The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  ‘No need to apologise. You were being a gentleman.’ ‘Thank you.’

  Without a word they began to walk along the beach. Her hand brushed his, and suddenly, with not a word spoken, they were walking hand in hand. Joy welled up in Lancelot. Being in love was a new experience for him, as frightening as it was exhilarating. No words could express what he was feeling. They walked on, still not speaking, and with each step the sense of shared intimacy grew stronger, binding them closer. This could not be happening to her, Guinevere told herself.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t come,’ he said. Now that she was here, he was convinced it was meant to happen. No use trying to fight it.

  She stopped and looked up at him, her gaze intense. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t stay away.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  They kissed, drawing closer as the passion stirred. For a long time they clung to each other, until finally Guinevere gently disengaged herself.

  ‘Come back with me,’ he pleaded.

  She shook her head, ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  Taking as long as he could, he tied her headscarf loosely at her neck.

  ‘I’m on duty in a few minutes,’ she said. ‘I have to get back to the hospital.’

  He watched her walk away along the beach. Once she stopped, looked back at him and walked on again. Lancelot was happier than he had ever been in his life, daring to believe that the woman he was in love with loved him too. But, as the first flood of happiness receded, other emotions were exposed – above all guilt. Where could this forbidden love lead? Would it not have been better to have looked and not touched? One thing was certain; now that they had declared their love for each other, things would never be the same again.

  Nineteen

  From time to time Harold Pemberton received a call from his old friend, Ban. Though he never told him where he was calling from, he had a shrewd notion that Ban was on Camelot with his son, Lancelot. Their exchanges by gravitational link were invariably brief – Ban, the old soldier being economical with words – and about nothing special. This time, however,

  Harold had something very special indeed to tell his friend.

  Ban needed time to take it in. ‘Say again.’

  ‘Galahad is Lancelot’s son,’ repeated Harold, picturing Ban’s deadpan expression, and that barely perceptible wry twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You sure?’ ‘Quite sure, Ban.’

  ‘How do you know?’ ‘Helena told me.’

  A long silence. ‘Always hoped he and Helena would get together.’

  ‘It seems they did,’ said Harold dryly. ‘Want me to tell him?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Don’t like to interfere.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Ban, we’re talking about your grandson.’ ‘So we are.’

  ‘Just do it,’ said Harold, ‘there’s a good chap.’ ‘Right,’ said Ban.

  At first Lancelot did not want to believe it, though in his heart he knew it was true. Unable to think clearly, he left Command Control with a muttered excuse. For hours he wandered the island, his mind racing out of control. A son! Galahad his son! Helena the mother! Returning to his apartment he threw himself on a sofa and fell into a deep sleep. When he woke, his body seemed disconnected from his brain, his limbs refusing to obey its commands. His mind, though, was active and clear, alive with sounds and images from all those years ago. Returning from his overseas army posting he had rushed back to his love, Helena, only to be told she had a baby. It had been an enormous shock. Why had she said nothing about it before? Not a phone call, not even an e-mail. His first reaction had been that the baby could not be his, his second, to feel ashamed of himself for thinking such a thing, his third, to propose.

  ‘We’ll get married right away.’

  ‘What if I were to tell you it isn’t yours?’

  At the time he had taken Helena’s reply at its face value. What else was he supposed to do? Only now did he realise that she might have been testing him.

  ‘Would you marry me if you were not the father?’

  And how had he answered her? ‘I would have to think about it . . . ’

  He could see now how rejected she must have felt.

  ‘It’s not your problem,’ she had said, ending the discussion.

  The more he assured Guinevere that Helena no longer meant anything to him, the more aloof and cold she became. After much pleading, she agreed to meet him on the beach.

  ‘I swear I never knew.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ ‘I’m still not certain he’s my son. ’ ‘But you slept with her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s your son,’ said Guinevere. ‘Helena wouldn’t lie.’ ‘I have to see her – you do understand that,’ he said.

