The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  No sooner had they ordered tea than she dragged him onto the dance floor. They danced cheek to cheek, and as they danced she pressed her thighs against his and caressed the hair at the nape of his neck until he almost fainted with longing for her. ‘I’m so glad you’re still a teensy bit fond of me,’ she said, evidently happy to have lost none of her power over him.

  ‘How is your husband?’ he asked defensively.

  She gave him a reproachful look. ‘Don’t be cruel.’ ‘Aren’t you afraid he might see us together?’

  ‘What here!’ She giggled. ‘Lennox wouldn’t be seen dead at the Café Royal – much too kitsch for him. Besides, we’re not doing anything really wicked, are we?’ She looked up at him. How well he remembered that provocative look. Before he could stop her, she was kissing him. ‘At least, not yet,’ she murmured mischievously, her lipstick smudged, her dark eyes blurred and sensuous.

  Abruptly she stopped dancing. ‘Our tea will be getting cold.’

  He guided her back to the table. As she sat down, she asked, ‘Would you like to fuck me?’ as if she had been offering him a biscuit.

  Arthur swallowed hard. ‘You said you had something important to tell me.’

  Swallowing a last morsel of chocolate éclair, she licked the cream off her fingers with long, lingering licks. ‘I’m pregnant.’ ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said, concealing his jealousy at the thought of another man making love to her.

  She beamed. ‘Dear Arthur, only you could be so naïve.’

  His face showed first incomprehension, and then, as the truth dawned, shock.

  ‘That’s it, darling, you got it in one.’ Strangely, she seemed quite unconcerned, as if it were someone else’s baby she was talking about. ‘I know it’s yours, you see, because Lennox was rather difficult after Oxford. He wouldn’t have sex with me for ages, poor lamb. Then he was away in the States on business.’ A quick shrug. ‘So there it is.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s entirely my fault.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘You can count on me.’

  ‘Can I darling?’ Was she mocking him? ‘To do the right thing I mean.’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth. He could scarcely believe it. There she was erupting into giggles, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, when she had recovered her composure, ‘I am sorry, Arthur, I didn’t mean to laugh at you, really I didn’t. But, well – the right thing! How sweet. How gallant. How chivalrous. And what might the right thing be? An offer of marriage?’

  He responded huffily. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘There is the slight problem that I’m already married,’ she said, still teasing him. ‘But then, that was not what you had in mind, was it?’

  ‘Actually, I . . . what I meant was, if you should decide to .

  . . you know . . . then I would naturally . . . pay whatever . . . ’ ‘Poor lamb. It hasn’t turned out well, has it? Not what you expected at all. I’m not the girl you thought I was. I would like to be,’ she said, wistfully. ‘I really would. You were so in love with her.’

  ‘I still am – in love with you, I mean.’

  ‘No, you’re not. How could you be? You have no idea who I am, no idea at all.’

  She was right of course. Maybe it was love he had fallen in love with, though it wouldn’t hurt any the less if that were true.

  ‘Arthur Hughes,’ she said thoughtfully, adding for no apparent reason, ‘I wonder what your real name is.’ She took his hand, holding it tenderly in what he took to be a condescending gesture, more about pity than about love. He was overcome, first with embarrassment, then with remorse for being embarrassed. Abruptly he pulled his hand away.

  It was clear the rejection offended her. ‘So you want to get rid of it, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what I want, Margot. To be honest, I haven’t taken it in yet. I need time to get used to the idea of being a father.’

  ‘What would you say . . . ’ – over her teacup her dark eyes taunted him – ‘if I had the baby?’

  Arthur was uncomfortable and hated himself for it. ‘How would you explain it to your husband?’

  ‘Lennox?’ An airy wave of the hand. ‘I could always tell him the truth.’ Relishing Arthur’s uneasiness, she said, with mock horror, ‘Surely you wouldn’t expect me to lie to him?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that. All the same, I . . . ’ ‘You are dithering, Arthur.’

  It was true. He was not making sense. ‘Give me a few days to think about it.’

