Father of the Man

by Stephen Benatar

  “I have my own reasons.”

  “So do I. I think maybe some of the things I said yesterday…I shouldn’t have said them. I want to make amends.” Jerzy was holding the door open onto the staircase.

  “See you, mateys,” said Sean. “Who knows, Eff, he may have gone out and got a job since you spoke to him last night? Stop looking worried. You’ve got to think positive in this world. Look for the silver lining.”

  Ephraim and Jerzy walked down the stairs in silence. Already the unwieldy box was beginning to make Ephraim’s biceps ache…although in fact he was only dimly aware of it. He had other things to compete for his attention. People were often out when they’d said they’d be at home—that in itself wouldn’t have been a problem—but in West Bridgford there was no address to drive to. On the other hand, maybe Jerzy hadn’t heard the name of the road. Ephraim couldn’t remember the names of any roads in West Bridgford but perhaps that wasn’t insoluble—“Left here, next on the right, it’s that turning over there.” He could leave Jerzy sitting in the car and if someone answered the door of whichever house he chose to ring at, Jerzy mightn’t be able to hear the conversation. (Though he’d be interested; would probably be leaning out to have a look.) “That was his mum/dad/brother/sister; he’d left a message saying he’d thought about it and didn’t want to take the hamper after all; says there’s bound to be a catch in it. Poor fucker.” But it struck him as being fraught with all possible kinds of foul-up.

  What alternative? Oh, hell, I’ve just remembered something—what time is it?—he said he might be at his girlfriend’s till about four. I think we’d better leave it.

  No, he couldn’t do that. It was too unconvincing. And it would only postpone the reckoning; not avert it.

  Oh, God.

  They came to the entrance; went through the glass doors onto the pavement. “You’d better wait here,” said Jerzy. During the day he kept his car parked in the Broadmarsh Centre. It was less than a five-minute walk but that didn’t take into account lugging a sodding great hamper. He grinned broadly. “See you before you can say ‘Fuck Barney!’ more than a thousand times.”

  Jerzy was hardly out of sight before the notion had occurred to Ephraim: Do a bunk. All he had to do was turn a corner, mingle with the crowds, he’d be screened within seconds. It was a narrow precinct barred to all but pedestrians. In a minute he’d be well away, totally beyond being found. Jerzy would be furious; hurt, bewildered; perhaps he’d never speak to him in friendship ever again (Ephraim thought about the coffee mug, primrose-coloured with a design of strawberries and green leaves); but it was easier, altogether easier, and Ephraim would then have until tomorrow morning to think up some sort of story. Perhaps he could take in a box of chocolates or a tin of biscuits as a peace-offering.

  Because his mind was so preoccupied with thoughts like these, the weight of the carton didn’t bother him until he was at the other end of Bridlesmithgate. (By this time Jerzy would probably be arriving back outside the office…Ephraim preferred not to think about it; now he actually concentrated on how much his arms were aching.) He turned left towards Market Square and had to lean the box against a wall, wedging it between the wall and his stomach. This hiatus was necessary but profoundly unsettling. Had he reached the point of no return…or could he perhaps still go back and get there a little before Jerzy? His head moved to face the way he’d come, as if in yearning illustration. No, it was definitely too late; of course it was; there was even some relief in the acknowledgment. His head swung round again.

  He couldn’t remember what number bus would take him to Radford. He struggled from bus stop to bus stop seeking information—and in the process needed to make way for lots of people whom he’d have thought might make way for him. At last, however, he was on a bus, with the box sitting on the seat beside him. He could scarcely straighten his arms. They shook. This added to the pure awfulness of everything. He had at least expected a little glow of altruism to lighten his afternoon; and while he never liked to feel complacent he was disappointed that he couldn’t even tell himself not to feel complacent.

