The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  I said I would. Despite my anger that I had been the victim of an exercise in power, I was also conscious of relief that the decision had been taken out of my hands. Constance had not been the only one enduring an agony of uncertainty, and I went home convinced that proposing to her was the right thing—indeed, the only thing—to do.

  I had just entered the house when my father telephoned. My nephew Robin, six years old and his parents’ pride and joy, had fallen to his death from one of the tower windows at Little Oxmoon, and Robert wanted me to return to Gower at once to organize the funeral.

  IX

  “Have you ever noticed,” said Edmund the next morning as our train thundered towards Wales, “how tragedy so often strikes at people who already have a surfeit of tragedy in their lives? I saw it happen again and again in the war. Men would have their balls blown off and then the next day they’d get a letter saying their wives had run away or their mothers had dropped dead or their children had died of diphtheria.”

  I said nothing. I was too busy thinking how I would feel if Harry’s life had been cut short, and alongside my grief for Robert lay the memory of Robin, spoiled and precocious but still a child of exceptional promise and charm.

  We were alone in our first-class compartment. I had thought Rory Kinsella would be accompanying us, but he was on holiday with his Dublin relations and would be approaching Wales from Ireland. Two years ago he had been sent down from Cambridge for incorrigible idleness, but Robert had somehow obtained a position for him in a well-known firm of stockbrokers and Rory had promised to turn over a new leaf. I was skeptical. Both those Kinsella boys had turned out badly, although since the formation of the Irish Republic, Declan was no longer in danger of being shot by the British.

  “Of course it would be the best of the bunch that gets killed,” Edmund was saying. “That always seemed to happen in the war too. Poor Ginevra! She hardly deserves yet another catastrophe.”

  I suddenly could not endure to hear him talking so calmly of such brutal chaos. “There’s got to be some meaning in it all,” I said in despair. “I just can’t accept that life can be so disordered.”

  “Accept it, old chap,” said Edmund placidly, “or you’ll go mad. I found that out in the trenches.”

  “Oh, shut up about the bloody war!” Any talk of madness always had an adverse effect on me.

  The rest of the journey passed in silence but as the train entered the industrial wasteland on the eastern side of Swansea I did apologize to him. Edmund promptly apologized in his turn for upsetting me, and with an uneasy peace established between us we steeled ourselves for the ordeal of our father’s welcome. He was waiting by the ticket barrier, and for once he looked his age. He was sixty-one, thirty years my senior. I noticed that he was stooping slightly and that his hair, which had once been a dark gold, was now a pale silvery yellow.

  After I had embraced him I said, “This must have been a terrible shock for you.”

  “It was a tragedy,” said my father so firmly that I knew he was incapable of discussing the subject. “Why, Edmund, how well you look! Tell me all about this nice little American girl you’ve met in London.”

  Edmund promptly began to chatter about Teddy, but when we reached the motor my father asked him to sit in front with the chauffeur and the paean was curtailed.

  Somewhere beyond the Penrice Home Farm my father said to me, “He was such a game little fellow.”

  “Yes. I expect he reminded you of Robert, didn’t he?”

  “Just like him. It was a miracle. It made up for Robert being ill. Well, at least Margaret was spared this. No more little replacement, no more little miracle … and do you know, I can’t face Robert, not yet, I’m too upset … that awful bungalow—the wheelchair—Ginevra—”

  “Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll explain everything to Robert. I’ll make sure he understands, just as I do.”

  My father wiped his eyes and said, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you, John! If only you knew how often I wish you weren’t so far away in London …”

  And that was when I first allowed myself to acknowledge how much I now wanted to come home.

  X

  “Oh, there you are,” said Robert. “I heard you were rushing down from London, but to be frank I don’t want to see you. I’d much rather be left alone.”

