The Good Father

by Marion Husband

  He had thought of the victims and felt himself grow even wearier. It wasn’t even pity he felt, not even outrage or a righteous, burning desire for justice. He wanted to go home, to his own bed. He thought abstractly of the son he barely knew, safe in his boarding school in England, and daydreamed of being a proper father, making up for his absence during the last six years of war. Sometimes he could barely remember his son’s face – and this only added to his sense of total exhaustion. He couldn’t be a father; after this, he felt he couldn’t be anyone much at all.

  He passed the lilac tree growing in the rubble and turned the corner to the place where he worked. He was a Major in the British Army; he had important tasks to perform. There were prisoners to interrogate, reports to write, questions to find the answer to. Even though they were the victors, the questions seemed plaintive to him: he heard the voice in his head whining, But why? Pathetic, really, when the answer was so mundane.

  In his office, he took off his Army greatcoat and cap and hung them from the hook on the door. He smoothed back his hair and sat down at his desk and wondered if this would be the day that they told him he could go home, duty done. Looking up from the piles of documents on his desk, he saw Sergeant Roberts standing in the doorway. The Sergeant smiled, used to his misery, indulgent of it. He said, ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Unless you’re going to tell me otherwise, Sergeant.’

  The man sighed. ‘They’ve brought someone in they want you to interrogate. They want you now, sir. Downstairs. They said as soon as you came in . . . ’

  Harry wondered at the urgency, it stirred some spark of curiosity in him. He got up from his desk and Sergeant Roberts held the door open for him. ‘Shall I fetch you a cup of coffee, sir?’

  Downstairs was where the interrogation rooms were, where he had heard such stories, such excuses. The rooms were small and windowless, the stone walls painted two dull shades of green so that the air seemed colder, danker. He was directed into the first room, where a single bulb caged in a metal shade hung from the low ceiling and cast a brutish, ineffectual light; there was a wooden table, two chairs, a guard standing in the corner, and there was Hans. Hans sat at the table, he was handcuffed. He sat very straight, very still, and his expression didn’t alter when Harry walked in but remained blank, as though he was looking at a dull picture in a doctor’s waiting room. Prisoners weren’t usually handcuffed, but this boy, or so Harry had been told, was a nasty piece of work, dangerous. He had killed his neighbour. ‘Stuck a knife in his guts,’ Lieutenant Brown had told him, and had laughed incredulously. ‘You’d have thought they would have had enough of killing each other, wouldn’t you, sir? Bloody barbarians.’

  Hans’s papers were forged.

  Harry believed that killing his neighbour was Hans’s way of giving himself up. This idea had made him despair, so that he found himself surprised at his ability to feel anything at all.

  Much later, Hans told him that he had been tired of hiding, pretending to be a no one. ‘Such cowardly, skulking behaviour! I am disgusted with myself. But at the time . . . well, sometimes one only wants to live. I am human, after all.’ And he’d smiled, as though he believed Harry thought otherwise, his vanity as monstrous as his contempt.

  Lying in his bed, Harry suddenly tossed the covers aside and got up: he had to get out of bed quickly or he’d stay there all day. He went to his bedroom window and lifted the curtains aside. Below him in the garden was Ava and he watched her walk back and forth across the lawn, seemingly without aim. She looked even more like her brother nowadays, like Hans when he retreated into himself, when it seemed he couldn’t even be bothered with his own posturing any more. He would seem very young then, even younger than his years. Once, Hans had looked up from one of these reveries, frowning at Harry as if he didn’t recognise him. ‘My father was a good man,’ he had said. ‘There. I want you to know that.’ This was the closest Hans ever came to admitting his own badness, and at once he’d returned to his silence, his face become blandly youthful again, just as Ava’s was now, both closing themselves off from their bleak futures.

  Harry went downstairs and into the kitchen where Guy sat at the table with Esther. At once, Esther stood up as though she believed it was wrong to be sitting down with his son, even sitting down at all. She said quickly, ‘I’d better go and see what Mrs Dunn is doing.’

