My Son, My Son

by Howard Spring

  Livia Vaynol patted her on the head. “Beware of this man,” she said in sepulchral tones. “I can see what he thinks is your Destiny. Sudermann, Ibsen, Strindberg. Perhaps even Shaw. Perhaps even himself. God alone knows. We’ll beat him yet.”

  Then she laughed merrily and once more sent her hair flying with a “Poof!” “Anent tonight,” she said. “Let us be practical. Where do we sleep?”

  “Ackers Street,” said Maeve. “Don’t forget I’m an old trooper. I know some rooms—”

  “Ackers Street be damned,” I said. “You will both stay at The Beeches.”

  *

  For the first time since I had left it to drive to Wilmslow with Nellie and the Rev. W. Wilson Wintringham, I sat in my study. The girls were to share the bedroom that Nellie and I had used for so long. They were there changing now.

  A maid had been left in charge of the house until I made up my mind what to do about it. I knew that I would not live in The Beeches again. There was no reason why I shouldn’t have left the nursing-home some time ago; but I was comfortable, well looked after, and there was room to spare. I might as well remain in the place till I left Manchester for good.

  We hadn’t all been able to squeeze into Livia Vaynol’s car, so Martin had brought mine round. He was waiting now to take us to the Midland Hotel to dinner. I had not changed. Though I could get about now well enough with my sticks, and hoped to discard them soon, changing was a bore in my condition. I sat there waiting for the girls, as I had sat waiting for Maeve eight years before, that day when she and Rory had quarrelled in the garden about Standish O’Grady and his “poetry.”

  I could hear, my door being open on to the landing, the girls laughing and talking in that room which for so long had known only the grim uncompromising presence of Nellie. The bedroom door opened, and Livia Vaynol came out alone. As I watched her cross under the landing lights, unselfconscious, not aware that I was watching her, her beauty came upon my heart with almost a physical shock. She was very tall and moved with a slow stateliness. Her dress was of blue velvet decorated with small stars of silver tinsel. I can’t decide to this day whether such a scheme was childish and a little tasteless. I only know that Livia carried it off, that the little stars seemed as she walked to wink against the night-blue fabric of the dress, and the pale globe of her hair was suspended moonily above the whole midsummer-sky creation. Her bare arms shimmered like milky ways.

  I tried to get up, but at that moment she saw me, crossed the room in a few quick strides, and placed both hands on my shoulders. I think she must have felt the tremor which passed through me. She smiled, and said: “Please—don’t get up.”

  She crossed over to the fireplace, where the light winked and danced on the stars of her dress. The book-case that Dermot had made to contain my novels was over the fireplace. They were all there now. The last had arrived a few days before, but it was not yet published. Livia ran her slender fingers along the titles. “What lovely editions,” she said. “I know them all.” And then, turning towards me: “I’m really very proud to know you. I suppose a lot of people tell you that?”

  “Not many. I don’t know many people.”

  “Forgive me for acting like a child when I first met you. I’m like that. One can’t be serious all the time, and I’m particularly liable to go silly when I meet someone I’m a little bit nervous of.”

  “Yes, I realised that.”

  “You would, of course.”

  “But you seem quite self-possessed now. And very lovely. D’you mind my saying that?”

  “Why should I?” she asked frankly. “If you really mean it.”

  “I do.”

  She sat down in a chair facing mine and crossed one knee over the other. The folds of velvet flowed down in regal lines from the hard round point of her knee. She swung her blue velvet slipper gently up and down and considered me thoughtfully. Her regard was so calm and inscrutable and prolonged that I found myself shifting uneasily in my chair, and I wondered whether I was blushing like a schoolgirl. Presently she said: “When I put my hands on your shoulders just now, you trembled. Why was that?”

  What answer I should have made to that extraordinary question I do not know. But at that moment the bedroom door opened. Livia put a finger to her lips and whispered: “Here’s Maeve!” There was something conspiratorial about the gesture, something suggesting confidences between us that no one else must share, that gave me a queer thrill of satisfaction and pleasure.