  They arrived in Radford by three. He hadn’t phoned Wendy Cooper to make sure she’d be there but he supposed that if she wasn’t he could wait in a café, with a cup of tea and a newspaper, and try not to think about what they’d be saying at Columbia. Saying at this very moment…and then, beyond question, at many others during the afternoon. Even if the topic began to flag it would naturally reinstate itself (and how!) on the return of Barney. Ephraim shuddered—literally. What possible explanation was he going to give? If only he could have spoken to Jean! She would undoubtedly have reproached him for creating the situation; but together, eventually, they would have come up with something. Yet in her present state of mind…with this icy force field all around her…Though he wondered whether, if an equally awful event had somehow befallen her, she wouldn’t have allowed that barrier to be crossed. He recalled the occasion in Bordeaux when she’d had her purse stolen. Of course, neither of them had been depressed at the time, but even so. And if he was right—then, in that one respect at least, he was a better husband than she a wife. More approachable in need. Whatever the depth of his depression.

  This didn’t comfort him.

  He decided, however, that for the present he must attempt to switch off. Give his mind a rest. Perhaps he would buy a paperback in place of a newspaper: a thriller or whodunit: extravagant, of course, but it could turn a bad time into a treat and he really felt that the one thing he needed in his life right now was the opportunity to escape.

  Yet surprisingly—and almost disappointingly—Wendy Cooper was at home. She saw him struggling with the box. Her eyes opened wide. “Mine?”

  He nodded.

  “I was the one what won it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Christ! I don’t believe it. I never won nothing in my entire life.” Throughout the next minute or so it seemed she was half laughing; half crying. He suddenly knew, knew with absolute conviction, that he had done the right thing. It was the best moment he’d had in the whole of the past week; maybe, workwise, in the whole of the past year; certainly, since he had gone to sell for Columbia. “Here, let me help you up the stairs.”

  “No, that’s okay, I can manage.” In any case, the stairs would have been too narrow for the two of them but he wanted to show that he was strong. “I’ve carried it all the way from the centre of town; this last bit isn’t going to make much difference.”

  As if on cue she said: “I bet your arms must ache; you must be ever so fit. It looks real heavy.” There was keen anticipatory relish in the last few words. “Honest, I can’t believe it.”

  Upstairs Amber Jade awaited them. This time she wore a dress and plastic pants and a nappy. Ephraim felt relieved.

  “We were just going out; I’m ever so glad you caught us. Look, Amber, see what the kind gentleman has brought us: lots of lovely things to eat. If you’d like to put it on the floor,” she suggested to Ephraim.

  He couldn’t have appeared quite so fit as he finally set it down; he was sorry about that. Again, he could scarcely straighten his arms.

  But Wendy Cooper didn’t seem to notice.

  “Shall I go and make a cuppa?”

  Ephraim shook his head. The floor didn’t look as though it had known a Hoover for weeks. Maybe months. He could imagine the state of the kitchen and the crockery.

  “No, thanks. I’ve had one. You were just going out.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter now.” She went down on her hands and knees, started pulling at the solid flaps of the carton. “Come on, Amber, let’s see what we got.” Amber, who had been staring solemnly at Ephraim, came to stand beside her mother and now stared with equal solemnity at the box. She hooked an arm round one of Ephraim’s legs to support her. Ephraim didn’t mind, in fact he savoured it. He had a sudden vivid image of Abby at a similar age; she must once have done the same thing. Momentarily his heart longed for the days when Abby mi
ght have hooked her arm around his trouser leg, when she might have ridden on his shoulders, tugging at his hair. Later, too, of course, the boys. His eyes filled. My God, he had been happy then. He hoped that he had known it.

  It felt like another world, another life. (He remembered the woman in the video shop.) He looked back and the man he saw didn’t seem at all like him. Young. Athletic. Full of generosity and thought for others. Taking happiness, and love, and home, more or less for granted—especially, maybe, love. Having no fears for the future…other, of course, than the usual financial ones; and those had hardly seemed to matter.

  The packing straw was being tossed out on the carpet. He wondered how long it might stay there. Out came the bottles of wine, the tinned ham, the potted meats, the fruit cake, the whole round cheddar cheese, the jars of best preserve, the box of chocolates, packets of biscuits, olive oil, tea, coffee, mixed nuts, raisins, pickle and sardines. Each time she thought she’d come to an end she rummaged and discovered something more.

