The Blasphemer

by Nigel Farndale

  Nancy turned the volume on the radio down, flipped open the passenger-side shade-mirror and, in the partial glow of an interior light, began to apply mascara to her lashes. With her mouth open to stretch her skin, she dusted her cheeks with a brush and removed an eyelash. ‘Explain to me again why we have to dump Martha at your parents’,’ she said, snapping the shade back up.

  ‘Knew something was bothering you.’

  ‘Of course it’s bothering me. You didn’t even ask me whether I minded.’

  ‘We are not dumping her at my parents’. Martha likes staying with my parents …You like staying with Grampy and Grumpy, don’t you?’ There was a pause before a fluty voice rose from the back: ‘Grampy and Grumpy. Mum’s parents. Whomsoever.’

  (That was her new word, whomsoever.)

  ‘If your mother wasn’t so squeamish about doing the jabs …’ Daniel said to Nancy, surreptitiously turning the radio volume back up.

  ‘Don’t start, Daniel,’ Nancy said, turning the volume down again. ‘Do not start. I mean it.’

  ‘I never feel it when Grampy gives me my injection,’ Martha said. ‘He told me he was awarded the Order of the Hypodermic when he was in the Medical Corps.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why the baby can’t come with us to the airport,’ Nancy pressed.

  ‘Because there won’t be room.’

  ‘Because there won’t be room,’ Martha echoed unhelpfully.

  ‘She can go in the back with your uncle Fritz and aunt Helga …’ Nancy continued.

  ‘Helmut and Frieda,’ Daniel corrected, turning the volume on the radio back up as a Foo Fighters track came on. ‘And they are not my aunt and uncle, they are my cousins. And, no, Martha can’t go in the back because they’re bringing Hans.’

  ‘Hans?’

  ‘Their son.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me they had a son.’

  ‘Did.’

  ‘He did,’ said Martha.

  ‘You did not … How old is he?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Mum, you promised you’d stop swearing in front of me.’

  ‘Call me Mummy.’ Nancy folded her arms. ‘Where will he sleep? You thought of that?’

  ‘We could put the camp bed up in my study. He’s bringing a sleeping bag.’

  The windscreen wipers thrashed against the thickening snow. The Foo Fighters began a growling chord progression. ‘I still don’t see why I couldn’t have stayed at the house with the baby while you went to collect them.’

  ‘Because you speak German.’

  ‘They’re bound to speak English.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Christ alive.’

  ‘Look, it’s all organized now,’ Daniel said in a neutral voice. ‘Besides, they’ll be expecting me to bring my wife. Germans are big on family.’

  ‘No they’re not. That’s Italians. Germans are big on sausages and genocide. And anyway I’m not your wife, if you remember.’

  Daniel sucked in air theatrically, as though Nancy had landed a low punch. As he regularly pointed out, he thought of her as his wife. They had been together for ten years, had a joint chequebook, a joint email address and a green but mean hybrid utility vehicle that they shared, and which they both usually needed at the same time. And they were named on the deeds of their house in Clapham Old Town, South West London, as Mr and Mrs Daniel Kennedy, a mistake that amused them and made them cringe in like measure. It had become a vinegary joke between them that he called her ‘Mrs Kennedy’ and she called him ‘Mr Kennedy’.

  Nancy spoke in an undertone.‘How could you forget to tell me that your aunt and uncle were bringing their teenage son? Are you a complete fuckwit?’

  From the back: ‘Mum!’

  From the driver’s seat: ‘They are not my aunt and uncle. They are my cousins.’

  Daniel did wonder whether he had gone too far with the German cousins theme. While he had been planning this trip to the Galápagos Islands for several months, as a tenth anniversary surprise for Nancy, he hadn’t thought of a good excuse to get her to the airport until the day before. But this had proved a sound tactic, as it turned out. In her anger at having German cousins foisted upon her without warning, Nancy was too distracted to notice his suspicious behaviour, as well as the tracks he failed to cover: the almost illegible prescription for diazepam which he left on the kitchen counter, the one his doctor friend, Bruce, had written out to help him cope with the flight; the bag that Martha and he had packed full of Nancy’s summer clothes and unthinkingly left in the hallway; the phone call he ended abruptly when she walked into the room – the one in which he had checked with the receptionist at the dental surgery that Nancy’s appointments had been cancelled.

  All other preparations for the trip had been worked out meticulously. After a day in Quito they would fly by seaplane to Santa Cruz Island where the four-berth yacht he had chartered would be waiting to meet them. Assuming they could get a signal, they would ring Martha, have a swim, unpack, and then, maybe, have sex – loud, sweaty, on-holiday-without-children sex. This would be followed by a siesta. They would wake in time to get a little drunk on whisky sours as they watched the sunset from their hammocks on deck. And after dinner they would take a motorized dinghy to the shore and Daniel would propose on a moonlit, barefoot walk along a beach patterned with worm casts, crab trails and dead jellyfish – his idea of a romantic setting. If Nancy could be persuaded, they would get married in a secular ceremony the next day; in the equivalent of a register office he thought he had located, or, failing that, in the Charles Darwin Research Station, which to Daniel was holy ground.

