Mr Doubler Begins Again

by Seni Glaister

  ‘It’s not that pie in the sky. I’ve submitted my findings formally. My research is well documented and recorded. I have not left it to chance, and to be fair, credit must be given where credit is due. I didn’t start from scratch. I simply picked up from where another gentleman left off. He’s not with us now and I stumbled across his work, so I don’t think it’s that far-fetched for somebody to stumble across mine. And it’s easier now, isn’t it, to record your achievements and to leave a permanent mark than it was for my predecessors. That’s progress, at least.’

  Doubler thought hard. He had been determined that Julian should be asked to face up to his shortcomings as a son, but instead had been invited to contemplate his own life. These thoughts were not alien to him – he considered them often – but he’d never spoken them out loud. ‘But if I die today, I think, yes, I led a useful life. Can you say the same thing? If you died tomorrow, Julian, can you honestly say the same thing? What will they say about you, Julian? “Oh look, he made money and now he’s dead”?’

  ‘Frankly, a swift death feels appealing right now. If I die tomorrow, at least I will be spared the crumbling decline towards senility. I don’t know where you think you have achieved success by any measure at all. You drove your wife to despair, robbed your children of a mother and fell into some sort of self-indulgent breakdown, and since then you’ve wasted your life harvesting potatoes while the risk-takers around you have used a combination of wits and technology to leave you for dust. And you’re proud of that little list, are you?’

  ‘Well, I rather hope you won’t be penning my eulogy, Julian. The way you tell it isn’t perhaps the way I want to be remembered.’

  ‘And who is going to bother to remember you, Dad? You’ve not exactly endeared yourself to your grandchildren. You and I are virtually estranged. Your daughter is in perpetual crisis because she’s weak, just like you. She’s weak. And she’s married an even weaker man. Jesus Christ. God help us all. Those genes do not bode well for her sprogs.’

  ‘You know something of genetics, do you?’ asked Doubler.

  ‘You know what, Dad? You really are a miserable old sod, aren’t you.’ This was positioned as a statement, not a question, and the tone suggested a world-weary wryness.

  ‘Me? Miserable?’ Doubler thought about recent events and wondered when, among all of them, he’d been even a little unhappy. He laughed, in surprise as well as delight, as he realized how very happy he had become.

  ‘Miserable and mad,’ muttered Julian, disgusted by his father’s pleasure.

  ‘Do you know what, Julian? Right this minute I am miserable. Yes, I really, really am. But I don’t need a psychoanalyst to delve into my sadness for me. The correlation is glaring. My misery happens to coincide entirely with your visits. The rest of the time, I’m almost deliriously happy.’

  Julian snorted. He was angry. ‘You’re not happy, Dad. You’re tucked away up here, almost unable to take care of yourself and certainly no longer able to make sane, rational decisions. What level-headed adult refuses an offer of that size? That’s not just your money you’re chucking away, you know – that’s our inheritance. Your grandchildren could certainly do with a little bit of that for their education, and by robbing them of what is rightfully theirs, you’re simply proving your irrationality.’

  ‘Why on earth would I want to pay for your children’s education? You’re making an absolute fortune, you tell me. And besides, they’re your children – I educated mine and a fat lot of good that did me.’ Doubler choked back a sob that had appeared unannounced in his throat, startling him with its vehemence.

  He composed himself for a moment before continuing with resignation in his voice, ‘I suppose I’ve failed as a parent. All I’ve done is raised a woman who daren’t speak out for fear of causing disappointment to those around her and a nasty piece of work I am ashamed to call my son.’

  Julian began again his ritual of clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘You always act like you raised us alone, but it’s Mum’s memory you’re besmirching every time you insult me or my children. You should be ashamed. By treating us as badly as you do, you insult her memory.’

  ‘Oh, Julian. You are incredibly screwed up. The fact is that we all tiptoe around the subject as though your mother is dead, but she isn’t, is she? Quite frankly, I wish she had died. If she had died, you’d be telling me to get on with my life, to get out and play bridge or hang out with the other lonely folks. But the truth is that your mum left the two of you as well, didn’t she?’

