The White Family

by Maggie Gee

  She laughed out loud. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It’s the woman who’s supposed to say things like that. Just in case you don’t respect me.’

  ‘But I do respect you,’ he said at once, earnestly, how young he looked with his curls all crooked, a kind of soft halo round that big face, so different from Elroy’s lean, muscular head, which was beautiful as a panther was. Elroy would kill her – but he’d never know.

  ‘Look it was very nice. It was lovely.’ She nuzzled his arm and smiled at him. She wanted to lie a while naked together in the warmth of this unfamiliar room, this holiday from the rest of life. The time would be short, but that made it sweeter.

  But Thomas ploughed on doggedly. ‘I’m not having sex with anyone else.’

  Shirley suddenly thought things were going wrong. Was he promising her fidelity? ‘But you know I’m virtually married, don’t you? I mentioned Elroy. I love him, actually –’

  And that made her realize she did love Elroy. She had always held back, could never say it, because it was hard to love anyone but Kojo. But as she spoke she was perfectly sure.

  ‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, I won’t have infected you. But there is someone – there’s a girl I like –’

  And they smiled at each other: conspirators. Two people who had crossed the line. And no one knew. No one knew.

  Then he went on. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone for some time. You probably noticed. That’s why I was so quick – You could say I was celibate, in fact.’

  ‘Well that’s a waste,’ she told him. ‘You were very nice. Very nice indeed.’

  ‘And so were you. It was … delicious.’

  He sounded like a boy who had eaten the tuck shop. ‘But you didn’t eat me,’ she said, to tease him, getting up off the sofa, stretching, yawning.

  ‘May I kiss your breasts?’ They had moved apart; he already had to ask her permission. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Be my guest, Thomas.’

  He kissed her breasts, tenderly, slowly, first one then the other, reverently, and then moved down and kissed her belly, nuzzling over the globe of her belly, round and white, her moon-belly. Then ‘Thank you, Shirley,’ he said. ‘You’re really beautiful. Thank you.’

  She looked at her glass. All the ice-cubes had melted. The pale gold liquid winked in the light. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked. ‘You took my watch off.’

  It was nearly eleven. She was suddenly business-like. ‘Quick, get dressed and take me home. I’ve no idea when Elroy’s back.’

  And everything became ordinary; a married couple getting dressed in a hurry. She never did finish that glass of whisky.

  Outside the house where Elroy might be waiting, she turned and kissed him, swift, light. ‘Thank you for the lift, Thomas. Oh, and thank you, you know, for saving my life. And Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Yes … We’ll never know where those police cars were going.’

  Back inside, she hugged herself.

  And twelve hours later she was still doing it, hugging her body and its happy secret, the secret that helped her come that night when she woke from sleep with Elroy inside her, home from work, tense, exhausted, desperate to lose himself in her body. She came without him touching her, rose to his penis like a fish to the rod, swimming up, up through the waters of the night where she had been dreaming of sex with Thomas. And deep inside, his sperm joined Thomas’s.

  All that life, deep deep inside her. Shirley loved life. If it could only live.

  40 • Thomas

  He drove back home through a city of props. The houses were scenery, shadowy, shallow. White pools of street-light waited for the actors.

  Shirley and he had made love in a dream; it had nothing to do with before or after. He laughed aloud. Nothing made sense. Something so delicious, so undeserved.

  She didn’t make me suffer, or beg, or wait. She didn’t even make me use a condom.

  Jeanie always made him use a condom, though later he discovered she was on the pill. On the pill because she was unfaithful, and her lover was too selfish to use condoms.

  God knows what I’d do if Shirley did get pregnant.

  Maybe nothing. Just – not worry.

  Maybe human beings are laughable, sitting in our offices, planning and worrying.

  He realized he had parked too near the corner for safety. What the hell, he thought, I’m invulnerable, nothing is going to hurt me tonight. It was quarter to eleven; the moon still hung, white and expansive, overhead, trailing a halo of pearly cloud which fell away, as he looked, like a twist of pale scarf, leaving the planet calm and radiant.

