The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  ‘All right.’

  She sounded wary of him and at once he was ashamed of his anger. After all, she was still the girl who had kissed him so surprisingly passionately. He thought about the party and the way she had looked at him as though he was special; no one had looked at him like that before. His fingers went to his eye. He said, ‘I know somewhere – somewhere we can be alone. Would you mind being alone with me?’

  She shook her head, making him smile because she looked so scared.

  ‘Sure? All right. It’s this way.’

  The house had been uninhabited for years. When he was much younger he would go there, climb over the wall and play in the overgrown garden. He told no one about the house, this derelict, wild place he had discovered; each school holiday he would return, finding it subtly changed each time – a drainpipe fallen further from the wall, another windowpane broken. On one of his very first visits he had found a key hidden beneath a loose paving stone; it unlocked the back door. He had explored the house, empty but for a table and a few broken-backed chairs. In the summer, the rooms smelled of dust, a dry, inflammable smell. Dead flies and moths gathered on the window sills amongst the flakes of white paint; the floral patterned wallpaper peeled from the wall above the marble fireplace in the sitting room.

  The house was kept secret by the trees growing in its garden, horse-chestnuts and sycamores, too-big trees Guy believed would one day destroy the foundations so that the house would fall in on itself, becoming nothing but a pile of bricks and timbers.

  He hadn’t thought of taking Hope to the house, not until he saw her and her shyness had made him feel so unexpectedly angry. All at once he couldn’t be bothered with going to the cinema, with the crowds of people, the shuffling, infuriating queues for tickets, for ice cream – she would expect ice cream, he was sure. He especially couldn’t be bothered with having to sit still watching a film about the war. The war was too close, there all the time in his house where it hung about his father like a bad smell, hanging about Ava, too, of course. He was sure Ava lived in 1945 in her head, an explanation for her sadness, and her preoccupation with the bloody dolls. The war was the last thing he wanted to watch; to waste his precious time with Hope in such a way had suddenly seemed unthinkable.

  Outside the house, he said, ‘This is it.’ Feeling it would be easier to lie, he said, ‘It belongs to my father, he just hasn’t got round to selling it.’ He pushed open the creaking gate and took her hand. ‘We have to go round the back.’

  He took the key from the new hiding place he had found for it beneath the kitchen’s rotting windowsill, unlocked the door and picked up the torch he left just inside on the abandoned table, knowing it would be dark soon and that anyway the soft evening light would hardly penetrate the grimy windows. He turned to Hope. ‘I’ve made a kind of den,’ he said, and felt childish suddenly. Quickly he added, ‘There’s somewhere to sit, anyway.’

  She smiled at him uncertainly. ‘No one lives here?’

  ‘Only the ghosts.’ He took her hand again and squeezed it. ‘Don’t be scared. They’ve been dead so long they’ve forgotten they’re supposed to be frightening.’

  He had brought cushions from home and an old rug, laying them out in front of the fireplace where he had placed half a dozen candles. The candles stood securely in puddles of melted wax and Guy took out his matches and lit them, filling the room with shadows. Sitting down on the rug he held out his hand to her. ‘It won’t dirty your dress,’ he said. ‘The carpet’s clean – from home.’

  She sat down, a little way from him. ‘You just took it? Won’t your mother notice it’s gone?’

  He gazed at her, thinking how little she knew about him, how much he would have to tell her; or not tell her. He supposed he could go on lying, invent a whole family for himself; like his lie about the house, it might be easier than explaining the truth. Much easier, in fact. The truth sounded like a lie, so implausible, so preposterous – it set him apart from normal people like Hope. Then he remembered that Hope’s mother had been killed, that her death had been the kind of tragedy people talked about, just as they talked about his family. He remembered the strange man who had collected her from Irene’s party, someone she was so quick to disown, and thought that perhaps Hope wasn’t as normal as she looked.

  She was gazing around her and her eyes came to rest on the candle flames flickering in the draught from the chimney. He watched her, pleased that she didn’t chatter as he suspected most girls would. Most girls would want to hide their embarrassment behind a stream of silly talk. Hope just sat quite still and he was content to look at her and say nothing, but it seemed that she sensed him watching.

