“So you’ll be master of Oxmoon now, Mr. John?” said Thornton of Cherryvale.
“My father’s master while he lives,” I said, “but I shall now be managing the estate on his behalf.”
They all said they were glad, and I saw then that they were no different from the men at the golf club; once they had realized that I could still be treated as a normal person, they no longer felt they had no alternative but to treat me as a wicked adulterer, and their moral obligation to be hostile evaporated. Taking their leave of me courteously they retired in satisfaction to Penhale.
I was still standing in the hall, still contemplating the hair-raising but stimulating challenge of managing a large rundown estate, still straining my eyes to peer into the convoluted machinery of my wheel of fortune, when Thomas emerged from the library to say he was unable to make head or tail of the estate books.
“All right, leave them, take the car, go back to the Manor, tell Mrs. Wells I want her to take charge temporarily here and then bring her back with her luggage. Oh, and bring a bag for yourself. You’re going to be the Godwin in residence while we sort out this mess. Big houses run better if at least one member of the family is present to give the servants an incentive to behave well.”
“But aren’t you going to move in here yourself?”
“Papa wouldn’t like it.”
“Damn it, you’ve saved the old bugger from the loony bin, haven’t you? What right’s he got to complain!”
“The best right in the world—the right of an owner. Now off you go, there’s a good chap, and stop making idiotic suggestions.”
I got rid of him.
Then I went to the library, where a fire had now been lit, and sat thinking for a long time. After a while I found myself remembering Robert talking of putting the magic back into Oxmoon, and a very sensible, very rational, very persuasive voice in my head said: “But I’m the only one who can do that.”
“… and Oxmoon will rise again on the Wheel of Fortune …”
I could hear Robert’s voice so clearly. But then I could also so clearly hear him say, “You’re the best brother a man ever had.”
Blotting the future from my mind I sat down at the library table, opened the estate books and once more began to wrestle with the problems of the present.
IV
I was too exhausted to make more than a cursory examination of my father’s papers, but I found his checkbook in a drawer of the table and soon discovered that every stub recorded a payment to Milly. I did stumble across correspondence from Fairfax urging financial prudence, but I stopped being grateful to him when I saw the size of his bills. I also stopped feeling grateful to my father’s accommodating bank manager, Lloyd-Thomas, when I saw the profitable size of the overdraft and discovered the existence of a mortgage.
“We’ll make a serious start on the mess tomorrow, Thomas,” I said when he arrived back with Mrs. Wells. “I’m too tired to do more now.”
“Did Milly do anything illegal?”
“I doubt it. No need. He just gave her whatever money she wanted, but by God, I’m going to fire Fairfax and remove the Oxmoon account from Lloyd-Thomas’s bank! They should have given me warning long ago.”
“Have they been negligent?”
“Not in a legal sense, as far as I can see. Just stupid. But I suppose they’ll say in their defense that Papa’s reputation as an excellent manager with a good financial brain drove them to assume, in the absence of any glaring evidence to the contrary, that he was competent—and don’t forget Papa was very fierce in tolerating no interference in his affairs. Yes, I can see Fairfax and Lloyd-Thomas being intimidated by him, but nevertheless that’s no excuse for their failure to confide in me.”
“I’d like to flog and hang everyone in sight,” said Thomas predictably.
I patted him gently on the shoulder and returned to Penhale.
V
Harrowing days followed. I obtained the necessary power of attorney, fired Fairfax, engaged a new firm of solicitors and also a firm of accountants, renegotiated the mortgage at a new bank and waded steadily through the mire of my father’s accounts. Although my father had juggled the books, often most ingeniously, to present a false impression of the estate’s finances, a stark picture soon emerged of disappearing money, capital depreciation and expenditure for which no receipts could be found.
“Is he bankrupt?” said Ginevra when I knew enough to report the full extent of the disaster to her.
“No—thank God he broke down when he did. Better late than never. And thank God too he had a private fortune to draw on in addition to the estate, but nevertheless it’ll take Oxmoon years to recover.”