  Slipping his key into the outside Yale, he remembered, with a jolt, the yob and Melissa, slouched against the door, interrupted in a kiss.

  Perhaps that will make her jealous, he thought. Then, don’t be ridiculous, I was the jealous one.

  The yob had looked – rough. Young and brutish. What things could he be doing to the lovely Melissa?

  And her husky young voice, floating after him. ‘Oh by the way, I’ve started your book –’ Did she say she liked it, or had he misheard? Such a sensitive girl, such a sensitive woman. And she hadn’t looked happy (did the yob mistreat her? Thomas would kill him if Melissa asked.)

  Bounding upstairs feeling pleasantly superior, Thomas remembered he’d just fucked another woman and felt momentarily sheepish, because of course the one he wanted was Melissa, Melissa with her respect for his book and imminent appreciation of his greatness, Melissa of the sexy voice and large green eyes and heart-shaped face, Melissa with her wispy blond hair softening the collar of her leather jacket, Melissa the jogger, rosy on the pavement.

  Was she upstairs now? Her hot little feet. He had always imagined her, mouse-feet, ballet-feet, skipping so lightly upon his ceiling. She appealed to his brain, his imagination.

  But his body was drumming to a different beat.

  His body had flared one nostril at the wind and made towards Shirley like a hunting dog, sniffing, eager, drooling with hunger.

  When he was writing his book he completely forgot he had fangs and powerful hind-quarters. But when he was with Shirley, he was a dog. Panting with doggy happiness.

  Thomas bounced around his living-room. It was here that he had her, here in this room … The pile of books on his desk had got knocked; half of them were splayed across his carpet. He started to pick them up, and close them. ‘The postmodern utterance of “I love” was masked by citationality …’

  Suddenly it seemed like portentous nonsense. I love, thought Thomas, I love. I love.

  41 • Alfred

  Everyone heard. The whole ward heard.

  (They had always been such a close family. And Darren was his pride and joy.)

  Alfred had started it. Not meaning to! By saying that Darren’s writing was changing. True, in his view. But he should have said nothing –

  I’m just an old fool. I don’t understand.

  What a day it had been. With the terrible news that Alfred had had to cope with already –

  Darren didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have done.

  But Alfred knew his son had meant it.

  At first Alfred had been overjoyed to see him. Darren came back, when everyone had gone, just when Alfred was starting to feel a bit down. Then suddenly, as if in a dream, Darren marched back in, on his own. It was nearly nine o’clock, so he only just made it.

  ‘You’ve come back to see me. What about your dinner?’

  ‘We cancelled it.’

  ‘What about your plane?’

  ‘We’re not going.’

  Joy turned to worry. ‘But you’ve got to go back. You’ll be late for work.’

  ‘My work’s not like that.’

  But Alfred still fretted. ‘This bother of mine – it’s messing you about. You’ve got your life in America. I hope you’re not letting anyone down.’ It was one of his rules: never let people down.

  ‘You’re more important. We’ve decided to stay. I mean, I’ve hardly talked
to you.’

  Alfred hoped Darren wouldn’t talk about the cancer, which he’d put aside, mentally, for the day. It was one of his knacks. He’d learned to be strong. If things upset you, put them out of your mind.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say, I’ve been enjoying your clippings. I read every one of them. Every word. I’m proud of you, lad. Very proud of you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I sit down and read them, one by one –’

  ‘I appreciate it, Dad. I really do.’

  (He was smiling too much. That was television. They always ended up smiling too much.) ‘– But recently, they seem a bit different. Not all of them. Some of them.’

  ‘Different good?’

  ‘Well I don’t know. You’re top of the tree, goes without saying. But it’s like, you’re being more – sarcastic. Not saying what you think. Making jokes of things, like. I liked the pieces where you gave them hell. Laid down the law about right and wrong.’

  Alfred saw at once that Darren wasn’t happy. He wished he hadn’t said a word, because he wasn’t an expert, he knew he wasn’t.

  ‘Journalists don’t lay down the law,’ said Darren. He looked as though he could smell a bad smell.

  ‘You used to, though. You gave them what for.’

