The Good Father

by Marion Husband

‘Hello.’ At once Peter turned to her. ‘Hope, if you like I can come back later . . .’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Wright,’ Mrs Redman said, ‘please, you must stay and have a drink with us. I won’t hear of you driving away only to have to come back. Guy, darling, go and fetch Mr Wright a glass of champagne. I don’t know where all those waiters have got to.’

  Laconically, Guy said, ‘I think they’re packing up, Diana. I think all the champagne has been drunk.’

  ‘Really? Oh dear.’ She turned to Peter. ‘Oh well, you could have a proper drink . . .’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Redman.’

  ‘Oh, do call me Diana!’ She touched his arm, a flirtatious gesture that made Hope imagine that she was drunk. Grinning at Peter, Diana Redman said, ‘Why don’t I know you?’

  Peter laughed so easily that Hope was surprised. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Some oversight on my part?’

  Mrs Redman giggled and touched his arm again. ‘Oversights can be remedied.’

  Hope heard Guy groan softly. He glanced at her, a mock-despairing look. To Peter he said, ‘May I fetch you a drink, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He looked around the almost empty room as if to make the point that most of the other guests had already left.

  Diana Redman sighed. ‘Well, I suppose the party is over,’ she said. ‘Guy, why don’t you go and fetch Hope’s coat?’

  When Guy had gone, Irene’s mother returned her attention back to Peter, and said lightly, ‘I really feel I should know you.’

  To Hope’s astonishment, she realised that Diana Redman wasn’t drunk, but was actually attracted to Peter, was actually flirting with him, and that Peter was behaving quite as if this happened to him often, with a kind of grace of which she would never have suspected him to be capable. Mrs Redman seemed not to see his shabbiness, his oddness; Hope made herself look at Peter, trying to see him as this woman did. Peter caught her eye and smiled his ordinary, familiar smile and it seemed that Irene’s mother moved closer to him as if she wanted him to smile like that at her, too.

  Guy came back and helped her on with her coat. He saw her to the door and on the Redmans’ sweeping drive he again held out his hand to Peter.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir.’

  Suddenly it occurred to Hope that Guy thought Peter was actually her father. Without thinking, wanting only for there to be no suspicion that they were in any way blood related, she blurted out, ‘You know he’s not my father, don’t you?’

  Guy laughed awkwardly, and she realised at once how rude she must have sounded to him. She blushed darkly and he made an immediate effort to ease the embarrassment that radiated out from her.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘You have a different surname.’ He glanced at Peter. ‘Well, goodbye, sir.’ To her he smiled. ‘See you on Friday?’

  She nodded, knowing her face was still blazing, hating Peter even more bitterly for causing her such embarrass-ment.

  Chapter 8

  On his way to visit Peter Wright, Harry drove along Inkerman Terrace and stopped the car outside Val’s house. For a moment he just sat, clutching the steering wheel, thinking that if he drove away now he would only feel angry with himself for a few minutes, and he could bear such frustration, that it would be nothing compared to the kind of humiliating show he was about to make of himself. He couldn’t resist it though, knew that if he didn’t do it now he would only come back later, and if his nerve failed again, he would try again, again and again, because he had reached a decision and he would not give in.

  Taking the keys from the ignition, he pulled on the handbrake and got out of the car. The street was empty, its children already taken to school, mothers returned behind the closed doors. Monday was wash day; these women had their routines, according to Val at least, time-tables they followed, just like her own mother had. The men were at work, many of them at Davies & Sons. He wondered how many of Val’s male neighbours watched out for her as she shimmied back and forth from the typing pool. Some of them, she had told him, wolf-whistled after her.

  Knocking on the door of number ten, Harry stood back and looked up at the house. Her bedroom was at the front, the double room her father Matthew had conceded to her. He slept in the back bedroom, looking out over the yard and his pigeon loft. It was Matthew Harry had come to see. He wondered if he should knock again, or go around to the back where the man was more likely to be.

  Glancing down the street to the alley that ran along the back of the terrace, he saw Matthew walking towards him. The man was frowning, ready for an argument, belligerent as ever. Harry stepped towards him, unconsciously raising his hands in a placating gesture.

