We were silent, both thinking of Oxmoon again, and suddenly I knew that he was as aware as I was of that terrible ambiguity in my mind. I turned to him; I turned not merely to my brother but to my guide, my mentor and above all else my friend; I turned to him and I opened my mouth and I tried to say “Help me,” but the words refused to be spoken. My ambiguity was so terrible to me that I feared I might never overcome it once I had formally acknowledged it in speech.
So I said nothing. But he knew. He could no longer reach out to take my hand in his, but I felt his mind flowing powerfully into mine.
After a moment he said, “In the beginning—my beginning—there was Oxmoon and it was a magic house. I tried to tell Kester that the other day. ‘You’re going to get this magic house,’ I said, ‘and you’ve got to put the magic back into it.’ All my life I’ve wanted to do that, John, and now I never shall, but I can live with that knowledge—die with that knowledge—if I believe Kester will do it instead of me.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t believe in a life after death,” said Robert. “I don’t believe human beings are capable of resurrection. But if Kester puts the magic back into my magic house then Oxmoon will rise again on the Wheel of Fortune, and that will be my resurrection; it’ll be my redemption too because Kester will be so grateful to me for securing his inheritance for him and all my past neglect of him will be wiped out—and that means everything to me now, John, everything, I’m no longer extorting Oxmoon from Papa in revenge for the past, I’m extorting it to pass Kester the future which has been denied me and to give meaning to my death.”
Robert was normally neither an emotional nor an imaginative man. Nor was he in the habit of baring his soul. Suddenly I realized that in an effort to demolish my ambiguity he had thrust the whole weight of his trust upon me, and I was dumb; I could only grope for his crippled hands to show that I wanted what he wanted, and for a moment his vision of Oxmoon united us, an Oxmoon radiant and restored, triumphing over the ravages of time.
“Well, so much for that,” said Robert briskly with an alteration of mood so abrupt that I jumped. “Man cannot live on romantic sentimentality alone—thank God—and now that I’ve had my wallow I think I’d better get down to business. My dear John how strong are you feeling? The truth is I’m in the devil of a mess and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to rescue me.”
IV
When I had recovered my equilibrium I said in great alarm, “What in God’s name are you talking about? What kind of a mess?”
“A legal mess, naturally. Lawyers are notorious for making a cock-up of their legal affairs.”
“But what on earth have you done?”
“It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what I’ve failed to do.” Robert paused. Speech was no longer easy for him and the impairment, which gave his words a distorted staccato ring, was becoming more pronounced. I found myself leaning forward in my chair to make sure I heard him properly. “John, when Papa gave me Martinscombe back in 1919 there was no deed of gift. There were two reasons. First, it seemed unnecessary, since although I knew I was ill I had every intention of outliving Papa and inheriting Martinscombe along with the rest of Oxmoon when he died. And second, Papa was in a peculiar tax position at the time and needed Martinscombe for a year or two to set himself straight. So our arrangement was informal—always a fatal mistake.”
“Fatal. But didn’t you try to put matters right later?”
“Yes, but can’t you imagine what happened? He couldn’t face the increasingly obvious fact that I was going to die before he was, and he started talking about how he’d have to discuss the situation with Margaret. Having a pardonable horror of seeing him demented I then shied off. Time drifted by. However, goaded on quite rightly by Ginette, I nerved myself last month to dictate a letter to him on the subject. Back came a polite reply to the effect that he preferred to keep the estate together and that as Kester was the heir anyway, why not leave matters as they were. But you see the problem, don’t you?”
“All too clearly. When you die Ginevra and Kester will have no legal right to remain here, and Papa may well be more unreliable than ever.”
“Exactly. I detect the hand of Straker in this polite but profoundly unsatisfactory letter from Papa. She may not want the bungalow for her old age, but I can quite see her fancying the idea of letting it and pocketing the income.”
“So can I. Very well, what’s to be done?”
“Land Registration’s been in force since the Act of ’25. I want Martinscombe registered in my name, and I’ll give you a power of attorney so that you can deal with the Land Registry on my behalf. Ginette’s power of attorney is no use here; the Land Registry might look too closely at the matter if they knew they were dealing with a woman.”
“Well, I’ll certainly do all I can to help you, Robert, but how can you register something that’s not legally yours?”
“That’s the difficulty,” said Robert, and beyond his speech impairment I heard the echo of a lawyer who was gliding with consummate skill around some very awkward facts. “We have two choices here. Either we involve Papa or we don’t. If we involve him he’d have to sign a letter of authorization—at the very least; the Land Registry might well insist on seeing a formal deed of gift. However as Papa won’t discuss the estate with you and has proved himself highly evasive with me, this doesn’t seem to be a feasible course of action.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“We take matters into our own hands.”
“I’m not sure I’m too keen on this, Robert.”
“My dear John, to quote one of Mama’s most notorious phrases, it’s the right thing—indeed the only thing—to do. How else can I protect my wife and son from a predator like Straker?”
“All right, go on.”
