He still did not understand. He looked at me trustfully, waiting for an explanation, and when I saw that trust I knew time was completing its circle at last and we were moving back to where it had all begun.
I thought: Nearly there now, nearly home. And as I clasped his hand in mine I could see in the distance the strawberry beds and the mellow walls and the sunlight streaming down upon the kitchen garden long ago.
“But are you sure,” said Robert when I remained silent, “that you’ll wish to stay married once you’re living apart from me in London?”
“I’m not staying in London,” I said. “I’m coming with you to Gower.”
I saw the trust in his eyes eclipsed by the blackest despair. He said in a shaking voice, “That’s just sentimentality! You’re being stupid, emotional and unrealistic! You’re embarking on a charade you’ll never be able to sustain!”
But I could see the strawberries, large and juicy among their thick leaves. I could feel the sun blazing down upon us, and at that moment the circle was completed, time was displaced and we were there, side by side in the kitchen garden at Oxmoon with the magic past recaptured and the strawberries in our hands.
“No, Robert,” I said. “This is no charade, no illusion and no lie. There’s one absolute truth in this situation, and it’s the truth I intend to prove to you till the day you die.”
“But for God’s sake, what truth can that possibly be?”
Speaking in a voice that never faltered I completed the reformation of our marriage which he himself had had the courage to begin. “Robert,” I said simply, “I could always walk out on a husband. But I could never turn my back on a friend.”
PART THREE
John
1921
WHY THEN DO YOU mortal men seek after happiness outside yourselves, when it lies within you? You are led astray by error and ignorance. I will briefly show you what complete happiness hinges upon. If I ask you whether there is anything more precious to you than your own self you will say no. So if you are in possession of yourself you will possess something you would never wish to lose and something Fortune could never take away …
BOETHIUS
The Consolation of Philosophy
I
I
“SHE SAID, ‘I COULD always walk out on a husband, but I could never turn my back on a friend.’ ”
“What an extraordinary remark.”
“She’s an extraordinary woman.”
“Quite.”
I moved restlessly to the window. The spring sun, shining on Ginevra’s chaotic garden, emphasized herbaceous borders crammed with a variety of unsuitable shrubs, most of which had failed to survive the winter. A group of vulgar stone cherubs, part of a dismantled fountain acquired at an auction, were grouped beyond the swing where Robin was playing, and his nanny was staring at them as if she were wishing she had a supply of fig leaves. A wail from a nearby rug indicated that the baby was as usual oppressed with his peculiarly vocal variety of unhappiness.
“Shut the window, would you, John? I can’t stand the way that child cries all the time. It gets on my nerves.”
It was not one of Robert’s better days. He was sitting in his favorite armchair by the hideous modern fireplace and fidgeting with his crutches as if he longed to break them in two. Ginevra had gone to London for a week, but when I had ventured to suggest that a wife’s recurring absences from home could hardly be in the best interests of her husband, he had become angry. In vain I had tried to explain that I merely wished to sympathize with him in his depression; that had made him angrier than ever. He had said he loathed sympathy. Again I had tried to apologize and again I had been shouted down. Grudgingly conceding that my intentions had been good, he had said he had no alternative but to show me that my sympathy was misplaced, and the next moment, to my embarrassment, he had launched himself upon an explanation of his relationship with his wife.
I had always accepted that despite their recent adversity Robert and Ginevra had the happiest and most perfect of marriages, so it came as a considerable shock to me to hear that the marriage had been highly unorthodox for over two years.
I did not care for unorthodoxy. When Robert told me he had not pursued his marital rights since the onset of his illness, I was uncomfortable enough to rise to my feet; when he added that Ginevra was the kind of woman who would find intimacy with a diseased man repulsive, I hardly knew where to look and when he told me neither of them cared anyway that this aspect of their marriage had ceased, I found myself moving aimlessly around the room to cover my extreme distaste for the conversation. Robert completed this Bohemian marital portrait by declaring that he had no idea what Ginevra did in London, but he hoped she drank plenty of champagne, visited Harrods every day and had at least three lovers.