  When she’d gone into the garden, Guy said, ‘You know we talked about me joining the Army? Well, like it or not…’ He picked up an envelope and held it out to him. ‘Unless I fail the medical, which I won’t.’

  Harry took the envelope and, not needing to read its contents, placed it on the table.

  Guy said insolently. ‘Aren’t you even going to say that at least it will make a man of me?’

  ‘Why should I say such an absurd thing?’ Harry sat down opposite him. ‘Is it still what you want?’

  The boy didn’t answer, only took out his call-up papers from their envelope and gazed down at them, turning a page over as if he thought he might have missed some vital piece of information. At last, looking up at him, he said, quietly, ‘Yes, it’s what I want.’

  ‘Then good.’ Harry stood up, began to make tea and toast. He felt relieved that this one thing was settled; unless there was a war he could go back to worrying about Guy in the abstract and not have the real, living, breathing Guy hanging around being Guy, scornful, facetious, unknowable. Unless there was a war. He was struck by the terrifying idea of having to worry about his son in such an all-consuming way; he was sure he wouldn’t be able to cope with such an enormity of worry. He wondered if this proved that he loved him. He hated how much he needed proof, even the kind of proof that would put his child in mortal danger.

  Harry turned to Guy. Gently he said, ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well – anything. I was in the Army for six years.’

  ‘War years.’

  ‘Still the Army.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ Guy said airily. ‘But if a question occurs to me, I’ll be sure to ask.’

  Harry gazed at him, wanting to remember a time when this handsome, intelligent boy had ever shown any sign of needing him. When he was a baby, perhaps, when he’d found him curled beside his mother’s dead body. Guy had cried himself to sleep but had woken as soon as he lifted him from Julia’s arms, his eyes startled, terrified so that he had started to cry again, a terrible, distressed crying unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. He’d had to put him down, desperate to see to his wife, unable to believe that she was dead, although it was obvious. Guy had cried and cried and reached up his arms to him; Harry remembered that he had ignored his cries, told himself it was because he was panicked, unable to think of anything but reviving Julia, his beautiful, wonderful girl. He remembered that Guy hauled himself up, holding on to the side of the bed, only just able to balance on his two feet, a few days away from his first steps. He cried for his mother and Harry had hushed him, not looking at him, just telling him to be quiet, to be good, a good quiet boy. Guy’s nappy was soaked and soiled, weighting down his pyjama bottoms. He had been lying beside his mother all morning; Julia had carried him into bed with her after she had taken the pills. If Harry had not come home that lunchtime, he would have lain there all day. Later, thinking about this, Harry had clutched Guy to him and wept, saying how sorry he was, over and over again. Guy had struggled against this overwhelming embrace. He wanted his mother – only Julia could comfort him. Harry was no use to him at all.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table again, Harry began, ‘Guy . . . ’ But he was unable to think of anything to say to him; often it felt like they were strangers, now more than ever. Suddenly desperate not to feel so alienated from his son, he blurted out, ‘I love you.’

  Guy laughed, surprised.

  ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘I don’t know – it isn’t. Sorry.’ Guy looked away, such a closed expression on his face that he l
ooked almost pained. Eventually he repeated, ‘Sorry.’ Then he stood up, saying awkwardly, ‘I need a shave.’

  ‘Have you any plans for today?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was only wondering. I suppose you should make the most of your time before you leave.’

  ‘Yes.’ Guy turned to him from the kitchen door. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’

  Harry ate his breakfast. Esther and Ava came in from the garden, went out again, came in again; Esther smiled at him despairingly. She sat his wife at the other end of the table from where he was and spilled the jar full of shells out on a tray. ‘There,’ she said, ‘Find the prettiest for Mr Dunn.’