  She opened a bag of crisps, put it into the greedy, grasping hands of Amber Jade. (Trouser leg released.) “There you are, darlin’. Offer one to the gentleman.”

  Amber Jade scurried off to where she thought she might be out of reach—behind the sofa. Both Ephraim and her mother laughed.

  “It’s just like Christmas. Except it’s not. I can’t remember Christmas ever being so good.”

  “I am glad. I’m very, very glad. It’s the right person who won it. It doesn’t always work that way.”

  “I’m ever so grateful. I really am. Ever so grateful.”

  She hadn’t got up off her knees. It seemed apt, he thought. There were times when he still did believe in God.

  “Perhaps it’s going to bring you luck,” he said. “Perhaps from now on things are going to change.”

  “They could do with it.”

  “I know they could.”

  “Hey, shall we have a bit of wine?”

  “It’s yours. Wine…I sometimes get a bit of wine at home…it isn’t such a…” But he didn’t want to denigrate her treat. “This is for you to enjoy. All on your own. Every last drop. While you’ve got your feet up and are watching a good show or movie on the box.”

  She said: “I just want to let you know I’m grateful.”

  “You already have.”

  But from something in her eye—or voice—he knew they were no longer talking about mere words, or even wine.

  The abruptness of this realization, the complete unexpectedness of it, allied to the fact that nobody had made him such an offer, unsolicited and without any thought of gain, for an exceedingly long time; allied again to the fact that even at fifty-two he could clearly not be wholly unattractive to a girl of twenty-three (God, younger than his own daughter!)…all of this immediately impacted on Ephraim to produce an erection. And, really, she wasn’t bad-looking! From where he stood he could see the fullness of her breasts pressing against the thin blue cotton and he now noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a bra—indeed, formed the impression that her nipples might be hard.

  His erection, he became aware with pleasure, was growing painful.

  “You really mean that?” he said.

  “Why not? I think you’re nice.”

  She stumbled to her feet. He realized it would have been the gallant thing, the charming thing, the Casanova thing, to move forward and give her both his hands to raise her up with easy fluid grace. But he couldn’t have moved forward gracefully and his one concern was now to ease the pressure, give himself room, let her see what he could offer, before constriction maybe made it less. As she began unbuttoning her dress, so he threw off his jacket; pulled down his zipper, trousers, pants. She giggled—went and lay down on the sofa. Her nipples were indeed hard.

  Even omitting the two most obvious things, it could have been a combination of unfortunate details: the stains on the moquette which might so easily have been the marks of sperm; the grubby hands, unblinking stare, as Amber Jade pulled herself up on the arm at the other end of the sofa, showing no surprise at its unexpected occupancy, her crisps now either finished or scattered over the floor; her mother’s unwashed hair and body odours that proximity made obvious; the whole aura of uncleanliness, so pervasive as to be very nearly palpable; the sudden recollection that he had no condom.

  Or was it possibly his age? Erections often came, though usually not so solid and imperious as this one—he’d had a longish moment of real pride—and, just as often, soon departed. He experienced the first sensations of slackening, drooping, contraction. Shrivelling. Now he looked merely ridiculous, caught in mid-shuffle, his pants and trousers bunched around his calves.

  He saw the gleam of expectation fade out of her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter. I was only doing it for you. Don’t you fancy me?” she asked.

  “No, no, it isn’t that. Of course it isn’t that. But I’m married, you see, and I’ve never before been unfaithful.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you can imagine how attractive you must be, to make me forget even for one instant…”

  She looked down at herself, as though trying to imagine.

  “Also, it’s Amber Jade. I’m not sure how much it might affect her to see her mum making love to a stranger. Or, I mean, to see anyone making love to anyone.”

  These, of course, had been the two most obvious things. He thought—hoped—they were the points that had neutralized the sad effects of flattery and pride.

