The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  He hadn’t told her just how beautiful Hope was, or how self-contained, although she might have guessed. Cool, confident, beautiful Hope had smiled at her when Jack had introduced them, had said in her clipped, careful voice, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Campbell.’ And Val had thought she saw a glint in the girl’s eye that belied her good manners – something like suspicion mixed with a determination not to appear too friendly, too eager to be liked.

  ‘Moonlight Serenade’ ended. Jack stepped back from her. To her surprise, he took both her hands, lifting one to his lips. ‘Val,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder then back to her. ‘Val, I thought we could go back to my house – for a nightcap. The children will be in bed . . .’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Yes? I mean, if you don’t want to, if you’re tired . . .’

  ‘Jack, it’s all right. Let’s go.’

  He nodded gravely, as if the whole idea had been hers. ‘Very well. Let’s get our coats.’

  He murmured, ‘Oh God, Val, oh sweet Christ . . .’

  He lay on top of her on the sofa, his hand on her bare thigh between her stocking-top and cami-knickers. He had unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra and had lifted his mouth from her nipple to gaze at her with such desperation that she had pressed her hand to his cheek. ‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘it’s all right, it doesn’t matter. Hush now, hush . . .’

  It seemed he was unable to look at her. Scrambling away from her, he got to his feet and hastily cleaned himself up with a handkerchief before buttoning his flies and thrusting the soiled, crumpled hanky into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Val sat up and held out her hand to him. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No.’ He glanced up, towards the rooms where his children slept. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  Her breasts were uncovered still, heavy, too white in the yellow light from the standard lamp behind her. Her nipple stood out, glistening with his saliva, expectant-looking. For all his clumsiness, for all his weight on top of her, his frantic roughness, she was wet, ready for him; she had thrust her groin against his, opened her mouth wide as he kissed her, searching out his tongue and grasping his head, her fingers pressing hard against his scalp, making him groan, just as she had groaned when he’d pushed his hand up her skirt. She had been much too wanton altogether, and she had robbed him of control. As she fastened her bra she had a feeling that this might be the end of their pretending they were suited.

  Her head bowed, her hands busy with the buttons of her blouse, she heard him light a cigarette. After a moment he said, ‘It’s been a long time for me.’ He laughed painfully. ‘You wouldn’t believe how long. Sometimes I don’t believe it.’

  He was standing over her. Gently nudging her foot with his he said, ‘I’ve never felt so much like a fifteen-year-old boy – not even when I was fifteen. Your fault – you shouldn’t be so sexy.’

  Standing up, she took the cigarette from him and inhaled deeply before handing it back. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I got a taxi home, Jack.’

  He stepped back from her. ‘If you like.’

  ‘We’re both tired.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Then, tapping the cigarette ash into the dead fire, he said, ‘Did you enjoy this evening?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I mean apart from just now. Apart from my disappointing performance.’

  She sighed. ‘Jack . . .’

  ‘You’re very cool, aren’t you? It’s almost as if you want to give the impression . . .’ He snorted, shaking his head, his voice becoming bitter as he said, ‘Oh well, never mind, eh? Put it down to yet another experience.’

  She brushed past him. ‘Good night, Jack.’

  ‘Wait.’ He caught her arm. ‘Val, wait . . . I’m sorry.’

  Shaking free of his grasp she gazed at him, keeping her anger in check only because he looked so miserable. He attempted to smile but his eyes gave him away. Perhaps they should just call it a day – but that was too cruel a thing to say to a man who looked like he was about to cry, who already felt himself to be humiliated. She pressed her hand against his cheek; softly she said, ‘I think you’re a lovely man.’

  He grasped her wrist, lifting her hand away from his face. ‘You think I’m a lovely man?’ He laughed nastily. ‘Jesus! Do you want to make that sound a little less patronising? What’s the next line? And I really like you but? Don’t you dare brush me off like this.’ He let go of her wrist abruptly. ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘Because if there’s any brushing off to be done, you’re the one to do it?’ she retorted. Then, ‘Look, I think I should just go home.’

  ‘Not yet. You can’t go yet.’

  ‘You’re upset.’ Wearily she added, ‘Like I already said, we’re both tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired. I’m not upset.’ He burst out: ‘I wanted tonight to be special.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to sound so bloody resigned. You wanted it too – I know you did.’

  His hair was sticking up. Earlier she had undone some of his shirt buttons and now she could see his grey-white vest and a few wisps of chest hair dark against his pale skin. She remembered how lean and angular his body had felt against hers, how his urgent need for her had been a savage, mindless thrill. She had thought she’d experienced too much to ever feel so desperate for sex again.

  Reaching out, Jack touched her arm lightly. ‘Val? Don’t look like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’ve made a dreadful mistake.’ Suddenly he said, ‘I’m not boring really.’

  She laughed, astonished. ‘I never said you were!’

  ‘But you think it. Actually, I am boring. Not when I was younger, but now . . .’ He pulled himself together. ‘You want to go home. I’ll walk you there.’

