Of course you may see her whenever you wish. Indeed you may see me whenever you wish, and perhaps when you see the baby, who is so lovely and so perfect, you will realize that divorce is not the answer for us, either now or at any other time.
Ever your loving and devoted wife, CONSTANCE.
I looked up. At the other end of the table, Bronwen was watching me. Around us the children were chattering, Marian and Rhiannon on one side, Harry and Dafydd on the other and the baby in his little portable cot by the window. It was a Saturday morning and the children, free from lessons, were in good spirits.
“… and turtles live to be three hundred years old …”
“… and it’s called a six-shooter because …”
“… although as I said, to my governess, how do they know turtles live for hundreds of years when no one can live long enough to watch them? … What’s the matter, Papa?”
Dafydd and Harry paused in their discussion of guns. All eyes were turned in my direction.
“Nothing,” I said. I left the room. A second later I realized this had been the wrong thing to do, but I could not make myself go back. I was still hesitating when Bronwen slipped out of the room to join me.
“Is the baby all right?” she said rapidly.
“Yes.” I handed her the letter. As she read it the color faded from her face until the freckles stood out starkly on the bridge of her nose. Handing the letter back she said, “Would you like me to tell the children?”
“No. I must.”
We went back into the room. Bronwen picked up the baby, said briskly, “Rhiannon—Dafydd—I want to talk to you” and led the way out again into the hall.
Her children trooped obediently after her, but although Marian tried to follow I held out my hand.
“Wait, Marian, I want to tell you about the baby.”
“What baby? Oh, that one. Did it come?”
“Yes. It’s a girl. She’s going to be called Francesca.”
“What a perfectly frightful name,” said Marian, “but never mind; I shan’t see her so what does it matter?”
She shook off my hand and headed for the door.
“Marian—”
The door slammed. I was reminded of Thomas. I thought again of Dr. de Vestris saying what happened when parents went off the rails, and for a second my blood ran cold.
“The baby won’t make any difference, will it?” said Harry suspiciously. “I don’t want to go back to London and live with Constance. I want to stay here with Bronwen and the piano.” The thought of the piano cheered him. He wriggled off his chair and ran to the door. “I’m going to have my practice now,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared. I smiled, mercifully diverted from the memory of Dr. de Vestris, but then sighed at the thought of the music. Urged on by Bronwen I now allowed Harry to play the piano daily, though for no more than half an hour; I had no wish to spoil his fun but without a time limit he would have wasted all day at the keys.
I thought briefly of Blanche playing the piano, but Blanche seemed to have existed so long ago that I could not connect her with my present life. I thought of Constance and shuddered, though whether with rage, guilt, grief or shame I hardly knew. Leaving the table I went upstairs to Marian’s room. Bronwen looked up as I came in.
“I was promising that of course you’ll take her to visit Constance and the baby,” she said, “but she tells me she doesn’t want to go.”
“I just want to forget it all,” wept Marian as I sat down on the bed and put my arm around her. “If I remember it’ll only make me miserable, and I can’t bear being miserable anymore. …” Sobs overwhelmed her, and when I pressed her closer she clung to me. Bronwen began to tiptoe towards the door, but I motioned her to stay. “I want Mama,” whispered Marian. “Every night I ask God to make her come back to life, like Lazarus, but He doesn’t listen, I pray and pray but nothing happens.”
“Marian …” I tried and failed to frame a response, but Bronwen said in the heavily accented English which sounded so soothing, “I was wondering if you thought of her often now that you’re back in the house where she used to be. I think of her often too. She may not be here herself anymore, but the memory’s here, isn’t it, and memories are so precious, such a comfort, because no one can take them away from you, and although she’s dead yet in a way she’s still alive, alive in your mind, and that’s how God can bring her back for you. And although that’s not as good as having her here alive and well, it helps to look across at the past, doesn’t it, to look at her and know that she’ll be there always in your memory to be a comfort to you when you want to remember.”
Marian rubbed her eyes and gave several little gasps as if the sobbing had left her out of breath. I found a handkerchief for her, and at last she whispered to Bronwen, “Do you really think of her?”
“Oh yes, she was such a lovely lady, and so kind to me. When she was alive I wished that there was something I could do to repay her for her kindness, and that’s why I was so pleased when Papa suggested I should look after you and Harry. It was something I could do for her, a payment of the debt, and that made me happy.”
Marian thought about this.
“We must talk about her,” said Bronwen. “It’s such a waste to shut away precious memories and never speak of them. We’ll talk about her and by talking we’ll bring her back to you and then you’ll feel better.”
Marian gave another little gasp and blew her nose before turning to me. “Is Bronwen here forever? Or might you fall in love with someone else, do you think, and leave her as you left Constance?”
“No, I could never leave Bronwen. Impossible. Out of the question.”
I felt her relax in my arms. “I don’t want anyone else going away,” she whispered to me.
I kissed her and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.” But as I spoke I thought of Constance, alone with her stubborn pride in London, and I knew the happy ending I was promising Marian was still far beyond my reach.
