‘And a woman?’ I keep my tone as detached as possible.
‘I’ve only been touched – as you put it – by one woman in my life. And guess who that was … You say nothing, Leo; are you shocked?’
‘I can’t tell where one shock ends and the next begins.’
‘It wasn’t incest; after all, we weren’t related. When we were kids – we were never kids – she regularly announced that, when we grew up, we’d marry each other. If there was one thing calculated to make my mother mad, it was that. “I should hope that William can do a good deal better for himself than you,” she’d say. Oh yes? Then Candida discovered that, when they framed the law, they deliberately left adopted brothers and sisters free to marry. She was triumphant. What clearer proof could she have that we were a non-family … that the only thing that counted was blood? And yet she was inconsistent. For her, the attraction of seducing me was breaking a taboo. For me, it was more complex. I didn’t want to sleep with her; she was my sister, the person I felt closest to in all the world. “This will make us closer,” she said … she lied. But I wanted desperately to sleep with someone. “William’s paralysed from the waist down,” my mother would say, as though she were reading a label on a cage. But it wasn’t true. There was one part whose activity made up for all the rest: one part that obsessed and shamed me. And it was the part that Candida aroused. For over twenty years, I’ve looked back on that night with a tangle of emotions: pain for the circumstance, pleasure for the sensation. It’s my only sexual experience and so it’s had to stand in for all the others. Twenty years of soiled sheets and soggy tissues. How could anyone call it a life?’
‘It doesn’t have to be like this. You’re a very handsome man. I’m sure that a lot of women find you attractive.’
‘Oh yes? Do you think they could find a friend for my friend?’ He taps his chair. ‘No, you’re right. I expect my disability would suit someone’s requirements. I remember reading about the offers of marriage in The Times during the First World War from women whose fiancés had been killed at the Front. They were open to anyone – that is any officer – who’d been gassed or blinded or shell-shocked or wounded or preferably all four. Well, I’m sorry; they can reach for sainthood on someone else’s shoulders.’
‘It wouldn’t be like that.’
‘Come on, Leo. Shall I tell you about my toilet arrangements? … No, I thought not. For years, I believed the solution might lie with prostitutes. Are you disgusted?’
‘Do you never read the newspapers?’
‘Of course; I forgot. Once, when I was in London for the Institute’s AGM, I went as far as looking round Soho. I negotiated the narrow streets and the crowds and the rubbish, and read the peeling notices in doorways: “New Young Model, first floor. Come on up” … “French Lessons, second floor. Come on up” … “Busty brunette, third floor. Up, up, up!”’ He rams his chair into the table.
I am finding the heat of the restaurant oppressive. I long for a walk by the sea to clear my head. But William wants a dessert. ‘This is an event for me. It’s not every day I’m taken to lunch by a celebrity.’
‘It’s not a meal I’ll forget in a hurry. I’m trying to understand your father. Your adoption makes his behaviour somehow worse. It seems like a double abuse.’
‘I don’t want to understand him. If I did, I might start to forgive him. And I don’t want to forgive him. Forgiveness is for people with legs. So what if he regretted leaving the Army? So what if he felt an outsider twice over as a bursar in a public school? Does that excuse what he did to me?’
‘You shouldn’t be so sensitive. I said “understand”, not “excuse”. I need to believe … I do believe that human beings are rational … that even the most bestial act has an explanation.’
‘You mean “Hello, Herr Hitler, sorry we were rude about your paintings”? I’m afraid it’s not that easy. My father was a mass of contradictions. To the world, he put on this dapper, chipper front; and yet, at home, he was moody, morose, depressed … no, I’m falling into the trap of your way of thinking, giving him a good and a bad side when they were one and the same. He’d sit for hours in his chair without speaking; the only sign of life would be the vein vibrating under his eye. How I dreaded that vein; I knew what it meant. Then, the next day, he’d be all affability. He’d buy me presents and my mother would complain that he was spoiling me; so she became the shrew and he the open wallet. Of course, I realise now that he was buying my silence; but, at the time, all I saw were the toys. How can anyone grow up with a shred of self-respect when, as a boy, he’s so easily bribed?’
‘Was he affectionate to your mother?’
‘Do I spy another rational explanation? Should I see myself as a mother-substitute? You’re as bad as Candida. She spent her life speculating as to why they hadn’t had children. Was he impotent? Was she infertile? Or was it that they never had sex? She told me about tubes and sperm-counts long before I had any idea of their significance. She laughed at my revulsion … “You call yourself a scientist; you’re supposed to be an objective observer.” I didn’t call myself a scientist; I simply studied the sciences because I didn’t trust the arts. But in answer to your question – you did ask a question? – no, he was never affectionate to her. He kissed her on the forehead on special occasions. And she pecked him on the cheek.’
I picture a hen-pecked husband. She has always seemed the senior partner, making decisions, speaking on his behalf. Which came first: her shrillness or his indifference, her dominance or his guilt?
‘What angers me most is that we both let him get away with it. Not just then, but ever since. No wonder he thought he could try again with Pagan. I blame myself. Why did I bury the truth? How could I have let my memory become as useless as my legs? I’ve made up for it at last. I’ve been to the Special Inquiry Unit. I’ve given a statement to Derek Bridges … he goes drinking with one of my friends. I’m not going to let the only charge against him be Pagan’s. Isn’t my pain worth something too?’