  ‘Why do you come here?’ she asked.

  Surprised at her bluntness, he shrugged. ‘Because I can.’

  ‘What do you do here?’

  Obviously, she thought he was odd. At last he said, ‘I don’t do anything. It’s just a place to be on my own.’

  They sat at either end of the rug, a brightly coloured raft on a sea of paint-stained, splintered floorboards. The rug was Persian, expensive, its pile deep and soft. His father hadn’t missed it – at least, he had never questioned its absence. The smell of this empty house clung to it; Guy wanted to lie down, hold out his arms to her, but thought she wouldn’t want to lie on a carpet that smelled so musty. Perhaps she would think he was more than odd – weird, in fact, to bring her here. He took his cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one just for something to do.

  Shyly she said, ‘I don’t smoke.’

  Lighting a cigarette, he handed it to her. ‘Try it.’

  ‘Really, I’d rather not.’

  ‘Go on.’

  As if she didn’t want to offend him, she took the cigarette and drew on it inexpertly. She coughed and handed it back. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever smoke. It’s horrible.’

  ‘I thought so too, at first. But I persevered.’ He grinned at her. ‘You didn’t like Irene’s champagne either, did you?’

  She looked down at her hands. After a while she said, ‘You think I’m too young.’

  He laughed. ‘Too young for what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She seemed to force herself to meet his gaze. ‘You like making fun of me, though.’

  ‘I don’t.’ He moved closer to her. ‘At that party I only wanted you to notice me. I’m sorry if I behaved like an idiot.’ Edging closer still, he said, ‘It was nice, wasn’t it, being alone in the garden?’

  She nodded, eyes cast down. Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted her head back a little. ‘Have you thought about me much, since then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He kissed her mouth lightly. Drawing back he said, ‘I think about you all the time.’

  ‘Really?’

  She looked surprised and hopeful at the same time.

  Kissing her again, he whispered, ‘Really, truly.’

  She placed a hand on his chest. ‘We shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Shuffling back from him she said, ‘You know why not.’

  Tossing his cigarette into the hearth he sat back on his heels. ‘What should we do, then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  She avoided his gaze, her silence going on and on until at last he said, ‘Hope?’

  ‘I suppose I just want to stay here with you for a while. But I don’t want you to have the wrong impression.’

  ‘Would you like me to sit on the other end of the carpet again?’

  She giggled, despite herself. ‘We could just talk, I suppose.’ Brightly, she asked, ‘Where did you go to school? It wasn’t Thorp Grammar, was it?’

  ‘No. I went to a boarding school near London. Before that, I went to one in Durham. Before that, one in Essex. Before that . . . ’ He frowned. ‘Oh, yes. Before that it was somewhere in Yorkshire. I wasn’t there long. During the war I was evacuated to a school in Kent. It was OK there. I could have stayed there.’
r />   She looked horrified. ‘But you would have only been a baby . . . ’

  ‘Yes – it was a nursery school. I was sent there when I was four.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Dad took me.’ He remembered the train journey, Harry in his Army uniform so that he felt proud of this great big man holding his hand. The train had seemed full of soldiers, but none as smart as his father; he’d thought that Harry was a General, a General whose pockets were full of toffees.

  Hope said, ‘Did your mother go with you?’

  For a moment he considered lying, but she was looking at him with such concern that he realised he wanted only to be honest with her, not to wreck this relationship as he wrecked everything else. He said, ‘My mother died when I was a baby.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t know her.’ Suddenly, because it felt as though the truth should be hurried out, he said, ‘Actually, she killed herself. After I was born she went a bit mad, apparently. I read up about it. It’s not that uncommon for women to be suicidal after having a kid.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Hope gasped.

  He had a strong urge to kiss her, take advantage of her sympathy, but that seemed a dishonest thing to do and he wanted to behave properly with her. ‘You go to Irene’s school, don’t you?’ he asked in turn. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No.’ She blushed. ‘I’m a bit of a dunce, really.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Oh, me too!’