  Her chin lifted in that proud gesture of hers that he knew so well. ‘If you go, it’s the end.’

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s either her or me.’

  ‘It will always be you,’ he said. ‘Then don’t go.’

  ‘It’s my duty to go,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘Duty!’ Guinevere’s eyes flashed scorn. ‘That’s just an excuse for doing what you want.’

  ‘I’ll be back very soon,’ he promised.

  An indifferent shrug. ‘What do I care,’ she said. ‘Don’t come back. Stay with Helena. You two deserve each other.’

  Lancelot walked away with his head down. A hundred metres along the beach he rounded a protruding rock face and disappeared. She wanted to run after him, to cover his face with kisses and tell him she had not meant a word, that she loved him and always would. But her proud spirit held her back. Let him go. He had made his choice. And so had she. Never again, she vowed, would she make a fool of herself over a man.

  Twenty

  The bell rang, and there at the door was Lancelot. In a daze, Helena ushered him into the sitting room and stood staring at him with wide eyes as if she had suddenly been confronted by an apparition. ‘It’s me,’ he said, smiling.

  She clapped her hands to her cheeks to hide her blushes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I staring?’

  He had promised himself not to rush in with questions. And yet, sitting here in this reassuringly familiar room so full of memories, he found it impossible to control his tongue. ‘You never told me I was Galahad’s father.’

  ‘Are you sure you wanted to know?’

  On the point of reacting angrily, he hesitated, honest enough to admit to himself that she might just have a point. ‘I would have married you.’

  ‘I know you would,’ said Helena. ‘Then why . . . ?’

  ‘I had no intention of holding a gun to your head,’ she said. So that was it. It was her pride that had made her turn him away, that and the fact that she had sensed his reluctance to confront the truth. Sitting there now, trying to come to terms with those lost years, he asked himself a question – if he had known then that Galahad was his son, would he have stayed? Yes, of course he would. He would have done the right thing.

  Yes, but would the “right thing” have been the best thing to do? Would it have been right for her? Or him?

  Helena had tried to convince herself that seeing Lancelot again would somehow cure her, that they would be good friends and nothing more. It was nonsense, of course. Nothing had changed; she was more in love with him than ever. There could never be anyone else. Several men had asked her to marry them; good men, men who loved her and would care for her, all of them, though, with one fatal flaw; they were not Lancelot. Amazingly, it seemed that life had given her a second chance. This time, she told herself, she would seize it, though she would have to tread warily. If she tried to influence or pressurise him, however subtly, he would run, or even worse, stay with her and live to regret it. Once it had been her decision. Now it was his.

  Tentatively she asked, knowing she ought not to, ‘Is there anyone special in Camelot?’

  A slight h
esitation. ‘I’m unattached,’ he said, not comfortable with his answer.

  Why wasn’t he looking at her, she wondered. ‘And you? Is there anyone?’

  ‘No,’ she said. No hesitation there. ‘No one.’

  He spread his hands as though asking a favour. ‘Could I see him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  White blond, neatly brushed hair, a sturdy body, blue green eyes – Helena’s colouring, not his. But his son, oh yes, most definitely his son. He held out his arms. The boy advanced hesitantly, step by step, wide-eyed and serious. Lancelot gestured to him to come and be hugged, but he stopped a pace away and looked at the ground.

  ‘I’m your dad,’ said Lancelot softly, marvelling at the strangeness of the words. Shyly the boy came to him and Lancelot enfolded him in his arms.

  Helena watched from the door. ‘What do you say?’ ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

  Lancelot responded solemnly. ‘And I am delighted to meet you, Galahad.’