I assure him that it is. I pay the bill and we leave the restaurant. He drives me back to the shop. He tells me that he has not seen either of your parents since the trial. When she learnt that he had testified against your father, your mother sent him a venomous letter in which she accused him of being warped by his disability and of taking his revenge on the only people who had ever loved him. ‘She ended by saying that she never wanted to set eyes on me again. I felt like replying that, in that case, she’d better not attend the Court; but I held back. Oh, there is one good thing to have come out of all this. Now that I no longer have my meals on wheels, I’ve started to cook for myself. I go to a class one evening a week. Why did no one ever tell me it was such fun?’
When we reach the shop, he asks me not to go in with him. ‘I couldn’t bear any more of the “good and faithful servant” routine. I know he means well; but he also suspects something’s up … and he’s right. I’m thinking of moving away. I’ve been to visit my mother – my real mother … birth mother … soon I won’t have to make these distinctions – several times. She lives with her husband outside Ipswich. They want me to join them. So do my three brothers. They’ve all kept within twenty miles of each other … that’s a good sign, wouldn’t you say? Two of them are married, with kids who already call me Uncle William … They’re all three such strong, able-bodied men. And, believe it or not, they all look like me.’
‘I hope you won’t lose touch with the other side of the family. I know that there’s no blood, but there are affinities … and memories: such complex, confusing memories. Pagan needs to be given some sense of where she’s from. I have to be both father and mother to her; I can’t be an uncle as well.’
‘You’re on,’ he says and wheels himself into the shop. I drive back to Kemp Town and arrive at the home just as Pagan is clambering out of the minibus. She is surprised to see me and excitedly recounts how, for homework, she has to write a poem about butterflies.
‘Will you think of a word th
at rhymes with wings?’
‘For once, you needn’t worry about homework,’ I say, ‘you’re coming home.’ She stares at me as though she suspects a trick. ‘It’s true. If you don’t believe me, ask Mr Skipton; he was in court.’ She is taking no chances and runs to my car, demanding to leave at once, before the Judge changes his mind. It is only after much persuasion that she agrees to go indoors to collect her things.
The Manager is waiting for us in his office. He congratulates Pagan and reminds her of how he always promised that she would be sent home. Jess gives her a hug and urges me to look after her, in a tone that implies doubt. She then goes upstairs to pack the cases, while Pagan and I take our leave of her friends. I urge her not to flaunt her good fortune; but, far from resenting her departure, the others seem to see it as a sign of hope. The one exception is Shona, whom we find hiding in the linen room, squashed between two of the shelves and wrapped in a pile of towels. She refuses to turn to us and shrugs off Pagan’s embrace as though it were an adult’s. As we make our exit, she calls in muffled defiance, Tm going to have plastic on my face like a packet; I’m going to look like a doll.’
We drive home. Pagan veers between elation and apprehension. She needs constant reassurance that she is not going to be snatched away the moment that we arrive. As we turn into the avenue, she insists that the houses have all been painted. I promise her that, as far as I know, they are exactly the same as last year.
‘I’ve looked at them over and over in my head; but I’ve still got them wrong. Why?’
‘Everyone finds things hard to remember.’
‘But not important things. Or how can we be safe?’
I unlock the door. Trouble lurks in the hall. I will him, just for once, to rouse himself and greet her with a show of enthusiasm equal to her own. He does not disappoint. She carries him to her bedroom; and I see that her eyes are full of tears. She sniffles an explanation: ‘I thought it was only grown-ups who cried when they were happy; but now children do as well.’
We set about re-establishing our lives. She returns to school with as little fuss as I return to work. June is full of new possibilities: a nanny for her, a housekeeper for us … and a man for me. I can scarcely believe it. I have put my sexuality on ice for so long that it feels less like passion than cryonics. I am almost afraid to speak his name in case he vanishes; so I shall murmur it under my breath: Benedict … Benedict Menzies. He is an independent television producer, who has just been commissioned to make a documentary on the Nazis’ treatment of homosexuals for Channel Four. He phones me the morning after we are introduced at David Sunning’s to ask me to read the commentary. I assume that he is only interested in my voice, until he invites me to dinner the next weekend.
We date, as though sex were still a mystery. He claims that he wants to know everything about me. I reply that he must know more than enough already; I feel as exposed as a newspaper headline. He says that he would rather have my words than theirs. I introduce him to Pagan. She takes to him as fast as if the last two years had never happened and strangers were as benign as friends. One Thursday afternoon, we collect her from school and go boating on the Serpentine. He describes how he rowed for the regiment … he was an army officer until dishonourably discharged for being gay. I sit back, letting the fantasies waft over me and watching his muscles catch the sun. Then, at tea, he entertains Pagan by pulling coins out of his ears.
‘Show me how it’s done,’ she clamours, more intrigued by the mechanics than the magic.
‘It’s magic’ He insists against the odds.
‘Phooey! Show me!’
