by Lucy Gordon
“Now we can have some time alone together,” he said more heartily than he felt. He made a gesture of half opening his arms that would have turned into a full embrace if Peter had responded. But the boy kept his distance and sat on the bed, watching his father warily. Gavin let his hands drop. “You haven’t said a word to me since I arrived,” he said. “That’s no way to treat your father. What about, ‘Hallo, Daddy?’”
He had the definite impression that Peter shrank back into himself. A small flame of anger flickered alight inside him. Was it a crime to want his son to call him Daddy? Or had that name been reserved for the other man, the enemy?
“I’ve looked forward to seeing you again,” he persisted. I thought we could have a real father-and-son talk after all this time.”
Peter’s silence seemed to mock the notion. The flame flared a little higher. “We don’t know each other as well as I’d hoped,” Gavin said, trying not to let himself feel the anger that he knew was kindling inside him. “But we’ll have a chance now to-to-” inspiration failed him.
He began to stride about the room, trying to combat the hurt and disappointment that were like embers ready to be tossed onto the threatening fire, sending it out of control. “Did you put these things up?” he asked, looking around him at the pictures and charts. Peter nodded.
At that moment Gavin noticed something that seemed like an answer to a prayer. In the corner stood a small silver cup with something inscribed on it, the kind of sports trophy he himself had carried off as a schoolboy. Eagerly he seized it and read, Presented to Peter Hunter, for outstanding work in school Nature Studies.
He drew a sharp breath, too preoccupied with his own disappointment to notice that his son was watching him closely, with something in his eyes that might have been hope. “Is this the only one you’ve got?” he demanded. When he was answered by silence, he snapped, “For heaven’s sake, answer me properly. I’m not going to eat you.”
Instead of speaking, Peter opened a cupboard by his bed and took out a plaque which he handed to his father. It was a commendation from a bird-protection society. Gavin glanced at it briefly before looking away.
The bitterness was like bile in his throat. They had robbed him. His son was an alien to him. “That’s all very well,” he said in a constrained voice, “but haven’t you got any manly interests? Don’t you play football or cricket or-or something? Doesn’t your school have teams?” The boy nodded. “Well, do you follow them? How do they do? Do they win matches?” He could hear his own voice rising as his desperation grew.
Peter considered this last question before answering it with a shrug. It might have meant no more than that sometimes the teams lost and sometimes they won. But to Gavin’s lacerated sensibilities the shrug looked like contemptuous dismissal. “The sooner I get you away to a place where you can grow up properly, the better,” he said furiously.
He was on the verge of shouting, and he knew he mustn’t do that. So he vented his feelings by slamming down the little cup before saying, “We’ll talk later-this isn’t the right time,” and striding out.
Gavin wasn’t a man who gave up easily, but right now he was on the edge of despair. He knew he’d done every single thing the wrong way. And more frightening still, he didn’t know what the right way was.
Left alone, Peter was motionless for a long moment. When he was sure Gavin wasn’t coming back he went and lifted the cup whose stem had been bent by the force of his father’s hand. He tried to straighten it, but after a while he gave up and put the crooked cup away in a drawer.
Gavin was an early riser. He was awake with the dawn next morning, and went down to the kitchen. A middle-aged woman with a severe face introduced herself as Mrs. Stone, the live-in “help.” “I’m just starting breakfast,” she said. “Can I pour you some coffee?”
“Later, thank you. I’m looking for Norah.”
“She’s out there, feeding those creatures.”
The way Mrs. Stone sniffed and said, “those creatures,” told Gavin he had a kindred spirit. “You don’t care for them?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if jobs were easy to come by,” she declared, sniffing again. “In my opinion animals should know their place, and it’s not in the house. I made it clear when I took the job that I would have nothing to do with animals.” Osbert honked from the floor. “Or birds,” she added.
“Very wise,” Gavin agreed with feeling. Through the window he could see Norah in the distance, talking to the pony-tailed young man who’d hailed from the birdcage. He hurried out.
She’d vanished by the time he arrived, but the young man was there. “Hi. I’m Grimsdyke,” he said. “But everyone calls me Grim.”
“Do you work here?” Gavin asked.
“I live here. I have a couple of rooms, and I pay my rent by helping out. If you’re looking for Norah, she’s gone to see Buster and Mack.”
“Buster and Mack?”
“Buster’s a donkey. Mack is his companion. Just go down that path and bear right.”
Gavin followed the instructions and discovered Norah standing by a low wire fence, accompanied by Rex, the black-and-white dog that went everywhere with her. She was feeding mashed apple to an elderly donkey. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly, but without taking her attention from the donkey. “Go on, eat it all up. Special treat.”
“I take it this is Buster,” he said, trying to match the distant cordiality of her tone.
“That’s right. I got him two years ago from people who ought to have been shot. They’d neglected him so badly that his hooves had grown right under in curves and he could hardly walk. Would you believe they actually tried to prevent me removing him? I told them it was me or the law, take it or leave it. They took it.”
