Dubious Legacy

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Terra firma,’ exclaimed the man with relief. ‘Ham and sides of bacon next week, pork chops, sausages, chitterlings, the lot. Sad when one knows them so well, but there it is and here you are. Oh, dear boy, it’s good to see you!’ Almost as tall as Henry, the man put his hands on Henry’s shoulders and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my appley hands have sullied your uniform.’ He stood close, smiling at Henry, wiping his hands against his shirt as he scrutinized Henry’s face at close range with warm brown eyes. He was a heavily-built man, older than Henry, hair brown where Henry’s was black. His nose was longer than Henry’s; his mouth, not so wide, showed excellent teeth. He was clean-shaven, with little tufts of hair on his cheekbones. He studied Henry’s face, whispering, ‘You did come. It’s a long time—we really thought—we—’

  Henry smiled, saying nothing. Pleasure, seeping in, erased his ugly mood. They were silent in the orchard where the air was still. They could hear the soft thump as apples dropped from trees on to the wet grass.

  Henry sighed. Then, aware that he was being scrutinized, he braced his shoulders as the other took stock of his tanned skin, face thinner than when last seen, older, sad.

  Making no mention of Henry’s bruised eye the man looked him up and down as he wiped sticky hands on his shirt, did up a button, tucked the tail into flannel trousers which had seen better days and said, ‘Well. Shall we go up to the house and find John? It’s his day for making scones.’

  Henry said, ‘Yes, Jonathan. All right, let’s go and find him.’ He threw the basket into the barrow. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Since Henry did not speak as they walked, Jonathan, too, kept silent, but now and again his lips pouted forward with an unspoken word, a throttled question, before pursing into silence. He ran his hands through his hair, absently teasing out a twig, discovering a leaf which he pinched before dropping it. Then he said, looking down at his feet, matching Henry’s stride, ‘We thought—well we—we heard, of course—and then when you wrote—but then nothing. And you didn’t and—well—so.’

  Henry, tacking away, said brusquely, ‘You’re now John and Jonathan? Not both Jonathan, as you were christened?’

  ‘Well yes, yes.’

  ‘You are the elder?’ questioning.

  ‘We suppose so.’

  ‘You must know,’ bullying.

  ‘We do, it’s a fact.’

  ‘Really?’ Henry mocked.

  ‘Parish registers,’ said the other, ‘don’t lie.’

  ‘Oh ho! Parish registers.’ Henry laughed.

  ‘Of course.’ The other was hurt. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Henry, ‘honour.’ Then he said, ‘Depends how you interpret honour.’

  Jonathan said, ‘No need to be sarcastic, it’s what he wanted.’

  ‘No proof of that.’

  ‘No need to sneer. We both like the name, but I’m the oldest.’

  They moved up the orchard in single file, Henry walking behind Jonathan. ‘You’ve got flat feet,’ he said, observing the other man’s walk, large feet outwardly pointing in clumsy boots.

  ‘Always have done. Haven’t you ever noticed?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Quite an advantage these days; no good for marching.’

  ‘Aren’t you too old, anyway?’

  ‘Verging on it,’ Jonathan said, leading the way across an unkempt lawn. ‘Mind the goose mess on your posh shoes,’ he said as a group of geese hustled aside, hissing. ‘They lay masses of eggs, which make wonderful omelettes. Here we are.’ He led the way into a long cottage, kicking off his boots in a stone-flagged passage. He called out, ‘Look who’s here! Look who I found! He didn’t go without seeing us after all.’

  Wiping his feet on the mat, Henry breathed the smell of baking. He entered an airy kitchen. ‘Just in time for tea,’ exclaimed a man dressed also in grey flannels and white shirt, but wrapped around the waist by an apron which almost reached the floor. He was as tall as Jonathan but slim as a whippet, with thick dark red hair, immense brown eyes and a bristling moustache. ‘Just in time for my scones,’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, it is good to see you. Oh, dear boy, let me kiss—I won’t touch—I’m all floury.’ And, holding his arms back as though about to dive, he leaned forward and kissed Henry, saying, ‘There. You are really here. You didn’t forget us.’