  It was Daniel’s turn to sigh. ‘Said I was sorry.’

  As the early morning traffic on the South Circular began to build, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then felt in his jacket pocket for the box containing the emerald and diamond engagement ring he had bought. He was going to tell her about the trip when they reached the airport – he would ask her to check in the glove compartment for the arrival times, and she would find the passports and tickets there – but the engagement ring would have to be kept secret for a while longer. He gave her a sideways glance. She was tugging at a strand of her hair, crossly examining it for split ends.

  ‘And why have you never mentioned you had German cousins before?’

  Daniel dipped his head to avoid an interrogative stare. ‘To be honest, I didn’t know I had German cousins. They’re on Amanda’s side.’ Daniel smiled to himself. Amanda was his stepmother. Nancy didn’t like her.

  ‘Typical.’

  It was typical, that was the beauty of it. Typical of him to forget to mention it. Typical of his stepmother to have German cousins. Typical of his German cousins to have a teenage son called Hans. What made the deception perfect, though, was the fact that Nancy often commented on how she could always tell when Daniel was lying; that he was a useless liar; that he couldn’t lie convincingly if his life depended upon it. Ha.

  Nancy clicked the radio off and stared at the road ahead. ‘I’m not sure I feel up to seeing Grampy and Grumpy. They can be so … I mean, why does your stepmother always have to raise the subject of marriage?’ She was holding up one hand, as though wishing to silence any objection.

  Daniel ignored it.‘She doesn’t.’ He checked his watch again and lowered his window to flick snow off his side mirror. His father and stepmother lived in Kew, in a double-fronted, ivy-covered Georgian townhouse that was, to their regret, directly under the flight path to Heathrow. The first of the transatlantic red-eyes, Daniel noticed, was slanting down, beginning its descent.

  ‘And why does your father always have to belittle your work.’

  ‘He doesn’t …’ Daniel checked himself. ‘He doesn’t mean to.’ Nancy patted his knee with mock sympathy. ‘You go on believing that.’

  Daniel slowed down as his headlights illuminated an ethereal figure in white trousers and shirt standing on the verge twenty yard
s ahead. His arm was extended and his thumb raised. As the car drew closer, Daniel saw the hitchhiker was wearing the shalwar kameez, the traditional Muslim dress of long white shirt and baggy trousers. It was inadequate protection against the snow.

  ‘Look at this guy,’ Daniel said.‘He must be freezing his nuts off.’ Nancy was rummaging in her handbag.

  As the car drew level, Daniel stared.

  The man stared back and pointed, following the vehicle with his finger. A slow smile of recognition appeared on his face, the ghost of a smile, like a negative undergoing slow exposure.

  Daniel was unnerved. ‘See him?’

  ‘See who?’

  ‘That hitchhiker.’

  Nancy swivelled the rear-view mirror. ‘I can’t see anyone.’ Daniel checked his side mirror and frowned. The hitchhiker was no longer in view. He had looked familiar.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS THE TYRES OF HIS CAR CRUNCHED UP THE GRAVEL PATH OF HIS parents’ house, Daniel felt the usual low-grade nausea – a reminder that he loved his father without liking him, and that the feeling was mutual. His father, Philip, was a retired – and decorated – army surgeon. He was also a remote and unreadable man, one capable of terrible, genial coldness. It wasn’t anything he said; it was what he didn’t say.

  Once Daniel had parked and opened the boot, Kevin the Dog sprang out and bounded across to a stone-balustraded terrace massed with pots.‘Kevin!’ Daniel shouted too late as one of the pots shattered. The front door opened and Amanda stepped out into a semicircular porch which had two Ionic pillars and a curved fascia that looked more grey than white against the snow. She was in her stocking feet and the cold of the stone made her retreat back inside. Kevin skittered past her, trailing powdery snow indoors behind him.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ Daniel said, kissing the figure silhouetted in the doorway. ‘I’ll get a dustpan and brush. Thanks for doing this. House feels nice and warm.’

  ‘You’ve time for a coffee?’ Amanda said with an upward tilt of her head as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Keep talking. I’ve got some milk on the stove.’

  Philip was carrying logs into his study. ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said in his unhurried, oaky voice. ‘Have you brought Crush?’

  Martha held up a squashy green turtle with a goofy grin and sleepy eyes, its velveteen skin worn smooth and greasy. Crush was the name it had been given by the merchandising division of Disney Pixar. Daniel had brought it back from America as a first birthday present and it still went everywhere with her.

  ‘Phew. Wouldn’t want to leave Crush behind. I think there might be some Coco Pops in the kitchen if you’re hungry. Daniel, can I have a word?’

