Random Winds

by Belva Plain

  At last Jessie spoke. “I’m remembering something,” she said softly, “that you may have forgotten. I’m thinking of you and your father.” It was the only personal remark that had passed between them.

  And now Martin gave her a long look. “I haven’t forgotten … What you’re reminding me is that every human being must develop in his own way. And that I ought to be the first to see it.”

  “True, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes. You always did like to get at the heart of things in a hurry, didn’t you? Well, you’re right, of course. And I’ll tell her. You can depend on it. I’ll tell her that I’ve been thinking it would be better for us both if she were to go her own way. I’ll find words to make it convincing.”

  “I thought you would. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come.”

  “What about that—other affair? She never talks to me about him.”

  “Nor to me, until that night. It shocked me so! Claire almost never cries, you know she doesn’t.”

  “Everything’s bottled up inside.”

  “That’s what worries me! Not that there’s anything to be done about him, to be sure.”

  “He was a fine young man. I tried hard not to like him, but”—Martin threw out his hands—“it didn’t work.”

  “A fine young man? It was an impossible situation! Impossible!”

  “I grant that But then—human situations often are.” Martin hesitated. “I suppose there’s no way of finding out where he is? That old aunt of yours?” He broke off and Jessie understood he meant that Aunt Milly could write Fern and find out.

  “Aunt Milly died last year. Anyway,” she said, suddenly indignant, “I wouldn’t dream of asking! Claire would never forgive it and I wouldn’t blame her. Pride is the last thing a woman wants to lose.” Martin would be thinking, no doubt: Well, you ought to know. And well I ought, Jessie said to herself. Aloud, she went on, “With a little effort I could hate the fellow for the mess he’s made of her life.”

  Surprisingly, Martin replied, “It was Claire’s fault, too.”

  “You don’t mean you would welcome him back, for Heaven’s sake?”

  “He’s not my first choice. But if she wants him?”

  “This is all academic, and may I add, I’m glad of it?” She stood up. “But I might as well bring you something pleasant along with all the bad before I leave. You remember a patient named Jeremy from Tucson?”

  “Yes. I operated on him a few months ago.”

  “His sister-in-law is a customer of mine. She’s been singing your praises everywhere.”

  “That’s nice to know.” The quick smile was youthful, as though praise were an embarrassment.

  “She was telling everyone he’d been given up. Something about the tumor being in both lobes and six other doctors said it was impossible, but you said you could do it?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “She said his doctor came from Arizona to watch you. He’d been convinced it couldn’t be done.”

  “Yes.”

  “So those people all think you’re something of a hero.”

  “Hero? I know my work and I love it, that’s about all.”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it? Well, call me if there’s anything I should know about Claire. Otherwise, of course, I won’t expect to hear from you.”

  “Of course,” Martin said courteously.

  He came from behind the desk and opened the door. It was like taking leave of one’s lawyer or banker, and she was grateful for his calm tact which had so eased the difficult meeting for them both.

  She put out her hand. “So, having told you what I came to tell you, I’ll be going.”

  “I’m thankful you came. I had no idea, none at all. But I’ll set her free—for India or wherever she wants to go. Without guilt or any looking back.”

  “India,” Jessie murmured, going through the door. “Of all places.”

  For long minutes Martin sat looking at the wall, the bookshelves and the windows all blurring in the wintry light. He was vaguely aware when the typewriter fell silent and when Jenny Jennings poked her head in at the door to say good night. The sight of him sitting here in a fog of abstraction aroused no concern in her, for his people were used to seeing him puzzle ova: his problems.

  But this problem hurt so much! He turned it over and over in his mind, examining it as though it were an X-ray. Jessie would never have come to him, after all these proud years, unless it were really serious and she were really alarmed. It took a good deal to alarm Jessie, too. Well, he would break the tie, that was all! How could he have known it had become so painful? Never by one word had Claire revealed herself. Poor little soul! May this be the right thing for her! May she never regret it! May I get over my loss with good grace!

  Then he thought of that other pain of hers, the man-woman thing. What it could do to a human soul! So she wanted him still, that boy! There was no sense in it, when the world was full of young men who would gladly have her. Claire, with all that life in her, that bright life! And her eyes, with their grave gaze, and their soft lashes, flashed through his memory. No sense in it at all!

  She wanted Ned Lamb. He could see them still: handsome couple! They had looked as though they belonged together. There had been something between them which, although one might not wish to admit it, one recognized. Little Claire, so proud, so foolish! And remembering how close she had come to dying, he trembled. Her longing—if it was anything like what he had suffered over that boy’s mother—was dreadful. He tried to remember how it had felt and could only recall that he had felt it, been sick with it, almost overcome by it and that every day had been a struggle against it. And remembering, he actually began to feel it again. A soft ache, creeping, settled like a lump in his throat …

  It had grown quite dark. Suddenly he sat upright and turned on the desk lamp. He looked in his telephone book for a number, and dialed it.

  “I want to leave a message for Mr. Fordyce,” he said. “He always books my trips. Can he get me a flight to London toward the end of the week? Yes, Thursday or Friday would be fine.”