  ‘What is there to think about?’ She sat back in her chair, her eyes challenging him.

  What he really wanted was for the baby to go away. He knew that was wrong but he was nineteen years old and a student. What were the options? He could leave Oxford and take a job. Margot could get a divorce, they could get married and she could have the baby. But it was obvious she didn’t want that, that she didn’t love him. What future would there be for them?

  ‘You don’t think,’ he said hesitantly, ‘you don’t think it might be better if . . . ’

  She cut in brutally. ‘You want the baby killed?’ He looked shocked.

  ‘I’m sorry if my choice of words offended you. I should have been more elegant. Let me see, now. You want me to have an abortion. Does that sound better?’

  Arthur shook his head despairingly. She seemed to take pleasure in tormenting him.

  ‘No? Well then, how else can I put it? Should I see someone about it? Is that better, my darling? Should I see someone about it?’

  ‘I know I’m making a mess of it,’ he said quietly, ‘but nothing in my life has prepared me for anything like this.’

  ‘I see. Let’s all be sorry for Arthur, shall we? Poor lad, he’s just an innocent teenager and Margot’s a twenty-five year old slag. So naturally it’s her decision and her responsibility.’

  ‘That’s not the way I feel at all,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘In heaven’s name, how do you feel?’ As heads turned in their direction, Margot lowered her voice to an intense whisper. ‘You certainly don’t want to face facts, do you, lover boy? I’m pregnant. There’s this living thing inside me. If I decide to get rid of it, some sleazy abortionist is going to stick a metal claw up my vagina and crush his, or her, head.’

  ‘You must have the baby,’ he said decisively. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘I am a tease, darling, aren’t I?’ she said contritely. ‘I don’t know how you put up with me. Another éclair?’

  He shook his head, confused. How calmly she was taking it, as if none of it were real.

  She helped herself. ‘I shall have an abortion,’ she said, sucking her fingers. ‘Alright with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, but so quietly that she had to strain to catch the word.

  Around them the waiters bustled, clattering away the debris of afternoon tea, already laying out the tables for dinner. Arthur paid the bill and they hurried out of the restaurant into Regent Street. He said awkwardly. ‘Please let me help.’

  ‘Money is not a problem.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Just remember, darling, it’s what you wanted.’ Before he could reply, she was walking briskly away from him. Without warning he was wracked with pain, as if some wild beast were tearing out his stomach; in all his life he had never felt so wretched and ashamed. He had a sudden urge to run after her and tell her he had changed his mind; but it was too late. She had disappeared in the crowd.

  About to leave for the office one morning, Lennox a tidy man, forever cleaning up after his wife, picked up a letter from the sitting room carpet. It was from the gynaecologist’s receptionist confirming an appointment for Mrs M. Lotte that very afternoon.

  ‘N-Nothing wrong, is there?’ He looked so concerned that even Margot felt a stab of conscience. How to respond? Should she say she was having a check-up, hinting darkly of a dread disease? And when the abortion deed was done, she would say it had been a false alarm, only some minor infection nee
ding antibiotics. Brilliant! His relief should be worth at least a diamond bracelet.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ was what she actually said. It was as much of a surprise to her as it was to Lennox.

  ‘That’s w-wonderful, d-darling.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything. To tell you the truth, I was thinking of having it – seen to.’

  Lennox was appalled. ‘An abortion!’

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t want another baby. Besides, I didn’t want to bore you with woman’s stuff.’

  ‘W-woman’s stuff!’ The protruding vein at the side of his forehead was throbbing. ‘What a-b-bout m-man’s stuff! I d-did p-play a m-modest role in its conception, d-didn’t I?’

  It was obviously intended more as a statement than a question. Still, there would never be a better opportunity to tell him the truth. It was tempting. Should she? Should she not? She wavered, savouring the moment. But then she thought, poor darling, he was so innocent, so vulnerable, so bloody naïve, she couldn’t do it to him. ‘Of course you did, darling, and I enjoyed it enormously. It was unforgivable of me not to consult you. I’ll cancel the gyno.’