  They walked along the quiet streets in silence and Jack kept a small distance from her so that she felt stiffly self-conscious, as though she took up too much room on the pavement. The semi-detached houses of Jack’s suburb began to give way to the rows of terraces that in turn gave way to the High Street.

  As they turned into the last of these terraced streets, Inkerman Terrace where she lived with her father, Jack stopped. Taking her hand, he pulled her into an alleyway, backing her against the wall as he guided her hand to his erection. His lips close against her ear, he groaned, such a longing, needy sound, infecting her with his lust. Her free hand pressed against the damp wall, the filthy old brick crumbling in her curling fingers as Jack ground himself against her; he grunted, bending his knees, pushing up her skirt and tugging at her knickers until they fell around her ankles. Covering her mouth with his, he thrust his fingers inside her.

  She turned her face away from his. ‘Jack, wait . . .’

  ‘Let me, please.’ His fingers still inside her, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her face as he whispered, ‘Please . . . I love you, you know I love you.’

  She closed her eyes. He had withdrawn his fingers, had begun to work on that place that would bring her to climax. She groaned, opening her legs a little more as she felt herself slump against the wall. He kissed her and she heard the smile in his voice as he said, ‘There, you like that. You’re so wet. Little hussy, little bitch on heat . . . there!’

  She came, arching her body against his, her head back so that her throat was exposed. He bit into her neck delicately even as he put his leg between hers so that she could ride out her orgasm. Then, quickly, he was unbuttoning his flies and closing her hand around his cock as he took a Johnny from his pocket.

  ‘Ready?’

  She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist as he entered her. Deep inside he stopped, drawing his head back a little to look at her. ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grinned, but then his face became anonymous again, that of every man who had ever fucked. She closed her eyes, catching the dog-piss-and-rain stink of the wall as he reached his own climax.

  Chapt
er 3

  It’s very odd how empty and silent the house feels now. Even though in the last few months of his life he never left his bedroom, my father’s presence made itself felt. I was always listening for the thump of his walking stick on the bedroom floor whenever he wanted me to attend to him, a noise that seemed to travel along the crack in the dining-room ceiling and threaten to bring down lumps of plaster. Much as I was used to this noise, it would almost always startle me, concentrating as I was on my work, lost in it, often, so that I’d managed almost to forget about him completely. Sometimes, not often, I would make him wait, but the thump-thump-thump would come again – and besides, I had been put on edge, unable to continue. Best if I went to him immediately; he would be calmer then and less inclined to be a swine.

  I was meant to excuse his foul temper, his insults, because he was dying and in pain. But he had been foul and insulting to me all my life, and although I cared for him as best I could, I never felt the pity that most people would have felt. I suppose I never really believed in his pain either, because he seemed so unchanged by it, remaining the nasty, spiteful man he had always been. Only sometimes, when I washed him, or later when I had to move him often to prevent sores, would I see the pain manifest itself in his expression. He would never betray his agony to me in any other way, never tell me that I hurt him, not directly. He would just shout out how clumsy I was, a bloody clumsy half-wit. I tried to be as gentle as I could; I tried to keep him quiet.

  Sometimes, when he was in a more reflective mood, he would tell me how much like my mother I was: useless and ungrateful. ‘That slut,’ he would say, ‘that flighty piece – she cared for nothing and no one, interested only in her fancy men, her own pleasure.’ His lip would curl then and his nostrils flare as if he could still smell her scent on his sheets. He always used the same stock words about her, the same stock phrases. From these words and phrases I’ve gathered that she was blonde and very young, and that she left shortly after I was born with a man I know only as That Bastard. There are no photographs of her that I have ever seen; I’m pretty certain there are none in existence. I imagine that she was a bottle-blonde, that she laughed a lot and wasn’t afraid of my father. So not like me at all, then.

  There was a time in my childhood when I thought about her a lot, even imagined that she would soon come back for me. But even then I knew I was only making up stories for myself, like the story I invented where a wealthy-looking, handsome man helped her into a fast, fancy car. The man was That Bastard, of course, and he was about to whisk her away.

  I wanted my mother to be film-star bright and daring when I was a young child. Later, I didn’t want her to be anything at all. She had left me and wasn’t worth thinking about. I remember feeling sullen when I decided it would be best to forget about her, as though I was stubbornly refusing to apologise for something bad that I’d done, knowing that it would weigh on my conscience. But that feeling didn’t last. I’d started at ThorpGrammar School by then and it took all my concentration, all my energy, just to pretend to be normal enough to fit in.

  This morning, I worked in the garden. After all the quiet respectfulness of the last week, I felt that I needed to do some hard work in the fresh air, work that would make me ache with weariness so that I looked forward to going to bed rather than dreading the sleepless night ahead. I dug out the old roses that had grown so leggy and spotted with mildew; I made a bonfire of last year’s leaves and thought I could toss into the flames some of the rubbish that had accumulated in the house – the old bills and bank statements and such that my father refused to throw away. As I watched the smoke drift into the sky, I heard my name being called, and turned to see Jack, Martin and Stephen. The boys ran to me, almost knocking me off my feet. Jack said, ‘Oh, steady you two,’ as though he was terribly exasperated with them both. I looked past him, wanting to see Hope following him into the garden, but they were alone and I made myself smile through my disappointment.