  Chapter 33

  From the hotel window Martin looked out on a dull sky, out of which beat a steady rain. An English winter: he had forgotten. He had ordered breakfast in his room. The rented car would be delivered shortly so he could make an early start. The route was clear in his mind. That he had not forgotten.

  Night had just faded away. A car with headlights on moved slowly in the street below, the light picking out the remains of a discarded Christmas tree that had been tossed in the gutter. It was a mournful sight so late in the winter, those broken branches with tinsel scraps still clinging. A cat came prowling, foraging for food perhaps, and finding nothing, set up a bitter wail. Hunger? Or hunger of another kind, a tomcat crying for a female shut up somewhere in a house?

  Thoughtfully he drank his coffee, still not sure he ought to be where he was. On the plane above the Atlantic, he’d had his moments of thinking he’d made a mistake, that he would just turn right around at the airport and take the next plane back. He’d had moments at home, too, in which he’d tried to extricate himself from his own undertaking. Calling the New York office of Ned’s firm to ask whether he was still in Hong Kong, all he’d found out was that Ned wasn’t even with them anymore. Only the remembrance of Jessie had spurred him to persevere. Sheer guts it had taken for her to have come to him! But she had done it for their daughter, and he could do no less than try, at least, to straighten things out for Claire, if it was not too late, and if he could.

  And thinking with some pity of his daughter, he recalled something Mr. Meredith had said on the day she was born, something about the Achilles heel: “Whatever happens to that child will happen to you,” he’d said. Yes, yes. If Jessie were correct in her report, and there was no reason to think she wasn’t, how Claire must suffer! Fantasies of reunion: imagining what you would say if you should meet by chance; imagining yourself walking haughtily away, wanting to hurt, leaving him or
her staring helplessly after you. Or imagining outstretched arms and healing tears.

  Fantasies! Had he not had more than a few himself? He had meant to do right; yet had he not wronged all the women he had known? He should never have gone back to Mary during the war. In his heart he must have known what was bound to happen. He had only made it hard for her to find someone else. His fault.

  He looked at his watch. Too early. Now that he had made up his mind, time was going too slowly. And he sat on, brooding and mulling over, denying and reconsidering, a thing he had never dared to examine in the light of day. It began to take shape. It grew so rapidly that he knew instinctively it must have been lying there, stifled inside him, for longer than he could know.

  They called from the desk to say that the car had been delivered. He went downstairs and took the wheel. A sudden enormous excitement possessed him, an astounding surge of energy. The tension made him hot and he lowered the window, not minding the rain.

  The last he had heard, she was still living at Lamb House alone. What if, as long as he was going there to speak for Claire, what if he were to speak for himself as well? Why not? Was it absolute madness? Why not?

  The rain ceased. Fog lay in shreds and tatters, snagged on the lower branches of the trees. A pure light touched the tops of the worn old hills. The wind rushed in his ears like ringing silence. He was almost there. And he had a curious sensation, an expectation of reward as at the theater in the moment before the curtain rises.

  The maid said, “There’s only Mr. Ned at home. He’s in the studio. Shall I fetch him?”

  “Thanks. I know where it is.”

  For a moment Martin stood in the doorway, watching Ned who, in shirt-sleeves and work clothes, was removing a painting from a crate. At the sight of this stranger, who could possess such power over his daughter as to bring her father here to beg for her, strong feelings of resentment, shame and grief churned up in Martin. With them was mixed the memory of Claire lying ill and drained, of Claire so hurt, so still. Strange! It was only after Jessie had pointed it out to him that he remarked how the stillness had lasted. She had always been so vigorous; why, then, had he not noticed the change? And all these feelings were so strong in Martin now that they pounded in his head; he felt almost ill with the pressure of them as he stood there.

  Ned saw him. Astonishment spread over his face. He didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, speak.

  “No,” Martin said, “you’re not imagining things. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

  “Well—well I—”

  “I’ve come looking for you. I didn’t expect to find you so easily. I rather thought you’d be in Singapore or somewhere.”

  “No, I’ve been home awhile.”

  They stared at each other. In their looks were anxiety and wariness, puzzlement, embarrassment and a certain hostility.

  “Come in. Sit down.”

  Martin took an uncomfortable straight-backed chair. Ned sat on a packing case. It seemed to Martin that he looked tired and older than one ought to look at his age.

  He began resolutely. “I’ll come to the point. I want to talk about Claire.”

  Ned’s expression was unreadable.

  “It’s not, as you suppose, the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. But first I have to ask you something: Is there another woman in your life? If there is, I’ll go about my business and you can forget you saw me.”

  “There’s no one.”

  “Then that’s one hurdle past. The next is: No matter what, if anything, should come of this conversation, I want your word that my daughter will never know I’ve been here. She’s proud; I don’t have to tell you that. Perhaps too proud, though I’m sometimes not quite sure what that means. Anyway, I want your word.”

  “You have it.”

  “Because if she were ever to find out, I’d have your head.”

  “I said you have my word.” Ned waited.

  “Now the hard part. The fact is, she’s still in love with you. She’s miserable. She’s never told me, but her mother knows. She’s made herself miserable ever since—” And idiotically, he felt tears sMmming over his eyes. He swallowed. “Ever since she lost the baby.”