“You always get your way, it seems?”
“Not always, but I’m a fighter.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Take it how you like.”
“Thanks.”
They eyed each other appraisingly before Norah said, “I tried to find another home for Buster, but it didn’t work out. He’s very set in his ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“Obstreperous.”
“Then naturally he felt at home with you.”
“Meaning we’re two of a kind?”
“Take it how you like,” he retorted coolly. “What about the other donkey? Did you have to shoot anyone to get him?”
“I don’t have another donkey.”
“Then who’s Mack?”
She gave a soft whistle and a small monkey came bounding out of the trees, jumped onto Buster’s back and from there into Norah’s arms. “This is Mack,” she said. “He’s a macao monkey. Unfortunately they’re very pretty.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“It makes them popular as pets. They get bought by people who aren’t fit to own a china monkey, let alone a live one.” There was real anger in her voice.
The conversation wasn’t going as he’d meant. He’d intended to greet her calmly, to be dignified and persuasive and make her see that she couldn’t hope to claim half of Strand House. Instead he found himself discussing the sanctuary as if it were to be a permanent phenomenon. And it definitely wasn’t. The thought reminded him of something else. “What’s the idea of giving house room to that layabout?”
“If you mean Grim, I couldn’t manage without him. And he isn’t a layabout. Whatever he looks like, he’s a brilliant zoologist. Unfortunately he’s only here until he’s finished writing his thesis. Then the university will give him a doctorate and research grant, and he’ll vanish around the world.”
“You relieve my mind. I was afraid it might be impossible to get him off the premises.”
She swung around to face him. “You mean, your first thought was about the property?”
“That has to concern me. You’ve hardly improved the value of the property by-this.” He made a gesture.
“That’s all you see, isn’t it, Hunter?
Money, and how your financial position is affected. You judge everything by that yardstick, as though there were no other.”
“It’s as good a yardstick as any in a hard world,” he declared grimly.
“Which is only another way of saying that you don’t believe in any other yardstick.” Her voice changed, grew softer, and curious. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so unhappy.”
He was pale with anger. “Kindly leave my personal feelings out of this.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just that when I sense sadness in anyone-human or animal-I just can’t help…”
“Once and for all, I am not susceptible to whimsy.”
She wore a puzzled frown. “I’m not being whimsical.”
“This nonsense about sadness in animals! Animals are not sad, Miss Ackroyd.”
“The ones who come here are.”
“You know what I mean. They don’t experience sadness in the way humans do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they are animals. They’re not humans, they’re animals. There’s a difference.”
“Actually, there’s no difference. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that human beings are animals?”
“Different kinds of animals,” he said, knowing that he was unwise to be provoked into argument.
“Not different at all,” she responded. “You’d be amazed how alike-”
“No, I wouldn’t, because this conversation is going no further,” he interrupted desperately.
“Yes,” she said, regarding him and nodding as if she’d just been enlightened. “There are some things you find very hard to talk about, aren’t there?”
“That’s enough,” he snapped. “If you think you can-”
He got no further. His speech was drowned out by a mad squawking, and the next moment a large white goose came half flying, half hopping toward them. He snapped at Gavin’s legs, forcing him to back away hurriedly. The feeling of looking ridiculous increased his temper. “You’ll get into trouble if you go around setting that vicious bird on people,” he told her grimly.
“Osbert isn’t a vicious bird,” she protested.
He could hardly believe his ears. “Osbert?” he echoed outraged. “You call a goose Osbert? What are you running here? Disneyland?”
“You have a name, don’t you?” she asked defensively.
“I’m not a goose,” he snapped. “I’m a man. And my son is going to be a man. He’s going to grow up in a man’s world, seeing himself as a man-not Tarzan or Saint Francis, but a man. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. And now I’m going to make myself clear. I don’t care about you or your half-baked prejudices, but I do care about Peter’s feelings. He mustn’t see us fighting. It upsets him too much, and I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow-?”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Norah asked dangerously.
“I have a problem with you and everything about you, and I intend to resolve it my way. In the meantime, the best way for us to avoid quarreling is to avoid talking.”
“That isn’t practical. There are arrangements to be made. I’ll consult you when I have to, but you can be sure it’ll be as little as possible.”
His gratitude for her intervention with the social worker had vanished without a trace. Now all he felt was the gall of being allowed to stay here by her consent, and the power she exercised over everything that should by rights be his-including his son. But she would just have to be endured while he bided his time. The important thing was to become a part of Peter’s life again.
As he turned away from her he saw his son coming out of the house. He hurried toward him, but at a certain point Peter swerved suddenly sideways, so that his path and Gavin’s didn’t cross. Gavin stared, trying to believe it was an accident. There was still some distance between them, and Peter might simply not have seen him.
But in his heart he didn’t believe it. Peter had turned aside to avoid him, and the pain was indescribable. After a moment he walked back to the house, taking care not to go in Peter’s direction, and once inside he shut himself in his room.