  This swung in the air between them like a wrecking ball.

  Doubler wondered whether he should backtrack, as he always had in the past. He’d get to this point, he would start to say the unsaid, and then he’d see the pain and he’d swallow it for them. He’d take their pain and make it his own. He’d tell his children how much she loved them but how she couldn’t cope with life and had to start afresh in order to live at all. He didn’t know any of this for a fact, and he didn’t believe it, but as a father, it wasn’t his job to layer more pain on top of the pain they’d already suffered.

  Julian looked at his father coolly, relaxing into a well-trodden trope, saying what he’d said every time they’d ever tried to talk about it. ‘I respect the choices my mother has made. She is a strong woman who did what she had to do to save herself. And it wasn’t us she had to leave – she left you and the mud and the potatoes. She’s found herself there and I am happy for her.’ He swallowed loudly and stared at his father with challenge in his eyes, but Doubler doubted his defiance.

  ‘But, Julian, she never, ever looked back. She didn’t send for you; she didn’t ask after you; she didn’t say she wanted you or missed you.’ Doubler wanted to stop himself, but something about Julian’s snide condescension propelled him forward.

  ‘Because you drove her away, Dad. Mothers don’t leave their kids without a very good reason. She had to escape to save herself and she had to make the ultimate sacrifice.’

  ‘The ultimate sacrifice, Julian? She’s not a martyr. She’s in bloody Spain. Not the other side of the world, is it? It’s hardly inaccessible. She’s teaching yoga by day and helping her fella run his bar in the evening, and you know what, Julian? She hasn’t lived in torment for years. She hasn’t struggled to breathe or to live. She hasn’t wanted to die from sadness. No, that was my life without her, not her life without me.’

  Julian snorted his disbelief. ‘You didn’t struggle to live, Dad – you just got on with your potatoes. They were the only things that mattered to you.’

  ‘That’s what you saw, Julian, because it’s what I wanted you to see. I got on with being a dad in the only way I knew how. I carried on as normal because that felt like the best possible way for you to finish off your childhood. I learnt to cook, Julian, so you would both eat. I learnt to clean so you would have clothes in your drawers and clean sheets on your bed, and yes, I sowed and harvested and nurtured my potatoes because there lay my salvation, deep in the earth all around us.’

  ‘Great job rewriting history, Dad. You barely batted an eyelid when she left. And truth of the matter is, Dad, if you had enough courage to admit it, you wish she’d taken us with her.’

  Doubler looked at his son with incredulity. ‘Is that what makes you so angry, Julian? You can blame me for all sorts of things, but don’t blame me for that. Of course I wish she’d taken you with her! I could have coped with that. I wouldn’t have had to look at the pain and fear in your faces every morning you woke. I wouldn’t have had to deal with your nightmares and Camilla’s constant sobbing. I would have suffered, yes, but it would have been my suffering alone, not the suffering of two children who had lost the heart and soul of the family with no word of explanation.’

  ‘I was there, Dad. You didn’t suffer.’

  ‘Is that what you think? Let me tell you what actually happened, Julian. I came home to find my wife gone. All of her clothes, all of her personal effects and her passport, all gone. Her bank account had bee
n emptied. It looked organized, it looked premeditated, but it was so unfeasible that we all feared the worst. For twenty-six days the police looked for her. I drove around hospitals; I even went into a morgue to identify a body. Her parents thought she had taken her own life. I thought she’d been taken. I kept this from you because I had nothing to tell you other than “She’s gone but I have no idea where.” And then, twenty-six days later, I received a package from her lawyer. She was living in Spain; she was filing for divorce; she was not seeking any custodial consideration. She had returned her wedding rings. That was it. But I couldn’t grieve then, could I? She hadn’t died – she’d simply resigned from her post without notice.’

  ‘I know all of this, Dad. My point is, you didn’t suffer. You made her leave and you didn’t have to pay the price.’