“… because if that’s the price I have to pay for having a good friend at my side, then by God I’m more than willing to pay it,” he concluded truculently.
My diplomatic training ensured that I answered: “Quite so. I entirely understand,” but I was appalled. I did not blame Robert. Obviously for the children’s sake he had no choice but to be a complaisant husband, but I felt that Ginevra, never noted for either her decorum or her good taste, had sunk even lower than I had always feared was possible.
“I must make a move,” said Robert. “Ring the bell, would you?”
I did not offer to assist him to the cloakroom. His man Bennett had been a hospital orderly during the war and was more adroit than I was at giving the help necessary when Robert was finding his crutches a trial. As Bennett entered the room I said, “I’ll just say hullo to the children,” and then I escaped through the French windows into the bungalow’s untidy garden.
Robin came running to meet me as I crossed the lawn. He had recently celebrated his fourth birthday and was tall for his age. Since neither Robert nor Ginevra had any talent for parenthood he had been abominably spoiled, but he was a good-looking intelligent little fellow who with luck would survive his upbringing. Meanwhile he was merely precocious and tyrannical.
“Hullo, Uncle John! Mummy sent me a postcard from London!” And pulling a crumpled picture of Buckingham Palace from his pocket, he read the message in order to show off his formidable reading ability.
I knew people thought Blanche and I were old-fashioned, but we still preferred the dignity of “Mama” and “Papa” to the mediocrity of “Mummy” and “Daddy.” However as usual Ginevra had no taste in such matters. Her Kinsella sons actually called her “Ma” although allowances had to be made for their New York background.
I inspected the picture, commented admiringly on the gushing message and paused to bid the nanny good afternoon before turning my attention to the baby, who was sitting moodily on his rug. He was eighteen months old but backward, disinclined to walk or talk. His pale blue eyes looked up at me fearfully; his large nose quivered; he was very plain.
“Silly Kester!” said Robin, trying to tug me away.
The baby had been named Christopher after the patron saint of travelers because Robert and Ginevra had felt they had such a difficult journey ahead of them, but although I liked the name it was never used. Ginevra had adopted this coy rustic abbreviation because she claimed to find it “romantic,” and Robert was too indifferent to the child to object.
To divert Robin, I gave him my watch and asked him if he could tell the time. Then I knelt on the rug and tried to encourage the baby to take a few steps. He managed three and fell down. Howls ensued. “Pernicious infant,” said Robin, showing off the vocabulary that Robert taught him as a jest, and handed me back my watch. “It’s quarter past four. Are you staying to tea?”
But I had planned to be home for tea. Extricating myself from a situation that threatened to become increasingly noisy, I patted both children on the head and retreated to the drawing room. I was very much aware that I had not yet disclosed to Robert the main purpose of my call at the bungalow that afternoon.
Bennett was helping Robert into his
chair again as I closed the French windows.
“Will you be staying to tea, Mr. John?” said Bennett as he prepared to leave the room.
I glanced at Robert but he said nothing. I knew he was too proud to ask for fear I might think he was begging for company.
“Yes, I will,” I said abruptly, “but could you telephone my wife, please, Bennett, and say I’m staying on?”
As soon as Bennett had left the room Robert said, “John, I hope you didn’t abandon a promising career at the Foreign Office because you thought you had some repellent moral duty to be my unpaid companion.”
“Don’t be absurd! I hated the F.O. and was only too pleased to begin a new life in Gower for reasons which had nothing to do with my moral duty!”
“I still find your decision surprising—and to some extent hard to explain. Why did you really come back here? You’re a dark horse, John! I sometimes wonder if even you yourself have any idea of what’s really going on in your head!”
