‘I have an apology to make to you.’
‘What?’ Andrew was baffled. It wasn’t like Conrad to apologise for anything. This was a man who never made a mistake so it was never necessary. He turned his head slightly towards Conrad, then simply waited in silence.
‘I am… not good… at this… this sort of thing.’
‘That’s OK. I promise not to mark you out of ten.’
Conrad emitted a short snort of laughter.
‘The painting. You did a very good thing there, you see.’
‘Thank you. But you already thanked me. And paid me. Why should you apologise?’
Conrad inclined his head. ‘May I finish?’ As ever, he was at his most scary when he was being exceptionally polite. His voice was like steel.
‘Sorry.’
‘You did something that mattered a great deal to me. And then…’ Andrew watched Conrad out of the corner of his eye. Conrad pressed his palms down against his legs. ‘And then you asked me, perfectly civilly, about the provenance of the picture you had so painstakingly worked on.’
‘I was interested.’
‘Naturally. It’s what we all do, isn’t it? Any conservator or curator wants to know, where did this come from? Do we know the date? Who created it? It’s second nature to you, as it is to me.’
‘Yes.’ Andrew nodded. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way but that’s absolutely right.’ He started to lever himself up in bed a little way. ‘I felt really quite desperate to know – even when I could see I was making you uncomfortable.’
‘And I was rude to you and became obstructive.’
‘Well, I’m a big boy now – I coped. That’s not what sent me… you know.’ He gestured vaguely at his prostrate form in the bed. ‘It was just… other stuff.’
‘I understand that. Anyway, I thought, if you would still like to know, then I will tell you because I have never told anyone and it has been a – well, I should not say a burden when other people have far greater crosses to bear – but difficult, shall we say? But I do not want to disturb your rest if you are, um, truly unwell?’
‘Tell me.’ Andrew turned his head towards him. ‘Please. I’d really welcome the distraction.’
Conrad nodded, then he leaned back in his chair, and began to speak.
‘Many, many years ago – over three decades ago now – I met and fell in love with… aah…’ An unfathomable expression came over his face, as if he were basking in glorious sunshine for a moment after a long, harsh winter. ‘An incredible woman. She was beautiful – no, she was radiant – but that was the least of her. She was highly intelligent, with a sort of intense curiosity, talented, astonishingly frank and forthright – not like anyone else I’d ever met before. And she… we… well, she loved me. Me! Baffling. And she seemed to understand me: all of me – the good aspects and the not so good aspects and the truly awful, darkest pits and crevasses of my peculiar psyche. She knew me as I had never been known before, never been known since. Yet she loved me anyway. She loved me without judgement, without reservation, without equivocation. Perhaps you have been loved like that?’ He sat forwards and turned to Andrew.
Andrew shook his head.
‘Well, it’s uncommon, I suspect. It’s an extraordinary feeling. Anyway, we planned that, once my younger child reached the age of sixteen and so was well on the way to increasing independence, that I would exit my marriage and we would be together. I had no doubt in my mind at all that I would do this and I believe the same was true for her.’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’ Andrew prompted.
‘No.’ Conrad exhaled loudly. ‘When he was only fifteen, my son, Benedict, was caught driving – drunk, quite off his head – with two friends. Thank God it was my car and luckily he drove it into a ditch without seriously injuring himself or anyone else.’ He paused. ‘Though one of the boys had a broken leg, and it was clear it could have been so much worse. Benedict, as ever, emerged without a scratch on him.’ Andrew could hear him swallow. ‘My son had always been something of a tearaway – no, that suggests he was amusingly mischievous when it was never amusing. He was always in trouble at school, hanging out with other no-hopers, never doing any work, then he was suspended for accidentally, or probably not at all accidentally, setting fire to the cricket pavilion. And there were numerous incidents of this kind. His mother, my wife, Marcia – she indulged him, made excuses for him and I… I… ’
‘It’s OK.’
Conrad blinked but carried on.
‘I neglected the boy, you see. It was my fault. I didn’t understand him and I was too preoccupied with what I understood to be my real life: the Museum, my work, the collection, my books, and My L— this woman I loved. I left it to my wife to raise him, even though it must have been clear to me that he was too much of a handful for her. I turned a blind eye much of the time and would then weigh in heavily to no good effect. But he and I – Benedict – we had no relationship, no nexus of communication. We could have had, perhaps, if I had only worked harder at being a better father to him earlier on. But I didn’t.
‘And then came this joy-riding episode and we were very much afraid that the boy would end up in youth detention. My wife became completely hysterical.’ He stopped and bit his lip, bowed his head for a moment. ‘God knows what they would have done to him – the boy with the posh voice and angelic looks. They’d have crucified him. He’d have been beaten up at the very least… knifed… buggered. I – I couldn’t consign my child to that, not if it was in my power to prevent it. The received wisdom back then was that these places would turn your average juvenile delinquent into a junkie, psychopath or hardened criminal.’
‘I believe it. So, what happened? Did you manage to get him off somehow?’