  There was a funny pause. Darren was biting his nails. Childish habit, biting your nails.

  ‘You don’t want to bite your nails, Darren.’

  ‘I’m forty years old!’ He exploded at his father. ‘How dare you tell me not to bite my nails!’

  It gave Alfred a shock. A horrible shock. His son had never shouted at him. Not since Darren was a little boy. Or quite a big boy. Alfred sorted him out. Kept him in his place, as fathers must. Alfred tried to laugh. Make a joke of it. ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ Alfred said. ‘Just thinking of your television shows. You have to look your best. Don’t you, son?’

  Something funny was happening. Darren’s face was very red. ‘How dare you tell me about my writing? Who the hell cares what you think, anyway? What business is it of yours, what I write?’

  ‘Darren, boy – Darren, lad –’ Alfred made an attempt to pat his arm, but Darren was waving both arms about. His voice was rising. And a nurse was looking, paused in mid-step, you could see she was worried.

  ‘It’s you who always laid down the law. You were the one who thought you were God. If I did write like that, it was your bloody fault –’

  ‘But I liked your writing! I’m praising it! I always said, “Darren’ll be a writer!” – Mind you, I thought it would be books.’ At the mention of books Darren clenched his fists, it was like the paddies he had when he was little, and Alfred added, hurriedly, ‘But newspapers are very good as well.’

  He was doing his best to calm things down. But Darren had forgotten where they were, it was as if he’d forgotten how old he was and slipped back in time to his teenage days (which weren’t very easy, now Alfred thought about it. He was a difficult boy. Too full of himself. Had to dress him down for his own good.)

  ‘Nothing I did was ever good enough. You always criticized. You never let up – If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly. I hear those bloody words in my sleep –’

  ‘No need to swear. In front of ladies.’ For Pamela was listening. And the nurse. Alfred never saw the need for bad language. ‘It’s done you no harm. You’re rich – you’re famous –’ Alfred tried to find something kind to say. ‘George Millington came round after you lot left. He was saying how everyone’s heard of you. Not as my son. As … a household name. That was the actual phrase he used. Me and your mother are proud of you.’

  ‘Who the hell cares about George Fucking Millington?’

  It wasn’t working. Darren was getting worse. His voice was going up, he was practically squeaking, it sounded as if his voice hadn’t broken, and Alfred suddenly remembered Darren’s temper, how he couldn’t control it, and Alfred had to hit him –

  Had to. Had to. What was I to do? He was a big lad. How can you control them? And Alfred had a temper of his own, as well.

  ‘I don’t write for the Millingtons. I don’t write for you. You tried to run everything. You wrecked my life.’

  It came bursting out. Was he almost crying? It gave Alfred a shock, to see him like that. He felt his whole insides turning over. And he’d had enough shocks already that day. I wrecked his life … What on earth does he mean? It was cruel, saying that. Alfred loved his son.

  (How can he attack me, when I’m so ill?)

  ‘I’m not very well,’ Alfred reminded him. ‘I shouldn’t have upset you. I spoke out of turn. I don’t really know a great deal about writing.’

  ‘Never mind upset me. You terrorized me. You terrorized all of us. Have you forgotten?’

  Why couldn’t he leave it? Dragging things up. Raking over things that were best forgotten – Does he think I enjoyed it, being a father, being the one who had to keep them in order?

  ‘Do you know that Dirk is practically a fascist? And do you know where he got it from?’

  ‘That’s bloomin’ stupid. Are you calling me a fascist? I lived through a bloomin’ war against the fascists –’

  Then Alfred remembered losing control. He remembered hitting Darren as he lay on the ground, he had just called his father a ‘little Hitler’, he didn’t know what he was saying, of course, but Alfred couldn’t listen to something like that, we spent so many years hating Hitler, and then my own son –

  My own dear son. For he was crying, now Alfred saw it clearly, dreadful to see the tears running down, what would they think, the watching women – he hauled himself up, using all his strength, stretched out his hand and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Darren, my duck. Darren, Darren –’

  So all his efforts had led to this.