“And to think he always prided himself on being so shrewd with money!”
“No doubt he became increasingly afraid she’d leave him and he was prepared to do anything to keep her.”
“But how could he have been so infatuated! That awful thieving tart—”
“I’m afraid the entire catastrophe only proves to the hilt Robert’s belief that love isn’t always accompanied by youth and beauty and a full orchestra playing ‘The Blue Danube.’ ”
“ ‘The Blue Danube’—oh God, that reminds me. Let’s have another drink, Johnny. There’s something I must tell you about Robert.”
We were in the drawing room at Little Oxmoon. I had paid my daily call on Robert, but I had stayed no more than five minutes and I had not mentioned the disaster at Oxmoon. At that stage it would not have interested him. He had said goodbye to my father a long time ago and now the outside world held no meaning for him. It was too remote. Lying lifelessly in his quiet shadowed room he had wanted only to listen to me talking of the past.
“He seemed a bit brighter today,” I said to Ginevra.
“That’s because he’s decided when to die.”
After a moment I said, “Do you mean—”
“No, I’m not talking about euthanasia. Gavin says that when people are very, very ill they sometimes seem able to choose when to let go. He told Robert and said the power to choose was related to the power of the will. Robert was tremendously excited and at once started making plans.”
I drank half my pink gin and said, “Which day has he chosen?”
“My birthday. April the twenty-third.”
“But why on earth—”
“He always said that was the day on which he first began to live. On my eighteenth birthday in 1898 Robert fell in love with me. We danced together beneath the chandeliers at Oxmoon while the orchestra played ‘The Blue Danube.’ ”
I was unable to break the silence that followed. I sat motionless, staring into the fire, but after a while the flames seemed too bright. I looked away.
“He wants to end in the beginning,” said Ginevra. She did not cry, and when I glanced at her I realized she was far back in the remote past, just as I was, listening to the violins playing that waltz which refused to die.
I said, “I was there.”
She was amazed. “Were you? But how extraordinary! You couldn’t have been more than six!”
“Special occasion. Lion and I stayed up late.”
“Did you see us dancing?”
“Yes,” I said. “I remember.”
“Oh Johnny, you must tell him! When the end comes—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”
We were silent again. It was not until my drink was finished that I was able to say, “I hope Robert won’t be disappointed.”
“Don’t worry. Gavin and I are determined that he won’t be.”
“Thank God.”
The flames went on flickering in the grate. The firelight was kind to Ginevra, smoothing away the lines on her face and emphasizing her elegant legs, clad as usual in the sheerest of silk stockings. The only lamp in the room stood behind her, and suddenly I glimpsed again the radiant young girl who had danced long ago in the ballroom at Oxmoon when Robert’s adult life had begun.
“Well,” she said abruptly, “it�
�s no use sitting around here swilling pink gin and chatting about death. I must go upstairs to Kester and you must go home to Bronwen No change in Bobby’s condition, I suppose?”
“None,” I said, but when I arrived home I had a surprise. After three mute weeks of recognizing no one, my father had begun to improve. Bronwen came rushing down the staircase as soon as I entered the hall.
“Johnny, wonderful news! He’s asking for you!”
I agreed with genuine enthusiasm that this was wonderful but nevertheless I was conscious of ambivalence. During the past weeks I had often looked at the mindless shell which housed my father and thought that death would be a merciful release—and not only for him; once he was dead Oxmoon would pass to Kester and I would finally be beyond the torment of temptation.
Bronwen was talking rapidly as she led the way upstairs. She told me she had looked in to see my father half an hour before in order to relieve the night nurse, who had gone, downstairs to make herself some tea, and as soon as the night nurse had left my father had spoken in Welsh.