  ‘Matt –’

  Val’s father brushed past him, taking his house key from his pocket and stabbing it into the lock. As he opened the door he said, ‘Bugger off. Bugger off and leave us alone.’

  ‘Please.’ Harry caught his arm, afraid that he would slam the door in his face. ‘Please, I just want to talk.’

  ‘There’s nowt you’ve got to say to me.’ He turned to him. ‘Christ, you’ve got a nerve, coming here.’ Nodding towards Harry’s car, he said, ‘Why didn’t you tie a few balloons to it – make an even bigger show of yourself? Aye – and us! Don’t you think she’s talked about enough already, you silly bastard?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Listen – go now, before I thump you. You’re not too big a bastard for a bloody nose.’ Matthew shrugged him off, about to go inside, and Harry moved quickly to put his foot in the door.

  ‘Let me in, Matthew. Let me in or the neighbours really will have something to talk about.’

  Matthew gazed at him; he seemed to be considering. At last he said, ‘You’re a lousy bastard, you know that, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Christ!’ Shaking his head, the older man stepped aside. ‘Come in. Be quick – I can see the bloody curtains twitching already.’

  Matthew led him through to the kitchen, a room big enough for a dining table and two armchairs, a sideboard beneath the window that looked out onto the yard. Rag rugs Val’s mother had made were laid over the worn lino; there was a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall, the orange and yellows startlingly bright in this room washed out by the grey light of a cold northern spring. On the draining board was a folded tea towel, a dishcloth was draped over the taps; there was a stink of bleach vying with the mince-and-onion smells coming from the pan simmering on the stove. Matthew had been a Corporal in the Durham Light Infantry, had fought in the Great War and had been in the Home Guard in the last. When his wife had died a few years ago, he had taken over the running of his home, scorning the work, Val had said, but all the same managing to be better at it than her mother had ever had the heart to be. Matthew kept the house with military precision, everywhere so neat and tidy it seemed only the most disciplined of men lived there, and not Val, not the Val Harry knew at least, who strewed her stockings and knickers about, who spilled face powder on polished surfaces and left the tops off her perfumes and lotions.

  Standing in this pristine kitchen where Val had been so recently, Harry felt the familiar, panicky desperation at the idea that he might not ever see her again; his despair sounded in his voice as he said, ‘Matthew, I have to talk to her. Would you give her a message?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must. At least tell her I’ve been here.’

  Matthew shook his head, as implacable as a child. ‘No. No, no, no.’

  ‘Yes! Please, Matt – please.’

  ‘Don’t Matt me. I’m not your pal. Never was.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Most men would kick your backside out onto the street. I should. I bloody should.’

  ‘Except you know how much I love her.’

  ‘Love! Do you think I’m a fool? What do you think I’m going to say? That if you love her it’s all right? Bugger off back to your wife. Love her.’

  Harry sank down onto one of the chairs. He held his head in his hands, knowing that he must appear
ridiculously theatrical to this man. Matthew Campbell had been married to the same woman for forty years, a till-death-do-us-part marriage so that his heart had been broken predictably, cleanly, and had mended in the same straightforward way. He couldn’t imagine that Campbell had ever felt as he did now, Val’s father had too much right on his side. Looking up at this straight-backed, merciless old soldier, Harry said, ‘I told Val I’d divorce my wife.’

  ‘Aye, I know. I know it’s not all you told her, neither.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘Divorce her but go on living with her after you’d married Val – that was to be the set-up, wasn’t it? Jesus!’

  ‘It’s the best I can offer.’

  ‘Best for who? You. No one else. Now get out, go on. She’s told you what she thinks of your best – now you know what I think of it too. Bloody crack-pot!’

  Harry got to his feet. ‘Matthew, please tell her I’ve been here. Tell her that there will never be anyone else, and that if she should ever change her mind –’

  ‘I’ll tell her nowt. I won’t have you messing up her life any more. She’s courting someone anyways, a decent man.’

  ‘She’s seeing another man?’