  Martin said, ‘Can we go and play in the tree-house, Uncle Peter?’

  They didn’t wait for my answer, but ran off towards the oak tree with its trailing rope ladder. Jack gazed after them. After a little while he said, ‘Monkeys. It’s just like living with a pair of tireless monkeys.’ He turned to me. ‘Listen – I’m so sorry about yesterday, terribly sorry –’

  ‘It’s all right. You explained on the phone, there’s no need to apologise.’

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders a little as he does when he feels awkward. Watching the bonfire spark and smoke, he said, ‘I suppose letting one’s friends down is just another consequence of being a damn wage-slave.’

  The boys came down from the tree-house having found the pop guns, holsters and cowboy hats I’d left there for them, and began to chase each other around the lawn making shooting noises. Jack turned his attention on them, frowning. ‘I don’t remember being so noisy when I was their age. But then I suppose there was only one of me.’

  I laughed, patting his shoulder because he looked so weary. ‘Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  * * *

  In the kitchen, as I busied myself making tea, Jack stood at the window and watched the boys run around the bonfire. I have known Jack Jackson since we sat next to each other on our first day at Thorp Grammar, listening to our new form master telling us how we were to behave. The form master – Mr Jeavons – had a wooden leg with which he would threaten to bash our stupid heads in; he was a veteran of the First War and scary as a devil. He knew my father – they had the war in common; he made me believe that all the men who returned from the trenches were vicious, that the fearfulness of it all had knocked out any kindly feelings they might once have had. Jack sat beside me as Jeavons ranted, as rigid with terror as I was, only smaller and weedier-looking. Jeavons singled Jack out because of this weediness; I was singled out just for being me. Thus a bond was created between us.

  Jack turned to me. He said, ‘So, he’s dead. Odd, really – somehow he gave the impression that he’d see us all off.’

  My father liked Jack – as much as he liked anyone. He used to ask him why he was friends with a fool like me. Now, Jack glanced up at the ceiling, as though my father really was still alive, aiming at immortality, about to start his banging. Looking at me, he said, ‘You look a bit knackered, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I wanted to mention that Hope came to the funeral, to ask him if he had sent her, his envoy, but I’m almost certain he didn’t. I thought of her again in the church, how she looked so concerned and yet timid all at once. As casually as I could I asked, ‘Where’s Hope today?’

  He didn’t hear me, as he was back at the window, scowling at some antic of the boys. He rapped on the glass. Turning to me again he said, ‘How would you like to adopt two six-year-old boys? I’m sure they’d much rather live here with you – you’re the one who builds tree-houses, after all.’

  He sat down at the table and I poured him a cup of tea. Taking out his cigarettes he lit one, impatiently thrusting the case and lighter back into his pocket and exhaling smoke down his nose. Just as impatiently he said, ‘I’m not sure what to say to you, Peter.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that I remember how it was when my old man died.’ He rolled his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray. ‘To say it was bloody awful – well, that’s understating it.’

  I wanted to laugh, to say, But you loved your father, Jack! Your father loved you! I’d expected him, of all people, not to behave like everyone else. Yet it seemed that this man, who knew more about grief than anyone, still wanted me to make a show of my grieving, still susceptible to these lies the bereaved have to tell. Bitterly, because sometimes I am jealous of him, I said, ‘I don’t feel awful, Jack, only relieved.’

  ‘I felt numb at first, too.’

  ‘I’m not numb.’

  He looked at me, baffled as though he hadn
’t understood. Perhaps he hadn’t; people who loved their parents speak a different language from those of us who didn’t. At last he said, ‘Anyway, I know what it’s like and if there’s anything I can do . . .’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘There. Enough said.’

  Clearly he thought he had embarrassed me and went back to the window to watch his sons. I watched them too, thinking of the imps and sprites I’d drawn early that morning, sharp-faced creatures climbing through tangled ivy leaves and thorns, shaking down blossom to fall at the feet of the princess lost in the dark woods. I realised that I had put too much malicious glee in their expressions, but of course, they wanted the princess to be terrified: her fear was entertainment, a spectacle. I had been right to draw them as I did; it’s only when I’m away from my work that the doubts begin.

  Jack said, ‘Do you know that it’s been almost five years since Carol died? It doesn’t seem that long and yet sometimes . . . Well, sometimes it seems a lifetime ago. At least no one can accuse me of rushing into the arms of another woman.’ Looking down at his cigarette, suddenly he ground it out as though it sickened him. Sharply he said, ‘I went out with Val again last night.’ He glanced up at me, only to look away again. ‘I’m never sure what to make of her.’

  ‘Does she know what to make of you?’

  He frowned at me with that same, puzzled expression that I realised he has been using rather a lot on me lately. All at once I had the feeling that our friendship was slipping, that I could lose him if I didn’t try harder to be more like the other men he knew and less like an eccentric relic from his childhood. Quickly I said, ‘Did that sound glib? I’m sorry.’