“I think I can see a solution based on the fact that Papa and I have the same name. We’ll approach the Land Registry and ask for Martinscombe Farm to be registered in the name of Robert Charles Godwin. That’ll include the bungalow, which is still legally on the Martinscombe lands.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll engage a London firm of solicitors whom I’ve never used before and ask them to attend to the formalities of the registration—the documents, fees and so on. Then when the Registry issues a certificate I can lodge it with my normal solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn. Once that’s done I ostensibly have a title which I can devise by will, and if I behave as if I’m the legal owner of Martinscombe by remaking my will to include it, no one in London will question the ownership when I die. My new will will be granted probate, the title will be reregistered and there’s no reason why either Papa or Fairfax’s firm in Swansea should ever find out about it—unless Papa goes completely insane, Straker tries to evict Ginette and the deed has to surface to prove Kester’s title. And all that may never happen. This is purely a defensive measure, not an act of aggrandizement.”
“If Papa does go completely insane, surely Ginevra would have a legal remedy?”
“His sanity would still be a debatable issue. No, I’m taking no chances—if there’s even the faintest possibility that Ginette might lose her case in court, I don’t want her involved with the law at all.”
“Fair enough, but I still don’t see how you’re going to get around this without involving Papa. Surely the Land Registry will want proof of title?”
“That’s not a problem. I’ll simply ask Fairfax, who as the Oxmoon solicitor has the Oxmoon deeds in his safekeeping, to lend me the Martinscombe abstract of title—or whatever documents the Land Registry needs. I’ll say there’s a point I want to establish in relation to my son’s inheritance, and Fairfax isn’t going to refuse me. In fact I may even improve on that story in order to keep the deeds in my possession. I’m sure that’s well within my capabilities.”
I ignored this chilling reference to the potential acrobatics of a legally trained mind. “And meanwhile,” I said, working the scheme out, “the abstract of title
will say the farm belongs to Robert Charles Godwin—”
“—and the Land Registry will innocently assume that’s me and not Papa. Don’t worry, John, this is nothing serious. It’s just a little muddle over a name.”
In such a manner might my mother have suggested my father’s fatal juggling with the tide tables.
“My dear Robert, you appall me.”
“I appall myself. But you answer me this: what the devil else can I do?”
I had no idea. I was silent, trying to consider the morality of the situation clearly. At last I said, “In my opinion it’s unarguable that you have a moral right to that property—Papa intended in 1919 that it should be yours.”
“Exactly. To square your conscience you can think of this as legalizing Papa’s wishes.”
“And since the estate will go to Kester anyway,” I pursued, plowing doggedly on, “it doesn’t matter whether he inherits Martinscombe from you soon or from Papa later. No one’s being defrauded.”
Robert hesitated. I looked at him sharply, but decided he was having trouble with his speech. His facial muscles were paralyzed so there was no expression for me to read. In the end he just said, “People will get what they deserve. Justice will be done.”
“ ‘Fiat justitia!’ ” I quoted, smiling at him, but he was too exhausted to reply. Ringing the bell for Bennett I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything” and heard him whisper back, “You’re the best brother a man ever had.”
I only hoped I could live up to his opinion of me. I had no doubt that I was doing the right thing by helping Robert protect Ginevra and Kester, but once I started manipulating the legal ownership of property I felt I was on dangerous ground indeed.
V
“That stupid sissyish baby Kester said such a silly thing to me today,” said Harry, wandering up as I tinkered with the engine of my motor to distract myself from my worries. “He says he’s going to inherit Oxmoon! Imagine!” And he laughed with scorn and took a large bite out of the apple in his hand.
I straightened my back to look at him. He was within days of his ninth birthday, and although he took after his mother in looks, he had a bold adventurous personality which reminded me of myself when I had been Johnny long ago, living dangerously with Lion at Oxmoon. After my own experiences as a child I strongly disapproved of parents who had favorites but secretly, in my unguarded moments, I felt Harry was quite perfect. He was very good-looking, very clever, very athletic, very well mannered and very personable, and I often felt sad that Blanche was not alive to share my joy in him.
“I told Kester quite frankly,” he was saying as he munched his apple, “that he hadn’t a hope of inheriting. ‘Tough luck, old chap,’ I said, not wanting to be too beastly, ‘but that’s one yarn you simply can’t spin.’ And do you know what he did, Papa? He laughed! He said ‘I know something you don’t know!’ and he stuck out his tongue at me. Of course, never having been away to school he’s just pampered and spoiled, and he can’t help behaving like an idiot, I realize that. But all the same … I thought it was pretty peculiar behavior. Everyone knows Uncle Robert’s dying, and everyone knows that when Uncle Robert’s dead you’ll be Grandfather’s eldest surviving son. So that means you’ll get Oxmoon eventually, doesn’t it? And then I’ll get it after you.”
I glanced down at the complicated engine of my motor. I glanced at the damp cobbles of the stable yard, at the newly painted water butt, at the oil stains on my hands. I glanced everywhere except at Harry, shining perfect Harry who deserved everything a devoted father could give him. Several seconds ticked by. Then I picked up a nearby rag, wiped my hands and said, “Oxmoon passes from eldest son to eldest son, Harry, so. Kester will inherit from Uncle Robert even though Uncle Robert may die before Grandfather.”