‘I assure you it’s magic. Doubt everything else, if you like; but you must always believe in magic. Even grown-ups believe in magic’ He talks to her and smiles at me.
That night, we sleep together … which is an even emptier phrase than usual, since all chance of sleep is dispelled by his Olympic-sized water bed.
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I didn’t think it was important. It’s hardly like “my playroom’s in the cellar” or “my boyfriend’s asleep next door”.’
The mattress matches our mood and mirrors our every movement, as what starts as a gentle ripple swells to a tidal wave. It is as wet above as below … no, I am not being crude; I am hit by a flood of emotion that flows out as tears. It is an age since I felt the bristly kiss of a man rather than the sticky lips of a child; and I feel it in such unexpected places.
‘Did the earth move for you?’ I mock myself with a million clichés. ‘No, but the waters parted, and I reached the promised land!’
In the morning, I watch him shave in a bathroom that smells of cedar. He uses his father’s razor, which, for some reason, I find more moving than all the Standish traditions combined. He wants to meet again in the evening, but I invent a prior engagement and put him off for a day, partly from policy, partly from fear.
‘We mustn’t go too fast,’ I say, reading from an official rule book.
‘Why not? So long as you have a steady hand and a clear road.’
‘And an ancient motor?’
‘It’s vintage,’ he says, making light of our twelve-year age-gap. ‘They don’t make them like this any more.’ He slips his fingers beneath my shirt, and I agree to break every engagement and meet him in Holland Park at eight.
I find that I believe in magic as fervently as the most spellbound child.
It may be the start of something new, but, first, we have to settle the old; and, in July, I drive Pagan to Lewes Crown Court. The indictment against your father has been amended to include the abuse of William, who is waiting for us in the witness room, as spruce as for a wedding. He and Pagan both give their evidence on the opening day, while I am not called until the second morning. I feel remarkably relaxed in the witness box and only falter once, when I reply to a question about the changes in Pagan’s behaviour with a reference to your father’s abuse of you. This provokes an immediate response from the Defence Counsel, who leaps to his feet, declaring my remark to be hearsay and irrelevant. Nevertheless, and in spite of the Judge’s rebuke, I do not regret having made it. I firmly believe that your past should also be acknowledged, if only by your father, who gazes steadfastly at the floor.
The next morning, I return to watch the proceedings from the gallery, much to the annoyance of Pagan, who has been excluded on account of her age. I promise to report back to her as soon as I know the verdict, which comes shortly before lunch on the fifth day. The jury is unanimous: guilty on all counts. The sentence is heavy: five years. The Judge declares that he has taken your father’s age into consideration, nevertheless ‘since he was not too old to commit the crimes, he is not too old to pay for them’. Your father shows no reaction. I gaze down at his liver-spotted head, sunken eyes and sallow skin, and wonder if he will ever emerge from jail; and yet I cannot allow myself to take his part. Now that the ordeal is ended, I hope – I truly hope – that there are others who will; but I have to focus on healing the life that he has maimed.
I am startled by a deep groan from the far corner of the gallery. It is so long and hollow that I take it for one of the pipes, until I see your mother, clutching her head and rocking. She has sat in the same seat each day, staring at your father and studiously avoiding every stray glance. Today, she is wearing her St John Ambulance uniform, as though for security… I worry that it may cause confusion should she faint. ‘No!’ she cries and is comforted by a woman on her left. I hurry away to join William, who has been watching from the body of the Court. He shakes my hand. His eyes are filmed with tears. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but, at last, I feel like a man. I can stand up for myself.’
First, he has to dispel the final spectre of childhood, as your mother runs forward and throws herself at his chair. ‘How can you abuse us like this? Have you no gratitude? It’s not too late. We can appeal. You can say you lied. We’ll forgive you. You can tell them he led you on.’ She points at me.
‘Mother, you kn
ow it’s true. You’ve always known it’s true. Face up to the truth while you still have the chance.’
‘He loved me. We should never have had children. It was him who wanted them – you – not me. And now he’s paying for it. We were happy the two of us; we had a good life. Then we had you and everything changed.’
Her companion leads her away. William and I adjourn to a nearby pub, where he informs me that he has definitely decided to make the move to Ipswich … he may not be able to escape the past, but he can put it at a distance. We eat a celebration snack. Then, after eliciting his promise to come up to town for our party, I drive home in time to collect Pagan from her therapy. I tell her the verdict. Her relief is mingled with fear, as she demands my most solemn pledge (‘cross your heart and hope to die’) that your father will never be able to break out of prison and harm her. I give it to her gladly.
‘What about her?’
‘She won’t either.’ And I realise that, although not charged, your mother is serving her own life sentence, from which there is neither remission nor release.
My vehemence heartens Pagan, who asks if I want to hear a joke.
‘I’d love to. Were you told it today at school?’
‘What’s pink and wrinkled and belongs to Grandpa?’
My heart skips a beat, and I almost lose control of the wheel. I want to turn round, drive straight back to Dr Lister and demand that she exorcise the demons. Pagan addresses me impatiently.
‘You’re spoiling it. You should say “What’s pink and wrinkled and belongs to Grandpa?”’
Pagan and her parents Page 44