Chapter Four
As the days passed and Peter still did not speak to him, Gavin faced the fact that his son had withdrawn into a silent world of his own. He eyed his father watchfully, suspiciously. If Gavin spoke to him he grew nervous and he would escape at the first possible moment. He seemed easier with Norah, but even with her he was silent. In fact the only creature with whom he now seemed at ease was Flick, the young fox who followed him around like a pet dog. Gavin had a terrible feeling of confronting a door that was bolted and barred against him. Somewhere-somewhere-there must be a key to his son’s heart.
In desperation he called Mrs. James, the headmistress of Peter’s school. She invited him to visit her and when he arrived she ushered him into her study with a friendly smile, but Gavin was morbidly conscious of the caution behind it. “How is Peter coping?” she asked as they sat down.
“It’s hard to say,” Gavin admitted. “He’s become very withdrawn since his mother’s death. I decided it would be best for him to stay at home for a while, especially since term is nearly over.”
“Of course. In fact Norah had already informed me he wouldn’t be returning this term,” Mrs. James said, unaware that she was turning a knife in the wound. Norah had done this without consulting him. “But you told me on the phone that you wanted to know about your son’s school progress.”
“I haven’t seen as much of him recently as I would have liked. Now I’m seeking any handle I can get.”
“An excellent idea. I’ve got his marks out to show you. As you can see he’s always in the top half of his class.”
“How large is the class?” Gavin asked, glancing through the pages.
“Twenty.”
He frowned. “Eighth or ninth. That’s not very impressive.”
“Does he have to impress you, Mr. Hunter?”
“I’d like to feel he was doing his best.”
Mrs. Haynes hesitated a fraction before saying, “His overall marks may give a misleading impression. The fact is that there are times when he scores very high indeed. Then suddenly his work will plummet, and that pulls the average down.”
Studying the pages again, he saw that she was right. Peter’s marks went in peaks and troughs and he discovered, with a sinking feeling, that the troughs coincided with the times he’d visited his son. He made his face impassive. He didn’t want this stranger to see the turmoil the thought caused him.
“Of course, marks only tell a small part of the story,” she added. “Perhaps you’d like to look at his essays.”
“Thank you.” He began to look through the papers she offered him, hoping that there he could find some comfort. Mrs. Haynes went on talking kindly, trying to reassure him.
“As you can see, his grammar and spelling are excellent, and he can put his thoughts into words in a way that’s quite impressive for a child of his age. You needn’t worry about your son, Mr. Hunter. He’s extremely bright.”
He saw that, but he saw something else as well. All the ideas Peter couldn’t express with his father he’d expressed on paper, and they were Tony Ackroyd’s ideas. He emerged from his essays as a gentle, uncompetitive child, whose chosen companions were the animals amongst which he lived. One essay, called “My Favourite Kind of Day,” described in detail how he was trying to train Flick. It was a charming piece of work, full of affection and cheeky humor.
Flick is a naughty fox who likes to do the opposite of what I say. So I tell her to do the opposite of what I really want. Sometimes it works, but sometimes she sees through it. She’s very clever, so I have to be even cleverer. But when she does what I want, it’s not because either of us is clever, but because we’re friends. And friends are nice to each other.
But Gavin wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the charm or the humor. All he could discern were the values of Tony Ackroyd and his daug
hter. In this and other essays, those values shone through every line. Bitterness possessed his heart as he realized this was yet more evidence that his son had been stolen from him.
“Thank you,” he said, putting away the pages abruptly. “I’ve seen all I need to.”
He made no further attempt to prevent Peter attending the funeral, and it became an accepted thing that the little boy was to go. For the next few days Gavin didn’t seek out his son or try to be alone with him. He told himself that he was simply biding his time until the funeral was over, but the fact was he was afraid. He dreaded to see Peter running away from him, and dreaded even more the look of self-contained endurance that settled over the child’s face when he encountered his father. He despised himself for his fear. It was a weakness. When faced with opposition, his way was to assert himself. But through his painful confusion he could just perceive that his best weapon was useless now. Assertion would only drive Peter farther away. So Gavin avoided it, but he didn’t know what else to do.
He dreaded the funeral. His hostility toward both Liz and Tony, but mostly Liz, was mounting so intensely that he feared he might reveal it at an inappropriate moment. Norah’s idea that he still loved Liz was outrageous, and her suggestion that he might show his feelings was typical of the unreality that, he felt, pervaded her whole life.
When the day arrived, he went through the first few hours as if in a dream. He’d done what was expected of him. A wreath, compiled of carefully anonymous flowers (no red roses: he’d made sure of that) had been delivered to the funeral parlor, with a card attached bearing the single name, Gavin. Now he was waiting, sober suited, for the funeral procession to arrive. He wished he could say something to Peter, who looked frighteningly pale and composed, but the words he might have chosen could only have been said between a father and son who were close. Now, more than ever, the gap between them yawned wide. And so no words were spoken.
