Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

  ‘And yet your last attempt to throw off the Docherty image, McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was a legendary flop. How long did it run in the West End? A week?’

  ‘Thanks for mentioning that, Leo; you’re a pal. No, but seriously, there were special factors. The recession … British Rail.’

  ‘Your own reviews can’t have helped much either.’

  ‘I never read reviews.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re very wise.’

  ‘If the critics don’t like me, well, there are two “l”s in bollocks.’

  ‘Is that so? It’s not a word I have much occasion to spell. Let’s turn to The Father: was it the part or the play that attracted you?’

  ‘I shan’t deny that it’s one of the great parts, but the whole play is the most brilliant portrait of the power-games in a marriage. The tension never lets up.’

  ‘But what about the subject? Surely the Captain’s obsessive agonising over his daughter’s legitimacy must strike an audience today as self-indulgent?’

  ‘You’re making it sound a real barrel of laughs. Much more of this and we won’t have an audience at all! No, but seriously, folks, it is a comedy. It’s not that different from a soap.’ He retreats onto familiar ground. ‘At least the American type, where characters are constantly discovering that either they or their parents are not who they thought they were.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that it’s a metaphor for our shifting identities?’

  ‘I am?’ He acts dumb and raises a laugh.

  ‘I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.’ I act cool and raise a bigger one. ‘But, to return to the central issue of fatherhood: isn’t the play’s portrayal of it dangerously simplistic? The Captain has a daughter whom he claims to love, and yet, as soon as he suspects that he may not be her father, he tries to shoot her. It’s as if she only existed to perpetuate his genes. How can anything so conditional be described as love?’

  ‘That’s all very easy for you to say.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s no secret that you’re not – how shall I put it? – a prime candidate for fatherhood. So, for you, the issue is academic.’

  ‘On the contrary, as you well know, I’m the guardian of an eight-year-old girl.’

  ‘Ah yes, guardian,’ he smiles smugly. ‘Guardian’s very different from father. Guardian’s a signature on a dotted line; father’s in your blood, in your guts, in your history.’

  ‘And, above all, in your pride. Can’t we make a distinction – I’ll make one anyway – between fatherhood and paternity? Paternity is possession and property; fatherhood is love.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll try to bring it out in my performance.’

  ‘But it’s fundamental … and not just to Strindberg. When love is based on blood, society turns inward. The family is isolated and so feels under threat, putting up walls instead of building bridges. Those inside live in a permanent state of siege and those outside in exile.’

  ‘How fascinating. You must come and lead an after-show discussion.’ He is growing nettled. ‘Meanwhile, I’m sure there’s plenty more we could talk about.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was under the impression that you were here to plug the play.’

  ‘Right now, I’d rather plug you.’ He cocks his finger like a gun and shoots. His grin deceives no one.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I don’t want to open old wounds, especially when they proved to be fatal.’

  ‘What the …?’ He censors himself just in time. Vicky is urging me to change the subject.

  ‘Well then, let’s return to the subject of families; it is, after all, the Year of the Family.’ (Even Brian Derwent cannot claim the credit for a United Nations designation.) ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  ‘There’s nothing bent about me.’

  ‘Did I say?’ I swivel round and appeal to the audience. ‘Did anyone say …? But that’s interesting. I obviously hit a nerve.’

  ‘That’s nothing to what I’ll hit if you don’t drop it.’ There is a discernible hiss from the audience.

  ‘I’ll take the risk. So could you never conceive – I’m talking purely hypothetically – of having a gay relationship?’

  ‘Why?’ He minces his delivery, though not his words. ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Don’t forget, we had a mutual friend. I’ve seen you at close quarters.’

  ‘And that’s as close as you’re going to get.’

  ‘I wonder if the reason that you find the idea so repellent is that the relationship is too equal. There isn’t a clear enough delineation of power.’

  ‘Not every relationship’s a relationship of equals. I believe in celebrating the differences between men and women.’

