“I admit I’ve been confused in the past. But if I knew I had Oxmoon coming to me, all confusion would be at an end.”
“Why? It’s only a house. How can stone and slate solve muddle and unhappiness?”
I made a great effort to express my complex feelings simply so that she could understand. “I feel I need a reward,” I said. “I want compensation for all those years I came second to Robert. I want compensation for all those years when I murdered my true self in a futile effort to please my parents as much as Robert did. I feel it’s only fair that I should get Oxmoon; I feel it’s owing to me.”
“What’s owing to you,” said Bronwen, “is love, but you won’t get that from Oxmoon. Nor can Oxmoon change the past. Forgiving your parents, not inheriting Oxmoon, is the only way you can stop the past from haunting you.”
I stared at her and as she stared back I was aware, not for the first time, of the extreme clarity of her mind. It was as if she saw a spectrum of reality that was entirely beyond my field of vision.
“But of course I forgive my parents,” I heard myself say. “I’m a good son, I always have been, so how can I not forgive them? To bear a grudge would imply I disliked and resented them—and how could I dislike and resent them, why, I’d despise myself, such feelings would be quite incompatible with being a good son.”
Bronwen said nothing.
“My parents were innocent victims,” I said strongly. “My grandmother’s the one to blame. She’s the one I loathe and resent as the source of all my unhappiness.”
Bronwen kissed me and said, “Forgive her.”
“How can I? If I don’t blame her for what went wrong I must blame my parents and I can’t—yet I’ve got to blame someone, I must, I’ve suffered, I went through hell, it distorted my whole life—”
“Yes,” said Bronwen, “it was dreadful. But you must break free, you mustn’t let it go on distorting your life, and the road to freedom isn’t the road to Oxmoon. You won’t be happy in a world where you think you need compensation, because the compensation will only chain you to the past.”
There was a silence. The sun continued to sink into the sea and we continued to watch it, but finally I turned aside and said, “My father may well live another twenty years, so Oxmoon’s not important now. What’s important is that I should return to Gower so that we can have a life together there.”
I saw her fear as clearly as I saw her joy.
“Of course,” I said, “we’d be married.”
She looked more fearful than ever. “But how would I manage?”
I kissed her. “We’ll both manage very well.” I kissed her again and began to sort through my pockets for coins. “Let’s find a telephone so that I can discover what’s been going on. I think I’ve got the courage now to return to the world we left behind.”
As we set off through the cobbled streets I heard a clock chiming far away by the harbor, and when Bronwen’s hand tightened in mine I knew she was aware of my thoughts. Anglo-Saxon time was waiting for us, and in that world of weeks, days and hours lay a crisis of catastrophic dimensions. I had realized, as I sent my last batch of postcards to my children, that I had been away for far longer than I had intended.
VI
“What the hell have you been doing?” shouted Robert. “Where are you? What’s going on? That bloody American of yours has been persecuting us for information and saying you’re supposed to be in London proposing to his daughter!”
“I’ve no intention of proposing to his daughter. I’m in Cornwall with the woman I love.”
“You’re what?” His voice receded; he had evidently turned aside to confide in his wife. “John’s gone completely off the rails.”
He readdressed the telephone. “For God’s sake, what woman?”
“Her name’s Bronwen Morgan, and she’s Huw Meredith’s sister-in-law. Robert, are you better? And how’s Ginevra? Do please forgive me for not telephoning you earlier—”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Robert. “We’re now the least of your problems. Tell me, is there any chance of seeing you in the immediate future, or do you intend to ramble around Cornwall in a romantic haze indefinitely?”
“I’m returning to Gower tomorrow. I have to take Bronwen back to Penhale before I go up to London.”
“Good. I’ll have the straitjacket waiting,” said Robert, and hung up.
VII
“Of course you must realize,” said Robert kindly, “that you’re quite insane, but fortunately it’s nothing to worry about; this form of insanity is very common, and there’s no doubt you’ll recover—probably sooner rather than later. Now, the most important thing is that you should start to come gently down to earth. Take your children to the zoo or something. Give those appalling off-the-peg clothes to the nearest branch of the Salvation Army. Read a newspaper. Have a haircut. Do all those boring little everyday things which remind one constantly of how drab life really is. And above all, my dear John, abandon this romantic pose of the Celtic Twilight Visionary—set aside this nauseous Celtic mysticism and try to see the situation not with Anglo-Saxon clarity—I don’t ask the impossible—but at least with true Welsh hardheadedness and good sense. It’s only the English who think the Welsh spend all their time wandering around singing at a perpetual Eisteddfod, so if you must see yourself as a Welshman, for God’s sake see yourself as an intelligent one and don’t wreck your life while you’re not responsible for your actions.”
It was early evening, and we were alone in the drawing room at Little Oxmoon. Ginevra had tactfully left after giving me a brief embrace; I was relieved to see she was looking better. So was Robert. He was no longer bedridden and had returned to his wheelchair.
