Instant Father

by Lucy Gordon

  The procession arrived. There were so many wreaths that each coffin had to travel in its own car. Gavin looked at the car that contained all that was left of Liz, hidden beneath a mountain of carefully composed flowers. “She’d have hated that,” he said suddenly.

  “Hated what?” Norah asked by his side.

  “She hated flowers in formal arrangements. She liked to see them growing in the wild.” Gavin couldn’t have said why he suddenly remembered this, but it stood out in his mind, and with it came the memory of Liz as he’d first known her-young and free, her hair windswept. She had loved him in those days, but she’d turned into a sophisticated, elegant woman who’d run away from him. To what? To a man who’d given her the freedom to return to her true self? He would never know now.

  He saw Norah looking about her, frowning. “What is it?”

  “Peter. He was here just a moment ago, but he’s vanished.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to go after all.”

  “Then he’d have let us know. He wouldn’t just run away.”

  She ran back into the house, calling Peter, but there was no response. Gavin went out into the grounds and after a moment he saw Peter hurrying toward him. “What is it?” he asked. “Don’t you want to go with us?”

  The boy nodded. His eyes were wary and he seemed to be concealing something beneath the neat jacket he’d put on for the occasion.

  Norah appeared. “Are you all right, Peter? Did you forget something?” He nodded, apparently to both questions. “Then let’s be going.”

  They made the journey in silence. Peter and Norah, both pale and dry-eyed, sat close together and Gavin tried not to be too aware that they were holding hands, but he couldn’t help knowing. His heart was bleak.

  When they entered the chapel the two coffins were already in place, side by side. Norah laid her hand gently on Peter’s shoulder to guide him into the pew, but he stopped suddenly. The two adults looked at him, concerned lest his composure should suddenly break, but Peter did something neither of them was prepared for. Lifting his head, he walked steadily toward his mother’s coffin and reached into his jacket to draw out the thing he had been concealing there. It was a small posy of violets. Gavin had seen them growing wild on a bank by the sanctuary. He watched in wonder as his son carefully laid the wildflowers on top of a formal wreath, laid his hand on them for a moment, then stepped back. When he raised his eyes it was his father’s face he sought, and Gavin’s heart nearly stopped beating from joy. Slowly he smiled and nodded his head.

  He felt a new happiness spread out and possess him. Peter had heard what he’d said about the wildflowers, and it had touched his heart. After all that had happened, there was still a faint spark of understanding between them. The knowledge softened him toward Liz. It was as if the hostile woman of the later years had vanished, leaving only the young, laughing girl he’d first loved, the girl who’d liked wildflowers. It was to that girl he spoke now in his heart.

  I’m sorry, Liz. Whatever was my fault, I’m sorry. I hope you found happiness in the end.

  He looked at the violets until, after a moment, they began to swim, as though he were seeing them through water. He rubbed his eyes and found to his surprise that they were wet. Something was hurting his throat.

  He pulled himself together sharply, raising his head and swallowing hard. He didn’t see his son looking up at him, nor the movement Peter made as if to slip his hand into his father’s, then the cautious withdrawal, as if he’d thought better of it. But he was filled with happiness at the hint of understanding his son had given him.

  And then it was all ruined. Just as Peter had held out hope, so it was Peter who smashed it by an innocently cruel gesture. The way out of the chapel led past the two coffins. Peter stopped for a moment, rested his hand on Tony’s coffin and whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy.”

  Gavin felt his world disintegrate around him. The son who was too withdrawn to talk to him had managed to speak for Tony Ackroyd, had called him Daddy, the title Gavin regarded as his by right. He knew if he stayed here he would do or say something he would regret. Hardly conscious of his own actions or his surroundings, he pushed past his son and strode from the chapel. He walked hard and fast and didn’t stop walking until he left the chapel far behind him.

  His soul was in turmoil. He knew he’d done something shocking, but he couldn’t risk pouring out his pain and bitterness before strangers. His own father’s training in his childhood was still there. “Never let other people know what you’re feeling-especially if you’re feeling bad,” William had said. “That kind of knowledge makes them strong and you weak.”

  And weakness was a sin. William had drummed that into him long ago. It was a sin he’d nearly committed just now, and he had to escape. He didn’t look where he was going. He didn’t care. He only wanted to get away as far as possible from Peter, from Strand House, from Norah who had witnessed his sickening defeat. How she must be rejoicing now in her triumph!

  He walked and walked until every bone in his body ached. The light was fading fast and he was growing cold. Stopping, he looked around him and discovered that he’d come down to the shore. The tide was out, and he was walking along the flat, wet sands that stretched far out toward the horizon. All around him boats sat on the sand, lurching drunkenly to one side, waiting for the tide to come in and lift them afloat. Some people would have seen beauty and peace in the great empty shore. In his present mood Gavin saw only loneliness and desolation. In that moment it seemed to him that every single thing that mattered in his life had been taken away from him, leaving him naked and friendless. The business he’d built up was dying, the wife he’d once loved had gone finally, and his son-the one thing of value he might have salvaged from the wreck-his son was no longer his son. He was very close to despair.