  Ava began raking her hands through the shells, turning them over, peering at one before placing it down and searching out another. She seemed absorbed in this task, happy even. Even so, Harry found he couldn’t bear to watch her. He got up, grateful that he had his work to go to.

  Chapter 14

  When I told Jack that my father had left him the house and all his money, he just stared at me. His mouth opened only to close on whatever it was he was about to say. He shook his head. At last, almost angrily, he said, ‘That’s mad. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. He’s left me everything?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ I smiled, quite enjoying his reaction. I had his full, astonished attention, after all. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘How? How will you be all right?’ Again he shook his head. Then: ‘No, this is nonsense. I’m not going to take your house – your home, your money. I couldn’t be your friend and do such a thing!’

  ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘No.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I mean I refuse to take it. Listen, forget all about it.’

  ‘The house is yours, Jack. I’ve already found somewhere else to live.’

  He sat down, indicating that I should sit down too. We were in the front room of his house, a house he believed Carol had never thought good enough for her; it was too small, the rooms too poky, the patch of garden too over-looked by all the other, identical houses crowded round it. I sat on the sofa he and Carol had bought together, part of a suite that, like everything in this house since her death, had become shabby. I noticed how worn the carpet was – the boys took their toll on everything and Jack had long ago given up trying to keep the house up to the standards Carol had maintained. The dust was thick on the sideboard where Carol smiled from her wedding photograph, her arm linked through Jack’s. I looked at it, and for a moment imagined that I had been there that day because the photo was so familiar.

  Jack said, ‘Why did he leave me everything?’

  I said simply, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you know he was going to?’

  ‘I knew he wasn’t going to leave me anything. He told me often enough.’

  ‘Christ.’ Jack stared into space. Softly he repeated, ‘Christ.’

  ‘Jack, I’m not unhappy about this,’ I reassured him.

  He laughed that dismissive laugh of his. Looking at me, he said, ‘I’m unhappy, Peter. Actually, I find it disturbing. I don’t want anything to do with it.’

  The boys ran in from the garden, excited when they saw me, demanding that I play with them. I would have been happy to do so, but Jack told them to leave us alone, his voice becoming angry when they didn’t do as they were told at once. When they’d gone, I said, ‘Think of the space the boys would have, Jack. They could have a bedroom each, and Hope wouldn’t have to sleep in the box room.’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘It’s not a box room. And the boys don’t need a room each. Look, Peter, it’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because it’s yours! Listen, we both know why he did this, and I don’t want any part of it.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’

  Fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes, Jack lit one. At last he said, ‘Because he was a spiteful old bastard. Jesus, he even found a way to get at you from beyond the grave.’

  ‘I don’t want the house, Jack.’

  ‘No?’ He shook his head. ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Then give it to the children. Sell it; keep the money in a trust for them.’

  I could see him struggling with this idea and gave him time to think about it. From the photograph on the sideboard, Carol smiled at me. I gazed back at her, noticing as I always noticed the way she held her bridal bouquet in front of her, shielding the small bump that was Hope. I looked away, no longer caring what Jack did; I was going to leave that house whether he wanted it or not, and it would be like being relieved of a heavy burden.

  I went into town when I left Jack, did my shopping, and called in to see Harry Dunn, who looked at me just as Jack had – as though I was too unworldly to be out on my own.

  Carol used to interpret this unworldliness as kindness; she would say that I was the kindest man she’d ever known. Whenever I looked after her children, whenever I invited all of them to Sunday tea or bought the children presents, she would tell me how kind I was, as though my kindness dismayed her. Part of me relished her mild dismay and the momentary twinges of guilt that showed on her face. I liked to hear her protestations of you really shouldn’t have when I gave Hope some small gift. There was always something in her eyes at those moments that told me she hadn’t forgotten how badly she had let me down.

  There was a time, soon after my return, when I had expected an apology, a tender moment alone during which she would say how sorry she was. I imagined her weeping; I imagined being cruel to her in some smart, cutting way. But of course that moment never came. I went on pretending to be kind, mercifully as it turned out; my regrets are hard enough without the burden of knowing I could be so pointlessly vindictive.

