The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “Why couldn’t you bury her quietly?” he shouted. “She was English and she deserved an English funeral—why did you have to give her this Welsh circus? You talk so much of doing the done thing and sticking to the rules, but all you’re capable of is vile pageantry and bloody hypocrisy!” And covering his face with his hands, he began to shudder with inaudible sobs.

  We were all staring appalled at him but no one was more appalled than my father. At last he whispered humbly, “I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you, Robert. Please forgive me,” and blundered away towards the library. Thomas ran after him, but my father said, “I’m sorry, I must be alone. John will look after you till I’m better.”

  The library door closed. Robert let his hands fall. His bold strong striking face was battered with grief. I saw him reach for his wife’s hand and saw too that it was waiting for him.

  “Robert’s right,” said Ginevra. “I don’t know why we’re not all raving.” She turned the chair and began to wheel him away from us. Over her shoulder she added: “We’re off to the kitchen garden to raid the strawberry beds.”

  “The season’s over!” called Edmund the gardener automatically, but Ginevra did not stop, and the next moment he was seizing the chance to escape by dashing after them to help her maneuver the chair into the garden.

  Celia and I looked at each other.

  “I’ll deal with the other guests,” she said, “if you can cope with Aunt Ethel.”

  I glanced at Thomas. “Will you be all right?” I said. “Celia and I have to go back, no choice, but you can stay here if you want to.”

  “I’m staying.”

  I could hardly blame him. Celia said with admirable resignation, “I’m afraid it’s a case of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ John,” and seconds later we were reentering the dining room.

  VI

  I had already received the hint that some deep fissure existed between Robert and my father. In his dementia following my mother’s death my father had referred to it obliquely, but in my distress I had discounted his words as the rambling nonsense of a sick man. Yet now, having witnessed Robert’s unprecedented hostility to him, I began to wonder anew and to try to recall what had been said. My father had talked of Robert’s marriage. That much I could clearly remember. But had he in fact disclosed anything which I did not already know?

  We were all aware that my parents had opposed Robert’s marriage to Ginevra, even though they had ultimately given in with good grace. As Celia had said in one of her more acid moments, “Who in their right mind would want their son to marry a woman who acts like a courtesan and was married to an Irish-American brigand?” However Ginevra was certainly a lady, despite her raffish manners; a broken engagement and an elopement may rank as deplorable incidents, but they hardly turn a woman into a courtesan. Yet what kind of a lady was she? She had a foreign air, no doubt acquired in America where all women, so I had heard, were bossy and independent, unmarked by the virtues of English tradition, and even though I had no evidence that she had been unfaithful to either of her husbands, I thought her untrustworthy; there was a shadiness about her which hinted at all manner of private eccentricities, and although Robert was devoted to her, I had been far from surprised when my parents looked askance at the match.

  What now surprised me was that their disapproval had apparently deepened. I thought they had accepted the marriage. I had been well aware that Robert and Ginevra visited Oxmoon only at Christmas—how could I have been unaware of it when I was so meticulous in visiting my parents far more often?—but I had not imagined that this could have led to bitterness. I had done well at the Foreign Office, but I had been no more than a clerk promoted later to a personal assistant; Robert, on the other hand, had been maintaining a brilliantly successful career, and I had fully understood that unlike me he had found it almost impossible to find the time to visit Oxmoon. However my parents had evidently found understanding not so easy. Why had my mother blamed Ginevra, who had always seemed to bend over backwards to please her? And what had my father meant when he had called the separation from Robert retribution?

  I was too busy salvaging the shreds of the luncheon party to indulge in speculation beyond this point, but to my relief the guests now showed signs of departing. Presently the de Bracys, who were staying at All-Hallows Court, left with the Applebys; the Bryn-Davieses left in the company of Warburton; the Stourhams gave the vicar and his wife a lift to Penhale on their way to Llangennith; Daphne and her parents swept away in their chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce to the Metropole Hotel in Swansea while Rory Kinsella, now a volatile undergraduate of twenty, slipped off through the grounds to his mother’s bungalow at Martinscombe.