‘Yes. I shelled out for an extremely expensive lawyer and he came up with character references from a couple of local worthies who owed him a favour. We tidied it up, swept it under the carpet. But part of the agreement was that I would drive Benedict to school every day and his mother would pick him up and that I would supervise his homework and know his whereabouts every moment of the day that he wasn’t in school.’
‘And did you do that?’
‘I did.’ Conrad nodded slowly. ‘The alternative would have been to wash my hands of him, leave him to his fate.’ He pressed his palms together and looked for a moment like a man in prayer. ‘I cannot kid myself that I was a good father. I was barely even an adequate one. There comes a moment in every person’s life when one must face one’s flaws full on in the mirror in the cold, harsh light of day. Looking at my own was a very sobering experience. And I made a decision to take responsibility in the way I should have done years before. I had at least to give him a fighting chance, you see?’
‘Yes,’ Andrew sat up further in bed. ‘I see. And what about your, um, mistress?’
Conrad turned suddenly.
‘Don’t use that word, please. It sounds sordid. Cheap. She was… ah… everything to me. You have no idea. Can have no idea unless you have ever felt like that. The sex was the least of it, in a way. She was my love. Really she was.’
‘Ah. The initials then? M.L. My Love. Of course. But why in quotes?’
‘I don’t know. My guess is that she must have asked Philip, the painter, to put the initials there, and in quotation marks because she was “My Love”, not his, perhaps – but as a little joke for me really, presumably before I… ended things between us.’
‘When was it painted?’
‘I commissioned it not long before we parted – 1982, it was. The painter was a very talented friend of hers. She wanted to get him some work, I presume.
‘Anyway, Philip rang me up to say it was finished and I went and collected it and had it framed and brought it home and there it hung in my study for decades – a daily reminder of the woman I had lost.’
‘But didn’t you get in touch with her later? After your wife died?’
‘No. I never found her.’
‘But the int
ernet – you can find anyone…’
‘No. I tried that, of course. My Pauline Barnes wasn’t out there. Presumably she got married and became Pauline something else. She may well have grown-up children and, I hope, a more deserving husband than I could ever have been.’
‘Still, I bet she is out there somewhere. Perhaps she still thinks about you?’
‘I worked at the BM for over thirty years, I will remind you, Andrew. My whereabouts were hardly a secret.’
‘I suppose so, though if you had ended things, perhaps her pride prevented her? I can imagine that. And what about Benedict? Did it make a difference, do you think? Were you glad that you chose to stay?’
Conrad snorted and leaned forwards with his head in his hands.
‘I don’t know if it made a blind bit of difference really. I think he just became more devious, more adroit at hiding his vices: the drink, the drugs, screwing any half-sentient being of either sex.’ He slumped further down. ‘I suppose I got him through school, at least. Not college – his reports were so bad that no university would touch him. He took casual work when he could get it and I subsidised him too. I’d give money to his older sister, to Eleanor, and we’d pretend it was from her so he’d take it. He wouldn’t accept it from me, not as a gift. He’d steal it from my wallet, or from his mother’s purse, but he wouldn’t accept anything that might make him feel any sense of obligation or duty towards me.’
‘And what about now? You said you hadn’t seen him for a while?’
‘I have no idea. We haven’t seen him since his mother died over five years ago. We do not say it out loud – Eleanor is rather similar to me in this regard – but I know we both suspect he may be dead or a junkie living in a squat somewhere. He could be abroad. There’s no trace of him in the UK.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Andrew said. ‘Really sorry.’
Conrad batted the words away.
‘It’s just that the… not knowing is… difficult at times.’
‘It must be.’
‘And…’ Conrad paused for a long while and Andrew turned towards him. ‘The thing is, you see, that….’ He seemed to subside then, and shrink a little. ‘I stayed, yes, and I told myself I was being noble – honourable – doing my duty, doing the right thing – but, oh God! How I resented them. It was my choice to stay, but it was my family who had to live with how unbearable it must have made me. I stayed, but only as an empty shell of a man, a physical presence, and not much more. And my son…’ He suddenly covered his face with his hands. ‘How I hated him for being the reason I had lost her. I loathed him. Have you any idea how it is to go through life, existing – not living – day after day after day, torturing yourself by thinking about the woman you have loved and lost and resenting your own child? Have you any idea?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘No.’ His voice was barely audible.
Conrad sat back again and subsided into the chair.
‘I apologise. I’m amazed I haven’t bored you to sleep by now, you poor fellow. I must get off and leave you to rest.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I understand things are… difficult for you at present, but do you think you could face coming in on Monday? The department does need you, you know. And it’s Christmas soon enough. You can have a break then.’
Andrew nodded.
‘It is rare to come across someone with your skill and deft touch. I’ve been around a long time, you know. I am not easily impressed.’
‘I know you’re not. Thank you.’
Conrad rose and stood by the door.
‘The world comes knocking at no one’s door, Andrew. You must get out there and seize it by the scruff of its neck.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘No! Do not suppose so! It is so.’ Conrad punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Take it from me. Life is short. A cliché, of course, but true. It is tragically, unbearably short. If you don’t choose to live – and I mean really live – squeezing every drop of joy you can out of this peculiar existence of ours, grabbing real love and never letting it go, if you should ever be such a lucky bastard that you happen upon it you will merely be breathing in and out, using up oxygen that might be better employed by others more willing to take risks. No one ever won a medal for passing up the chance to be happy.’ He sighed then and shut the door behind him.