“Robert, you don’t understand. This is the way, the truth, the life I long to lead—”
“What way? What truth? And for God’s sake, what life? John, have you really no idea how absurd you sound? Look, I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Contrary to the romantic poets, I don’t believe falling in love is a random phenomenon—in my opinion it’s always the symptom of some underlying disorder of the personality.”
“If you think that,” I said, “then obviously you’ve never been in love.”
“It’s precisely because I’ve been in love that I know what I’m talking about. Sex should be a sport, not a destructive obsession.”
“You don’t seriously regard sex as a mere sport, do you?”
Robert stared at me. “Well, how do you regard it?”
“Sex is life—real life. Sport is just a way of keeping real life at bay—it’s just a poor substitute for what life’s really all about.”
“What an extraordinary remark! It’s hard to believe you ever went to Harrow. Have you by any chance come under the influence of that turgid little writer D. H. Lawrence?”
“My knowledge of modern English literature stops with John Buchan. Anyway why are we talking about sex? I’m talking about love!”
“Oh yes, yes, yes, of course you are—people who can think of nothing but sex always ennoble their emotion by calling it love, but don’t worry, I refuse to let myself be defeated by this problem. You’re my favorite brother and I’m very fond of you and I’m going to save you from yourself even if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Robert was at his most formidable. He was carefully dressed in a black suit with his Old Harrovian tie, and although his right side was too weak to permit him to sit entirely straight in his chair, he still gave the impression of being bolt upright. His thinning hair, neatly cut and severely parted, was the color of iron. His deep-set, somewhat hypnotic eyes were steel-blue. Even his useless right hand, curled inwards like a claw, seemed to express aggression, and I had to make a considerable effort not to be mentally pulverized by the full force of his personality in top gear.
“There’s obviously some lack in your life,” he was saying, “which has driven you to compensate yourself by escaping into this addle-brained Celtic sloppiness. Now, let me see. What i
s it that’s lacking? You’re rich, healthy and good-looking. You enjoy your work. You have two attractive children to whom you’re devoted. You have loyal servants and a wide circle of admiring friends—you even have a saintly mistress tucked away in Fulham who apparently never gives you a moment’s anxiety—and on top of all this quite extraordinary good fortune, you have an American millionaire who thinks you’re God’s gift to a middle-aged buccaneer with a paternity obsession, and you have a good-looking, cultivated girl who can’t wait to make you a matchlessly competent wife. Yet are you satisfied with this Elysium you’ve created for yourself? No, you’re not. You rush off to Cornwall with a cleaning woman from Cardiff, gaze into golden sunsets and talk twaddle about ways and truths and lives you long to lead. Very well, I give up, you tell me: what’s wrong with your London life? What’s missing?”
“Bronwen.”
“That’s no answer. That just restates the conundrum. Christ, give me some more whisky! It’s hard work providing a rational explanation for such thoroughly irrational behavior.”
There was a pause while I removed our glasses to the decanter and refilled them. It was not until I was adding the water that Robert said slowly, “But perhaps I’m entirely wrong. Perhaps there’s no lack in your life—quite the reverse. Perhaps there’s a superfluity. Perhaps you’ve simply decided you don’t need London anymore, and perhaps this raging love affair with a Welsh peasant is your peculiar way of celebrating your liberation. … But why would you feel you no longer need London?”
“All I care about is living with Bronwen in Gower.”
“You couldn’t conceivably be quite such a fool.”
“Robert—”
“You wouldn’t give up all for love—you’re much too ambitious. You’d only give up your present Elysium if you thought you saw another more attractive one on the horizon—and so the big question is, isn’t it, what’s more attractive to you than a million pounds and all the worldly success you’ve ever wanted?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Listen, Robert—”
“No, I’m sorry, John, but you’re going to have to listen to me, because I’m now quite beside myself with horror. I can see that your whole behavior has been the result of a most disastrous miscalculation.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“You’re not going to get Oxmoon, John. Not now. Not ever. Drink up that scotch. Pour yourself some brandy. And I’ll explain.”
VIII
He said he was going to make sure Kester was the heir.
“Well, of course you are,” I said without a second’s hesitation. “I’d do the same for my own son if I were in your shoes.” I took what I thought would be a sip of whisky and found myself draining the glass.
“You know what I told you after Robin died: Kester’s going to benefit. It’ll make sense of Robin’s death.”
“Yes, don’t worry, Robert, I absolutely understand.” I revolved the empty glass in my hands to give the impression it was still half full.
“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand, not yet, but I’m equally afraid that I’m going to have to make sure you do. It may result in us being permanently estranged, but I can’t help that. I’ve got to save you from messing up your life as the result of a misapprehension about the future of Oxmoon.”
“Whatever you say we couldn’t wind up permanently estranged.”
“I wonder. Very well, listen to this. You think everything will still come right for you because I don’t have a mild case of this illness and with any luck I’ll be dead in ten years.”
“My dear Robert—”
“Shut up. You think Papa’s bound to outlive me and that once I’m out of the way he won’t hesitate to make you his heir—but you see, John, that’s where you make your big mistake. I’m going to tell Papa that he has to make Kester his heir and Papa’s going to do what I say. There’s no question about it. I’ve got him by the balls.”