  Henry said, ‘No. How could I? I wouldn’t,’ as he thought, But I almost did, I had to force myself. I had meant to get on the train.

  The three stood close together. Jonathan and John smiled at Henry, their eyes glistening with pleasure, lips parted in joy. John said, ‘Come, sit down, we are bursting to hear all about it. Come on, tell all.’ His eye shied away from Henry’s bruise. ‘It’s such an event. Such an excitement in our humdrum lives.’

  Henry said, ‘Those scones smell delicious, I am starving. Any tea?’ The smiles faded as he remarked, ‘Bugger all to tell.’

  John said, ‘Yes, of course, tea. Sit here between us. Get the butter, lovey, and there’s honey. Or would you rather have jam?’

  Henry said, ‘Honey would be wonderful, but I won’t eat your butter ration.’

  ‘Oh my dear!’ they said together. ‘We’ve got lots.’

  ‘Flourishing system of swap round here, black market to you,’ said John. ‘All the neighbours who are hoping for a slice of Hitler or Mussolini have been generous lately, afraid of being forgotten. Though they do say war brings out the best in people, don’t they?’ He let his eye linger on Henry’s bruise. ‘Got yourself quite a shiner,’ he whispered into his moustache.

  Henry sat at the table and watched his friends find cups, saucers, plates, knives, put honey and butter on the table, jostle the kettle to hurry it up, wash their hands at the sink, exchange worried and anxious glances. He did nothing to dispel the sense of unease which replaced their initial enthusiasm, but sat with teeth clenched and lower lip thrust out, waiting.

  As though conscious of the change of atmosphere, several cats who had been asleep, balled up against the stove, detached themselves and slunk in a ripple of black and tabby out of the window.

  Still Henry waited.

  John poured tea and passed cups. ‘You will stay the night?’

  Henry said, ‘I have to catch the late train. I go to France tomorrow.’

  ‘France?’ they said, interested. ‘France?’

  Henry said, ‘The south-west.’

  ‘My mother was French,’ said the heavily-built older man.

  ‘A French governess,’ said the thin friend. ‘She was only a governess.’

  ‘French, nonetheless,’ riposted the other. ‘Your mother,’ he said to Henry, ‘was very fond of France.’

  ‘Though not necessarily of the French,’ said the other man, catching his friend’s eye while concealing a smile under his moustache. ‘One wonders,’ he said conversationally, ‘whether the French are really pleased to be liberated?’

  His friend, seizing this lead, carried on. ‘All that mess in the north; smashed villages, bridges blown up. There never was much love lost—’

  ‘And the Americans! Bulls in china shops in the south; we hear they blew up the red light district in Marseilles. That won’t be popular! You may have to do a lot of explaining.’

  ‘You are perspicacious.’ Henry helped himself to a scone, spread butter, dug his knife into the honey pot. ‘No spoon,’ he said. ‘Standards slipping.’

  The two friends laughed.

  ‘Historical hatreds last,’ said Jonathan. ‘I don’t mind betting that your average Frenchman, if neither a Jew nor a member of the Resistance, has been relatively comfortable under the Germans. My old ma, who liked the English, was hardly representative, and your mother, Henry, would have called the Liberation a misplaced act of kindness.’

  What are these snide references to my parents leading up to? thought Henry. ‘My mother is long dead,’ he said.

  ‘And your father,’ said John. ‘Our godfather, God bless h
im.’

  ‘I thought we all agreed years ago,’ said Henry, ‘that my mother, after understandable initial doubts, accepted that neither of you is my half-brother?’

  ‘We know that,’ said John, ‘but there was always the residue of doubt. We could have been his children; we could have been the results of wild oats. She never quite cured herself of sizing us up in that speculative way. She had a special way of looking at us.’

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ said Henry, helping himself to more honey, ‘that she ever really came to terms with Father’s philanthropy.’

  ‘Acting as our godfather? Paying for our education? Two little Jonathans.’

  ‘One would be understandable, two an exaggeration,’ said the larger man agreeably. ‘His kindness brimmed.’