  It would take time, of course. The lad had grown up without a father. He would have to earn what once he could have taken for granted: his son’s love. Over the course of the next few days he spent more and more time with him, enchanted and a little overawed by his composure and maturity. Extraordinarily self- possessed for an eight year old, Galahad was apparently never naughty. His vocabulary was far above average, and already he articulated his thoughts in perfect grammatical sentences, never in slang or clichés. It was therefore all the more astonishing to learn that his son had never been to school, having been educated at home by private tutors. Did he ever go to a movie or watch TV, he asked Helena? No, there was no TV in the house, and Galahad was not interested in movies. Did he play any sport? No, he was not a boy who enjoyed playing games. His favourite pursuit was reading. What did he read? The bible, mostly.

  ‘Isn’t that rather unusual for a boy of his age,’ said Lancelot. ‘Wouldn’t he enjoy reading children’s books? There are so many to choose from.’

  Helena sounded resigned. ‘Mother says the bible is the only book worth reading.’

  Lancelot counted himself a religious man. He believed in God, and was committed to doing God’s work. It disturbed him, nevertheless, to see a child carrying a bible with him wherever he went. He took his son to Battersea Park and tried to kick a football with him. Galahad humoured his father, but it was painfully obvious that the boy’s heart was not in it. The playground? Galahad scorned it. ‘Kids’ stuff.’ A movie? He preferred to stay at home and read the “Book”, or, from time to time, play around with his computer. A board game? He was too old for board games. Too old at eight! Lancelot was rapidly running out of ideas. How was he ever to develop a father-son relationship with this solemnly precocious child?

  He complained to Harold. ‘He’s not like a normal boy of his age. He seems to have no joy in him.’

  ‘Francesca’s doing,’ said Harold Pemberton. ‘She’s taken him over – his timetable, his education, his mind. She’ll make a priest of him if she gets her way, though if you ask me it’s more to do with jealousy and possessiveness than love of God.’

  Francesca, with ponderous tact, kept out of Lancelot’s way during the day. In the evening, when the family sat down to dinner, potentially contentious issues were avoided, Francesca speaking only when spoken to, her manner towards Lancelot distant, but icily polite. It was clear to him that he made her uneasy, no doubt because she feared he would somehow contrive to take her beloved Galahad away from her. Harold remained his usual jovial self, embarrassing Lancelot and Helena and infuriating his wife, Francesca, by dropping heavy hints of a forthcoming “celebration”, and, whenever conversation flagged, humming Mendelssohn’s wedding march under his breath.

  Accustomed to saying what he thought, and frustrated by this vacuous evening ritual, Lancelot broke the unspoken agreement restricting conversation to trivialities. ‘What does Galahad do for exercise?’ The question was directed at Francesca who was compelled to respond.

  ‘He is a very active child.’ ‘What exactly are his activities?’

  ‘Either I or his mother take him for a walk in the park every day.’

  ‘A walk in the park is not sufficient exercise for a young lad,’ said Lancelot, his dark eyes smouldering with disapproval. ‘A normal boy his age needs to run around, play games, jump up and down.’

  Francesca’s lips tightened, the corners of her mouth drooped. ‘Are you suggesting your son is not normal?’

  ‘Not at all. I am suggesting that his upbringing is not normal.’ Francesca bridled. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He should be going to school,’ said Lancelot. ‘And not just because he’s missing out on academic studies. He doesn’t seem to have a single friend his own age.’

  With grim deliberation Francesca folded her napkin, smoothing it down until the edges were knife sharp, all the time demonstrating by a barrage of resentful glances her disapproval of Lancelot. ‘Galahad has his family. And he has God. What more does he need?’

  This was too much for Lancelot. ‘A great deal more. And I suggest you bear in mind that you are Galahad’s grandmother. You are neither his mother nor his father.’

  Francesca laid her napkin down, rose to her full height and launched her last verbal missile before walking out. ‘And I suggest you bear in mind that, as an absentee father, you have forfeited any right you may have had to criticise Galahad’s upbringing.’

