For several hours, Alfred and Isobel sat waiting for the telephone to ring. Isobel drank three glasses of gin to calm her nerves, while Alfred paced the small living room, already marking in his mind the furniture that had come with the house, and the pieces they had bought to make it into a home. When the call finally came that evening (Isobel hadn’t had the energy to put John to bed, so he sat sleepily on the carpet as they watched – or rather merely looked at – Armchair Theatre on the television), Alfred waited until the telephone had rung four times before he answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Warner, you may, if you wish, come to work tomorrow morning.’
He waited to see if she would say anything more, half-expecting her to announce she would dock his wages, or that he would be put on a trial period, but she remained silent, so he said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Warner.’
‘Goodnight.’
Day Five
That afternoon, while Alfred took a nap in my bedroom, I finally made a start on marking my pupils’ exam papers. A joyless task, at the best of times, but I had to tackle it sooner or later. And I hoped that it might distract me a little. But I had barely got through two essays when I heard the sound of Alfred’s voice coming from the bedroom. I couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded agitated. I crossed the hall and tapped lightly on the door.
‘Alfred?’ There was no answer, so I went in. ‘Alfred, is everything okay?’
He was standing by the window, his few strands of white hair sleep-ruffled. He was flailing his arms about and seemed quite distressed. ‘But what about John?’ he was saying. ‘She needs to know. John. John.’ Then he turned around and stared at me. ‘What day is it?’ he asked. There was panic in his voice. ‘What day?’
I crossed the room to where he was standing and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s Monday. The twenty-sixth. What’s the matter, Alfred? Come here, sit down.’ I guided him to the bed. ‘Now, calm down.’
He was breathing heavily through his nose. ‘I’m running out of time,’ he said. ‘There’s not much time . . . and they said . . . but what if? She needs to know about John!’
I crouched down in front of him. His hands were trembling so badly, I had to place mine on top of them to get them to stop. ‘Everything’s okay, Alfred. You probably had a bad dream. Take a few deep breaths. Yes, just like that. It’s okay. And remember what the doctor said today? Brynja’s doing much better. She’s off the ventilator. She may wake up any day. Do you remember?’
Very gradually, he stopped shaking and looked at me. ‘Yes. Yes, he did sound hopeful, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Very much so. And we’ll go and visit her again tomorrow and perhaps things might have improved even more. Now, why don’t you lie down for a bit? Here – ’ I pulled back my duvet cover and helped him slide into bed. ‘You just have a rest and I’ll go and make us some lunch. How about I warm up what’s left of that chicken fricassee? You liked that, didn’t you?’
He put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. ‘And then I can continue with my story?’ he asked.
‘Of course. For as long as you like. Now – ’ I patted the covers, ‘I’ll fetch you when it’s time to eat, okay?’
1965 - 1967
John Drummond passed away in early October 1965, not entirely unexpectedly, as he had suffered several minor strokes over the two years leading up to his death. Isobel travelled to Scotland on her own for the funeral, leaving Alfred alone with John for the first time. He would have liked to go with her, but after Claxton’s retirement two months earlier, he was now head gardener at March House. His new assistant, seventeen-year-old Daffyd Arthur, was enthusiastic and hard-working, but still very much reliant on Alfred’s instruction.
‘Make sure Johnnie does his homework,’ Isobel said in parting, when Alfred dropped her off at the station. She looked frail and tired in her black coat.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ he said. Even before they had received the news of Drummond’s death, she hadn’t been sleeping well. John had recently been in a spate of trouble at school – tardiness, failure to produce homework, talking back to teachers – with the threat of suspension if his misbehaviour continued. Isobel and Alfred had doled out a series of punishments, which so far seemed to be having the desired effect.
‘And he’s nae to go out after dark,’ Isobel continued, her voice gravelly with exhaustion and last night’s tears. ‘If that Mark Donohue calls for him, tell him John’s grounded.’