  “I’m sorry. Well, in that case—”

  “However since you’re here you may as well sit down, have a drink and drum up the strength to face the whole bloody mess. Ginette’s gone to pieces, of course, constant hysterics and no use to anyone, I’m fed up with her. Oh, for Christ’s sake don’t look like that! If I had any bloody strength I’d bloody hit you. Get me some whisky. I’m not supposed to have any at the moment but God knows I could hardly be worse than I am now. No, that’s not true: I could be infinitely worse. I could be blind, incontinent and only able to breathe in gasps. That’s all to come, of course. What a bloody bore. Why don’t I kill myself? Too much of a coward. I still want to shit whenever I think of death. God, how I despise myself. I think up wonderful excuses why I should live, though—my best one was that I wanted to see what Robin would be like when he grew up but that’s no good now, so I’ll have to dream up something new, but what excuse can I conceivably produce for putting Ginette through hell like this? Sheer bloody-mindedness liberally seasoned with sadism is now the only explanation I can offer—unless I confess my cowardice, but we can’t admit to cowardice, can we, it’s not the fucking done thing.”

  “You’ll be better in a week or two, Robert. Warburton said this would just be a temporary setback.”

  “Oh yes—better! Back in the bloody chair! Fuck being better! Still, I agree it’s an improvement on being bedridden like this. Christ, I always thought only overemotional women talked about being ‘prostrated with grief,’ but look at me, I’m literally prostrated. Ah, the whisky. Thanks. You’ll have to get me a straw and prop me up … that’s it. Now ease me back a bit. That’s right. … God, that’s a strong drink you’ve given me! Take it back and add some more water. No, on second thoughts don’t bother. What does it bloody matter, nothing matters. We’d better talk about the funeral. The first thing you’ve got to understand is that neither Ginette nor I will be there. And for God’s sake tell Papa not to go either—the last thing we want is him going round the bend again, that really would be the final straw. I want no fuss. Put the child in a box and bury him with the minimum of drama. He’s dead and that’s that. God, this whisky tastes good! Give me some more.”

  As I refilled his glass I said, “Is Ginevra seeing visitors at the moment?”

  “God knows. I don’t. We had a row and shouted at each other and I haven’t seen her since. She’s probably drunk. Look, John, if you really want to help here, get hold of Warburton, point a gun at his head and say that woman’s got to be carted off somewhere for a few days. She’s got some idiotic notion that she can’t leave me, but I can’t stand the thought of her turning herself into a martyr, it’s enough to make me stop shitting with fright at the thought of death and fucking well cut my throat. I told her straight out that she was being a selfish bitch and driving me to suicide, but that did no good—she just had hysterics all over again and rushed off to get drunk—and she’s been drinking much too much for some time, I know she has, my spy Bennett keeps an eye on the gin bottle and anyway I can see the results for myself. She’s got too fat and she looks blowsy as a tart and damn it, she’s in a mess, that’s all there is to say, a bloody mess, and she’s got to be helped out of it. Robin’s dead. No one can do anything for him now, but Ginette’s alive and someone’s got to do something about her. I’m frantic, I can’t think of anything else, I’m beside myself, she’s now the only thing that makes my life bearable, and I’ve got to save her—”

  “Don’t worry, Robert. I understand. I’ll go and talk to her straightaway.”

  XI

  “I’ll quite understand if you don’t want to see me, Ginevra, but Robert’s rather worried about you,
and—”

  “Don’t mention bloody Robert to me! Just because he can’t show grief he thinks it’s bad taste whenever anyone else does! God, how I hate him sometimes, I hate him, I wish he’d bloody well hurry up and die—”

  “Ginevra—”

  “Oh, shut up! What do you understand about all this? You just have no idea, no idea at all! There you stand so bloody perfect and so bloody lucky—you’ve never been in a situation where all you can do is scream with pain—”

  “I do at least know what it’s like to hold one’s dead child in one’s arms. Ginevra, I’m going to phone Warburton. Will you promise me you’ll do as he says?”

  “Do what you like, I don’t care what happens to me now, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care—”

  “Well, I care,” I said with a finality that I hoped would conclude the conversation, and the next moment she had collapsed sobbing in my arms.

