Seeking Hyde

by Reed, Thomas;

  His father was in the library at the back of the house, lounging, legs crossed, in his favorite leather chair. He was reading the day’s Scotsman.

  “I am so sorry, Father,” sighed Stevenson as he entered the room. “We were to have breakfasted at eight.”

  The older man lowered the paper, eyeing his son over his spectacles. “Well, I didn’t honestly expect you.” He folded the broad sheets precisely and dropped them onto the small table just to his left. “You were with Baxter. And you haven’t seen him for some time.”

  “Still—”

  “We’ll hear no more of it. You’ll forgive me, I trust, for going ahead without you?” The question seemed sincere.

  “Of course, Father. Of course.”

  “I fear my aging constitution is increasingly intolerant of irregular meal times. Come. Let’s go through and get you something. I believe Isabelle’s kept the kettle on.” He smiled a crinkly smile and rose from the chair, stepping towards his son and extending his hand. Stevenson moved nearer and took it. The grip was almost painfully firm, uncustomarily so. Stevenson wondered if it had a meaning. If so, nothing in the level gaze under the stately brow revealed it.

  “Good morning to you. And again, Father—”

  “Wheesht! I won’t hear of it. Come along.”

  They made their way through the hall and into the dining room, where a place remained set beside the head of the table. Thomas Stevenson took a seat in one of the two grand armchairs and his son settled to his left, sliding his napkin from the initialed silver ring he had used for as long as he could remember. He set the chilly thing soundlessly on the tablecloth. “So,” he said, looking up, “I suppose I’m surprised to find that you’re taking the Scotsman.”

  His father laughed. “And reading it too! One does well to stay abreast of the opposition’s way of thinking. Would you mind pulling the bell? I seem to have neglected that little detail.”

  Stevenson rose, walked over to the fireplace, and gave a hearty tug on a brass handle just to the side. “I don’t know that the Liberals are exactly your opponents,” he replied. “I distinctly recall finding a few volumes of Hume tucked away in a corner of your upper shelves. Safe from prying eyes.”

  Thomas shook his head with a calculated snort. “Spy! Thankless child!”

  “Time brings change, pater. Could there be a nascent Liberal lurking behind the respectable façade of Number 17?”

  His father laughed again. “I am far too old for that. And how could I be a good father were I not resolutely and thoroughly Tory? Good heavens. Would you have me out carousing with you and Baxter? Making a fool of myself? Putting my eternal soul at risk?”

  “Well—”

  “I suppose you now expect me to add your worrisome Baudelaire to my Hume—perhaps even The Descent of Man!” He winked at his son as a prim, uniformed maid shuffled into the room.

  “Sir? Oh, good morning, Master Louis.”

  “Good morning, Fiona. You’ve been well?”

  “Very, sir. And you?”

  “Wonderful, thank you.”

  “What do you fancy, Smout?” asked his father, slapping his hands on the tablecloth.

  Stevenson looked sidelong at the maid, who blinked at the odd nickname his father continued to favor. Wee fish. “Oh, just a boiled egg, I think, and some toast. Perhaps a rasher or two of bacon, if there’s any to be had.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Oh, and some tea as well. For two?” He glanced at his father, who nodded.

  “Thank you, sir.” The woman curtsied and left, and for a moment, the two men sat in silence.

  “What’s that over your eye?” asked the father.

  “This?” Stevenson reached up to touch the mark.

  “Yes. Were you and Baxter caught up in fisticuffs?” There had been times, some not in the terribly distant past, when the question might have been asked in earnest. It had often been difficult to know if Thomas Stevenson were more convinced of his son’s deleterious influence on his various friends, or of theirs on him. The only certainty was that the old fellow had seen the whole lot of them as jointly, and inescapably, headed for perdition.

  Stevenson laughed. “Hardly, Father. The train braked suddenly… coming into Waterloo. I struck my head on the doorframe. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it last evening. You or mother.”

  “Well, the light was dim. And you were in a rush, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  It distressed Stevenson, lying to his parents. Ever since he was nine, however—when they had been obliged to meet with his schoolmaster after he had lit the play yard bully’s overcoat on fire—he had gone to considerable lengths to keep his volatile temper and its occasionally dire consequences from their ken. That he and his father had long seemed incapable of steering clear of heated exchanges over politics and religion made this all the more challenging. Fortunately, their testy male antipathies looked of late to have moderated.

  “Mother wasn’t down earlier, was she?”

  “At eight? Heavens, no! We’ll not see her for hours.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” laughed his father.

  “You know what I meant,” Stevenson chuckled as well. “I suspect.”

  “Your suspicions are well founded. But, really, Lou—if you insist on being a writer, you know, you must learn to express yourself in ways that leave less room for misinterpretation.”

  Stevenson laughed again. “Do you really think that’s what literature aspires to, Father? Uncontestably explicit communication?”