  He discovered that he was actually striding in the direction of the sea. Turning, he saw the land far behind him, a dark shadow in the fading light, and realized how far out he’d come. Heavy rain was beginning to fall, a wind was rising, and as he began to retrace his steps he found that his feet were wet. He wore a thin suit which gave little protection against the sudden damp chill. He began to run, but still it took him ten minutes to get to safety, and he could tell by the sound that the tide was coming in fast. He shivered and hurried back to the road.

  Now he regretted coming so far without his car. He faced a good half hour’s walk to Stand House, and he was shivering. He thought of the funeral reception that he’d missed, the way people would talk about him, and groaned. Worse, far worse, was what Peter would think. And Norah…

  But he stopped there. Why should Norah’s opinion matter? But it did. It shouldn’t, but it did. He was too honest to deny the uncomfortable fact.

  By the time he reached Strand House he was aching all over and it was nearly ten o’clock. There were few lights on and no cars in the drive, which meant that everyone had gone home. He let himself in quietly, thankful that the house seemed to be silent, and went to the drinks cabinet, where to his relief he found a full bottle of brandy.

  Luck was with him and he didn’t meet anybody as he climbed the stairs and went to his room. He took a hot shower, dried himself by putting on a toweling robe, poured himself a stiff measure of brandy, then another. He knew he should let someone know he was back, but first he must get warm. He poured himself another measure. Normally he drank very little, but tonight he needed help, and there was no other help to be found.

  The brandy hit him like a punch in the stomach. Not only was he unused to spirits, but he’d eaten nothing at all that day. The thought of the funeral had destroyed his appetite in the morning, and a long walk on an empty stomach had left him vulnerable. To his relief the warmth began to steal through his veins, but it was only a warmth of the body. His spirit was still cold and despairing.

  “You came back, then?”

  He lifted his head and saw Norah standing in the doorway, dressed in pajamas. She was regarding him with cool hostility. �
�You had to go and do something spectacular,” she said bitterly. “Never mind what it did to Peter. Never mind what it looked like.”

  “I couldn’t stand it any longer,” Gavin growled.

  “Yes, that’s what I told people. I spun a touching little tale of how your feelings overcame you, but I didn’t tell them what feelings. I didn’t say it was jealousy because Peter dared to call another man Daddy. I heard him, and I saw your face. You were ready to kill.”

  “Shut up,” he said fiercely. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Norah came further into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Where have you been all this time?” He didn’t answer but she noticed his clothes tossed over a chair and touched them. “You got soaking wet,” she said.

  The brandy was getting to him fast, turning logic on its head, confusing him, and at the same time simplifying all the kinks and subtleties of life. “I’ve been walking,” he explained, “-on the beach-anywhere-I don’t know.” He added vaguely, “I think it’s raining.”

  “You think it’s raining?” she echoed, astonished. “It’s a downpour out there.”

  “Then I expect that’s why I’m soaking wet,” he said, forming the words carefully.

  “And disgustingly drunk,” Norah observed.

  “Yes,” he conceded. “I’m disgustingly drunk, and I’m going to get disgustingly drunker. So clear out and let me get on with it.”

  Unexpectedly she sat down beside him on the bed. Her eyes no longer held condemnation, only surprised sympathy, as if she’d just understood something. “I’m sorry for what I said,” she told him. “You weren’t ready to kill at all, were you? More like ready to die.”

  He nodded and reached again for the bottle, but she stopped him. “No, don’t do that. Talk to me instead. Dad always said talking to a friend was worth any amount of drinks.”

  “I don’t have friends,” he growled. “Just enemies and contacts.”

  “Well, aren’t some of your contacts friends?”

  “Not really. Even the best of them are deserting me fast.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  To his alarm he found he was on the verge of telling her everything, but he pulled himself together in time. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t really mean that. You need a shoulder to cry on right now.”

  “I don’t have any of them, either,” he said with a faint attempt at humor. “Isn’t that what this is about?”

  “I think this is about a man who only knows one way of showing his feelings, and that’s to bawl and shout, and demand that people jump to it.”

  “Oh, really?” he said with tipsy gravity. “That’s your considered opinion, is it, Miss Ackroyd?”

  “Norah.”

  “Norah, who the devil are you to tell me what my problems are about?”

  “Well, I may not be much, but right now I’m all you’ve got,” she pointed out. “At least I’m here, and I’ll listen.”

  “Ready to listen? Listen while I tell you everything you need to know to finish me off with that social worker?”

  “Oh, stop that! We’re not enemies this minute. We can’t afford to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She sighed. “Because right this minute neither of us has anyone else to talk to.”

  He considered this and found it logical. “That’s true.” After a moment he added, “It’s just as well we’re not enemies tonight.”

  “Why tonight especially?”

  “Because I’m disgustingly drunk,” he reminded her.

  “But you’re not a drinker. I can tell. It’s hit you like the first time.”

  “I’m not very used to it,” he confessed. “To tell the truth, I hate the stuff. It’s just that just now-I needed something.”

  “I know. Peter hurt you very badly, didn’t he? But he didn’t mean to. He’s only a little boy, and a very unhappy one. He just said what he felt at the moment. You shouldn’t expect him to calculate its effect on you.”