  Livia rose as Maeve came into the room and went to meet her with a frank smile. Now that they were both in their evening clothes, I saw how much taller than Maeve she was. Maeve had not changed her preference for crimson. Her dress fell in straight lines, giving her all the height it could, and this she had enhanced with a Spanish comb stuck in the back of her hair. But even so Livia out-topped her.

  Maeve put her arm through Livia’s, and they stood there side by side, the crimson smouldering against the night-sky blue. “You’re lucky to have two such handsome wenches to take to dinner, Uncle Bill,” Maeve said; and as I got slowly to my feet I felt that that was true. “Nothing like it will be seen in Manchester this night,” I said. “Get your cloaks and let’s be off.”

  *

  We all three sat in the back seat. Maeve’s arm was through mine, and on the other side I could feel the warmth of Livia Vaynol’s thigh. We had not gone far when something familiar in the appearance of a cyclist who shot past us, head down, hatless, rather dishevelled-looking, caused me to twist and try to look through the small back window of the car. “Surely—surely,” I murmured, perplexed, “it can’t be!” but at the same moment Maeve’s grip on my arm tightened and she exclaimed: “Uncle Bill! Did you see that? Wasn’t that Oliver, or am I dreaming?”

  I told Martin to turn back home. As the car pulled up at the gate, Oliver was wheeling his bicycle up the long garden path. “Stay here, my dear,” I said to Maeve, “and you too, Miss Vaynol. I shan’t be long.”

  “No, indeed, I shan’t stay here,” Maeve exclaimed. “Good gracious! Boys don’t appear suddenly like that from a school miles away unless something serious is up. We’d better see what’s the matter. Where is Oliver’s school, by the way?”

  “Fifty miles away. And hard going. Come, then.”

  Oliver stood under the light in the hall, his face pale and drawn, his golden hair wind-blown about his forehead. He was wearing no hat or overcoat, and his clothes were mud-splashed. He was altogether a dreadful apparition. From childhood—and he was now fifteen—he had been finicky about his clothes. I had never seen him in such a condition. It struck me to the heart. The girls in their bright cloaks and I in my careful clothes stood round him in a wondering semi-circle. He was wearing flannel bags and an old tweed jacket. He thrust his hands into the jacket pockets and grinned at us rather sheepishly. “Hallo, Dad! Hallo, Maeve!” he said. “I feel rather—ashamed. You all look so gay.”

  “This is Miss Vaynol,” I said. “My son Oliver.” The formality of it struck me as absurd.

  Oliver and Livia Vaynol looked steadily at one another, and I had a strange feeling of exclusion—that Maeve and I were both excluded from that regard. Colour had ebbed back into Oliver’s cheek. His long hand made a conscious gesture as he brushed back the hair from his forehead. A smile came into his blue eyes. Then, to my surprise, he put into words the thoughts that had occurred to me when first I saw Livia Vaynol come out of her room that evening. “You look like a moon-girl, Miss Vaynol. ‘With how sad steps, O Moon, thou clims’t the sky.’ You’ll find that in Palgrave.”

  This was all absurd, monstrous. “Oliver,” I said, “your presence requires some explanation.” I took him by the arm, and led him towards the stairs. “Maeve, would you mind putting in a call to this number?” I gave her the number of Oliver’s school. Then he and I went up the stairs to my study. At the turn of the landing I paused and looked down. Maeve was at the telephone. Livia Vaynol stood as if rooted to the ground, watching Oliver’s draggin
g progress. He smiled down at her, but she did not return the smile. She just stood there, one hand holding her cloak about her, watching him.

  “That’s a marvellous girl, Dad,” he said as he came into the room.

  “Sit down,” I said, unable to keep irritation out of my voice. “Would you rather discuss now what has brought you home, or wait till the morning? You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m very tired,” he said. “I’ve been riding for hours. I came through a lot of rain.”

  “You mean you don’t want to talk tonight? I can understand that. Hadn’t you better go straight to bed?”

  “I’m very hungry,” he said, “and I’d like a bath.”

  “Then you’d better have a bath quickly, and come with us. We’re going out to dinner.”

  “Oh, may I?” he cried. “I didn’t expect that. That’s very good of you.”