  ‘And in denying the similarities between men?’

  ‘Was that a question?’ he asks, after a neatly timed pause.

  ‘It was. But don’t worry, I’ve plenty more. What intrigues me is that you’ve spent most of your adult life in worlds where homosexuality is commonplace: prison and the theatre.’ He clenches his fist. ‘I’m sorry, am I embarrassing you?’

  ‘Not at all. My life is an open book.’

  ‘And I’m sure that it makes a compulsive read. But what I want to know is in all those years you were in prison … how many was it now?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Twelve. Do you mean to say that, in all that time, the thought – just the thought, of course, the tiniest thought – of sex with a man never crossed your mind?’

  ‘What the hell is this? I’ve come here today, September 17th 1994, to talk about a play.’

  ‘But I understood that you didn’t want to talk about it. You told me to change the subject. And you were the one who brought up being – sorry, not being – “bent”.’

  ‘It’ll take someone a damn sight cleverer than you to get the better of Lewis Kelly.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll answer the question.’

  ‘No, I bloody well won’t.’ Vicky instructs me to wind things up before he loses control.

  ‘I see. So, even an open book contains some expurgated chapters. Thank you very much, Lewis Kelly; I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, except to wish you good luck with the play. It should prove to be a fascinating collision of actor and role.’ I start to move across the stage. Lewis stands up behind me.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asks. ‘It’s a fucking frame-up. You planned this.’ He makes to lunge at me but is tackled by two technicians and dragged cursing off the set. The camera remains fixed on me.

  ‘I should explain, for the benefit of viewers at home, that any unidentified noises come from Lewis Kelly rehearsing his role as the mentally unstable Captain.’ The studio audience applauds. ‘Now I’m delighted to introduce The Bretts, an exciting new band from Sunderland, about whom I predict we’ll be hearing a good deal more in the months to come.’

  I end the show in a state of euphoria. I am the seven-stone weakling who built up his muscles and broke the school bully’s nose. It is only when my adrenalin level drops that I realise what I have done. Nonetheless, I do not regret it. Nor, to judge by the applause as I enter the hospitality room, do the production team. I look round nervously for Lewis (my Charles Atlas punch is strictly metaphorical), but the studio manager assures me that he has stormed out of the building … I still request an escort to the car. Vicky is more concerned about the press response. She need not be. It may be that they wish to make amends for last year’s malice or it may simply be that it is Lewis’s turn to take a fall, but even the reports in the Nation and Sentinel are favourable. The Daily Mail insists that I am worth every penny of my new contract. The Guardian declares that I am back where I belong.

  Autumn passes with no notable incident apart from Pagan’s joining the Brownies. Her conversation is so full of Brown Owl, Tawny Owl, elves and pixies, that we might be back in the woods at Crierley. Then, quite unexpectedly, I am transported there in earnest, whe
n Duncan Treflis rings with the news that Eleanor Standish has died of a heart attack. Unknown to me, she had a long history of angina, which made it even more imprudent that she should have chosen to live in a caravan. And yet it was the only way that she could stay close to the house. She seemed to believe that her presence was as crucial to its preservation as the ravens to the Tower of London. To protect Robin’s patrimony she would endure any amount of pain.

  I drive to Crierley for her requiem mass, refusing Treflis’s invitation to ‘share my chauffeur’ … he would insert an innuendo into the Second Coming. I arrive early and stroll around the ancient churchyard, exploring the tumbledown tombs with their mouldering epitaphs. As I pause to take stock by a gnarled yew tree, I am hailed by an unctuous voice.

  ‘Fertile soil,’ Treflis calls with macabre relish.

  ‘Have you seen this withered trunk? It’s charming.’

  ‘Oh, withered trunks can have their charm. May I borrow your shoulder?’

  ‘On condition that it’s only a temporary loan.’

  I help him into the church, which is better attended than I expected. I identify villagers, neighbours and members of the family. I am forced to share a pew with Duncan who grabs three kneelers.