Andrew heard his fast tread on the stairs once more, then the sound of the front door opening and closing, and he was gone.
His dad sat down on the puny bed next to Andrew. He sat facing straight ahead, not looking at his son.
‘So.’ Dad clasped his hands together. ‘What’s occurring then?’
‘It’s all a bit crap, Dad.’
‘I know, son. You’re not wrong.’
‘It’s not Vicki even, not really. I don’t even miss her, if I’m honest. But I miss belonging to someone, having someone I need to call if I’m late, someone else to consider, to care about. I met this woman – Olivia – and I thought – and she was lovely – really lovely, Dad – but I cocked it up. I was an idiot. Anyway, I guess she realised I wasn’t up to much.’
‘Don’t say that, lad, that’s not true.’
‘Well, she’s wonderful. She could have any man she wanted.’
‘She’d be lucky to have you, Andrew. You’re a decent man.’ Ron started counting off on his fingers. ‘You’re kind, you’re honest, you’re clever as they come, and you’re probably not a bad-looking fellow at all, though I don’t know about that kind of thing, and what girls are wanting these days, I suppose, maybe a flash car and a big, fancy house.’
‘She’s not like that. At least I don’t think she is.’ Andrew paused, wishing he’d had the chance to get to know her better, suddenly deflated at the thought that, in all likelihood, he never would now. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know it was good of you and Mum to have me back for a bit.’
‘Don’t be daft. Always here if you need us, you know that. Though we might not be any good at saying that sort of thing, about feelings and all that.’
‘It’s OK. You don’t need to. It’s just… I’m worried, Dad. Actually, worse than that. I’m – I’m scared…’ He tried to think how to say it, and his father waited, just sitting in silence as if he had all the time in the world.
‘I’m scared that if I stay too long, then…’ He shrugged, turning his hands palms up.
‘I know. You don’t want to be some sad, middle-aged so-and-so trotting along the front at Bournemouth with your sodding crumbly parents on your holidays, do you?’
‘Well.’ Andrew gave a small laugh. ‘No, not really, I guess.’
‘Now, you know I’ve never been one for telling you what to do and all that.’ There was a long pause. ‘That’s more your mother’s way of thinking. I hope I’ve always let you find your own way, make up your own mind, but I will say this.’ Ron blinked hard and sat up a little straighter. ‘You’re not old, but you’re no spring chicken either, Andrew. It’s not good to be cooped up with your ruddy mum and dad, you know it’s not.’ He stopped again, then nodded, as if giving himself permission to carry on.
‘It’s been good having you here.’ He suddenly fumbled at his side and patted Andrew’s arm. ‘But you’re not to stay.’ There was a catch in his voice, then he cleared his throat loudly. ‘I won’t allow it. So, I’m giving you your marching orders, son. You’ve got exactly one week from today then I’m changing the locks and I’ll not let you in. I’m not kidding. Rent a room. Kip on a friend’s floor, if you have to, but for crying out loud, get out. While you can.’
Andrew registered out of the corner of his eye his father’s bowed head.
‘I’ve got quite a bit put by in a separate account if you want to put it towards a flat, and I’ll give it you and be glad to do it. I’ve no need of it myself. Not now.’ He stopped again. ‘Ah. Your mother doesn’t know about it, though, and I’d be glad if you’d not mention it.’
‘Course.’ Andrew nodded, as if it we
re completely normal for his father to reveal that he had a stash of money kept secret from his mother.
‘Don’t be getting anywhere too nice, mind.’
‘What? Why’s that, then?’ Andrew turned at last to look at his father properly.
‘’Cause then I’ll be round to kip on your couch and you’ll not get rid of me.’
Andrew snorted with laughter and suddenly his dad was laughing too and he didn’t know why it was funny. Really, nothing could be less funny than that all these years his father has been imprisoned here, squirrelling away money just in case, just in case, but now, in that moment, the preposterousness of it, of their lives, of these two grown men and their obeisance to the despotic reign of Mrs Tyler was ridiculous and what else could you possibly do but laugh?
42
A Very Lucky Woman
There was always a magical hour or two on Christmas morning when the house was silent and still. Eleanor put on the radio quietly so she could listen to carols while she drank her tea and finished preparing the turkey, smothering it with homemade herb butter and swaddling it carefully in foil.
She cut a thick wedge of panettone for herself, her favourite treat for Christmas morning. Then she sat down at the kitchen table to allow herself a few minutes’ idleness before embarking on peeling a mound of potatoes. One year, she had made the mistake of being too organised: she had prepared everything – all the vegetables, set the table, etc. – the day before, with the result that she had been all too obviously free and available all morning and had to sit in the sitting room with her husband, attempting to make lively conversation until Daniel and Hannah got up. Now, she paced herself with a steady succession of tasks that would regularly demand her attention.
Growing Up for Beginners Page 30