Silence.
“You mean that’s the done thing?” said Harry at last.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the done thing. Grandfather has an absolute moral duty to leave Oxmoon to Kester.”
“Oh, I see,” said Harry. “I didn’t realize.” He stood looking at the apple in his hand. Then he threw the core away, said carelessly, “Well, never mind, I like the Manor much better than Oxmoon anyway” and skipped off across the cobbles.
I remember thinking with enormous relief that at least I had one child who never gave me a moment’s anxiety.
VI
Christmas had become a bad time of the year for my father, and the Christmas of 1927 was no exception. When I arrived on Christmas afternoon with Thomas, Harry and Marian to pay our traditional call, we found he was in bed and seeing no one.
Against Milly’s advice, I went up to his room.
“I’m not receiving you while you live openly with that woman and father bastards,” he said when he saw me. “I don’t suppose my disapproval will bring you to your senses, but I’ve made up my mind I must try and save you. I can’t stand by passively while you ruin yourself.”
Ironically this view reflected my own sentiments about him, but as there was no way the conversation could be prolonged I was obliged to leave.
In the new year Warburton said, “John, I think you ought to know I’ve been hearing rumors that your father’s insane. Apparently there’s a lot of discontent on the estate.”
I had heard similar stories from Thomas, who mixed more with the local population than I could, but Warburton’s words carried more weight with me. “I’ll talk to Robert,” I said automatically. “I’ll see what he thinks I should do.”
“No,” said Warburton. “He mustn’t be worried by your father’s situation anymore—he’s too ill. I’m sorry, John, but the moment’s finally come: you’re on your own.”
The Wheel had become a rack, Fortune was tightening the screws and amidst all my grief I was aware of an overpowering fear that my courage would be insufficient to meet the ordeal that I could now so clearly see ahead.
But I had to conquer that fear. I could not allow myself to be defeated because too many people depended on me.
I struggled on.
VII
Again I saw Freddy Fairfax, the senior partner in the firm of Swansea solicitors who handled the Oxmoon estate. When I had seen him previously he had assured me he would let me know if ever he thought my father showed signs of being legally incompetent, but since then I had heard nothing from him.
Fairfax was in his late forties, a smooth sleek able and not unpleasant individual with whom I played golf occasionally at weekends. His reputation was good. Certainly I had never heard any story that reflected on either his honesty or his competence, and although he might have shunned me during my days as a pariah this was no reason why I should have distrusted his professional judgment.
“I’m worried about my father again,” I said after we had exchanged preliminary greetings in his office. “Have you seen him lately?”
“I was over at Oxmoon the other day, old boy. Couple of new tenancy agreements needed. He seemed very much in the pink. Not quite the man he used to be, of course, but old age gets to us all in the end, what?”
“Have you heard rumors of trouble on the estate?”
“Rumors, old boy?”
“Well, you are the estate’s solicitor, Fairfax! I assume you have your ear close to the ground!”
“Old boy, I hate to say this because I know you’re well intentioned, but I really don’t think I can discuss my client’s affairs with you.”
I persisted but got nowhere and eventually, profoundly skeptical, I left him and drove to Oxmoon.
VIII
“I won’t receive you,” said my father. “Please leave at once.”
“I only want to help.”
“I don’t want your help. You’re not to be trusted—you broke your word to me. You swore you wouldn’t live openly with her.”
“Surely despite my private life you can accept that my affection for you is genuine?”
“What if it is? My mother’s affection for me was genuine too, but my God, what hell she put me th
rough! Her spirit’s possessed you, I can see that clearly now; you’re her, you’ve come back to torment me, you’ve got to be kept out—”
“Papa—”
“Stay away from me!”
I left.
IX
“What can I do, Ginevra? Fairfax swears he’s normal. He won’t see Warburton, won’t talk to me. Obviously he’s mentally ill but how the devil do I get him certified?”
“My dear, what horrors, but I can’t cope. I’ve got a mountain of horrors of my own.”
“Oh, God, forgive me, I’m so sorry—”
“He can’t bear being blind, he simply can’t bear it. …”
She broke down, I took her in my arms and the darkness seemed to close over us as if we had been walled up alive in a tomb.
X
Five days later on Lady Day a band of tenants from the Oxmoon estate marched to see Robert to protest at the new steep increases in their rents. Treating my father as incompetent they had turned to his heir for justice, and when they found Robert was too ill to see anyone they refused to disperse. The telephone call came from Ginevra just as I returned to the Manor from the Home Farm, and taking Thomas with me I drove immediately to Little Oxmoon.
We found about thirty men encamped before the bungalow. They appeared peaceful enough at first glance, but as I halted the car they surged forward to surround it and I saw their mood was ugly.
“Keep your mouth shut,” I said to Thomas, “and leave this entirely to me.”
I noticed that the majority of the men were farm laborers who lived in my father’s Penhale cottages, but when I saw that my father’s foremen too were present, I knew the rise in rent was merely the straw which had broken the camel’s back. Clearly this was the climax of years of increasing maladministration.
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