  ‘Don’t you look so horrified – she’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Who? What’s his name?’

  Matthew smirked as though he was enjoying Harry’s panic. ‘I’m not telling you his name. I’ll tell you that he’s honest and decent though, a widower. His wife really is dead – he doesn’t just wish her dead.’

  ‘I don’t wish my wife dead.’

  ‘No? Then you’ll be the only adulterous bastard who doesn’t.’ Gazing at him Matthew said, ‘Listen, I know you’ve got your troubles –’

  ‘Troubles?’ Harry laughed; even to his own ears he sounded unhinged.

  Matthew held up his hand to silence him. ‘Listen, son. You just accept that there’s nothing you can do. I can see that it’s hard for you, I can understand that, but in the end, well – you’re married. It doesn’t matter how sick your wife is, how much you think you love someone else, in the end you’re married and there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘You think so? Well, we’ll see about that, eh? We’ll see!’

  And Harry walked out, slamming the door behind him so that it seemed the whole terrace shook. He was in his car, driving too fast down the cobbled street when he realised that the anger he felt was the purest, most unadulterated feeling he’d ever experienced; he could punch Val’s widower’s head in and it would be the most fantastic, liberating act he could imagine.

  A red light showed and he slammed on his brakes, drumming his fingers on the wheel and honking his horn when the car in front failed to move off quickly enough as the lights turned green. He was breathing heavily, his heart beating too quickly; he knew how red in the face he would be, apoplectic, an ambulance case if he wasn’t careful. As he calmed a little, he tried to imagine what he might do next, but all he could think of was finding the man Val was seeing and giving him a good kicking.

  Unbidden, as ever, Hans came into his head, beaten so that his eyes were no more than slits in his swollen face. Hans still had the energy to smile at him, having wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, having spat one of his perfect white teeth into his other hand, his beautiful voice slurring only a little as he said, ‘A fellow officer accused me of being a traitor. I ask you, Major Dunn – what is a man to do?’

  He remembered handing him his handkerchief so that he might clean himself up more effectively and how Hans had stopped smiling and had looked almost ashamed that Harry should see him in such a state. Catching his eye as he thrust the hanky into his pocket, Hans had said, ‘Will this be over soon?’

  ‘Soon enough.’

  Hans had nodded, drawing himself up as if he felt he had betrayed too much weakness. Placing his tooth down gently on the table between them he said, ‘For the Tooth Fairy, eh? Maybe you’ll get sixpence in return for your handkerchief, Major.’

  Sometimes Hans spoke the most impeccable English.

  Harry found that he had reached the tree-lined avenue where Peter Wright lived. He stopped the car but went on sitting, the engine running, unable for a moment to contemplate getting out and carrying on with his normal business. There was nothing much normal about what he was here for, anyway. Looking at the house where, for the time being, Peter Wright lived, he thought about shoving the car into gear and driving home. This morning he had left Esther trying to coax Ava into eating a little scrambled egg, holding the spoon up to her lips and making soft, encouraging noises. He guessed that Esther could be doing this still, a task that often took all morning. Guy would be idling around; no doubt if he arrived home so unexpectedly his son would make some sarcastic comment. He realised that he wanted to face Guy even less than he wanted to speak to Wright.

  Finally, he turned off the engine and got out of the car, taking his briefcase with its life-changing documents from the back seat. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up the path to Wright’s house.

  Chapter 9

  I spent the morning working; believe it or not, I have deadlines and my publisher telephoned me just after breakfast to ask after my progress. He is a kind man, his hints are gentle. He is another who thinks I should be deep in mourning; he said he hardly liked to bother me at a time like this. Well, bother away, I thought. The illustrations he’s after are almost finished, and I told him so. I have to be reliable, after all, if the work isn’t to dry up – my income with it.