“… and he said, ‘I know you but I’ve forgotten your name. You’re the pretty girl with the baby,’ and when I said yes, I was Bronwen, he said, ‘You belong to John,’ and then he asked where you were and when I said you were at Oxmoon he suddenly realized he wasn’t at home and he said, ‘Am I in the Home of the Assumption?’ and when I said no, you wouldn’t let him be sent there, I thought he was going to cry but he didn’t, and then Nurse brought the tea and he drank a cup and all the while he kept asking and asking for you …”
I entered Blanche’s room. My father was propped up on his pillows. His silver hair with its faint golden sheen had been carefully parted and brushed. His eyes filled with tears as he recognized me.
“Well, here he is at last!” said the nurse cozily. “Isn’t that nice!”
I got rid of her. Bronwen had already retreated. Pulling up a chair I sat down at the bedside.
“My dear Papa,” I said, “how very glad I am to see you better.” I realized with relief as I spoke that despite my past ambivalence this statement was true. It was easy to wish him dead when he was no better than a vegetable, but quite impossible not to wish him a full recovery once he was showing signs of life.
“They say I’m at Penhale Manor,” he whispered.
“That’s right. Thomas and I are looking after Oxmoon until you’re well enough to go back.”
My father looked pitifully frightened. “You mustn’t look at the books.”
“It’s all right, I’ve sorted everything out. All’s well now.”
Trembling fingers wrapped themselves around my hand in gratitude, and when I saw him trying to screw up the courage to ask the inevitable question I said as gently as I could, “I’m afraid I don’t know where Milly is, Papa. She left without leaving an address.”
“But Mrs. Wells would know where to send a letter … They had mutual friends …” The quavering voice trailed away.
I said evenly, “I’m afraid Milly made a great deal of trouble for you, Papa. I’m afraid she wasn’t a good friend to you in the end.”
My father nodded as if he perfectly accepted this judgment. Then a tear began to trickle down his cheek.
“Papa, believe me, I do understand how much she means to you, but—”
“I do so want Milly,” said my father, the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I know you never liked her but she was so kind to me and so cheerful, always knowing how to make me laugh. I expect you thought she was only after my money, but I understood her, I knew how frightened she was of being old and alone and ending up in a workhouse as her mother did. She had a terrible childhood too, just as terrible as mine, oh, I understood it all, she used to say I was the only man who’d ever understood her and the only man she’d ever really liked. I won’t give her any more money. You can continue to manage my affairs, but please, please write to Milly and ask her to come back.”
“Papa—”
“You’ve been so good and kind, saving me from that place, I’m sorry I was so cold and unforgiving but I’ll make all that up to you now, I swear I will, I’ll do anything you want—alter my will—leave you all my money—why, I’ll even leave you—”
I was on my feet. I heard myself saying firmly, “You can’t make a will while you’re still unwell, Papa. Don’t worry about that now. Your first task is to get better.”
“But if you could get Milly back—”
“If I do, it would only be because I know how terrible it is to be deprived of someone you love. It wouldn’t be because I’m looking for repayment.”
“But you’ll do it? You’ll get her back?”
“I’ll try.”
VI
“You can’t!”
“You’re mad—she’ll never come!”
The reactions of Thomas and Ginevra were predictable but they were wrong. She came. I met her at the station two weeks later. She wore a smart black coat with fox furs, and a little hat with a prim veil. She was accompanied by a mountain of very expensive leather luggage.
“Well, dear,” she said, “life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? I’m sure we never thought we’d meet again! Never mind, I’ve had a lovely holiday and invested some money for my old age and now I feel ready for anything. I did meet a man who offered me a little house in Putney but neither he nor the house appealed—Oxmoon’s ruined me, that’s my trouble, Oxmoon and Bobby. Nothing but the best will do for me now, thanks very much! I wish I hadn’t grabbed so much before I left, I know I was naughty, but when you’re a woman old age is always just around the corner and if you’ve got no money you may as well cut your throat and be done with it. God, it’s bloody hell being a woman, always at the mercy of men who treat you like horseshit—pardon my French—but that was what was so special about Bobby, always so charming, always such a gentleman, he never treated me like horseshit—no, nothing was too good for me where Bobby was concerned, nothing at all.