  He was hastily dressing himself. She got off the sofa and began to do the same. Now, he couldn’t wait to get out of there. He felt degraded, dirty, selfish, inadequate. Old. Perhaps no other woman would ever again offer herself to him in that same uncomplicated way. It was a milestone; the last milestone. The visit had been ruined.

  The whole thing. The hamper. The spontaneity of her pleasure. His knowledge of the rightness of what he had done. All of it—ruined.

  The classy provisions, some lying directly on the carpet, others resting on the straw, now looked completely ordinary. They had lost their specialness, their promise of delight.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “I wish you luck. You’re a nice person.”

  As he went down the stairs she stood at her front door, with Amber Jade in her arms. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for bringing me the things.”

  He walked away and wished he’d never come.

  A car hooted behind him. Insistently.

  It was Barney.

  At first he simply slid over to the passenger seat and lowered the window. “Where the fuck have you been? Where the fuck did you vanish with that hamper? Don’t try to lie to me. I followed you.” Then he decided to slide over again and get out of the car; all his self-help books must have given him the same advice, never to let the other person be in a position to look down on him.

  Now he was the one enabled to look down.

  And it appeared that of all the places in this whole bloody city in which Barney’s client might have earned his living it had to be in Radford; and that of all the minutes out of all the hundreds which existed in the working day, Barney’s return had coincided with the moment between Ephraim’s getting off the bus and his reaching the turning some fifty yards off down the main road. Was it fate or was it coincidence—and, anyway, who gave a toss? The only thing that counted, it was a further confirmation of the fact you couldn’t win. But, if you couldn’t win, you might at least brazen it out, your ever-looming defeat. At least this new manifestation had the merit of having overtaken him completely without warning. No need to anticipate, to sweat, to feel his stomach go all loose with apprehension.

  Or was there? Barney didn’t offer him a lift. “I’m not going to ride back with a total piece of shit. I don’t ride with scum. I only ride with people I respect. I’ll see you at the office.”

  They’d had five minutes standing on the pavement. Could even fifty minutes standing in the office supply them w
ith any happier a conclusion?

  “It was one of my questionnaires that won,” Ephraim had said. “It was one of mine! Pauline picked it out. What difference does it make if I…?”

  “Just give it to a friend?” Now it was Barney who had the satisfaction of finishing a somewhat dodgy sentence.

  “Come and see her for yourself. You’ll soon find out.”

  “All that shit you gave us! All that bloody well holier-than-thou hypocrisy! I can tell you I’ll never forget it. Nor will the others. I hope you’ve got that fifty pounds; otherwise—I swear it—they’re going to tear you limb from limb. And I shan’t raise a finger to stop them! In fact I hope you haven’t got it. Not yet, I mean. Not yet.”

  “Just come and see her. Please!”

  “Shall I tell the others what you’ve done or shall I wait for you to let them know? I’ll have to think about it.”

  “In fact, I’d say it’s your duty to see her.”

  “I’ll talk to you in the office.”

  As though they hadn’t just said all there was to say. As though that was the normal state of affairs: talking to him in the office.

  Closing of car door. Even now, Barney was careful not to slam it. The car was a Porsche and he’d only had it for a few weeks.

  Well, do you want to hear what I hope? I hope you crash on the way back. I hope it puts you into hospital. Gives you something else to think about. For a long time.

  And, further, do you want to hear a really good joke? You thought I was just great when I started. Jaunty. Irrepressible. ‘A real find!’—that’s what you once said. Told everyone you hadn’t found work quite so enjoyable in months: the certainty of coming in each day and knowing you’d be made to laugh—and also made to think—by such an entertaining, educated crackpot. And do you know something else that’s funny? I’d looked forward equally to being with you…maybe, one day, even having you in the family…

  Ephraim watched the snazzy red car shoot off silently and smoothly and quickly merge into the distance. Merge without mishap.

  Well, what were the personal things he’d left at the office? Nothing very much. His briefcase. Mug. Pocket calculator. Briefcase wasn’t leather. Nor was there anything in it, so far as he remembered, that really mattered or couldn’t be duplicated.