XIII
Three days later I journeyed to London and bought a toy rabbit at Selfridges. At the Carlton Club I consumed a whisky-and-soda before telephoning Constance.
“It was thoughtful of you to call,” she said, “but there’s no need for you ever to make an appointment to come here. This is your home and you can come and go entirely as you please.”
I consumed a second whisky, this time without soda, and took a taxi to Chester Square.
Constance should no doubt still have been in bed but she had put on the emerald-green negligee which she knew I liked and had arranged herself not unattractively on the drawing-room sofa. I found that this pathetic attempt to look her best made me feel angry. I was too angry to analyze the anger, but I hated myself for giving way to it. Sheer misery overwhelmed me. I felt as if my consciousness were being hacked to pieces with a hatchet.
Giving her the carnations which I had forced myself to buy, I inquired formally after her health.
“I’m better now,” she said, “but it was rough. I hope Teddy has an easier time.”
“How is she?”
“Fine. But longing for it to be over.” She sniffed the carnations. “Will you ring the bell? These ought to be put in water right away.”
I did as she asked before departing for the nurseries.
It seemed a long way there but that was because I had to pause on the landing until I felt calmer. When I arrived the new nanny gave me a hostile stare but I got rid of her and moved to the cot.
The baby was so new that it still had a red face. Swathed in clouds of white linen and lace, it lay sound asleep, oblivious to luxury, in its expensive little resting place. Touching its small bald head with my index finger, I remembered Evan as I had first seen him in his wooden box on wheels, and I thought of my new daughter growing up to envy him. No money could ease emotional poverty. No material comfort could provide a substitute for an absent father.
I undid the toy rabbit from its gay wrapping, tucked it into the cot and turn
ed away, but I was in such a state of grief and shame that I could not remember where I was. But when I looked back at the cot memory returned to me. I was on the far side of the line I had failed to draw when I had married Constance in the pursuit of avarice and ambition. I had wronged Bronwen, wronged Constance, and now I was wronging my child but there was no way back. The line could not be recrossed even in the event of a divorce. Constance and the child would still exist, and nothing could fully make amends to them for what I had done.
After a long while I reentered the drawing room and found Constance was still busy with the carnations; the arrangement was looking glacially formal.
“Isn’t she lovely?”
I nodded. Constance offered me a drink but I declined. “I’m afraid I must be on my way.”
“But you’ll come again soon? Do bring Harry and Marian—I’d love to see them!”
“I’ll have to write to you about it.”
“Remember,” she said, “that everything will always be waiting for you here. You can come back at any time.”
“It’s never going to happen, Constance.”
“ ‘Never’ is a long time, isn’t it? I’m going to go on hoping.”
There was nothing left to say.
I walked out.
XIV
“Was it awful?” said Bronwen.
“Yes. Bloody awful. I just want to go to bed and forget about it.”
We went to bed and for a while I did forget, but even when I was physically exhausted I was unable to sleep. Eventually Bronwen lit a candle and said, “Talk to me.”
“I can’t.”
“You must. You know what happens when you can’t talk. You get all muddled and lie to yourself and end up doing something which makes you and everyone else miserable.”
This was such an accurate description of my talent for making a mess of my life that I could only groan and bury my face in the pillow, but finally I managed to say, “I despise myself, how could I have married that woman, how could I have turned my back on you, how could I have fathered that child, I feel as if I’m split in two, half of me wants to lead a good decent life but the other half does these terrible things, and supposing the other half wins? It’s not impossible. I’ve known from childhood, ever since I found out the truth about my grandmother and my parents, that absolutely anyone is capable of absolutely anything—”
“Yes,” said Bronwen. “Absolutely anyone is capable of absolutely anything. But not everyone has to do it.”
“I know, I know, one draws the line, but supposing I draw the wrong line again, supposing I get in a muddle about what’s right—I’m so weak, so contemptible, I’ve done such terrible things, how I can trust myself, I don’t, I can’t—”
“I trust you. I agree you’ve done dreadful things, but now you’re trying to do what’s right, you’re being honest and truthful and brave, and so long as you’re honest and truthful you can’t get in a mess by living a lie, and so long as you’re brave you can’t despise yourself for cowardice, and so long as you’re all those things you’ll be strong enough to draw those lines, as the English say so strangely when all they mean is choosing the right circle to live in, and once the lines are drawn you’ll be the man you want to be and the man I know you are, and you’ll be safe.”
I wanted to make love to her again, but I was too exhausted and I collapsed into her arms. After a long time I heard myself say, “My father thinks I still want Oxmoon. Probably Robert thinks I still want Oxmoon. Sometimes even I think I still want Oxmoon—oh, God, I’m in such a muddle still; I don’t want Oxmoon anymore, I truly don’t, I’m fully satisfied just to live here with you, but sometimes I can’t help thinking—”
“Of course you covet it now and then. That’s human. You covet it like I used to covet my lady in Cardiff’s best teapot. But I wouldn’t have stolen it. That would have been wrong.”
“But supposing Robert thinks—”
“You don’t lie to him, do you?”
“No, I told him how Straker tried to bribe me.”