  ‘Stiff joints?’

  ‘Stage management. One has to be seen.’

  I contemplate the church, which has barely changed since our previous visit. I gaze across the transept at the Standish memorials and recall Robin’s reluctance to take us on a tour… ‘You’ve no idea how much I loathe coming here. It’s so depressing. Like one great family tomb. I remember the first time that my mother showed me round all these cold old faces and told me who was who and how we were related. I felt as if we were no longer a family of flesh and blood but of bones and marble. I think it must have put me off church for life.’

  ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘And families.’

  ‘You were a child.’

  Now there will be another inscription for him to avoid. The realist in me says that he may be dead himself; the sentimentalist refuses to believe it. The latter takes such a hold that I am seized by an overwhelming urge to stand and light a candle. Much to Duncan’s annoyance, I move to do so in front of a statue of the Virgin. Warmed by the flames, I light two more: one for Lady Standish and another for you. I return to the pew, where Duncan informs me, quite untruthfully, that I almost collided with the coffin. He has a perverse need to make the whole of life seem like a narrow escape. I silence him as the service begins. It is short, dignified and strangely moving. All the sprinkling, censing and chanting, however alien to my tradition, appeal to my love of ritual: religion justified by art.

  We process into the churchyard. The heavy, heady scent of the incense is replaced by the dank-leaf smell of autumn. After the novelty of the requiem, I am surprised by the familiar phrase ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ at the burial, but then there is nowhere as ecumenical as the grave. In a bid to escape morbidity, I examine my fellow mourners. Lydia is the only one to look truly distressed; there again, she has the most reason. Moreover, according to Duncan, her grief has been compounded by the legacy of her mother’s last words: an accusing shriek of ‘You’ll be the death of me’, which has left her at once a ten-year-old orphan and a thirty-six-year-old matricide.

  I would like to offer her my condolences, but I feel constrained by the presence of Jenny Knatchpole, who has made her distaste for me abundantly clear. Her husband, however, does not seem to share it, shaking my hand as warmly as if I were a prospective voter or, even, a contributor to party funds. My speculations over what will become of Lydia are resolved by his news that she is going to live in the country with Jenny. ‘What choice do we have? She has no one else, and she is my cousin. Besides, it’ll be company for Jen; she’s on her own far too much. I’m kept so busy at the Treasury that I rarely have a chance to get down.’ Pity silts up my mind as I picture the two women growing old and incoherent together. ‘Anyhow,’ he adds, ‘I’m sure that she’ll prove a natural with the dogs.’

  Duncan invites the family and friends (but not the villagers) to lunch at Buckstone. Any suggestion of stiff joints is banished, as he scurries back and forth like a man half his age. I observe him talking to a tall, veiled woman in a black pillbox hat, who has intrigued me throughout the service. Her elegance and sophistication catch the eye in a world where wealth is characterised by dowdiness. As we walk away from the grave, I carefully slacken my pace until we are side by side.

  ‘Leo Young,’ I introduce myself.

  ‘I know,’ she says and walks on. She is evidently a viewer and a far from gracious one. I try again.

  ‘Did you know Lady Standish well?’

  ‘We were related. By marriage. And you?’

  ‘I’m … I was a friend of her son.’

  ‘I don’t think I saw him here, did I?’

  ‘No. No, you didn’t. He disappeared several years ago.’

  Our lack of intimacy leads me to change the subject. I ask if she is going with Duncan or travelling to London and find that she is doing neither but attending to business near by. Then she tells me that she will be in London for twenty-four hours tomorrow, before flying abroad, and would welcome a chance to talk. Full of curiosity, I invite her to lunch.

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘I have a little girl. That is, I’m her guardian. Her mother was my closest friend.’

  ‘Will she be there?’

  ‘She’ll be at school. I collect her at three thirty.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d be delighted to accept.’