  ‘I lost my wife. My children lost their mum. I couldn’t allow myself anything as indulgent as suffering. I looked after you and I suspended my grief until Camilla had followed you to university. Only then, when I drove back to an empty Mirth Farm, did the grieving begin. Only then did I fall into the blackness of the chasm that then became my world. I’m only just recovering now, Julian, and if you failed to see that, I did a better job than I realized.’

  Julian, nonplussed, continued to sneer. ‘And you think that any of that is comparable to losing a mother?’

  ‘No, Julian, I don’t. I don’t pretend to understand what that feels like. But you didn’t lose a mother, Julian – she abandoned you. “Loss” does not cover it, and it makes it sound like something rather careless that we were all responsible for. “Oops, we lost her.” No, we didn’t lose her. It was not an accident. It was a choice. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing.

  ‘And now she’s married and living the life that she chose. She chose not to come back when you left home. She chose not to be a grandmother to your children. She’s not there knitting scratchy jumpers and baking Christmas cakes. She has never shown one iota of interest in you or me or the grandkids or my potatoes. She’s having the time of her life and wearing culottes.’

  The phone rang beside Doubler, making them both jump.

  Doubler grabbed at the receiver and covered it with his hand. ‘See yourself out, Julian. I must take this call. It’s important.’

  Julian looked momentarily baffled but quickly shrugged as if waking up from a heavy sleep and loped off, shaking his head in confusion.

  ‘Why, hello!’ Doubler exclaimed loudly, well aware that these would be the words ringing in his son’s ears as he slammed the door behind him. In fact, Doubler rather hoped his son might be loitering just outside the kitchen door to hear the next exchange.

  ‘Very much as we imagined. No plausible explanation, no defence. You’d be proud of me – I called him a bit of a shit. Twice. And I don’t think he disagreed.’

  Whatever Mrs Millwood’s response was at the end of the phone caused an uproarious laugh from Doubler, who gasped between outbursts loudly enough to smother the sound of Julian’s car as it sprang to life and reversed at speed out of the yard.

  Chapter 36

  The Colonel had been vague about his reasons for a visit. Doubler, despite feeling pressurized by the many new responsibilities he seemed to be shouldering, made it known that he would be welcome to return to the farm at any time, and to prove the point, he’d laid out tea and cake.

  From the moment of his arrival, it was clear that the Colonel was uneasy. He sat down for a few minutes, stood up again, paced the room and then returned to his seat. He stared moodily at his cup, started to speak, stopped himself and then concentrated furiously on his tea once more.

  Doubler sat beside him. ‘You know I’m a busy man, don’t you, Maxwell? If you’ve got something on your mind, you’re just going to have to spit it out.’

  The Colonel looked embarrassed. ‘Of course. Forgive me. I’m glad you could make the time to see me. I’m in a spot of bother, but I’m not finding the conversation as easy as I expected.’

  ‘What’s on your mind? The gin? I’ve told you I’m going to do my best. I’ll have a better idea about capacity in due course.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Well, at least, not directly, though it is related.’

  Doubler, with nothing at all to fear from the Colonel, did his best to put him at ease. ‘Be straightforward – it will be so much easier on both of us.’

  ‘I’m not very well versed in this man-to-man stuff. Not my style. But I feel compelled to speak to you after our last chat. Do you remember? You talked about past and present, and autumn and hope, and, you know, all that fortune-telling stuff. You were very direct with me. You told me I should go home and value the people around me. I think you were implying I could be a better husband. I’ve come for advice in that department.’

  Doubler felt himself redden almost immediately and he stammered his reply, mortified that the Colonel might think he was equipped to offer counsel. ‘Oh, that’s completely out of my league. I’ve accomplished one or two things I can be proud of, but being a good husband absolutely isn’t one of them. In fact, I’d urge you to steer clear of my advice in all matters pertaining to personal relationships – things won’t end well for you if you take a leaf out of my book.’

  ‘On the contrary, you’re just the man for the job.’ The Colonel stiffened, taking comfort from Doubler’s discomfort. He took a deep breath. ‘My conclusion, and the matter on which I’m seeking advice, is that I believe I must learn to bake.’