  “The baby!”

  “Yes. You left her pregnant.”

  “Oh my God!” Ned cried. “A baby! But when? It died?”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “Or, I mean—Oh damn the language! It didn’t die, she had an abortion and she nearly died of it. There’s the whole thing in one sentence.” And taking out a handkerchief, he wiped his eyes unashamedly.

  Ned let out a long sigh. “I would have come back. She knew where I was. I would have come back.”

  “Yes. Yes. Well, it would take a Solomon to figure out what went on in your two heads. Nowadays they call it a breakdown in communication or some such stuff.”

  Ned put his head in his hands. The room was very still while he sat there, not looking up.

  “I wish I knew what happened,” he said at last. “I’ve asked myself and asked. I wanted to go to her, but she sent me away. Somehow I couldn’t get over that.”

  Martin felt a flare of anger. “You could have written.”

  “Yes, it was small-minded. We hurt each other so.” Now he looked up at Martin. “I thought about her … I’d take a girl out, and driving away, I’d see Claire’s face. It’s been like that ever since. I’d get to thinking perhaps it would always be like that, and I’d always see her face. You know how it is?”

  Martin said steadily, “I know how it is.”

  Ned flushed. “Where is she? What is she doing?” he asked.

  “She wants to go to India or Brazil or some far place like that. Probably India.”

  “Not going to work with you?”

  “No. She has very different ideas which I wasn’t aware of. Another failure of communication. Life seems to be full of them. I don’t understand why they happen. Is it pride or stubbornness, or both?”

  “Claire and I, we’re both proud and stubborn. Both of us, I mean.”

  Somehow, the rueful half-smile was appealing, Martin thought. And Ned added, “Machismo. Do you suppose I overdid it?”

  “Ah well, she’s a feminist! Was one before she was old enough to know what the word meant. Still, you asked an awful lot of her, you know. And times are changing. You can’t treat a woman like a child anymore.”

  Martin thought again: What am I doing here, pleading for this reunion which will only complicate my life, unless—unless what I thought of this morning were possible? And the thought came leaping back. Mary and I. How improbably tidy! How neat, how perfect! And yet, why not? Why not?

  Into his thoughts, swirling like flares in a dark place, came Ned’s plaintive question. “What can we do now, do you think?”

  “That’s rather up to you, isn’t it?”

  “India,” Ned repeated.

  “Yes. She wants experience working with the poor, women in particular. Women and children.” He added sharply. “I think you ought to know, she may not ever have a child.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’d have some mending of her spirit to do if she can’t, I should suppose.” “I understand.”

  “This India business—you might well guess it’s not my idea for her. But then that’s hardly relevant, is it?” And Martin hoped he didn’t betray the remnant of his bitterness. “How could you manage that if—if you should straighten things out with her? She determined to go, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m a free agent now. I quit the work in Hong Kong. I was miserable there, thinking of her—” Ned cleared his throat and stopped.

  Martin thought: I have really hit him where it hurts, and was keenly sorry.

  “I found that I didn’t really like advertising anyhow. It seemed suddenly much ado about very little, persuading people to buy things they often don’t need and can’t afford.”

  “Rather a sudden revelation, wasn’t it?”

  “Not really so sudden, when I piece it all together. I�
��d always wanted to write. To write truly, I mean, without tricks. To use words honestly and well. Claire knew. She never told you?”

  “She mentioned something. But then you were so enthusiastic about the job—”

  “Yes, well you see, doing the kind of journalism I had in mind, reporting on things I cared about and felt people ought to know about—conditions in slum schools or saving the whales or revolt in Iraq or whatever—you don’t just break into that whenever you feel like it. So I’d got a bit discouraged and then sidetracked into advertising, making a lot of money—a lot for me, at any rate—getting this great promotion, very flattering to the ego—” Ned threw up his hands.

  I like this man, I really do, Martin thought. He said aloud, “A man’s ego. That always figures.”

  “Perhaps it figured too much with me.” Ned looked away. “Claire told me at the end—we were wounded and angry with one another—she said I was trying to compensate, to be the man my father wasn’t. Yet I had always, or so I’d thought, been very proud of my father, while overlooking that other business. So I couldn’t forgive her for saying that.” Now he looked directly at Martin. “But perhaps she was right. Perhaps I did want to feel big and powerful and manly, climbing up in the corporate world, running around to important meetings with my briefcase.”

  Martin asked gently, “So you’ve quit that world?”

  “Yes, I’ve taken a chance and it seems to be working out. I go abroad on contract and report on things for newspapers and magazines. I’ve an article on changes in Spain coming out in the States next month.”

  “Congratulations, then!”

  “Thank you.” Ned added abruptly, “I don’t need a great deal of money to live. I never did, even when I was earning it.”

  “Come to think of it, Claire doesn’t either. She buys a pair of shoes when the old ones have worn out.” Martin smiled, remembering worn shoes and missing buttons.

  “I could go wherever she went.” Ned spoke thoughtfully. “We could work our schedules on an equal basis.”