  After that Japanese officer had broken my ribs, we were marched off through the jungle. A Sergeant supported me, a man named Arthur Graham. The pain in my chest grew worse with each step I took, and although Arthur encouraged me with kind words I felt that it would be best for everyone if I lay down and died. Some men did just that. We walked for days, and sometimes villagers would try to help us, sometimes succeeding in giving us a little rice. I remember how beautiful their tiny children were, their eyes big with wonder, as afraid of us as they would be of ghosts.

  We walked until we came to a railway line and were put into cattle trucks. I lay down on the truck’s wooden planks, curled small because there was so little space, watching the ground flash beneath us through the gaps, concentrating on this, wanting to be mesmerised, but drifting in and out of restless, dream-filled sleep. I dreamed of Carol standing on a railway station platform, and she called to me and called to me but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I called back to her that I loved her and woke, startled, distraught because the train had left her behind. Then I realised where I was, my cheek resting against splintered wood, the hot stench of so many sick, unwashed men all around me and the pain concentrated around my heart. I watched the ground speeding away only inches from my face and it was as though my strength was being poured through the boards’ cracks like sand; soon there would be nothing left of me. I closed my eyes. So this was dying, then – this slow emptying of self. I would not accept it. I forced myself to sit up. Carol had been left behind but it didn’t mean that I wouldn’t see her again. I told myself I would go home and she would be my wife. I made a promise that I wouldn’t die because I was precious to her and that she would be waiting.

  The day before I left her we had walked in the park where we first met and she was quiet, so quiet for such a long time that I was afraid – but then she told me that her parents had gone away and we could go back to her house and there would be no one there. We went in through the back door, afraid of being seen, being heard, although we didn’t speak. Nervousness stopped my voice, just as I believe it stopped hers. She led me upstairs, to her room at the back of the house, a
room full of her childhood: a dolls’ house, a rocking horse, stuffed creatures that stared out at me from the window seat. Because her bed was narrow as a child’s, she spread an eiderdown on the floor, a soft square of pale pink that smelled of her. She smelled of roses, such a faint, elusive scent; I pressed my face against her neck and inhaled deeply, feeling her fingers curl into my hair.

  We didn’t undress, I wish more than anything that we had undressed and I had felt her skin against mine, seen her breasts, her thighs, her cunt. I only moved my hand beneath her skirt, her knickers, felt her tenseness, her dryness so that I wet my fingers in my mouth and pushed them breathlessly inside her. I felt sure she could hear my heart beating: my desperation seemed loud to me, a vibrating pulse that filled the whole room with noise. I couldn’t wait, couldn’t take my time caressing her and kissing her, reassuring her. The noise drove me on, deafening, isolating so that I might just as well have been alone, her body only a maddening object to be broken into before I could find release. She cried out when I entered her; I know I caused her pain. She turned her face away from me afterwards and her skin was white, her lips quite bloodless. I thanked her and smoothed down her skirt. After a little while I helped her to her feet and saw that we had left a stain on the pink eiderdown, a dark patch of blood and semen.

  Mostly though, I didn’t think of this in the camps. In the camps at night I made love to her so gently, so carefully, undressing her so that only a little of her was exposed at a time so that finally she felt easy in her nakedness.

  Mostly though I didn’t have the strength even for imagining this slowness; malaria would too often have me in its clutches, hunger always cramping my guts which constantly leaked diarrhoea until I thought I would shit my life away. Why not die like that, after all, when so many others had died such disgusting, demeaning deaths? But somehow my heart kept up, dogged and unfailing whilst the rest of me rotted and stank and became grotesque. My ribs showed through my stretched-tight skin and could be counted at a glance; I could feel the places where the breaks had mended, imagined that others could see my heart, my one unbeaten organ, pumping away behind its flimsy cage.