  The fact was, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight that night. I remembered the strained look of his face under the lamp. It was no time either to harass him or to leave him to his own devices.

  “Well, get along and bath,” I said. “And remember, we discuss this first thing in the morning, seriously.”

  He looked relieved, nodded, and went to the bathroom.

  While he was bathing the telephone call came through. I told the headmaster that Oliver was at home, and begged him to excuse discussion of a grave matter by telephone. I would bring Oliver to school myself in the morning. The headmaster sounded grim, and reluctantly he left it at that.

  The girls were hovering, restless and disturbed, about the hall. I took them to my study, where there was a fire. “What a beautiful boy!” Livia exclaimed, as she sank into a chair.

  “Don’t waste your sympathy on him,” said Maeve with sudden surprising sharpness, and coming over to my chair she knelt at my feet and took both my hands in hers. “You poor darling,” she said. “It’s you—you look so worried. As if you hadn’t had enough to put up with lately. I do hope it’s nothing serious. Oh, dear! I couldn’t have a moment’s peace with Oliver. Forgive me for saying that?”

  I nodded, squeezed her hands, and gazed rather miserably into the fire. We said nothing more, just sat there, till Oliver came into the room. With the happy ability of the young, he had recovered his poise and his looks. His face was shining; his hair, which he wore rather long, had been brushed and brushed till it glistened in the light. He had put on a suit of grey flannel with a double-breasted jacket and a bright tie and brown shoes. He at once addressed Livia Vaynol as though there were no one else in the room. “Father says I can come out to dinner with you!”

  She did not answer him, but said to the rest of us: “Well, shall we go?”

  She got up, and Oliver sprang to help her with her cloak. My leg had stiffened a little. Maeve helped me to my feet.

  *

  I was at The Beeches at nine the next morning. Maeve was in my study. “Isn’t Oliver up yet?” I asked her.

  “No. Livia has just taken breakfast to his bedroom.”

  “He’s fortunate.”

  “Very,” Maeve said dryly.

  Oliver was sitting up in bed, with a bright tousled head. Livia Vaynol was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him eat, and he was doing that with great heartiness. She rose as I entered. “Is this the inquisition?” she asked sadly. I nodded, and she went dragging from the room.

  I sat down in that easy chair wherein, so long ago, I had concealed the copy of The Cuckoo Clock which Oliver had stolen from Rory. The memory came back to me with a stab, and I feared to open the matter which had brought me there. Oliver did not help me. He went on delving into the shell of a brown egg.

  “Livia prepared this breakfast, all by herself,” he said. “She told me. It’s good.”

  “Livia?”

  “Miss Vaynol. She said I was to call her Livia.”

  I allowed that to pass. “Well—?” I began lamely.

  “It was Grimshaw,” he said. “I’ve told you about him. I don’t like him.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me about him, and I’ve met him. Don’t you remember—last half-term? He was put on to explain to parents some of the work his form was doing. I thought he was intelligent. He’s a scholarship boy, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. His father’s a butcher in Wigan.”

  “You should feel at home with him, seeing that your father was a baker’s boy in Hulme.”

  Oliver flushed and glowered. “Well, go on. What happened between you and Grimshaw?”

  “He’s always getting at me.”

  “Getting at you? As I remember him, he’s a small weak boy.”

  “Yes, that’s it. He thinks no one will hit him.”

  “I see. There was a fight?”

  “Not exactly. He was getting at me again, and I saw red, and before I knew what I was doing I kicked him—”

  “You kicked that poor wretched child?”

  Oliver burst out explosively. “Well, don’t you understand? I didn’t mean to. He makes me see red. It’s the way he gets at me.”

  I summoned up the image of the small, spectacled Grimshaw, evidently with a waspish tongue that knew how to get under Oliver’s skin.

  “Well?” I prompted him again.

  “We were standing at the top of some steps—you know, the steps that lead down to that little courtyard behind the gymnasium. I kicked him in the shin and he went backward down the steps. Rawson was there, and he said: ‘Christ, Essex, you’ve killed the little sod.’ He lay quite still at the bottom of the steps, with blood on his face.”

  I felt sick, took the tray off the bed to give myself something to do, and then sat down again.