  ‘I tried once,’ said Henry, ‘to get him to admit you were his younger brother’s children. But he said no, the dates were all wrong, some friend had slipped up—twice, two friends actually. Can I have another cup?’ He passed his cup to Jonathan. ‘It’s really absurd,’ he now said, ‘to have called you both Jonathan. It’s idiotic—’

  ‘Named for their godfather—’ said the larger man, complacent, irritating.

  Henry slammed his fist on the table, knocking a plate to the stone floor, where it broke. ‘I’d like to break another,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Feel free, help yourself,’ said the larger man, looking at the broken plate.

  Henry said, ‘I’ve come without a book to read in the train. Can one of you lend me something?’

  T. S. Eliot? Agatha Christie?’ suggested the thin man. ‘Why don’t you grind the plate into the floor? It’s past mending. They say bottling up rage is bad for you.’ He spoke with concern and a trace of shame.

  Henry thought, These two know something; it is making them feel awkward. There’s something funny here.

  ‘So you’ve come to tell us all about your marriage?’ said the larger man courageously.

  ‘Who is in a china shop now?’ his friend murmured.

  Henry, who had come to do precisely that, said, ‘No. No, I haven’t,’ and leaned down to pick up pieces of broken plate. ‘Tell me about your lives,’ he said. ‘Your pigs, geese, chickens. Are you still in the Observer Corps? Do you still do ARP?’

  When, later, he had to catch his train, they walked with him in the dark to the station; they had lent him The Screwtape Letters and a Dorothy L. Sayers.

  ‘We hear Aragon has written some wonderful poems,’ they said. ‘Will you send them to us?’

  Henry said that he would.

  Halfway to the station, he said, ‘You neither of you liked my mother—’

  ‘She used to say things like, “That man has Eton blue eyes—”’ said the older man.

  ‘Never pale blue,’ said his friend.

  ‘Snobbery is incurable when it’s unconscious,’ said Henry.

  ‘Of course,’ they said. ‘Absolutely.’ Then they said, ‘We loved your father,’ and one of them (Henry later could not remember which) said, ‘He had the highest possible motives,’ excusing the dead.

  Just before they reached the station, Henry said, ‘Will you go and meet my wife? Get to know her? See what you can do?’

  They said that of course they would, they couldn’t wait to meet her. Nothing they would enjoy more.

  Henry said, ‘Here’s my train. I must run. Take care of yourselves. Goodbye,’ and ran through the dark to the train.

  The Jonathans waited outside the station until they heard the train leave.

  In the train Henry sat alone in the dim light of a blacked-out carriage and reproached himself for being surly, for breaking their plate, a pretty plate. Minton, probably irreplaceable. Then he remembered the phrase ‘a misplaced act of kindness’ and mulled it over as it refuelled his suspicions.

  Morosely he opened the books they had lent him, riffled through the pages, laid them aside, sat with head bent forward staring at his shoes; they had been his father’s. I inherit my father’s shoes and the results of his quixotic generosity, he thought wryly. The shoes fit, a lot of the rest pinches. Staring at his feet, he remembered his father’s efforts to communicate, his own longing to reciprocate and their joint failure after his mother, seized by pneumonia, died.

  He had been rushed from school, fetched by Trask just in time to see her die. She had struggled for breath. He had a miserable cold caught at school; when he kissed her, her breath smelled horrible. He had tried not to let her see his disgust. At the funeral his father had worn black. Friends and relations and all the village people had crowded the church, which reeked of lilies and chrysanthemums. The Jonathans singing in the choir had tried to catch his eye—they were his best friends—but he had stared at his feet. Back at the house the funeral guests crowded round the fires, warmed their hands, drank tea and whisky, ate cake; survivors.

  He should have handed round plates of gentleman’s relish sandwiches, been polite. But the Jonathans were looking for him; he did not want their sympathy, feared he would cry. He had escaped to the stables, where the dogs had been shut in for the afternoon, and in one of the loose-boxes he had wept with his face pressed against a horse’s neck, gripping its mane with manic fingers.

  That night his father said, ‘I am taking you away. We will go to Italy; you can miss a term.’ In the train his father had worn these brown shoes.