  That left the crowd from Staffordshire. They were all staying at Oxmoon but not, Aunt Ethel assured me, for a day longer than was necessary; she said it was against her principles to remain in a house where she had been so grievously insulted, and were it not for the fact that she was about to be prostrated by a migraine brought on by mourning for her poor dear sister, she would have left immediately. Her daughters somehow coaxed her to bed and then departed with Montague and his wife for a very long walk. Aunt May’s daughter Evadne said she was exhausted and she hoped we wouldn’t mind if she and her husband retired to rest. Somehow we restrained ourselves from saying we were delighted. After they had disappeared upstairs, Celia and I, who had by this time perfected our act as host and hostess, thanked Bayliss and the servants for making the luncheon such a success, and then we withdrew to the hall to decide what to do next.

  My father had not emerged from the library, but Blanche, who had been playing the piano quietly in the music room, appeared to ask what she could do to help. She volunteered to stay on at Oxmoon, but I did not want to worry about her any longer; I considered she had been exposed to quite enough distress, so I asked my father’s chauffeur to drive her home to the Manor, and as soon as the motor had departed I said to Celia, “I think we should have a family conference to plan how we’re going to survive the rest of the day.”

  Celia agreed, and collecting Thomas from the hall, we retired to the drawing room where a glance from the windows revealed that Ginevra and Robert were sitting by the summerhouse on the far side of the lawn. After separating Edmund from his whisky in one of the greenhouses, I hid the decanter under a large flowerpot and shepherded my flock out of the kitchen garden.

  Robert and Ginevra saw us coming as we moved down the lavender walk, and suddenly I experienced a longing for Lion. I could almost hear him saying, “Let’s draw lots for who murders Aunt Ethel!” and I thought how he would have bounced out of his deep grief for my mother to raise our spirits with his vitality. The sight of Robert and Ginevra too heightened my longing for a past that had been lost. In my earliest memories I could remember the two of them in the summerhouse, Robert wearing his first pair of long trousers and looking immeasurably grand, Ginevra a remote goddess with thick plaits, a white frock and holes in both her stockings. “Here come the babies,” I had so often heard her say as Lion, Edmund and I advanced to invade their privacy, and now in an eerie echo of the past I heard those same words repeated.

  “Here come the babies,” she said idly to Robert as we crossed the tennis lawn to the wheelchair.

  “You’ve come at the right time,” said Robert to us. “I’m feeling too hot out here—lift the chair into the summerhouse, would you?”

  He seemed composed again. In the summerhouse, I did say, “Robert, if you want to go home now, I shan’t blame you in the least,” but he answered at once, “Don’t be ridiculous—how can I leave without apologizing to Papa for that monstrous scene I created with Aunt Ethel?” and various sympathetic comments were made about Aunt Ethel’s frightfulness before I called the meeting to order. I then declared that we should plan the rest of the day like a military operation in order to avoid further ghastliness.

  “An idea which is none the less brilliant for being obvious,” said Robert. “Continue.”

  Thus encouraged, I
launched myself on a forecast of the next stage of the nightmare. “With any luck,” I began, “Aunt Ethel won’t emerge from her room again today, but if she does, leave her to me. I think I can just manage to survive her.”

  “John should never have abandoned a diplomatic career,” said Celia to the others. “He’s been quite wonderful.”

  “Well, you were wonderful too, Celia—”

  “Enough of this mutual admiration,” said Robert, “or I shall start to remember how I allowed Aunt Ethel to reduce me to her own appalling level of vulgarity. Go on, John.”

  “I suggest we divide the entire tribe between us and swamp each section with charm and good manners.”

  “What a revolting prospect,” said Edmund.

  “I think it’s all rather heavenly,” said Ginevra. “Shall I take on Dora, Rosa and Clara? I simply adore it when they talk about Emmeline and Christabel!”

  Robert groaned. More comment on our frightful relations followed, but eventually I divided them as equitably as possible between Edmund, Thomas, Celia and Ginevra.

  “And what do you and I do, John,” said Robert, “while our siblings struggle with these repulsive duties you’ve assigned them?”

  “We cope with Papa.”

  We all looked at each other.

  Edmund said unexpectedly, “I think he’ll crack now. I saw it happen in the trenches. When the brave ones cracked they cracked utterly. One just can’t keep up that kind of performance forever.”