  The reply was quick. “I am afraid I do. Everything must be as clear as a patent light…planted firmly on a rocky headland. Clear as Bunyan. Clear as the nose on my face.” He flicked his substantial proboscis with a forefinger and winked again. Ever since Treasure Island—save for an occasional and always unpredictable resurfacing of his original dismay and outrage—Thomas had seemed grudgingly comfortable with his son’s literary profligacy. It had not hurt that the old man himself had conjured up the crucial plot device of Jim Hawkins’s nap in the apple barrel. That, and the suggestive contents of Billy Bones’s sea chest: the unused suit of clothes that hinted at poignant hopes—perhaps of eventual marriage, perhaps of nothing more than a laying-out and burial on dry land rather than at the lonely bottom of the sea. And then there was the old pirate’s little collection of exotic shells, unaccountably sentimental items to be found in an aged and battered trunk. Whether or not there lurked a Liberal inside him, his father could certainly compass nuance. He could craft it himself when no one was looking—although, for years, he had kept that capacity a total secret from his only child.

  Fiona entered with the tea, setting the tray in front of the older man. “Shall I pour, sir?”

  “I’ll do,” said Thomas Stevenson, sliding the cups and saucers slowly to the left of the squat Delft pot and filling them to within a half-inch of their rims.

  Stevenson noted the tremor in the hand that passed his cup, and registered, in turn, a little catch in his own chest. It had once been fear that had complicated the love and grudging respect he felt for his father. Was pity now making a bid to do the same? Something in the situation moved him…to what? Surely it was beneath a decent son to feel betrayal or anger as his father made unavoidable concessions to the press of years—especially a father who had almost always come round to support his child in every important way. Eventually, at least.

  “Thank you,” said Stevenson, grasping the saucer.

  “Of course.” His father picked up his own cup and leaned slowly back. “Now, what do you have planned for your day?”

  “Goodness, Father,” replied Stevenson, setting down his tea. “I would have thought that was clear from yesterday’s discussion.”

  The old man raised a reproving eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry. You know how I dread all this.”

  “I quite understand, Smout. It is not easy, confronting the mortality of those we love. Dear friends.”

/>   “No.”

  “Your mother and I, naturally, have reached that point in life where we expect to lose friends and family. But to be scarcely thirty!” Thomas noted his son’s silence and took a deep breath. “Perhaps we’ll speak of other things.”

  “No. Really, Father—this is what it comes down to.” Stevenson straightened his shoulders and smiled resolutely. “Best to face it bravely.” And then, with a wink, “Manfully.”

  “There’s a braw spirit! There’s no opposing God’s will.”

  “Perhaps.” Stevenson’s response was reflexive. But what, he wondered peevishly, was the use of saying that? It was difficult business, this. Writing one’s self anew.

  Any reaction from his father was forestalled as the door swung open and the maid bustled in with another tray, bearing a plate heaped high with egg cups and bacon, and a toast caddy similarly laden.

  “Thank you, Fiona. And thank Isabelle as well.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Stevenson eyed the plenty laid before him and shook his head in playful dismay. “Oh, ’Belle.”

  “Always trying to fatten you up,” chuckled his father.

  “The definition of a futile pursuit! Yet one in which she makes common cause with all of the other women in my life.”

  “And how is Fanny? I’m afraid your mother and I were very rude last evening not to ask after her.”

  “Not at all. There were other matters to hand. But she’s well, thank you. And Sam also.”

  “A dear boy. And a very dear mother.”

  Stevenson set down his knife and fork and turned towards his table-mate. He paused for a moment to blink back an unexpected misting in his eyes. “Father,” he began.

  “Mmmm? Yes?” Thomas Stevenson looked indulgently over the brim of his cup.

  “I must tell you how much it pleases me to hear you say that. To think that you and mother…” He was reduced to a nod and a shrug of his shoulders.

  “My, we’re being earnest now, are we not? And so early in the day.”

  Stevenson laughed, his father quickly joining in. “Well, you’ve heard me say it. I am grateful.”

  “Nonsense,” exclaimed his father. “Fanny makes you happy?”

  “She does. Mostly.” Another shared chuckle.

  “Well, there you are. ‘Mostly happy.’ As perfect a match as any earthly soul is likely to find.”

  “Verily.”

  “I must admit, Louis,” said the older man as he rubbed the knuckles of one hand, “I do find your good wife surprisingly agreeable. Especially for a lady from the colonies.”

  “And there’s the key,” responded Stevenson with a grin.

  “To what?”

  “To your affection for her.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Fanny simply agrees with everything you have to say.”

  “She does not,” sputtered his father with affected bluster.

  “She most certainly does. Whether or not she is honestly of the same mind. Whether or not it’s the daftest sentiment she’s ever heard a man express.”

  The other reared back in feigned astonishment and outrage.

  “She has told me so explicitly,” declared his son.

  “Well, there’s no fool like an old fool. But I shall continue to love the lady and think the best of her. Despite her unfortunate choice of a husband.”

  Conversation yielded momentarily to the clinking of Stevenson’s cutlery and a few busy noises from the kitchen below. A muted thundering outside announced a delivery of coal, sliding into a neighbor’s cellar.

  “Have you found anything in Bournemouth, then?” Thomas Stevenson asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Have you looked? Truly looked?”

  Stevenson again set down his knife and fork, raising his napkin to his mouth and moustache. He parted his lips to say something, but remained silent.