  ‘Did you like your school?’

  ‘Schools.’ He laughed shortly. ‘No. I kept getting myself expelled.’

  ‘Really?’

  Unable to resist, he reached out and hooked a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Hope, could we lie down, do you think? I’d only hold you – I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.’

  ‘I don’t think we should.’ Quickly she said, ‘Did you really get expelled?’

  He lit another cigarette. Exhaling, he said, ‘Didn’t Irene tell you how bad I am?’

  ‘No – you know she didn’t.’

  A cushion lay at his side and he reached for it, putting it under his head as he lay down. He’d been thinking about her naked and his erection ached. Trying not to think of her hands around it, he said, ‘I never saw the point of school. Once I could read and write . . . well, I suppose I thought I could find out what was worth knowing for myself.’

  She seemed shocked; he liked the way her eyebrows went up, the way her lips parted a little as though she was about to say something but was too surprised to find the right words. She looked so sweetly innocent, so easily outraged. He wondered how she would react if he asked her to take her clothes off, amused at the idea of her reaction, even as his cock became even harder and he knew he could do nothing to relieve himself.

  To his surprise, Hope lay down beside him, a hand’s breadth away. To the ceiling she said, ‘I’ve never been in trouble. I’ve always been good.’

  Cautiously he said, ‘You sound as though you regret that?’

  ‘No.’ After a moment she said, ‘Maybe. Sometimes.’ Turning her head to look at him, she went on, ‘Everyone thinks I’m terribly sensible.’

  He wanted to trace the outline of her mouth that was set in a straight, serious line. ‘Do you know I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen?’

  She turned away from him to gaze at the ceiling again. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Besides, you’re only saying it. It’s only talk, something to say to get what you want.’

  ‘What do I want?’

  She kept silence, closing her eyes, and Guy turned on his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look down into her face. Her skin was flawless, her eyes, her nose, her mouth all in perfect proportion, perfectly conforming to accepted ideas of what was beautiful. He couldn’t help comparing her to Esther, who was not perfect, whose puzzling oddness was so compelling. He could gaze at Esther for hours and still not understand why he was attracted to her. He looked at Hope and knew at once.

  He kissed her, his lips barely brushing hers. He placed his hand on her waist, and she kept still, like a child pretending to be asleep so that she seemed even more alert, more aware of every move he made. He felt his heart quicken, his need for her become more urgent so that he could barely trust himself to speak. He trembled and she opened her eyes to look at him.

  For some moments she held his gaze. At last she said, ‘Would you be careful?’

  He made to speak but his voice broke. He cleared his throat. ‘Careful?’

  ‘I don’t want a baby.’

  ‘Hope . . . ’ He made to kiss her but she placed a hand on his chest, holding him back.

  ‘I like you,’ she said, ‘more than like. I saw you and I knew you would be the one who . . . I’ve been thinking about it a lot. You don’t have to say you love me or anything – no lies like that.’ She closed her eyes again and he could sense her frustration. Quickly she went on, ‘I just don’t want to be me any more – good, sensible me.’

  And then she opened her eyes and it was as though she wanted him even more than he wanted her, so that he drew back, astonished by her, intimidated, suddenly unsure of his ability to be who she thought he was. All the same, he ached for her; all the same, he felt unable to move, afraid of his own inexperience. He would be clumsy, he would make a fool of himself. If he began he would have no way of stopping, but he had no idea of how to begin. He groaned, stubbing out his cigarette too vigorously.

  ‘Hope . . . ’

  Her hand brushed against his erection, lightly as though she had dared herself. He caught her wrist and held it. ‘Hope.’ He laughed painfully. ‘Should we get undressed?’

  She nodded. Sitting up, she pulled her sweater off. Static electricity caused her hair to fan around her head and he knelt in front of her and smoothed it down with both hands. Holding her head, he kissed her, drawing back to sit on his heels, watching as she began to unbutton her blouse. Her bra was white, with a pink rosebud sewn between her breasts; she put her hands behind her back and unhooked it. He saw how hard her nipples were.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said, and she did as she was told obediently, gasping with pleasure as his mouth closed around her breast.