Alfred pulled her forward gently and kissed her. ‘Have a safe journey. I’ll pick you up here on Sunday.’
She nodded vaguely and boarded the train.
The week with John was uneventful. He came home on time after school every day, went upstairs to do his homework, and dutifully washed the dishes every evening when they’d eaten the warmed-up casseroles Isobel had prepared for them. On their final evening alone together, Alfred offered to relax the no-television rule, but John declined on the grounds that he was tired, and went to bed early. Alfred didn’t stay up late either, but – unused to sleeping alone – found it difficult to get to sleep. After what seemed like hours, he finally drifted off, but was woken with whispering in his ears.
Get up, get up.
He turned and groaned. It couldn’t be morning already, he thought. The bedroom was coal black – even in October, the dawn was brighter than this. He lay on his back, waiting to hear more. But nothing came, and he wondered if he had been dreaming. He put on his slippers and crossed the hall to go to the bathroom, but stopped when he saw that John’s bedroom door was ajar. John always slept with his door closed – he had become almost obsessive about his privacy lately. Alfred pushed the door open a little wider. In the orange glow of the streetlamp, which shone in through the cracks in the curtains, Alfred saw immediately that the bed was empty.
‘John,’ he whispered, then more loudly, ‘John? Are you in here?’
No answer. All at once, a panic unfolded in his chest, a panic tinged with anger. He couldn’t believe that John would dare to sneak out of his bedroom at night, but where else could he be? He hurried downstairs, trying to calm himself. Maybe the boy was getting a drink of milk. Maybe he would bump into him in the kitchen. Sleepwalking, even? He did that once or twice when he was little. But downstairs was as hushed as upstairs. Alfred checked the time. Twenty to three. What to do? Get in the car and drive around the village? Call Mark Donohue’s house? But then he would undoubtedly wake Mark’s parents and risk looking like a fool. A fool of a father who couldn’t control his own son. His anger began to overshadow his panic. He paced the living room. He couldn’t call Isobel; he didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. Should he just go back to bed and wait until morning? But what if John was lying in a ditch somewhere, needing help?
‘What should I do?’ he called finally. They were with him in an instant.
You’re not looking in the right place.
‘What?’
You’re not looking properly.
‘Well that’s bloody obvious,’ he snapped. He was in no mood for their riddles. ‘So where is he, then?’
Ah, Alfred. It’s up to you. You need to try much, much harder.
Kssss, you’d think we’d given him enough clues by now.
But before Alfred could respond, he heard something from outside. He hurried to the back of the house and opened the back door, half-expecting to see a fox or some other nocturnal animal roaming the garden, but it was empty. The meadow that bordered on the edge of the property stretched out in grey and green to merge with the range of hills that enclosed the village. Then the sound, again. A dull scrape followed by a moan, or a sob, coming from the garden shed. Alfred quickly headed outside, the soft lawn cushioning his steps, his earlier anger and worry quickly dissolving into relief. The moon had been swallowed by clouds, but he didn’t need much light to navigate the flowerbeds and vegetable patches; he could have done so in his sleep. The door to the shed was crack
ed open an inch or two. Bracing himself, just in case some animal – or worse, an intruder – jumped out at him, he slowly opened the door. John was sitting in the corner of the shed, his back resting against the lawnmower. His hands were covering his face.
‘John? Alfred stepped forward. ‘What are ye doing here? I’ve been worried out of my mind.’ But he immediately softened his tone when he realised that John was crying. ‘Hey son, what’s the matter? Is this about yer grandad?’
He bent down. And then he smelt it, a sharp, fruity tang rising above the musty shed-smell. ‘Have you been drinking?’ he asked.
But John didn’t answer. Instead, he began waving his hand around his face. ‘They – ’ he began, ‘they – ’
‘Are you drunk, John?’
John continued flapping his arm about, mumbling things Alfred couldn’t make out. The boy was blind drunk, that much was obvious.