  Hugging her affectionately, he asked, ‘When is it d-due?’

  Margot hesitated. Lennox had blundered into dangerous territory. The baby was due in February the following year. ‘I never was any good at maths. Let me see,’ she said vaguely, ‘March or April, I think.’

  It was absurd to have a baby so soon after giving birth to Gaheris, and yet, the more she thought about it, the more the whole thing appealed to her perverse nature. It amused her to reflect that the child in her belly was not her husband’s, and it aroused her to think that it was Arthur’s. If Lennox wanted to believe the child was his, let him; who was she to disillusion him? Why sink a man with the truth when he was content to swim with the lie?

  It was a boy, and the name they gave him was Mordred. Lennox had been hoping for a girl, but Margot had always known she was destined only to have sons. Morgan had told her, and Morgan knew about such things. The infant supposedly due in April surprised everyone but Margot and her gynaecologist by arriving in February, and was, naturally enough, remarkably well developed for a seven month baby. Margot assumed Lennox was too happy to notice; but she was wrong. He had noticed, and the doubts gnawed at his mind. After several false starts, he finally expressed them. ‘M-Mordred was b-born s-several weeks p-prematurely, was he not?’ he observed without warning one evening, when he had been drinking more than usual.

  ‘Was he, dear?’ The response was soft as a cat’s purr. ‘Since when were you an expert?’

  ‘I’m not. The d-doctor said M-Mordred was a p-perfectly normal b-baby. D-definitely not p-premature.’

  Margot considered her husband for some moments, and there was menace in her gaze. ‘Well now, you’ve discovered my shameful secret,’ she said at last.

  ‘Secret?’ Lennox flushed all the way down to his collar. ‘All these years I’ve been having a passionate affair.’ His face was ashen. ‘Am I n-not the f-father, then?’ ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Margot,’ he pleaded, ‘stop torturing me.

  Who is Mordred’s father?’

  She eyed her husband scornfully. ‘The plumber, of course!

  Who else would it be? You know how I adore plumbers. All those huge muscles and spanners and things.’

  ‘What k-kind of n-nonsense is this?’

  ‘The same kind of nonsense as yours, my darling. Smoke without fire.’

  ‘I never said M-Mordred was n-not m-my son.’

  ‘Didn’t you? I thought you did.’ In a flash she had abandoned her derisive manner and had assumed her baby girl pout. ‘How could you be so cruel? Don’t you know I would never betray you?’

  ‘Of c-course I d-do.’

  She clawed at his chest, murmuring, ‘Why would I need a lover when I have the best stud in London?’

  ‘Oh God, M-Margot, I’m so crazy a-b-bout you. P-please forgive me. I’m such a f-fool.’

  When he thought about it later, Lennox felt vaguely uneasy, for the fact was he had not been satisfactorily answered. His wife had made certain he would never raise the subject again, yet she had not given him peace of mind. Smoke without fire, she had said. What had she meant by that? Everyone knew there was no such thing. The inconsistency reflected the confusion in his mind. There was no fire, or so she expected him to believe, yet the smoke was there for everyone to see.

  Twenty Two

  2015

  In his final term at Oxford, when he ought to have been feeling confident and positive about the future, Arthur was apprehensive and disillusioned. Never had he felt so isolated. His birth parents had abandoned him, Margot had betrayed him, and Merlin, once his god, now had feet of clay. Though still teaching, Merlin spent more and more of his time in those mysterious facilities of his at Glastonbury. When Arthur asked questions, Merlin was evasive, hinting at “preparations”, promising vaguely that one day all would be explained. Arthur did not appreciate being treated like a child, nor did he like being taken for granted, for whatever Merlin was planning, he appeared to assume that Arthur would one day be involved in it. That Arthur found disturbing and demeaning. He was his own man, and no one, not even Merlin, had the right to tell him what to do with his life.