  “I don’t. I don’t want him to calculate anything. It’s the fact that he feels that way that hur-that I mind.”

  “He’s not the same child you used to know.”

  “I know,” he said bitterly. “He’s changed out of all recognition. Your father’s doing.”

  “Nature’s doing,” Norah said firmly. “He’s growing up. Don’t blame Dad for that. You have to get to know Peter as he is now, not try to take him back to the past.”

  Gavin sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s just hard after thinking about him after all these years, hoping we could get back together-then thinking I had the chance-and it all ends like this.”

  “But it hasn’t ended,” Norah said gently. “It’s just begun. You have to give it time.”

  Time. The one thing he didn’t have. He knew he should be in London this minute, fighting to recover what he could of his business. But he couldn’t take away his son, and he couldn’t leave him. To go now would be to give up hope.

  Through the haze that covered his brain another thought made a brief appearance. “I really didn’t try to kidnap him,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “But I would have, if he’d wanted to go with me. Only-he didn’t.”

  He tried to say the last words casually. He didn’t know that they came out sounding forlorn, so he didn’t understand why Norah suddenly put her hand over his and squeezed. He froze, not knowing how to respond, and after a moment she withdrew her hand. “A child of that age needs his mother,” she said. “The need for a father comes later, even with boys.”

  “And when Peter needed a father, someone else was there to scoop the pool,” Gavin said wearily. His head was starting to ache.

  “Scoop the pool? You make it sound like a lottery.”

  “Not a lottery. A treasure.” Pain infused his voice. “You don’t have children of your own, so you don’t know how a child’s love can be like finding a treasure. You don’t know how you hoard it and relish it, and thank God for giving it to you, and hate anyone who tries to take it away.”

  “Gavin-” she said softly, but he didn’t hear her.

  “And even if you lose the child, you dream that you still have his love-”

  “Of course you-”

  “You go on dreaming even when everything seems against you. Because you believe, you see, in this mystical bond between yourself and your son that nothing in the world can break. And then you have a chance to get him back, and you picture how it will be-how he’ll run to you crying, ‘Daddy,’ and you’ll hug him and all the years apart will disappear.” Gavin stopped and drew a shuddering breath. Norah was silent, regarding him with pitying eyes.

  “But it isn’t like that,” Gavin went on at last. “He doesn’t run to you. You’re a stranger he won’t even talk to, and some other man is Daddy. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He dropped his head into his hands. Norah watched him, appalled. It was in her nature to offer comfort to any hurt creature who came her way, but she knew this creature’s wounds went too deep for words. She had an almost overwhelming desire to enfold him in her arms and heal him with the warmth of her body. She’d done that before, with troubled animals, holding them for hours, stroking and murmuring soft words until they fell asleep in her arms. It took all her strength not to reach out to Gavin now.

  But he wasn’t an animal. He was a prickly, complex man whom she knew would withdraw from her at any sign of pity. “No,” she said at last, “there’s nothing you can do about it except wait and let Peter come back to you in his own time. But if you rush it, you’ll lose him. Like I said, it takes time, but-you’re not very used to being patient, are you?”

  “The things I’ve wanted have never been gained by patience. That’s not the way to get anywhere in life.”

  “It’s the only way with Peter. He’s watching you all the time, waiting for the breakthrough, just as you are. Remember how he picked up what you said about th
e flowers?”

  “Yes. It made me hope. That’s a laugh.”

  “No, it isn’t. Go on hoping. But remember that he’s only a child and he’s got a lot to cope with right now. Don’t pile the emotional pressure onto him.”

  He stared at her vaguely. “Why are you telling me all this? We’re on different sides.”

  “I’m on Peter’s side. Aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we’re not on different sides.” She took the brandy bottle from him. “Don’t drink any more of that stuff. Just go to bed and sleep it off.” She touched the toweling robe. “This is wet.”

  “I put it on straight after a shower.”

  “The sooner you get it off, the better.” She viewed him, seeming to realize for the first time that he was naked under the robe. “Put your pajamas on.”

  “You sound like a nanny,” he complained.

  “I feel like one. You need looking after, or you’ll catch a chill after being out so long in the rain. Don’t just lie down in that damp robe.”

  “All right.” He drew the edges together. “I’ll change after you’ve gone.”

  “Mind you do. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  When she’d gone he closed his eyes, trying to find the strength to get up and change. His head was swimming, as well as aching, and his limbs had turned to lead, but he knew he mustn’t fall asleep in the wet robe. He heard her voice saying, “Put your pajamas on.” Interfering woman.

  But she’d been kind and gentle, too, and that had soothed him. Like a nanny-or like a mother. His own mother had died too long ago for him to remember her clearly, but he was sure she’d cared for him like that.

  But suppose it was no more than a trick to undermine him? Better be careful. Yet it hurt unaccountably to think badly of her.

  He opened his eyes and closed them again at once. He would just lie down for a second, to give himself the strength to get up and change his clothes. The pillow was blessedly smooth under his cheek. It was only for a moment…just a moment…

  He slept.

  Chapter Five