“Good heavens, how very sinister you make me sound! I assure you I’m just an ordinary, simple sort of chap—”
“A touching description—but I suspect hardly a truthful one. Never mind, let it pass. Personally I’m only too glad that when Papa’s senile and I’m a vegetable there’ll be someone in Gower who’s capable of ruling the Godwin roost—and now you’re going to fling up your hands in diplomatic horror! My God, is it really so impossible to have an honest conversation with you?”
“Damn you, I am being honest! As you well know, I came back here because I was unhappy in London. Naturally I was influenced in my decision by the fact that Papa isn’t getting any younger and your health isn’t what it should be, but—”
“A truly magnificent euphemism. Go on. I can hardly wait to hear what you’re going to come out with next.”
“—but above and beyond my moral duty to give my father and brother any assistance which may become necessary in the future, I was concerned primarily with my family’s happiness and welfare—which I feel will be better served if I live the life of a country gentleman in Gower than if I pursue a life of ambition in a career which means nothing to me.”
“It all sounds most implausible,” said Robert mildly, lighting a cigarette, “but since I benefit so profoundly, why should I start worrying that you’ve gone off your head? Very well, I accept what you say. You’re a saint who yearns for the simple life. Very nice. I congratulate you.”
I was silent. This was evidently one of Robert’s more difficult days not only physically but emotionally as well, and I had no wish to continue a conversation which could so easily become acrimonious. I too lit a cigarette in order to provide an excuse for my continuing silence, but I was still wondering how I could turn the conversation towards the subject I wished to discuss when Robert said, “Forgive me. I know you genuinely believe in what you say and that means I’ve no right to treat you as a poseur. I suppose I’m cynical about your decision because I know you enjoyed the glitter and glamour of London far more than I ever did, but I must say you’ve given no indication that you miss your old life—and that in turn, as I said to Papa the other day, makes me wonder how well I ever knew you in the first place.”
I saw my chance. “Talking of Papa, Robert,” I said swiftly, “I’ve reached the stage where I can no longer condone his disgraceful situation—in fact I feel so embarrassed by him nowadays that I hardly like to take my family to Oxmoon every Sunday. Something’s got to be done. His conduct is absolutely beyond the pale.”
“I agree it’s regrettable. However—”
“Regrettable! What an odious understatement! For Papa to keep a mistress in London is one thing; for him to keep a mistress in Gower is quite another—and for him to keep a former Oxmoon parlormaid in a tied cottage in Penhale is simply beyond the bounds of all permissible behavior.”
“I do see it must be awkward for you and Blanche. But if Mama can tolerate the situation then I think you should too.”
“I’m afraid I’m finding that old argument of yours increasingly unsatisfactory. Obviously Mama can no longer cope. She needs active assistance, not tactful silence.”
“When Mama wants assistance she’ll ask for it.”
“Obviously she’s too proud to do so. Robert, in my opinion it’s your moral duty as the eldest son to tell Papa—”
“Any reprimand from me would be futile because unfortunately a man as troubled as Papa can rarely be cured by censure.”
“But how dare he break all the rules like this!”
“I agree it’s tragic. But try to remember the mitigating circumstances.”
“What mitigating circumstances?”
“His sufferings in adolescence.”
“How can they be mitigating circumstances? They should have taught him that the wages of sin are death!”
Robert sighed as if praying for patience.
“Well, look what happened to Owain Bryn-Davies!” I shouted, maddened by his obtuseness.
“Ah yes,” said Robert blandly. “Mr. Owain Bryn-Davies and his little accident with the tide tables.”
I looked away but not quickly enough and Robert saw the expression in my eyes. I heard his quick intake of breath. Then he said, “So you know. How the devil did you find out?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“My dear John—”
“I know nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Then why don’t you demand that I explain myself? For someone who’s asserting ignorance of the past you show the most remarkable lack of curiosity!”