  ‘To bake? You want to learn to bake?’ asked Doubler with barely disguised incredulity.

  ‘Yes, and I thought you might be just the man to teach me.’ The Colonel did his best to exude some sort of dignity.

  Doubler laughed, a rich, hearty, satisfying, unrestrained bellow of pure pleasure, amplified by shock. ‘I must say I didn’t see that coming. What on earth brought that on?’

  The Colonel exhaled dramatically, shaking his head to convey his utter despair. ‘My wife is so bloody capable. There’s not much she can’t do. I look at what she undertakes during an average day and marvel. Meanwhile, all I seem to do is get under her feet. It’s as if I can’t even find a place to stand without being a nuisance.’

  ‘And you think baking will help how?’ said Doubler, mystified.

  ‘The women at the animal shelter are so full of you and your blasted cake. “Oh, Doubler’s scones!” “Doubler’s lemon drizzle cake!” “How did Doubler get his icing so smooth?”’ The Colonel’s voice was mocking, almost contemptuous.

  Doubler was delighted. ‘Glad to hear it. I think most of the time they think I’m a blithering idiot. I’m rather chuffed.’

  ‘I never knew baking was a virtue. I mean, if my men could hear me now.’ He hung his head in shame.

  Doubler shrugged. ‘Everyone loves to eat, and most people appreciate the efforts of a half-decent cook. It’s a skill acquired that is rarely regretted. But I’m not sure of your motives. Do you want Paula and Mabel to admire you?’

  ‘No, good heavens! In fact, I’d much rather they never heard of this. I want them to remain a little bit afraid of me, as they are now. But I wouldn’t mind my wife thinking I’m good for something.’

  Doubler thought about this and imagined the consequences of the Colonel taking on this new hobby. Something wasn’t quite right with the image, but he was unable to articulate his misgivings. ‘You know, I fear you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘No, trust me, I’ve thought about this a great deal. Paula and Mabel seem to forgive your considerable faults for the promise of a Victoria sponge. Perhaps Kath might feel the same about me?’

  ‘Let’s have a think about this before you don your pinny.’ Doubler remained quiet for a couple of minutes while the Colonel continued to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Doubler said eventually. ‘Does Kath cook?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, she cooks like a dream.’ The Colonel nodded enthusiastically, animated by the thought.

  ‘And she bakes,
does she? She makes a cake or two?’

  ‘Oh goodness, yes. I don’t see much of it – she thinks it’s bad for my health – but she bakes these marvellous tray things for her charity dos and all manner of sponges and such for the WI. She makes it look so blessedly easy too.’ He cut a slice of cake in front of him, as if the memories of his wife’s cooking were making him hungry.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Doubler thoughtfully, watching the Colonel eat.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced,’ answered the Colonel, through a full mouthful.

  ‘I’m just thinking.’ Doubler pondered some more, uncomfortable but unsure why. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, blocking out all distractions while he conjured up an image of Mrs Millwood and imagined having this very conversation with her. Suddenly, it seemed much clearer.

  ‘Are you trying to impress your wife, Maxwell? Or compete with her?’

  ‘What are you saying? I want her to be pleased with me. I thought if you could give me a few lessons, on the q.t., I could go home and do something surprising that she might admire me for.’

  ‘But think about it. You would be treading on her toes! Going into the kitchen and baking in the room that she has had to herself all these years? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.’ Doubler, convinced now that he was right, waved a fork in the Colonel’s face. ‘She won’t admire you – she’ll resent you!’ Doubler laughed gleefully. ‘She might even hate you!’

  ‘I don’t find this hilarious, so I’m rather surprised you do, old man. I came for help and you seem to be hell-bent on humiliating me. I’m disappointed, Doubler. I believed we might be friends.’

  ‘We are friends! Look at us! We’re having an honest conversation and I’m giving you my advice in a no-holds-barred way. I’m rather pleased with myself. You came here looking for a way to be helpful, and here I am being helpful myself. I’ve surprised myself, I really have.’