  As I drive back to London, I replay our conversation in my mind, growing increasingly convinced that the mystery woman is Robin’s wife. This would explain the ‘related by marriage’, the knowing no one and the patently false question about her husband. They live abroad; and I speculate on the reason that Robin could not return to England himself. Is he in danger of arrest … or already in prison? Does he deal in drugs? Is he being targeted by MI5? My theories become more and more fantastical. As I pass a sleepless night, I realise how much I have missed him or, rather, how well I have concealed it. The morning creeps by like a Christmas Day sermon. At half-past twelve, I wait in the hall trying to look casual. The doorbell rings at a quarter to one, and I see at once that all my theories are wrong.

  She stands at the door, unveiled and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Robin. I account for it by recalling his narcissism; he has married his female image.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ I try to make my words make sense. ‘You didn’t give me your name, yesterday.’

  ‘Robin,’ she says. ‘Robyn with a y.’

  I totter. He grabs my arm and holds me up. I cannot tell if it is my legs or my world that has collapsed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Leo; I’ve shocked you. I shouldn’t have come, at least not like this. But any other way seemed like an apology, and I have nothing to apologise for. People must be allowed to grow … to change.’

  ‘This isn’t change, it’s mutation!’ I shrug off his hand. ‘How could you do it?’

  ‘To myself or to you? It’s a crucial distinction. Until yesterday, my past belonged to someone else. I gave myself a new identity, like a police informer or a refugee. Then I saw you, and I was suddenly a boy again. You carry the memory of my youth on your face.’

  ‘And what about my memories? Do they count for nothing? You were the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘What is it that’s hurting you: that I’m a woman or that I’m middle-aged?’ The question takes me by surprise, obliging me to examine my own motives as well as his. I ask him upstairs. We switch into social mode. He – that is, she – tells me that it is the first time that she has visited England for seven years. ‘It was so odd to see all those people and have none of them recognise me; I felt like the Invisible Man.’ I look at her quizzically; she shakes her head. ‘That was a literary allusion, not a Freudian slip.’

&
nbsp; I allow the small talk to sustain me until we have time to return to the main issue, which we do over lunch.

  ‘You’re not doing justice to this excellent crab, Leo.’

  ‘I still feel a bit bruised. You must tell me if it’s none of my business, but it would help me so much to have some idea of why you did it.’

  ‘I’m happy to try, although it’s not the easiest thing to remember. It’s as if it happened in a previous lifetime.’

  ‘You sound like one of those people we used to laugh at who claim to have been Bonnie Prince Charlie or Cleopatra.’

  ‘It’s not all that different. The man I was may not be buried but he is dead. I told you I’d changed; you said that I’d mutated.’

  ‘Spur-of-the moment words, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Most words are. In fact, I feel that this has always been me … the face I see in the mirror now, not the one in the school cricket team or the freshers’ photograph. I hated being the boy that I was. People were constantly telling me that I’d grow up to be like my father, which was the very last thing that I wanted. And yet I felt that I had no choice; physically, I was becoming more like him every day. It got worse as I reached puberty. At school, we used to call our penises our weapons. Which, in my father’s case, seemed all too true. From my earliest childhood, I watched him drink and lash out at my mother and then drink to drown the guilt. And then Lydia was born, like a permanent reproach. And he drank and lashed out even more. And, when he couldn’t lash out any longer, he drowned himself in the lake. But, although I lived in fear and hatred of him, I felt no affection for my mother. I learnt young that a shared pain may breed pity but never love.’

  ‘But, when I met you, you seemed so sure of yourself. I was struggling to accept my sexuality, while you seemed to embrace yours with open arms.’

  ‘Sex was as much of an escape for me as alcohol for my father. I felt that, if I had enough of it, I could shake off the demons. I was never gay.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, hear me out. I was sexual, yes, and I knew that I could never be heterosexual (I could never do to any woman what my father had done to my mother). So, in the Manichaean universe I’d created, I assumed that I must be gay. I had so many men, but they never moved me. I was always playing a part.’