There was a silence. I tried to speak but nothing happened, and at last Robert said mildly, coaxingly, as if I were some peculiarly difficult witness, “You’ve known for some time, have you? Who told you? And why did you never confide in me? It’s the devil of a shock for a man, as I well know, to discover that his father’s committed—”
I found my tongue just in time. Before he could utter the unutterable I said with all the force I could muster, “I’m sorry, Robert, but this is a matter which I refuse to discuss either now or on any later occasion. I also refuse to be diverted from the subject of Papa’s present behavior, so let me now ask the vital question again: Do you or do you not intend to tell him he must pull himself together and mend his ways?”
“I most certainly do not. It would only exacerbate a situation which is already quite painful enough.”
“Very well.” I rose to my feet. “Then if you won’t tell him, I shall.”
“Oh for God’s sake, John, don’t be such a bloody fool!”
“I hate to contradict you, Robert, but I absolutely deny being a fool, bloody or otherwise. I’m a man intelligent enough to have high standards—and here I draw the line.”
II
“What an odd boy you are,” said my father. “Impertinent too.”
“I’m not a boy, sir. I’m a man of twenty-nine.”
“Then behave like one.”
We were in the billiard room at Oxmoon shortly after six o’clock that evening. I had found my father and Edmund between games, and when I had asked for a word in private, Edmund had drifted away before my father could suggest we withdraw to the library, the room where he usually chose to conduct private conversations.
There was a superficial physical resemblance between us but this was muted by a difference in manner. My father, unmarked by the stamp of an English education, concealed his Welsh shrewdness behind an informal, almost indolent charm. So appealing was this charm that one tended to underestimate his strength, which was considerable. He was not a weak man. He had strong feelings, strong opinions and a strong inclination to be stubborn in the face of opposition. Although gentle and affectionate with his children he was capable of violence if his temper was roused, and the moment I finished speaking I knew I had roused it.
I was already nervous but now I became more nervous than ever. I did love my father but the love was confined in a straitjacket of fear because whenever I
looked at him I could never forget that I was seeing a man who had committed murder and got away with it. I knew that the murder had been justified. I knew he was a good man. But always I was aware that he was capable of anything, and that was why I felt it was so important that he stuck to the rules of a civilized society when conducting his private life.
“Sir, please believe me when I say I speak only out of respect and concern—”
“I don’t know what the devil you’re speaking out of, but I doubt if respect and concern have much to do with it.” He turned away from me, flung open the door and shouted, “Margaret!”
I was horrified. “Papa, for God’s sake—you can’t drag Mama into this conversation!”
My father lost his temper. As I backed away, automatically keeping the table between us, he shouted, “How dare you try to tell me what I can or can’t do! How dare you have the insolence to preach to me in this hypocritical fashion!”
“I’m no hypocrite. I’m just doing what I honestly believe to be right.”
“Your trouble is that you’d like a mistress in Penhale yourself but you know your wife would be a lot less understanding than mine!”
I was so angry that I forgot my fear of his violence and walked right up to him. “That’s a bloody lie!” I shouted. “You may have no more morals than your bloody mother, but at least I have the bloody decency not to follow in your footsteps!”
A plump little hand closed on my arm. My mother said in a voice cold with fury, “That’s a disgraceful thing to say to your father. Apologize this instant,” and her manner shocked me into composure.
I said, “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, I—” but even before I could finish speaking my father was addressing my mother.
“Margaret, I can’t manage this boy, I can’t talk to him, he makes me too angry.”
“Yes, don’t worry, dear,” said my mother, “I’ll straighten out this little difficulty for you.”
He kissed her and left the room. My mother’s hand was still gripping my arm, but as his footsteps receded she released me, stepped back a pace so that she could more easily look me in the eyes and then said with a coarseness which shocked me to the core, “You damned fool—why in God’s name couldn’t you come to me if you wanted to complain about Mrs. Straker? For an intelligent man you seem to have behaved with the most unforgivable stupidity.”
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