  The truth, as Lancelot acknowledged ruefully to himself, always hurt. Francesca was right. As an absentee father he had no right to interfere, not yet at least. If he were to stay and be a real father to Galahad and a husband to Helena, that would be different. Was that not what he should do? Was that not where his duty lay?

  Yet what about his duty to Camelot? He had made Camelot his life’s work and his mission. As Arthur’s Chief of Staff he owed it to his leader not to desert him. And there was something else that drew him back to Camelot. Someone rather. A woman’s hands reached out to him, her eyes filled with hurt and anger. And with love. What should he do? Stay or go? He was being torn apart. One way or another he would have to make a decision, and soon. If he stayed, he would be expected to marry Helena. He was fond of her, and no doubt they could make a happy life together. Galahad he loved, and the boy would surely grow to love him too. It would be wrong to leave him. He made up his mind; he would stay and be a father to his son, not an absentee father, but a real live presence, a father to kick a ball in Battersea Park with, a father to read him to sleep. And Helena? She needed a husband – no, that wasn’t fair, she needed him. He went to bed determined to break the good news to her in the morning.

  Yet in the morning the old doubts came flooding back. Camelot tugged at his heart. Had he not dedicated himself to Arthur? Had he not sworn to uphold the ideals of Camelot? How could he abandon all those good people who depended on him – Ian, Gawain, Agravaine and – what use to pretend – Guinevere. She was with him everywhere, every waking minute, her face, the smell of her hair, her voice, the touch of her hand. Guinevere or Helena? If he were honest with himself, the real choice was not between duty and duty, but between duty and love. Whichever he chose, there would be a price to pay.

  ‘I’m staying,’ he told Harold Pemberton.

  Harold’s hooded eyes showed mild surprise. ‘Does Helena know?’

  ‘Thought I’d run it by you first,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘I see.’ Harold gnawed the inside of his lip. ‘Are you asking for my advice, Lance?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘For my opinion, then?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lancelot, on his guard.

  ‘Very well, then, my opinion is that you are making a mistake.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to stay.’

  ‘What I want is irrelevant.’ said Harold. ‘The question is – what do you want?’

  ‘I want to stay.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘You would not be the first man to d
o the right thing for the wrong reason.’

  ‘Helena’s happiness is all that matters.’ ‘How can she be happy if you are not?’

  Lancelot brushed the question aside. ‘And then there’s Galahad. He needs me. I’ve been away too long.’

  ‘You could visit him regularly.’ said Harold. ‘Now that you know you have a son, you can be a proper father to him.’

  Though Harold Pemberton’s pertinent comments hit home, they had not changed Lancelot’s mind. He would do the chivalrous thing, and the sooner he told Helena, the better. Once he had committed himself there would be no turning back.

  She had gone shopping, Francesca said. Wandering disconsolately into the hallway he found a parcel addressed to him in her neat handwriting. Inside was a navy blue heavy-knit sweater, and a note confirming that she had knitted it for him. He tried it on. It fitted perfectly. He was touched. Clearly it was a love token, the message it conveyed more powerful and more poignant than any words could have been.

  Still wearing the sweater, he wandered back into the sitting room and waited for Helena to return, flipping a magazine here, a newspaper there, unable to concentrate. It was a chill winter’s day, a fire burned in the grate. Suddenly he felt warm, then uncomfortably hot. The sweater he had thought fitted him perfectly was now constricting him, pulling under his arms and across his chest. Tearing it off he fell back on the sofa, head in hands, heart pounding, limbs trembling. He was trapped – trapped by the love of a woman he did not, and never could, love.

  There was no need to say anything. She read in his eyes what he was going to tell her.

  ‘Did you try it on?’

  ‘It fits perfectly,’ he said. ‘It’s a great sweater. Thank you.’ ‘When are you off?’ She asked the question as casually as if

  he were going to the local for a beer. ‘In a couple of days.’

  Saying goodbye was always going to be difficult, though, in the event, less so than he had expected. Helena was very brave, which of course made him feel even guiltier.