‘Come on, up you get,’ Alfred said. When John didn’t move, he stepped forward and tried to pull him up. But John swatted his arms away.
‘Get off of me,’ he slurred, picking up a bottle next to him. ‘Can’t you all just fucking leave me alone?!!’
The expletive made Alfred suddenly angry. ‘Stand up. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ He had to control the volume of his voice. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get up. Now!’
He pulled John to his feet, knocking the bottle to the floor. John reeled, but regained his balance and stood in front of Alfred, swaying slightly.
‘You’re a disgrace, John Warner. It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see this. It’d break her heart.’
John’s face went limp for a moment. But then he raised his head and stared at a point above Alfred’s left shoulder. A nasty smile formed on his lips. ‘I’d just tell the stupid bitch that I was sleepwalking,’ he said.
Before he could stop himself, Alfred pulled his arm back and struck John across the face. It wasn’t a hard slap, but hard enough to make John lose his balance and fall a few steps backwards, turning as he fell and crashing head first into the lawnmower. It was the first time Alfred had hit his son, and his palm stung. For a dazed moment, John remained slumped in his fallen position, but after a moment he heaved himself up, and Alfred could see a cut above his right eyebrow. Then, with a sudden roar, he charged at Alfred, head down, hitting him straight in the stomach. The two of them tumbled out of the shed onto the dark lawn. It had started raining softly, and the grass was slippery. But though winded, Alfred was sober and thus far more coordinated than his son, managing to pin him onto his back without much effort. He felt a fierce mixture of bewilderment and rage, heard his voice-women moaning and shrieking inside his head. He thought his head might shatter. He held John down for a long time, while the boy struggled and laughed and wept hysterically. Finally, John stopped struggling and lay perfectly still on the grass. His face was wet, and so pale that the red oozing gash above his eyebrow seemed to glow. He met Alfred’s gaze.
‘Don’t tell Mum what I said,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
At first, Alfred kept the incident to himself when Isobel returned. She appeared pale and subdued, and he didn’t want to add to her troubles. But it wasn’t long before they received another letter from school, informing them that John had been suspended for a two-week period for continued delinquent behaviour. That evening, while Isobel was washing up after dinner, Alfred told her how he’d found John drunk in the shed. He omitted John’s comment about her and their subsequent fight.
‘He’s spoiled,’ Alfred said. ‘It cannae go on like this.’
Isobel wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘He’s upset about his grandfather,’ she said. She didn’t turn to face him.
‘Oh come on, Isobel. This started well before your father died. There’s no good pretending otherwise.’
She didn’t respond. Alfred got up and walked over to her. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t want to upset you. I know this isn’t a good time, but we need to do something about John before it’s too late.’
Isobel let out a little snort. ‘Do something about him? Like he’s a tomcat that needs neutering?’
She turned and went into the living room. Alfred followed her.
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, more calmly than he felt. Now he was finally addressing the problem, he intended to see it through.
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ she said. She switched on the television set and sat down. Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but she gave him a look that said, keep your voice down.
Her look irritated him. He turned the volume down on the television and stood in front of her, blocking her view. ‘You’ve let him get away with bad behaviour for years. You’ve spoiled him. He always gets what he wants, and you’re – ’
‘How can you say that? I’ve nae spoiled him! I’ve loved him, like a mother should! How can ye call your own son spoiled?’
‘You’re always too ready to jump to his defence when he’s caused some sort of trouble.’
‘It’s my job to defend him,’ she said. ‘That’s what mothers do.’
‘Isobel, this isn’t helping.’
‘Oh, now just listen to you! Like you’re such a perfect father.’
Alfred tried to ignore the bitterness in her voice. She wasn’t thinking clearly, he told himself. She was tired. They should sleep on it and then have a rational, unemotional conversation. Once Isobel had rested, Alfred thought, she would see it as he did. But evidently, Isobel wasn’t prepared to rest yet.