  XII

  “It’s all right, Robert, she’s agreed to go. Warburton’s sent for an ambulance, and he’s arranged for a bed at the Home of the Assumption. Apparently it’s more of a rest home than a lunatic asylum nowadays.”

  “Thank God. Now I shall feel better. Are you off to see the vicar about the funeral?”

  “No, I think my next task is to attend to Kester. Where is he?”

  “No idea. Ginette sacked both the nanny and the nursemaid on the spot after the disaster and they packed their bags and left immediately.”

  “But who’s looking after the child?”

  “Don’t ask me. Cook, probably. He knows his way to the kitchens. God, imagine us being left with that little freak! But maybe he’ll turn out to be passable in the end. I don’t think he’s mentally defective. What’s so bloody awful is that he looks just like a girl.”

  “I agree his looks are … unusual—but maybe he’ll be striking later.”

  “Rubbish. The only way he could be striking would be as a transvestite. Christ, I sometimes feel like making sure he really does have a penis. It’s all Ginette’s fault for wanting a daughter. My God, if you only knew the fights I’ve had with her to keep his hair cut and his wardrobe free of Little Lord Fauntleroy blouses—”

  “I can’t believe Ginevra would deliberately—”

  “Poor little devil, what a wretched life he’s had, and I’ve contributed to that wretchedness by my indifference, I know I have, but never mind, I’ll make it up to him now and that’ll give Robin’s death meaning, the death will make sense if I think of it as a punishment and show I’ve learned my lesson—”

  “My dear Robert, I hardly think—”

  “Shut up. I don’t care what you think. I know you don’t believe in God. I don’t either. But this is a punishment whichever way you look at it, and if I have my way some good’s going to emerge from this disaster to benefit that wretched child.”

  “In that case there’s all the more reason why I should now—”

  “Yes, find out where the hell the little bugger is and then tell me what the devil you think I should do with him.”

  XIII

  “Hullo, Kester,” I said, “I was wondering where you were! Are you all right?”

  “Don’t be frightened!” said Cook to him kindly. “It’s your Uncle John!” She turned to me and whispered, “Poor little boy, he doesn’t know what’s happening, but don’t you worry, Mr. John—Betty and I have been looking after him.”

  Betty was Watson, the parlormaid. Both servants were local women who had always been employed on the Oxmoon estate, and I knew they were reliable. Feeling matters could have been worse, I advanced on Kester. He was sitting at the kitchen table in front of a plate of sausages and mashed potatoes, but as he looked up at me the spoon trembled in his hand and he abandoned the attempt to eat. His pale eyes filled with tears. As I put out my hand to reassure him, I noticed with distaste that his thick reddish-brown hair waved to his shoulders.

  “I expect you miss your nanny and nursemaid, don’t you, Kester,” I said. “Do you know why they had to go away?”

  He shook his head. Two huge tears trickled down his cheeks. So no one had bothered to offer him an explanation.

  “We told him Master Robin had gone on a visit to the angels,” said Cook, who was a well-meaning soul, “but we didn’t know whether Madam wanted us to say any more. Poor little mite, he’s not four yet, is he? He wouldn’t understand about D-E-A-T-H.”

  I picked Kester up, sat down with him on my knee and embarked on the necessary explanations.

  XIV

  “He’s all right, Robert, but I don’t think he should stay here with only the cook and the parlormaid to keep an eye on him. I’ve just telephoned Angela Stourham and she’s very kindly said he can stay with her until Ginevra’s better. Eleanor’s driving over straightaway to collect him.”

  As far as I could remember, Stourham Hall, where the unmarried Angela Stourham kept house for her brother Oswald, was the nearest place where a nanny was still on active duty in the nursery. Eleanor, daughter of Stourham’s first marriage, was now a young woman of twenty-one, but the fruit of his disastrous second marriage to the platinum blonde was only a child of three.

  “That’s very good of Angela,” said Robert. “Can you convey my thanks to Eleanor when she arrives? I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “I think you should see Kester before he goes.”

  “What for?”