  An unexpected visit from Keir did nothing to improve Arthur’s state of mind. Over a glass of wine in his rooms it was soon obvious that his older brother was there for one reason only – to put him down. ‘Let’s face it, Arthur, all this . . . ’ – a disparaging wave of the hand at the ancient domes and spires of Oxford – ‘all this is pure theatre, fantasy. There’s nothing tangible here, no future, no career. Look at me. I shall be a director of IPC very soon – biggest Internet Service Provider in the world. Now that’s real. This is all wind and fart. Never understood why you were so keen to come here. I never wanted to, as you know.’

  A blatant lie, though Arthur decided not to challenge it. The fact was that hard-working, plodding Keir had not fulfilled his early promise, failing to win a place at Oxford, or indeed at any other university.

  ‘One of us has to live in the real world. I can see I shall just have to make pots of money, not for myself, you understand, but for those two wonderful people in Ponterlally who sacrificed so much for me. And of course for you too, Arthur . . . excellent wine this.’ A sly look in Arthur’s direction. ‘But I don’t need to remind you, do I? You have even more reason to be grateful to them than I do.’

  To Arthur it had very much the sound of a prepared speech. The jibes were barbed and well-aimed. ‘After all, they took you into their home out of the goodness of their hearts. Did they ever make you feel unwanted? Of course not. Quite the contrary, in fact. They went out of their way to treat you like one of the family.’ Keir shook his head sadly. ‘When I think how hard they worked. And what have they got to show for it in the twilight of their lives? Precious little . . . what a splendid Burgundy this is, wish I could afford wines like this . . . No, they don’t have two beans to rub together. Everything they had they gave us. To you and me, Arthur.’

  Arthur had taken enough. ‘You are my brother, Keir, and I love you,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t give you the right to lecture me on my responsibilities.’

  Keir sat back in his chair, gaping open-mouthed in mock outrage. ‘I am mortified, Arthur. Truly mortified. Lecture you! Nothing could be further from my mind. We have taken different roads, you and I, that’s all I’m saying. You have chosen the high road to glamour. And I, the low road to hard graft.’

  Out of family loyalty, Arthur somehow contrived to tolerate his brother, but his student friends who found him insufferable, felt no such obligation. Like many people insensitive to the feelings of others, Keir was himself highly sensitive and found it hard to endure the disdain of these young men. Even harder to take was the respect they so obviously had for Arthur. They were his friends, yet somehow more than friends, for Keir saw not just affection in th
eir eyes when they looked at Arthur, but something close to hero-worship. Without seeming to exercise authority, he was clearly their leader, and they followed him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Edward Campbell, the student who had unwittingly brought Margot into Arthur’s life, had become one of his closest friends. It was he who inadvertently mentioned the Steeplejacks.

  Keir was intrigued. ‘Who are they?’ ‘Just a club,’ said Campbell carefully. ‘You can trust Keir,’ said Arthur.

  Campbell grinned a little sheepishly. ‘Some undergraduates play rugby, some row, some booze, some even work. We climb buildings.’

  ‘They climb towers,’ explained Arthur, ‘church spires, sheer walls, whatever. And they name all of them after famous mountain peaks – K2, Everest, Makalu, Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, the Eiger, and so on.’

  Keir was looking at Arthur disapprovingly. ‘You do this?’ ‘No, I’m not a member. I couldn’t do what they do.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Keir was baffled. ‘What’s the point of it all?’

  Edward Campbell chuckled. ‘It’s like Mallory said about Everest; we climb them because they’re there.’

  ‘Surely there has to be a better reason than that,’ said Keir incredulously.

  Edward shrugged. ‘I expect you’re right. It’s about recognition as much as anything. Everyone wants to be a hero, don’t they?’

  Keir was puzzled. What was heroic about climbing a wall? It was trivial, childish. He scorned Campbell, he scorned all of them, yet oddly enough he found himself envying them. Their lifestyle may have been superficial, but it was certainly adventurous. For the first time he was overcome by a depressing sense of the dullness of his own existence. There had to be something more to life than the Internet. If only someone cared enough to notice him, it would have made a difference, but no one did. The truth was, he had as much chance of becoming a director of IPC as he had of – well, of climbing Everest.