‘You don’t love him like I do,’ she said sourly. The volume of her voice was inching up slightly. ‘In fact, you hate him. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you look at him when you think no one’s noticing.’
He felt the voices approaching, like a rush of air in his ears. But he blocked them out. This was his fight alone.
‘That’s not love you’re talking about,’ he replied. He was finding it hard to keep his voice steady. ‘You’re smothering him, Isobel, because you cannae bear it that you lost our wee girl.’ He stopped. The words had slipped out of his mouth. But it was the truth, and after so many years of pretending it had never happened, that Brynja had never lived – even if it was only for a few, precious minutes – it felt strangely liberating, as though he had scrubbed himself painfully clean of years’ worth of dirt.
Isobel, her face slack from tiredness, looked as though she’d been slapped. She shook her head, blinking slowly. She didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘You don’t know what it was like,’ so softly he barely heard her. ‘You weren’t there.’
Alfred stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘But of course I was there.’ His voice was thick. ‘I was with you when they told us she’d died. How could you have forgotten that?’
For a long time, Alfred and Isobel were too bruised to discuss the matter again. Several weeks after Isobel’s return, they were informed that Drummond had left her an unexpected inheritance of £ 5,000. Without the need for much discussion, they quickly decided to use the money to buy a house, and so, three months after Drummond’s passing, they moved into a new semi-detached house only one street away from their previous house. At first, it seemed as though the move – and their new, proud status as homeowners – had given them the chance for a fresh start, and the thought of trying for another baby – surely they were still just young enough? – came more frequently to Alfred. He imagined a little girl, with blonde curly hair and Isobel’s cherubic face, a little girl who would laugh girlishly when he swung her onto his shoulders, whom he would teach how to make perfume out of rose petals or lavender buds, a little girl who may just turn out to be the special one.
Indeed, Alfred’s longing for another child was compounded by the further deterioration in his relationship with John. Although John’s problems at school seemed to subside, his behaviour at home became more erratic. His appetite vanished overnight. Isobel was, of course, the first to notice, but all of her attempts to get him to eat more, often sl
aving for hours in the kitchen to dish up one of John’s favourite meals, were to no avail.
‘Your mother’s spent hours on that,’ Alfred once said quietly to John, as the boy poked listlessly about in the steak and kidney pie on his plate.
Isobel shook her head. ‘I don’t mind that. But Johnnie, please do eat something. You’re turning into skin and bones.’
John pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?’ he cried and left the kitchen. They heard him climbing the stairs, and then the scrape and clunk of the key as he locked himself in his bedroom.
And that was another thing. He began to develop a furtive, shifty manner, locking himself in as soon as he’d returned from school, and on the rare occasions he left his bedroom, he appeared agitated, scanning his surroundings with hasty, twitching eyes, occasionally flinching without any apparent cause. Alfred didn’t like it. His son was acting as though he were up to no good. Yet it was difficult to put his finger on any specific misbehaviour, and the last thing he wanted was to initiate another series of rows with Isobel. But one evening, several months after they’d moved into their new house, and despite Alfred’s attempts to keep the peace, another argument erupted.
Isobel had managed to coax John out of his bedroom for supper. He took a seat at the kitchen table opposite Alfred, casting a nervous glance around him. His once plump face was now gaunt and pale, making the blotches of acne on his chin and forehead appear all the more livid. A large bowl of rabbit stew sat on the table, its dark, rich aroma making Alfred’s stomach growl in anticipation.
‘Smells delicious,’ he said to Isobel. She smiled absentmindedly; she hadn’t taken her eyes off John since he’d sat down.
‘C’mon Johnnie,’ she said now, taking the ladle and heaping a generous portion onto the boy’s plate. ‘Ye’ll like this.’
‘Not so much,’ John said, but she ignored him and dipped the ladle into the bowl for another spoonful. Then, as if stung, John shot out his arm and blocked her hand.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 25