“I’m sorry he’s been so bad. Mabel Wells wrote to me via Lily in Wandsworth to tell me what was going on, and I kept thinking of him. Of course you all probably thought I was drinking champagne in Monte Carlo and not giving a damn, but you were wrong. I thought of him. Poor old Bobby. Yes, I’ve missed him, and my God, I’ve missed that awful inconvenient old house too—oh, how I loved the power of being in charge there—God, I could give up food, drink and sex and just live on power alone, really I could. In fact if ever I’m reincarnated I’m going to ask God to let me come back as master of Oxmoon—not mistress, mind you, but master. Of course no one in their right mind would want to be reincarnated as a woman.”
We traveled out of Swansea and headed through the narrow lanes into the heart of Gower. A gust of rain buffeted the car but it was only a spring shower and the next moment the sun was shining on the walls of Penrice as we passed the turning to the sea.
“How’s that nice girl of yours? Not pregnant again, I hope? People get such funny ideas about having babies, it beats me, I’ve never been able to see the attraction myself. And talking of babies, how’s little Thomas? Has he managed to get together with Mabel Wells since the two of them have been on their own at Oxmoon? Mabel was so coy about him in her letter that my hopes were raised—it would be so nice for her, wouldn’t it, and the best possible thing for him. There’s something a bit off-color there, but nothing Mabel can’t cure. Funny how Mabel likes young men. I’ve never been able to understand it myself, all that noisy thrashing around and then behaving afterwards as if they’ve achieved some sort of miracle. Give me an older man any day, I say. They may still be just as self-centered—what man isn’t?—but at least you’ve got some chance of uncovering a bit of sophistication …”
We reached the hamlet of Middleton and turned off along the road to Penhale. Another squall hit the car as we approached Oxmoon, and to our left on the Downs the wild ponies huddled together against the wind which was hurtling across the heather from the invisible sea.
“Ah, there’s Oxmoon, nas
ty great brute of a house—oh, how I love it! No, I really shouldn’t have been happy at all in that cheap little villa in Putney …”
We arrived at the Manor but I was too relieved that the journey was over to do more than take her straight upstairs to my father’s room.
“Milly!” shouted my father as she walked in, and for a brief moment he was young again, ablaze with vitality, his face radiant with happiness. That was when I knew he would recover sufficiently to be capable of making a new valid will in my favor. “Oh, Milly, how wonderful to see you! Milly, I want to go home but the doctor says I must live quietly here for a time and there’s a nurse who treats me as if I’m a baby, and I can’t quite work out how I’m ever going to escape—”
“Don’t you worry, my poppet,” said Milly, giving him an affectionate kiss. “You just leave it all to me.”
VII
My dilemma finally overwhelmed me.
Retreating to my room, I asked myself how I, a weak, divided and thoroughly unheroic man who seemed to spend most of his time in a state of moral confusion, could even attempt to play the hero’s role that fate was so obviously trying to assign to me. How did I resist accepting Oxmoon? Of course my father was still of unsound mind and might feel less generous when he was fully recovered, but in fact had he not been irrationally guilty about that seduction which had happened over thirty years before? And had I perhaps yielded my most cherished ambition not out of logic but for emotional reasons which had become increasingly irrelevant as time went on? I had been shocked and revolted when I heard of my father’s behavior with Ginevra; it was natural that I should have responded by insisting that my father expiated his crime by giving Robert what Robert wanted. But hadn’t my father now suffered enough for his past wrongs? And was it right that the present and future welfare of Oxmoon should be sacrificed because of a past incident which was best forgotten?
Oxmoon was the challenge I needed. Oxmoon could satisfy my ambition. I was tailor-made for Oxmoon, and now Oxmoon was surely waiting for me, waiting for the man who alone of all the family had the brains and the ability to restore its ailing fortunes.
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