  I worked, but my thoughts kept returning to Hope, how as I drove her home from that wretched party I so much wanted to ask her about that boy – this Guy – who was so confident, so cocky, so suddenly possessive of her. I’d seen how he looked at her, how he held on to her hand; I hadn’t missed the smirk in his eyes each time he called me sir. All those sirs! Arrogant little puppy! And Hope could hardly bear to look at me. Her face was flushed, her throat and chest too, all the pale skin exposed by her party dress mottled pink and red. When the boy helped her on with her coat, his hands lingered on her shoulder. Unobserved, no doubt, he would have kissed that place below her ear where wisps of her hair escaped from her ponytail. But he looked up and caught my eye, holding my gaze for a long moment. He’s an odd-looking boy, not handsome in a conventional sense. His left eye is damaged. I know a girl like Hope would find this fault touching.

  Of course, she is angry with me after the foolish way I’d behaved as I drove her to the party. I only wish I had kept my feelings to myself. Lately though, it seems that my feelings are not as manageable as they once were when my father was around to keep them in check.

  A man came to visit me today. His name is Harry Dunn and he is the same man who came anonymously to the funeral, the stranger I made up stories about.

  I could not have invented Harry Dunn; he is extraordinary in every way one could care to imagine. I felt rather as if I had been visited by a king of some ancient, recently exterminated civilisation. There was such sadness about him, a depth of grief I have rarely come across. He is a huge man, the expensive cut of his clothes showing off his broad shoulders; I couldn’t help noticing the girth of his thighs. He is the most beautiful, most imposing human being I have ever seen and he pities me. He believes I am the most pitiable wretch alive.

  Harry Dunn called at midday. Even the way he rang the doorbell was authoritative, a sharp, short burst of noise. I got up at once, grateful for the distraction. Callers at this house have always been rare. On my way to the front door I paused momentarily at the hall mirror and saw that my hair was sticking up where I’d pushed my hand through it – a habit I have when I’m concentrating. I smoothed it down hastily; I also took off my glasses and put them in my pocket because I only need them when I’m working. I suppose I wanted to make the best impression on whoever it was. I only wish I had been wearing shoes and that my big toe had not been sticking through the hole in my sock, even that I’d been wearing a collar and tie rather than the soft plaid shirt and corduroys I
had on. If I’d made a real effort, however, I could not have looked any more ineffectual than I did.

  When I finally opened the door to Harry Dunn he smiled at me as if I was a child.

  ‘Mr Peter Wright? Harry Dunn – my secretary spoke to you on the phone.’

  I hadn’t had any such phone call. Mrs Hall often forgets to pass messages on to me – I’m sure she has the subconscious idea that nothing in my life is important enough to warrant her attention. I must have looked bemused because he said, ‘You seem not to remember?’

  ‘Your secretary may have spoken to my housekeeper, Mr Dunn. I’m afraid she didn’t pass the message on.’

  ‘Oh. Then I’m sorry, this may be an inconvenient time.’ He glanced over his shoulder to his car and I had the idea that he wanted to go, but then he looked at me again as if he had resigned himself to staying, his voice worryingly gentle as he said, ‘I’m your late father’s solicitor, Mr Wright. May I come in?’

  I made him coffee and cut him a slice of the cake left over from the funeral, carrying it through on a tray to the dining room where I’d left him taking papers from his briefcase. He had filled the room with his scent, a rich mix of expensive cologne and cigar smoke. An envelope was in front of him on the table where he now sat, another of the dining chairs pulled out ready for me to be seated, as though this was no longer my house but his office. At the very least he was in command. He said, ‘Ah, coffee, thank you,’ and I laughed a little, imagining that perhaps he’d forgotten I didn’t actually work for him. He looked at me, puzzled, as though laughter was the very last sound he expected me to make.

  Thinking it would be best not to attempt to explain my amusement to him, I said only, ‘My housekeeper made the cake. She’s a good cook but a poor secretary, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the confusion, Mr Wright. I should have made certain that you knew I was coming.’

  ‘Well, no harm done.’

  ‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘No, but all the same . . .’ He pulled the envelope towards him and opened it. I saw the heavy velum paper, the deeply black, ornately scrolling letters. I had guessed what it was, of course. My father had told me he had made a will; he used to try to make me guess who he had left everything to. I wouldn’t rise to his goading but kept silent whenever he raised the subject; nothing could have frustrated him more than my silence.