  Robert said to me, “He’s right. This is where our troubles really begin,” and I thought again of that moment in the hall earlier when my father had started talking of my mother in the present tense.

  “I don’t understand,” said Thomas truculently, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “What do you mean when you say he’ll crack?”

  “Break down and cry,” said Celia soothingly before anyone could mention the words “go mad.”

  “He’s postponed his grief by organizing that appalling luncheon,” said Robert acidly. “What a mistake! We should have forced him from the start to face reality.”

  “I’m sorry, Robert,” I said, “but with all due respect, I couldn’t disagree with you more. This is Papa’s way of facing reality. It may not be your way but that doesn’t mean it isn’t equally justifiable. He had to go through this charade. It was essential to him to make a ritual of her death so that he could believe in it.”

  “Do you understand any of this, Edmund?” said Celia.

  “Not a word, old girl, no.”

  “I do,” said Ginevra unexpectedly, “but I’m not at all sure who’s right.”

  “I am,” I said. “I think he’s done the right thing so far, although I do concede that another breakdown is now a real danger. He’s finished being the perfect mourner at the perfect funeral, and what we now have to do is to help him over the interim that must inevitably exist before he can start playing the perfect widower at perfect Oxmoon.”

  They all stared at me as if I were talking some esoteric Welsh dialect.

  “Well, isn’t that what life’s all about?” I said, exasperated. “You write the script, pick your role and then play that role for all it’s worth! Papa’s between roles at the moment, that’s all.”

  “What’s he talking about?” said Thomas to the others.

  “He seems to be saying,” said Robert, “that one must never on any account face reality—either the reality of one’s true self or the reality of one’s true circumstances. I’ve never heard such a recipe for unhappiness in all my life.”

  “But what is reality?” demanded Edmund moodily before I could launch myself on a heated protest. “Who knows?”

  “Well, I agree,” said Robert, getting into his stride, “that Kant says it’s virtually impossible to know reality. However—”

  “Oh darling, surely everyone knows what reality is!” protested Ginevra. “Why do intellectuals always tie themselves into such absurd knots? Reality is—”

  “Reality is—” began Celia and I in unison.

  “Reality,” said Thomas, “is that Papa’s walking across the lawn towards us at this very minute—what on earth do we do now?”

  VII

  My father had changed into a black lounge suit and was strolling idly across the lawn in the company of his golden Labrador Glendower. A light breeze ruffled his hair and emphasized his casual grace of movement. Behind him Oxmoon, shimmering in the July sun, heightened the impression of mirage and illusion. I was unnerved, and a quick glance at the others told me that my tension was shared. This, we had agreed, was going to be the moment when my father broke down again, yet never had he seemed more composed.

  “Still living in his fantasy,” muttered Robert.

  “No,” I said suddenly, “it’s all right, Robert—he’s playing his old self. This is the interim role.”

  Robert looked scandalized, but when he refrained from arguing, I realized he was reluctantly coming to accept my point of view. Meanwhile my father had raised his arm in greeting and we were all waving back much too heartily.

  “Shouldn’t we be talking?” whispered Ginevra, and added in a normal voice: “It’s a new Glendower, Celia—did you guess? Old Glendower died last Christmas—hardpad, poor darling. We were all devastated.”

  “How simply too frightful,” said Celia with nauseous brightness. “Hullo, Papa, how lovely to see you again!”

  Ignoring this drivel Robert said crisply, “I do apologize, sir, for my behavior earlier—I’m afraid I chose quite the wrong moment to give way to my grief. And of course I do apologize too for my remarks about the funeral. I’m sure everything was exactly as Mama would have wished.”

  My father was by this time on the threshold of the summerhouse. “That’s all right, Robert,” he said with an easy smile. “Least said soonest mended.” His smile broadened as he glanced at the rest of us. Then he said with his most winning charm, “I’ll wager you’ve all been on your knees thanking God I didn’t marry Ethel forty years ago!”

  We laughed vigorously. In the deadly pause that followed, my father stooped over the dog. “Sit, Glendower, sit … that’s it. Good boy.” He gave the dog a pat and added without looking at us, “I’ve been thinking things over. Just thought I’d like to say a few words.” Still fondling the dog, he glanced up at Robert as if waiting for encouragement.