  “Well, everybody came crowding up. They took him into the san., and old Foxey”—who was Fox the headmaster—“went tearing along there. I hadn’t moved off the steps, and when Foxey came back he said as he passed me: ‘Come to my study in ten minutes.’ I couldn’t face it. That’s all.”

  “I see. That’s all. Without knowing whether Grimshaw was alive or dead, you cleared out.” (But I didn’t imagine there was much the matter with Grimshaw, or Fox would have told me on the telephone.) “I am returning you to school this morning,” I said. “What do you say to that?”

  “I’m glad. I ran away just like I kicked him—without thinking; but now I want to face it out.”

  My heart gave an irrational leap of gladness when Oliver said that, fixing candid blue eyes upon me. I didn’t pause to consider that there was no option, that he would have to face it out whatever his views might be. “I’m delighted to hear that,” I said. “That’s the first decent spot in a rotten business.”

  “But you do believe, don’t you,” he pleaded, “that I just acted thoughtlessly?”

  “I must believe that, if you say so.”

  “And you won’t tell Livia what happened?”

  I didn’t want to spare him everything. “I should be ashamed to,” I said. “You’d better dress. We leave here at ten.”

  *

  The interview with Fox was not easy. He was not a very intelligent man; he had one or two half-baked social ideas, and I had found before this that in conversation he worked them to death. He was, or said he was, proud that most of his scholarship boys were tradesmen’s sons, and on every occasion he rubbed that in by a loud insistence on all his boys being treated alike. Why there should be any need to labour the point, why a butcher’s son should not be as estimable a young animal as a stockbroker’s or some other artful dodger’s, I could not make out.

  Fox sat back in his big armchair and swung his pince-nez in a fashion which I think he must have observed in some statesman. “The fact is, you know, Mr. Essex, that Oliver think’s he’s somebody.”

  “In itself, that’s a good thing to imagine,” I said. “So far as I can make out, the trouble in this case is that he’s not a big enough somebody. Young Grimshaw, I gather, has the secret of making him feel small—a nobody rather than a somebody.”

  “Yes,” Fox cons
ented, with a satisfied smile, “I have observed that my faith in tradesmen’s sons is more often justified than not. In the case of Grimshaw, there is certainly a gift for the telling phrase that a boy from any social stratum might envy. But what I mean,” he continued, putting on the pince-nez and looking at me over them with a preposterous solemnity, “is that Oliver seems to assume, because he is the son of a distinguished man, that he may, shall I say, take it out of a boy less fortunately circumstanced.”

  “I entirely disagree,” I said. “I don’t think that has anything to do with it. If it had been the Prince of Wales, Oliver would have kicked him just the same. Don’t let’s get all wrapped up in theories about it. The facts are simple: there’s a boy with an annoying tongue; Oliver couldn’t stand his tongue, lost his temper, and kicked him. Now, whatever the provocation, it is agreed that kicking is a dirty trick, and what to me seemed worse than the kicking was the running away without discovering what were the consequences of the kick.”

  “As you know, they were fortunately light. A bruise on the shin, a superficial cut on the head, a brief fainting.”

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was the father of young Grimshaw, who had received an alarmist report and seemed relieved that his son was little the worse. Mr. Grimshaw was a sturdy, hale-looking chap, and I gathered the impression that he was a better man than his son was likely to be. He shook hands with me without hesitation. “Ah’ve bin talking to yon young beggar of mine,” he announced to me and Fox, who seemed rather colder with tradesmen than with their scholarly offspring, “an’ Ah’ve told ’im if ’e can’t keep a civil tongue in ’is ’ead Ah’ll put ’im into t’butcherin’. ’E always was a one for lip. ’E’s tried it on wi’ me once or twice an’ Ah’ve given ’im a clip in t’lug. That soon stops ’im. Ah reckon your boy won’t be ’earin’ much more from ’im, Mr. Essex.”

  I thanked Mr. Grimshaw for this very generous view of the matter, but explained to him that perhaps Mr. Fox could hardly be expected to see it in so simple a light. “I think when you came, Mr. Grimshaw, our conversation was just about to reach the question of what disciplinary action it might be necessary to take.”