  Chapter 13

  Harry dreamed. He was walking through the rubble of bombed buildings – stumbling, slipping and sliding on loose stones, holding out his arms to steady himself like a fat clown on a highwire. Behind him, Hans laughed. He shouted, ‘You’re walking on their graves, Major! Be careful now.’

  Harry turned, saw the small figure of a boy who walked towards him and then became a grown-up Hans, his SS uniform immaculate, the death’s head on his cap catching the sunlight. ‘Help her,’ Hans said. ‘Please.’ And they were back in the interrogation cell, and Hans’s nose was dripping blood, his eyes swollen closed. Ava sat beside him, gazing down at the ragged doll on her lap. Hans took the doll and thrust it into his arms. ‘There, Harry. Your child.’

  Harry woke suddenly, thinking he was still in the office and that he had fallen asleep at his desk. Sitting up, the slow realisation came that he was in his own bed, that last night, despairing of everything in his life, he had drunk too much and had fallen asleep only half-undressed, unwashed. His mouth tasted foul.

  Staring at his bedroom ceiling, he heard Esther and Ava in the bathroom. Esther would be washing his wife’s face and hands then coaxing her to brush her teeth. He listened to Esther’s sing-song voice encourage Ava and thought how he must get up, that he couldn’t go on lying in bed when there was so much to do, so much relying on him. Except he didn’t have the energy; his limbs felt weighted to the bed. Perhaps if he were to lie still for a while, perhaps if he only closed his eyes for a few minutes he would feel strong enough to face the day. But if he closed his eyes he might sleep again; the nightmares might come again. He truly didn’t want to see Hans again or hear his voice so distinctly. There was no sense in remembering him, even in dreams.

  On the landing ou
tside his room, he heard Guy say good morning to Esther with his usual exaggerated, cheerful good manners. Harry thought of his meeting with his son’s Headmaster just before he drove Guy home, how the man had seemed so sadly resigned to Guy’s rebelliousness, his total lack of respect for anyone supposedly in authority over him. The Headmaster had even seemed rather admiring of the boy; that was the point when he’d told him how brilliant Guy was, that if he could only knuckle down . . . The man had sighed, becoming resigned again. He knew as well as Harry did that Guy would never knuckle down. The idea of Guy becoming a soldier was preposterous: his son couldn’t possibly be serious.

  Harry heard Esther explain to Ava that they were to go downstairs now and have breakfast, and that later, if the weather kept fine, they could go for a walk in the park and wouldn’t that be nice? There was a desperate edge to her voice. He’d heard this edge more often lately, but in his present, useless state her desperation seemed worse, as though he had become as hyper-sensitive to the feelings of others as he was to his own.

  This had been especially true yesterday, when his string of troubled clients had culminated with that woman whose husband wanted to divorce her, whose misery had felt suffocating. And then, when she had gone, and Peter Wright sat in his office, so pathetically brave and optimistic, after Wright had innocently conjured Val so that it seemed she was standing beside him, he had turned to the window and saw the scavenging tramp, a man who had suddenly become every human being he had ever seen suffer. How sentimental that feeling seemed now, and shamingly self-indulgent; he closed his eyes, despairing of himself, and heard Hans laugh.

  He had known Hans for only a few weeks in Berlin during the spring of 1946. The morning they met he had noticed the thickening buds of a lilac tree growing in the garden of a bombed house and had been surprised that the season had changed. Berlin still felt in the grip of an icy winter, a dark, petrified city he couldn’t wait to leave. All around him the ruins were a reminder that everything was futile, ending only in the grave. He could do no good, could change nothing; he could translate this prisoner’s words, that Nazi document, and feel only corrupted, that by understanding their language he was somehow complicit. How weary he had been that spring, so sick to death. The ruins stank of coal fires extinguished by rain, of damp and musty, rat-infested cellars. And the dead were buried beneath it all, and the living made burrows from which starving children scrambled, filthy, stinking.