a complicated construction that was just one more example of why they thought Uncle Peter was the most wonderful person alive. Jack couldn’t compete with Peter’s ingenuity and patience when it came to toys and stories and games. Jack thought that he was too much like his own father, a man who worked his forty-hour week and was too knackered each evening to do anything but grumble and grunt from behind a newspaper. Except his father had a wife – his mother – to cook supper and supervise homework and bedtime; he never had to worry about taking time off work to look after a sick little boy, or comfort a bereaved child when she woke up crying in the middle of the night.

  On nights like that, when he’d returned to his own bed at last and found he couldn’t sleep for the empty space beside him, he would take himself back to the skies over Berlin and by reliving a certain mission moment by moment, make himself concentrate only on getting his crew home safely. He never believed he would return there. Before Carol’s death he tried to forget that he had ever flown, afraid that he’d find he missed it too much. He found he missed the adrenalin; that tremendous, fearful rush was far preferable to the constant ache of loss. And then he would feel ashamed, because his children needed him to be steady and not to go chasing after the excitement of being twenty-one and in charge of a huge, exploding sky.

  Standing on the ground beneath the tree-house, Jack called up and saw the short-trousered, no-longer-chubby legs of one of his sons begin the descent of the rope ladder. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Where’s this mystery letter?’

  Both boys dropped at his feet. ‘Where’s Val with our money?’

  ‘Why are you such demons? Val’s inside, powdering her nose. If you have a letter – which I doubt – you’ll have your money when you hand it over.’

  ‘Here.’ Martin thrust an envelope at him.

  Jack frowned. Just as Stephen had said, the letter was addressed to him in an old-fashioned, copperplate hand. The envelope had been torn open across its seal and he took out the single sheet of heavy velum. It felt gritty and smelled as if it had lain buried under earth. The boys were watching him, mildly curious.

  ‘Go and play,’ he said.

  For once they didn’t argue, but went off to find Val and her shillings.

  There was a garden bench and Jack sat down. He took his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on, his movements slow and deliberate as an old man’s. Like an old man’s his hands were shaking a little, his guts churning in the kind of state they’d get into just before a take-off. Since the moment he’d seen his name on the envelope he’d had a creeping sense of what it contained; after all, he had always known how vile and malicious Peter’s father was and how he would revel in the chance to rub his nose in all that had gone on in the past. Jack scowled. Softly he said, ‘Even from the grave, you old sod.’

  He didn’t have to read the letter, of course. He could rip it to shreds and toss it over this bloody garden, a place he was certain he would never come back to. But of course he couldn’t help himself, like doing any other disgusting, sickening thing you knew was bad for you but was nevertheless compelling. Unfolding the letter, he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and began to read.

  Chapter 30

  I despaired when Jack arrived. All at once the garden was full of the boys, their noise and energy, full of Jack and Val, too, holding hands and smiling like adolescent sweethearts, greedy for each other. I wanted to ask them to leave. I wanted to cut some of the roses from the garden and lay them on the grave. I wanted to kneel there and try to piece together a prayer for my mother. Most of all, I wanted to be alone. I had sent Guy away and before he left, he embraced me. I was afraid he would cry again and couldn’t bear i
t so I stepped back from him too quickly and perhaps I appeared cold, but I only wanted him gone. I smiled and told him he should go home to bed and try to forget. I thanked him. Perhaps I should have kept silent, but it seems I know only one stiff and narrow way to behave.

  My father used to say I was like her. Just like her: wicked and immoral.

  He killed her.

  He killed her and buried her body in that terrible place and for years and years he had coal stacked over her and had me go down there time and time again, knowing I would stand on her grave. He made me believe she had left me willingly, thoughtlessly; that she had never loved me: how could she, to leave me like that? He put her photograph in a box and buried it beside her, and he buried me there, too, along with everything I might have meant to him.

  I stayed by her new grave, guarding it, I suppose, waiting until Jack saw fit to leave. I had made the earth quite flat again, so that no one would suspect she was there. I have seen so many graves without markers, or marked with only the most flimsy crosses I knew would quickly succumb to the rain. The flimsiness of those crosses only mattered to me at first, when dying seemed the worst that could happen to us.

  The boys came out, running towards the tree-house. Then Jack, not noticing me, calling to the children, his voice full of his new happiness. I watched him because I have always watched him, looking for the differences between us.

  He took something from the boys and they ran into the house, leaving him alone with me. He sat on the bench; after a little while he put on his spectacles so that all at once he looked young, like the shy little boy who was once my ally. He read what the boys had given him, and then laid it beside him. After a little while he stood up and walked across the lawn towards me.

  Jack cleared his throat, afraid that his voice would break, that he would let himself down. He felt a kind of numbness, the same disbelief he’d felt when he was told that Carol was dead. He realised he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. What he had just read had knocked all the sense out of him.