  Together they climbed up and down the cobbled mule tracks in the hills behind Carhogli, gazed down at the sea, boated round the cliffs to San Frutuoso, visited Portofino with its line of ill-used horses with drooping disconsolate heads in the long cab rank; eaten fried sardines and pasta in the piazza, drunk strong and bitter coffee. Communication was stilted and awkward; his mother had always bound them together. Could he have tried harder? She would have loved the flowers, long-stemmed, sweet-scented, purple-and-white violets, blue hepaticas, white anemones, pink cyclamen, sweet-scented narcissi, orchids, and the steady clop of the mules carrying their loads on the cobbled paths up through the olive groves. It was a relief to get back to school, and in the holidays his father talked more easily with the two Jonathans, recounting to them in copious detail the course of his various acts of philanthropy, from which in advancing years he derived as much pleasure as he had from the girls he seduced in the company of the Jonathans’ fathers in their pre-marital heyday.

  ‘None so dangerous as a reformed rake.’ Henry chuckled in affectionate recollection. ‘I must get some new shoes,’ he said out loud. ‘These are past repair.’

  Tramping back to their cottage, guided by a flickering torch, Jonathan said, ‘I think somehow there’s been a bit of a boomerang.’

  ‘I didn’t care for his tone of voice when he said “philanthropy”,’ said the other.

  ‘And yet with Pilar—’

  ‘But the old man saw Pilar, found her himself. This isn’t the same thing; this was by proxy.’

  ‘Seemed such a good idea.’

  ‘Brilliant at the time.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’ Jonathan burst out laughing. ‘It’s awful to laugh,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Awful. But I would have loved to have been there when she blacked his eye.’

  The younger man joined in the laughter. ‘What a mess! Let’s go over as soon as we can.’

  ‘Should we have meddled?’ queried the older man.

  ‘A bit late to ask that now,’ said his friend.

  It was years before the Jonathans spoke of their first visit to Margaret, and the subsequent visits which led to a relationship founded not on friendship but curiosity.

  Henry had asked them to go, they told Calypso, when he left to go back to the war that autumn of 1944. (They had chosen Calypso for their saga in the knowledge that anything told went no further, not so much because she was discreet as that she had no interest in garbling. Gossip regaled to Calypso stopped there.)

  They had dressed for the occasion, they told her, put on suits, shambled round by the road rather than cut across the fields, carried roses bought
from a florist.

  Margaret had received them in bed. They were impressed by her beauty, impressed that she was neither ill nor trying to keep warm. This was before Margaret and bed became synonymous. Searching for a subject, they asked whether she liked Cotteshaw, liked the bedroom she had chosen. She had said, ‘It will do well enough,’ dampingly. They enthused that they loved the place, had known it all their lives, had had happy times, been befriended by Henry’s parents, loved Henry. Margaret had said, ‘Really?’ as though this was surprising, suspect even. It had been hard to find anything to chat about until they hit on her wish to have her room other than it was. They had offered then to help redecorate, told her they were interested ‘in style’, ‘in matters of taste’. She said so had her ex-husband been interested; he was the same sort of person, ‘a queer’. She used the appellation as an insult. Even so, they told Calypso, they rallied; had not Henry asked them to befriend his wife?

  They had helped rearrange the room, brought mirrors and chairs from other parts of the house (Henry’s mother had had many lovely mirrors), found wallpaper and paint, scarce for ages after the war. It was something they could do for Henry, they told Calypso—and, they readily admitted, an interest for themselves. And, too, it helped Pilar, who did not find Margaret easy, and of course it helped Ebro. But that all came later when a rapport had been established, when she knew that they knew—she had let it slip—that she had money of her own. Not that she used it to pay for decorations; only to buy clothes by mail order.

  They had never expected Margaret to stay in bed; they had supposed she would get up, take an interest in the house. They had supposed that she would play the role of wife. These suppositions, hopes, if truth were told, died on their first visit. In Margaret’s mind there was no question of love, sex or friendship; she made this clear. At first they thought this was some sort of act. ‘We laughed,’ they told Calypso. ‘We thought she was having us on.’

  Jonathan corrected this. ‘Not so. We laughed because we were so shocked—we never expected Henry to get caught in such a terrible trap.’