  Because his father used words sparingly, storing them like a cactus stores water, Daniel felt hollow-stomached as he followed him into a panelled room cluttered with antique glassware, Penguin Classics stacked crookedly on shelves, and display cases containing row upon row of medals attached to colourful silk ribbons. Philip tipped the logs on to the fire he was laying, brushed off splinters of bark caught on his tweed jacket and straightened his back. Though he had shrunk slightly since reaching his seventies, he was still 6ft 1in, an inch taller than his round-shouldered son – and he still had a straight spine. He also still had a stern expression, which owed much to the feathery eyebrows that formed a ‘V’ above his beaky nose. Noticing the poppy in his father’s buttonhole, Daniel folded his arms and half covered his own lapel with his hand.

  ‘You like this?’ Philip said, indicating a brown, smoky mirror above the inglenook fireplace. ‘We bought it on eBay last week.’

  ‘How much?’ Daniel asked, wishing his father would come to the point.

  ‘What?’ Philip was partially deaf, having lost a section of his ear during a friendly fire incident in the First Gulf War. He rarely wore his hearing aid because, he said, it wouldn’t stay in, there being little left of his ear to attach it to.

  Daniel repeated his question, louder this time.

  ‘Eight hundred,’ Philip said.

  ‘They saw you coming.’ Daniel said this under his breath.

  Philip knelt down, flipped his tie over his shoulder and, with his hand shaking slightly, put a match to the ball of newspaper he had rolled up in the grate. ‘No, I saw them coming,’ he said. ‘It’s Regency. Worth twice that.’ His deafness could be selective.

  Daniel was contemplating a sooty painting on the wall: a nineteenth-century naval battle in oil. Below this, in the light of an anglepoise lamp, was a side table and an open book. Philip’s reading glasses, their arms joined by cord that could be tightened by a toggle to compensate for his missing ear, were resting on top of it. Daniel flipped the book over to see its cover: The Conscience of a Soldier by General Sir Richard Kelsey. ‘Any good?’ he asked.

  ‘Bit pompous. Met him once.’

  ‘Served with him?’

  ‘No, Kelsey was long before my time.’

  Conversations about great generals and historic battles were always, Daniel knew, an efficient way of cutting through the ice with his father, even if the water below was still cold. As a child he had sat at Philip’s knee and listened in awe to tales about the world wars in which his grandfather and great-grandfather had fought. One of his favourite bedtime stories, indeed, had been from a war memoir, an account of how his grandfather had posthumously won his VC, shortly after D-Day.

  Yet in recent years, whenever his father mentioned the army, Daniel had also felt a ripple of guilt. They had never discussed it properly, but it was obvious that Philip had hoped his only son would follow him into the Medical Corps. It was to do with his look of paternal pride when he was offered a place on a degree course in medicine, and his unspoken disappointment when he had dropped out of it and taken up biology instead. In the end, Daniel read zoology for his doctorate, specializing in nematodes, before getting stuck as a junior research fellow for eight years at Trinity College, London, and an associate professor awaiting tenure for a further four. At the age of thirty-seven came a glittering prize of sorts: he was asked to write and present a natural history programme on a cable television channel. And with a second series of The Selfish Planet in pre-production, he was, as he never tired of saying, close to being a certified media don. His father rarely asked him about his television work. His father didn’t own a television.

  ‘By the way, Dad,’ Daniel said, as if remembering, ‘looks like I got that promotion.’

  ‘They’ve given you the zoology chair?’

  ‘Yep.’ It wasn’t quite true. It had yet to be officially announced. But he had heard from his friend Wetherby, the professor of music who had also recently taken on the role of vice provost, that it was a formality. As good as his. Wetherby had been the only member of staff at Trinity he had told about the surprise holiday he had arranged for Nancy. And that was when Wetherby had said it could be a joint celebration, because his professorship was to be rubberstamped at the next Senate meeting.

  ‘About time,’ Philip said. ‘You must be relieved.’

  ‘I’ve been practically running the department for the past six months anyway.’

  ‘I know. Other men would have complained.’

  Daniel could feel his blood pressure rise. He needed to score a point back. ‘I suppose they thought I didn’t need a pay rise after the success of The Selfish Planet.’

  ‘The Selfish Planet?’

  ‘My TV series.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  Father and son fell into a customary silence. Daniel, his mood dampened as it always was after an encounter with his father, half sat on the corner of a leather-topped desk, dangling one leg, helping himself to a Mint Imperial from an open packet. Around him in gilt frames were familiar family photographs that had lost some of their colour in the sunlight: Amanda on a beach looking annoyed at being photographed; Philip as a boy standing with his mother and sister next to his father’s grave at the Bayeux War Cemetery; Daniel as a schoolboy in a Scout uniform; Philip again, standing outside Buckingham
Palace on the day he collected his medal.

  Set apart from them was a photograph he hadn’t seen before. It was a sepia print of a group of grinning soldiers in a trench, the whiteness of their eyes contrasting dramatically with the muddiness of their faces. At the centre of the group, standing forward from the others, were two men with their helmets pushed back on their heads. One of them had his arm around the other’s shoulder and was smiling widely, showing his teeth. The other wore a moustache and a more forced smile that was tight-lipped and inscrutable. Handwritten in block capitals across the bottom were the words: ‘Private Andrew Kennedy, 11th Battalion, Shropshire Fusiliers. Ypres. 30 July 1917.’