  “Yes, of course,” said Robert in the mild neutral voice I had heard him use in court to soothe frightened witnesses, and at once looked immensely sympathetic.

  “Well,” said my father, duly encouraged and straightening his back as he faced us all, “I just thought I’d like to say thank you to everyone for being so good to me during these past few days. I’ve got a wonderful family. Don’t know what I’d have done without you. Luckiest man in the world. Especially glad to see you again, Celia,” he added suddenly. “Bury the hatchet and all that. I’ve missed you since you’ve been away.”

  “Darling Papa!” cried Celia, much moved.

  I wondered what all this was leading up to. Sweat began to prickle beneath my collar.

  “And I just wanted to reassure you all,” resumed my father, his mild casual manner masking his unknown but clearly implacable purpose, “that I shall be all right now—I’ve had a little think in the library and I’ve worked everything out.” He moved forward to slip his arm around Thomas’s shoulder. “Sorry I closed the door on you like that, old fellow,” he said, “but I knew it was very important that I should have my little think.”

  “And what did you decide, Papa,” said Robert with extreme delicacy, “as the result of your little think?”

  My father moved on from Thomas and drifted to the far side of the room before turning to face us once more. “Well, I can tell you this for a certainty,” he said: “I shall never marry again. I shall be loyal to Margaret till the day I die. No one could ever take her place as my wife.” He stood up straight and looked both proud and dignified. “You won’t find me following in Oswald Stourham’s foots
teps and marrying a platinum blonde young enough to be my daughter!” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing my children and shaming myself before my friends in that fashion. I shall keep up appearances and live exactly as a widower ought to live. Although of course,” said my father, stooping to pat Glendower, “I shall have to have a housekeeper. But that’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Of course not, Papa!” cried Celia, blinded by sentimentality.

  I was transfixed. I saw Robert dart me a warning glance, but I ignored him. My voice demanded roughly: “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “Shut up, John,” said Robert. “Leave this to me.”

  “Celia my dear,” said my father with his most exquisite courtesy. “Ginevra—please would you be so good as to excuse us? I’d prefer to be alone with my boys for a moment.”

  “Of course, Bobby,” said Ginevra. “Come on, Celia, let’s go and organize tea. Thomas, why don’t you come with us?”

  “Why should I?” said Thomas rudely, and moved closer to my father.

  Ginevra looked at Robert, who said pleasantly, “Are you sure you want Thomas to be present at this conversation, Papa?”

  “Certainly,” said my father. “You can’t treat a fourteen-year-old boy as if he were fit only for the nursery. That would be quite wrong.”

  Thomas, who was still very much a child despite his strapping physique, looked smug.

  “Nevertheless—” I began.

  “No,” said my father, suddenly showing the tough side of his personality. “No ‘nevertheless.’ That’s my decision and you’ll oblige me by accepting it.”

  Robert shot me another warning glance. I kept my mouth shut. The two women began to walk away across the lawn.

  When they were out of earshot my father said in a low but level voice, “Now I must speak frankly. I don’t think that you boys have faced the—” He fumbled for the right English word. “—the reality of your mother’s death. Your mother’s death is, of course, a tragedy—a tragedy,” he repeated, as if greatly relieved he had been able to file the episode away under some comprehensive heading which needed no further explanation. “I know all about tragedies. I’m good at them—sorry, that sounds absurd, wrong phrase. I mean I’m good at surviving them. Done it before. Do it again. Quite simple—just obey a few elementary rules. Rule one: don’t dwell on the tragedy, don’t think about it. Rule two: take stock of what’s left and work out what you need to go on. Rule three: get what you need. Rule four: go on. Well, I’ve spent the afternoon taking stock and I know what I need—I need the best possible woman to manage the house, and it just so happens I know the best possible woman for the job.” He hesitated to drum up the nerve to complete his speech but the pause was minimal. “This evening,” he said, “I shall go to Penhale and offer Mrs. Straker the post of housekeeper. Then—once I have my house in order—I know I shall have the strength to go on.”