  He’d got things wrong, then. Done it wrong. He’d done his best, but got it wrong –

  I never meant to. Does anyone?

  ‘Everything all right, Mr White?’ It was Staff Nurse Akalawu. Very pleasant. Though coloured. She seemed to be keeping a weather eye.

  ‘Darren here is a bit upset. If you could leave us alone for a minute …’

  ‘Just one minute, then I’m afraid he’ll have to go.’

  Darren pulled himself together. He had snot on his nose. He looked like he used to when he was a boy.

  So I wasn’t a good father. Perhaps it was true. Of course Dirk’s a bit odd, and Shirley’s had her problems, but Darren – I thought we’d got that part right.

  Alfred bit his lip. How could you ever know? You just had to get on with it, there wasn’t a textbook, you did the things you thought fathers had to do. And May never criticized, May backed me up, if I was so wrong, you’d think she would have said – ‘Mum and I only wanted the best for you.’

  ‘My life is a mess. I hate my life.’

  ‘You’re upset, Darren. You’ll feel better in the morning. Go and get some air. Have a word with –’ What’s her name? How can I remember, if he keeps on marrying? ‘– your wife. She seemed a sensible girl.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with my fucking wife.’

  Darren stared at Alfred, furious, his jaw stuck forwards, his fists half-raised, but pulling his coat-sleeves over his hands, a peculiar gesture, trying to hide.

  Alfred thought, I suppose he’s embarrassed himself. But his son was still angry. Would go away angry. Alfred couldn’t help feeling he was at fault. He wants something from me, but I don’t know what.

  ‘It isn’t any good my saying sorry.’ Alfred knew it wasn’t. He wasn’t one for sorrys. Best not to do things, if you’re going to feel sorry.

  But Darren’s response was not what he expected. ‘Well you could say sorry. It would be something.’

  There was a long pause. Alfred was annoyed. Had Darren thought about his illness, one bit? Making a scene. Demanding things. Wanting him to crawl, with so many people listening.

  But then he remembered Darren’s tearful face, so like his face as a teenage boy. Those years
had been awful, if Alfred was truthful. For me as well. It was miserable. I never enjoyed it, being the dictator …

  How Alfred had longed to get out of the house, away from Darren’s cheek, his sulks, his anger. He’d almost started to hate the kids. You couldn’t say a word without somebody rowing. There was never any time alone with May … And in the end, it was her who mattered.

  I escaped to the Park whenever I could. And later I forgot. We got over it, didn’t we?

  It seemed they hadn’t, after all.

  ‘I’m sorry, then … I am, Darren.’ Alfred didn’t find it easy. It caught in his throat. But he did mean it. Of course he was sorry. If he had faults, they should be pointed out. (But it wasn’t fair to talk about fascist.)

  ‘You’ve left it rather late to say it.’

  They were Darren’s parting words, shot over his shoulder. He didn’t said goodbye, not properly, and his soles made an angry sound on the floor so he couldn’t hear Alfred trying to speak, he was old and hoarse, his voice didn’t carry – ‘But what can I do, lad? To make things right?’

  So Alfred just lay there. All shook up. The doctors had told him he ought to keep calm.

  He’d never get to sleep, if he thought about Darren …

  Or Dirk and his friends. His queer new friends. With their leather jackets, and crewcuts, and chains.

  Fascist –

  Nonsense. Put it out of your mind.

  He had taken his pills, which were nothing, really, just tiny little things, but if they offered them, well … If May didn’t know, she wouldn’t worry.

  And he was desperate for sleep, after Darren. He couldn’t bear to lie awake, thinking about what the lad had said, wondering if his brain would kick or jiggle or fit or whatever it was they called it. Wondering if he would have an event.

  (It was a funny word. He had known great events, he had stood in the street on VE day after the news came over the wireless, his heart bursting with happiness, and watched all the people flooding out, they didn’t clock off, they just got their hats and ran into the streets to be together, out of the factories, out of the shops, all flushed, excited, with sparkly eyes … They looked so alike, to his recollection. Like one big family. It was glorious. The way his own family had never quite managed. Why did things never work out as planned?)