  “Because you’re his father, Robert, and it’s the sort of thing a father ought to do.”

  “Very well, what do I say?”

  “Tell him you’re sorry that everything’s been such a muddle but you do hope he enjoys his little holiday with Belinda. I’ve told him what’s happening so there’s no need for you to embark on explanations.”

  Kester was summoned. As he was obviously nervous, I kept his hand clasped in mine after drawing him to the bedside.

  “Well, Kester,” said Robert abruptly, “I—good God, John, look at the length of his hair! Quick, get some scissors and chop it off before Eleanor arrives!”

  Kester immediately began to cry. Startled I bent over him. “What is it, Kester? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, don’t take any notice,” said Robert impatiently. “He’s just terrified of scissors.”

  “But in that case how idiotic of you to suggest a haircut!”

  “I’m not letting that child leave this house looking like a bloody girl!”

  Kester howled. Robert cursed. I wished myself a thousand miles away.

  XV

  Order was eventually restored. Ginevra, heavily sedated by Warburton, was borne away in an ambulance to the Home of the Assumption, the Gothic mansion on the outskirts of Swansea where my grandmother had spent her final years. Robert’s man Bennett managed to trim Kester’s hair while I held the child in my arms and constantly assured him that he was safe. Later, after he had been collected by Eleanor Stourham, I interviewed the servants to make sure they knew what they were doing and then, leaving Robert to rest, I retreated to the night nursery, where Robin’s pathetic little broken body lay beneath a sheet.

  I wanted to say a prayer, but it was no use. The words refused to come and the faith I longed for remained absent. Chaos had broken into an ordered world but this time no drawn line could have stopped it, and although I tried again to make sense of the tragedy the pattern was too savage to comprehend. All I could think was that blind chance was on the rampage again, the same blind chance which had killed Lion and left Edmund alive, but then I wondered if the blindness lay not in chance but in the human beings who looked upon it. I could remember Robert saying in 1921 during our discussion of Milly Straker, “One yearns for the gift of clairvoyance … we have insufficient information.” Perhaps chance was merely another name for a preordained future which had been conceived on such a vast scale that it was beyond the human understanding—but no, I found that a repugnant thought. I recoiled from the idea of a preordained future. I had to believe human beings could choose the way they played their c
ards; I had to believe they could be saved, from suffering by drawing those lines to keep evil at bay. The alternative—a hopeless, helpless submission to uncontrollable, incomprehensible forces—seemed to me to be a vision of hell, a road that led straight to despair.

  I stopped. I normally had no time for metaphysical speculation which had always seemed to me to be the enemy of a well-ordered mind, and I found my chaotic thoughts unnerving. A need to escape from the bungalow overwhelmed me. Leaving the nurseries in the west tower, I ran downstairs and seconds later was setting off at a brisk pace down the drive.

  I decided a walk would help me relax after the harrowing scenes I had endured, but I did not take the path up to Penhale Down, where Robert’s sheep now grazed among the megalithic stones. I headed straight on down the bridle path past Martinscombe towards Penhale village, and when the church spire came into sight among the trees, I turned away up the ancient track to Harding’s Down.

  The two hills, Penhale Down and Harding’s Down, lay inland from the sea but parallel to the long ridge of Rhossili Downs which rose sharply from Rhossili beach. In the valley between this long ridge and those twin hills lay the parish of Penhale, and from the summits of all the Downs it was possible to see not merely Penhale but most of the Gower Peninsula, from Llanmadoc and Llangennith in the north to Oxwich Bay in the south, from the sea in the west to Cefn Bryn, the backbone of Gower, which stretched east towards Swansea. Harding’s Down was a favorite retreat of mine; I could remember making secret camps long ago with Lion beneath the ramparts which crowned the summit. This hill fort, built by tribesmen hundreds of years before, was now no more than a vast ring enclosing a sloping wilderness of bracken, but it was still a powerful sight, and as I reached the grassy ditch and scrambled up onto the ramparts I knew again the exhilaration I had known as a child.