“Then you’re safe. Don’t start lying to Robert. So long as you’re truthful with him you’ll be safe.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Distrust grows out of lies. Wrongdoing grows out of distrust. Tragedy grows out of wrongdoing. But out of honesty grows love and love’s so powerful, it’ll be like a suit of armor, protecting Robert, protecting you.”
“That ought to be true, but is it true? It all sounds vaguely religious but I can’t believe in God, not after the war—”
“I never believed in God so long as I thought of Him as a person,” said Bronwen. “To me He was like my father who’d gone away and couldn’t help me. But then I stopped saying ‘He’ and said ‘It,’ and suddenly everything seemed simple. God’s magic, that’s all. It’s all the things we can’t see or explain. It’s the rhythm of life. It’s the circle of time.”
“That reminds me of Robert talking about Boethius and the Wheel of Fortune,” I said, and I began to tell her about that ancient theory of life which had become so popular in the Middle Ages. “I never studied Boethius,” I said, “but when I was reading French and German up at Oxford I came across the work of Peter von Kastl and Jean de Meung who were both influenced by him …” And as I talked on about the Wheel of Fortune revolving in its endless cycle, I began at last to feel calmer.
“But that sounds as if people have no power to leave the wheel,” said Bronwen, “and I think they have. I think there are many wheels, and if you have the will you can move from one to another.”
“That’s what I need to believe too but supposing free will is an illusion? For instance, take Robert’s view: he says that although we’re all strapped to the Wheel of Fortune, Fortune herself offers us choices to determine our fate. Now, that sounds fine but supposing those choices themselves are predetermined by forces beyond our control?”
“That’s a horrible idea!”
“Horrible, yes—I’ve always detested and feared the concept of predestination. However I have a feeling Boethius solved the problem, although I can’t remember how he did it.”
This time I did manage to make love to her again. Then having proved that renewal could follow exhaustion on our own private wheel of fortune, I found my courage returning and knew I could discard my despair and struggle on.
XV
I had no respite. The chaos continued but by this time I had realized that a section of my life would be in chaos indefinitely, so I was becoming resigned to the hard core of misery in my mind. My father telephoned with the news that Edmund had a son. Letters started to arrive from Constance about the possibility of a double christening. The long aftermath of my disastrous marriage seemed about to overwhelm me again, but before I could give way a second time to despair I was diverted by a crisis at Oxmoon.
It was by that time early November, and when the news of the crisis reached me I had just returned from fetching Marian from her private school in Swansea. Once Daphne’s opinion that no respectable governess would remain long at the Manor had been confirmed, I had had no difficulty convincing myself that it would be good for Marian to go to school, but as Bronwen had refused my offer that her children too should be privately educated, Rhiannon and Dafydd continued to attend school in the village. Marian, not unnaturally, wanted to go there too, and when I refused I found myself involved in inevitably distasteful explanations. There was no row, since Marian quickly accepted the fact that ladies never attended the village primary school, but I foresaw the class system pushing its long cruel bayonets deep into my home and in time impaling us all.
“We must give all the children the same education,” I said to Bronwen stubbornly, but she was equally stubborn in disagreeing.
“I don’t want my children given airs and graces and being taught to look down on their own class,” she said. “It wouldn’t make them happy. Dafydd wants to be a motor mechanic, not a gentleman, and if Rhiannon gets a lady’s education she’ll end up too
good for the boys of her own class and not good enough for the boys who are better.”
There was undoubtedly much truth in this observation, but I foresaw the situation deteriorating as the children became aware of their differences. Marian was too aware of them already. I had that very afternoon in the car been obliged to reprove her for making a snobbish criticism of Rhiannon.
On our arrival home Marian dashed off to the dining room where everyone was having tea and I went to the cloakroom to hang up my coat and hat. I had just returned to the hall when I was startled by a thunderous battering on the front door.
It was Thomas, wearing his best livid expression. I knew at once he was very upset.
“Hullo,” I said swiftly. “What’s the trouble?”
“It’s the old bugger.”
I steered him into my study, but just as I was opening my mouth to reprove him for referring to our father so disrespectfully he collapsed into the nearest armchair as if it were a sanctuary and I realized a reproof would be inappropriate. His mouth was trembling. He managed to tuck it down at the corners as usual, but when he spoke his voice was unsteady.
“Got a gasper, old boy?”
I gave him a cigarette. “What’s happened?”
Thomas inhaled deeply and managed to say in a casual voice: “The old bugger’s gone crazy. Well, of course he’s been gaga off and on for ages, we all know that, but this is worse, this is the last straw, this is absolutely bloody …” He faltered to a halt.
“What happened?”
“We had a row about the estate. The old bugger won’t let me do anything. Well, I didn’t mind loafing around for a time while I recovered from bloody school, but I’m bored now and I want to do something so I asked him a month ago if he could teach me how to run the estate, and he said no, I was too young and I ought to be at school. So we had a row and I went off to Daxworth and learned about cows instead, but I got a bit bored because I don’t think they’re really my kind of animal, so I thought I’d get interested in estate management again, and this afternoon when Papa was out I sneaked into the library and had a look at the books—”
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