  “I’ve offended you,” muttered his father.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What it is then? Your finances?”

  “No. Not our finances. We’re doing well enough. And you and mother have been extremely generous.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’ve been ordered south again, Father. We have been ordered south. For considerations of health.”

  Thomas Stevenson eyed his son warily. “The hemorrhages again? ‘Bluidy Jack’?”

  “Aye, Bluidy Jack.”

  His father’s brow furrowed and his fists clenched on the tablecloth. “Though really not so bad this time.” Stevenson felt another unsettling bloom of pity for the old man. “Honestly.”

  His parents had been obliged to contend with the constant afflictions he had been prey to as a child—the lingering colds and bronchitis, the gastric and scarlet fevers, the chickenpox, whooping cough; all the endless nights of croup that left him gasping for air over a pot of boiling water. Nothing had quite prepared them, though, for that dreadful night three years back when he had wakened the household with the desperate, gurgling cough of a drowning man. He had sensed the blood immediately, flooding his mouth with its iron savor, dripping thickly from his lips and nostrils. It was only when a housemaid had entered with a candle that he had seen the entire front of his nightshirt, the whole of his pillow, and the better part of his bed sheet awash in the stuff. His eyesight had wavered as he spit and sucked for air. It had nonetheless remained sufficiently clear for him, looking up from his gory nest, to spy his poor parents standing in the doorway, unrobed and in their nightclothes, supporting each other in attitudes of helpless terror.

  Of all the sights he had ever seen, that made a fair bid to be the one of which he would most gratefully have divested himself. Only witnessing the death of Fanny’s little Hervey might have surpassed it.

  “No?” His father’s eyes were eloquent. “Not so bad? Truly?”

  “They assure us, the doctors, that some months in Provence will work wonders. Just as before.”

  “Just as before.” His father nodded. “And yet it’s back again, is it not?”

  “I shall be fine, Father. It’s nothing, really. Merely a passing setback.”

  Thomas gathered himself with a deep breath. “Of course it is.” He paused. “And where will you go, then?”

  “Hyères, we think. Perhaps.” Dropping his fork, Stevenson snatched a rasher of bacon in his fingers and nibbled at it guiltily.

  “Barbarism!” fumed his father at the indelicacy. “You were too long in America. Your mother and I should disown you. But what of Hyères?”

  “On the coast, you know. The Mediterranean.” Stevenson licked his fingers, then reached sheepishly for his napkin. “It’s a charming little ville, by all accounts.”

  “I don’t suppose you could brook a visitor or two?”

  “Of course we could!” Stevenson sat up straight and smiled broadly. “What a pleasure that would be! Honestly. Fanny would be delighted.”

  “And Sam?”

  “Sam as well. Of course he would. We’ll look for larger accommodations.”

  His father chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll promise you nothing. Your mother and I aren’t given to the inconveniences of travel. Your mother at least.”

  “And here I’d thought our grand tour had suited her well,” countered Stevenson. “Lo, these many eons ago.”

  “Well…”

  “It was Cummy, not she, who was like to have perished.”

  His father grinned in recollection. “Good heavens. The poor woman’s dismay over their…their Carnival carrying-on? Lads dressed as lasses? Priests dressed as asses? She was nigh on apoplectic.”

  “Yui’ve brung us amang heathens, Mister Thomas,” mimicked Stevenson. “Canna we flee this cursed place? Canna we ga home?”

  “Aye,” chuckled his father. “She was like to barricade herself in her room. But your nurse is a fine lady for all that. We lower ourselves to mock such ironclad righteousness. Am I right?”

  “You are, Father. As always.”
/>   Again, the censorious brow. This time, though, an eye sparkled beneath.

  “Cummy was like a second mother to me,” said Stevenson.

  “Aye, she was.”

  “Although she has scarred me for life.”

  “Scarred you?”

  “I might as well have had John Knox minding me in my nursery! I can’t swear she read me The Justice of God in the Damnation of Sinners before she read me Jack and the Beanstalk. But it was always ‘irresistible Grace’ this and ‘total depravity’ that. The dear lady left me feeling I had as much control over my soul’s destiny as a goose feather in a hurricane.”

  “Off with you!” exclaimed the father. He waved his hand and made to rise from the table. “You are positively incorrigible.” Then, as though suddenly remembering what lay in store for his son, he added, “We shall be in all day, your mother and I. What time do you go to see Walter?”

  “At two.”

  “And your plans for luncheon?”

  “At the North British Hotel. With Fleeming.”

  “Ah, the esteemed Professor Jenkin.”

  “Another, with Cummy, of my regrettably few salutary influences.”

  “Blessed soul,” chortled his father. “I believe it is to him that we finally owe the completion of your baccalaureate?”

  Stevenson grinned. “Quite plausibly.”

  “Please convey my regards. Together with my extreme gratitude.” He extended his hand over the table, palm up. Stevenson grasped it and gave it a squeeze—precisely the way, it was odd to realize, he had taken the hand of a common prostitute just hours before. Folding and rolling his napkin, he slipped it into the silver ring and laid it softly back in its customary place.