I stood up, took a clean glass from the salver and poured myself some brandy. “How?”
“He did something once that was so bloody frightful that it had a profoundly adverse effect on my life. He’s been racked by guilt ever since, and he’ll see my blackmail as a chance to cancel his guilt and finally be at peace with himself.”
“I see.” I drank some of the brandy. “I knew something had gone wrong between you,” I said, “but I didn’t realize it was so catastrophic. What happened?”
“It’s not necessary that you should know that. All that’s necessary is that you should believe that Oxmoon will never be yours.”
I was silent.
“I’m sorry,” said Robert, “but all I can say in my own defense is that I don’t believe the loss of Oxmoon will ultimately matter to you. In my opinion you’re not suited to the life of a country gentleman. You’re like Ginette. You’re drawn to the city lights and the glamour of worldly success; you enjoy money and power and smart women and smart cars. Your recent past with Armstrong proves that to the hilt. Have you ever enjoyed life more than during these last eighteen months in his employment?”
I drank some more brandy and said, “My recent past shows the worst side of me. But I do have a better side.”
“There’s nothing bad about thriving on a smart London life, John. You’re in the company of numerous charming and talented people. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You make me sound contemptible.”
“Not at all. You’re only saying that because you want to deny your true self; but let me reintroduce you to your true self, John, the true self I’ve been watching so intently from this wheelchair since 1921. Why did you really go to London after Blanche died? ‘To build a new life away from my tragic memories,’ you say, but I say you went because you knew you’d made a mistake trying to play the country squire and after the novelty had worn off you were bored, restless and frustrated. In fact I think you ran to London gasping with relief, and what happened when you got there? ‘I’ll find some quiet civilized sort of work,’ you say with charming modesty, but within a month you’re hobnobbing with Harley Armstrong. ‘I can’t bear Americans!’ you used to say at the F.O., but in fact Americans excel at being successful on a vast glittering seductive scale, and of course you now allow yourself to be seduced. Are you horrified by your new employment? No, you’re thrilled and stimulated. You look well, sound cheerful and everyone remarks how splendidly you’ve recovered from your bereavement. ‘I couldn’t consider remarrying for at least five years!’ you say earnestly at regular intervals, but when Armstrong plays the matchmaker do you laugh and tell him to go to hell? No, you most certainly do not. You—I’m sorry, do you want to comment?”
“No. Go on.” I set down my empty glass.
“You start seeing a good deal of this girl and you even decide to marry her—and why? Because she’s the symbol, isn’t she, John, the flesh-and-blood symbol of your way, your truth and the life which you not only long to lead but which quite frankly I don’t think you can do without. Forget Oxmoon, John. You’d only find it was an unnecessary and tedious drain on your increasingly valuable time. And forget Mrs. Morgan too—or if you can’t forget her at the moment, then make some sensible provision for her until you’ve exhausted her possibilities. But what you mustn’t under any circumstances forget is the life you deserve, the life that’s owing to you and the life which can satisfy you as no other life can. Now go up to London, make your peace with Armstrong and slam that ring on his daughter’s finger, because believe me, any other solution to your present crisis can only end in misery.”
There was a long silence. I walked to the window and looked out at the garden. Then I began to roam around the room until I stopped by the brandy decanter. Removing the stopper, I poured myself another measure.
“Everything you say is absolutely right,” I said at last, “and yet everything you say is absolutely wrong.”
“But you must surely concede that I’m presenting a rational argument!”
“There’s more to life
than being rational.”
“Not much more.”
“I disagree. All the most profound mysteries of life are inexplicable in rational terms.”
“My dear John, I hope you’re not going to dive from Celtic mysticism into full-blooded Neo-Platonism!”
“God knows what I’m going to do.” I drank my brandy and headed for the door. “I’ll telephone you from London.”
“We’re parting friends?”
I had opened the door, but I abandoned it and moved back to his chair. “Yes. Friends. Always,” I said, taking his hands in mine, and saw his poignant look of gratitude before he masked his feelings with a smile.
Utterly confused, thoroughly miserable and well-nigh beside myself with jealousy and rage I left him and drove to Oxmoon.
IX
“It’s Mr. John, sir,” said Bayliss, showing me into the library where my father, was writing letters. To my relief there was no sign of Mrs. Straker.
My father looked up startled. Then he rose to greet me and we shook hands as Bayliss withdrew.
“Would you like a drink?” said my father, hospitable as ever, but he seemed relieved when I declined. No doubt I reeked of brandy.
Making a great effort to appear stone-cold sober, I said in a neutral voice, “I’m in a spot of trouble, Papa, and I’ve come to you for help.”
“Delightful county, Cornwall, I believe,” said my father, closing the blotter on his unfinished letter. “Wish I’d traveled more when I was younger, but Margaret never fancied it and we were always so busy at home.”
“So Robert’s been keeping you informed.”
The Wheel of Fortune Page 54