The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “A bit tricky about this baby Bronwen’s having, isn’t it?” I said as we munched our currant buns. “I mean, everyone knows it’s not the done thing to have a baby without being married—it’s not playing the game at all.”

  Harry parked his bun and stood up. “Papa and Bronwen love each other,” he said violently. “If you love each other you have babies—and that’s the done thing, marriage or no marriage.”

  “But my mother says—”

  “Shut up!” Harry shouted at me. “My father says it’s all right so it’s all right, and if you say it isn’t I’ll beat you till your teeth rattle!”

  “Oh, how you do drone on!” I said, affecting a yawn as I edged nimbly away around the table. “Why are you so upset? Are you afraid in case Uncle John likes the new baby better than he likes you?”

  “You mean-minded, lily-livered, sick-making little sissy—” As he came at me with flailing fists I screamed for help and the next moment Simon arrived to ensure that the incident followed a predictable course. We were each set a grueling exercise in the subject we hated most; that kept us quiet for a while, but as I struggled with my multiplication sums I saw that a tear had blotted the sentence Harry had just written in his English-grammar book. I was amazed. In fact I was so amazed that I did not at first hear Simon ask me to fetch him a glass of water.

  Realizing I was being dispatched on the flimsiest of excuses I naturally paused at the door to eavesdrop.

  “What’s the matter, Harry?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “No, thank you. Everything’s top-hole.”

  Perfect Cousin Harry had his upper lip well starched again after his extraordinary lapse. In disappointment I padded away to fetch the unwanted glass of water.

  I would have thought no more about the incident but to my surprise Harry revived the subject the next day.

  “Sorry I was so ratty with you yesterday, old chap,” he said as we again sank our teeth into our midmorning currant buns, “but the truth is I can’t stand anyone being rude about my father. As I’m his favorite it’s my moral duty to defend him at all times.”

  “Ah.” Deciding I had no desire for another fight I took a second bite of my bun and kept quiet.

  “Of course I’ll always be Papa’s favorite,” said Cousin Harry, “not just because I’m the best but because he and my mother were married.”

  “Ah,” I said tactfully again.

  “Well, it’s simply no good if your parents aren’t married, old chap. Rhiannon told Marian. She heard it at her school. If your parents aren’t married you’re called a bastard and it’s a pretty dreadful thing to be, even worse than being working-class.”

  “Gosh!” I said horrified. “Poor Evan!”

  “Yes, poor Evan,” said Cousin Harry benignly. “I really feel quite sorry for him sometimes.”

  I still wondered if he would feel equally benign towards the new arrival, but he behaved graciously enough after Gerry was born and Bronwen was very pleased.

  “What an adorable baby!” said my mother to Bronwen as soon as she saw Gerry, but later to my father she said, “Yes, it’s a dear little thing, but my God, you should hear what’s being said in the village! There’s bad feeling against Johnny now, as well as Bronwen—it’s interesting, isn’t it, that nobody thinks twice about a gentleman discreetly keeping a mistress but once he starts living openly with a working-class woman and treating her as his wife, everyone, even the working classes themselves, takes his behavior as a personal affront.”

  “Especially the working classes, I’d say. What’s the point of having an upper class which doesn’t even make a nominal attempt to justify its privileged position by setting an example the hoi polloi can respect? One might as well guillotine the lot and be done with them.”

  “Well, Johnny had better look out for the tumbrils, that’s all I can say. … What’s that scrabbling noise at the door? Is that you, Kester? Naughty boy, how often have I told you not to listen at keyholes!”

  In fact my habit of eavesdropping, which I readily admit is detestable, was essential for a child brought up in secluded circumstances, and later it seemed to become more vital than ever; I felt I had to do all I could to keep up with my worldly Cousin Harry when he returned home from his prep school for the holidays.

  “Copulation, old chap? Oh gosh, yes, everyone knows about that. No, it’s no good me telling you about it now because you’re much too infantile to understand, but believe me, when one goes away to boarding school one learns simply everything there is to know.”

  Despite this glowing recommendation I was most mightily relieved when my mother decided after my father died that I was unsuited to boarding school. I had no interest whatsoever in being deprived of all privacy and martyred on the games field in all weathers, but as soon as Uncle John heard that I was not to be packed off to prep school in the autumn of 1928, he came steaming over to Little Oxmoon to make a first-class scene.

  It was July when my mother dropped this bombshell on him. My father had been dead for three months. My mother had paid her visit to nasty Darling Declan in Dublin and had returned with innumerable photographs of a cross-eyed infant who, so I was told, was my nephew. I was also shown photographs first of a very pretty Irish girl who turned out to be my sister-in-law with the unspellable name (my mother pronounced it Sh-vawn) and second of a tall dark individual, running rather to fat as Rory was but with a sharp alert look and a subtle sinister smile. “He looks a rotter,” I said at once, and then remembered that in books I always liked the rotters.

  “Did he ask lots of questions about me?” I said later to Rory when my mother was out of the room.

  “Now, what would he want to do that for? He wouldn’t be interested in any son of Robert’s,” said Rory brutally, and I screamed back, “Good! I’m not interested in any son of …” but I couldn’t think what to call Conor Kinsella. “Mr. Kinsella” seemed too respectful and “Conor” much too friendly. Confused, I rushed out of the room and slammed the door while Rory’s unkind laughter rang in my ears.

  I had just recovered from this renewed brush with my mother’s Kinsella past when Uncle John made his big scene. Harry was due to return from school for the summer holidays, and because his arrival was imminent I suppose it was only natural that Uncle John should have remembered me and inquired of my mother—purely as a formality—whether my entry to Briarwood had been confirmed for the autumn term.

  “Well actually, darling,” said my mother into the telephone as she lolled on the sofa and plucked a chocolate from the box on her lap, “I’ve decided not to send Kester away to school.”

  Several indignant squeaks from the telephone made her jump. I dashed across to the sofa just in time to save the box of chocolates as it slid towards the floor.

  “But Johnny—thank you, Kester pet—Johnny, listen—”

  An incensed click terminated the conversation.

  “Oh Lord!” said my mother, hanging up. “Now we’re for it, darling. Here—help yourself to a chocolate, and then find me a nice gooey one with a soft center to cheer me up. Your heroic Uncle John is just about to make an all-out effort to save you from being ruined by your naughty old mother. My dear, I feel weak with fright!”

  “Gosh, Mum, what are you going to do?”

  “Oh, I shall be heroic too—two can play at that game. Pet, take these chocolates away before I eat the lot, and wherever you take them to, stay there. I think I must have a teensy-weensy little pink gin.”

  I pattered outside with the chocolate box and took up a comfortable position behind the lavender bushes beneath the open drawing-room windows. Then I ate an orange cream, a Turkish delight and a caramel as I waited for Uncle John to launch himself on his crusade.

  He arrived ten minutes later.

  “Johnny, how divine to see you! Have a pink gin!”

  “No, thanks, not before six.” Uncle John, shorn of Bronw
en, was at his stuffiest and most English. I could imagine the exact pattern of his Savile Row suit and felt certain he would be wearing his Old Harrovian tie. “Ginevra, I won’t beat about the bush. Am I to understand that you don’t intend to send that boy to prep school at all?”

  “That’s right, darling. No boarding school.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not opposed to boarding school,” pursued my mother. “I’d have been keen for Robin to go because I know he’d have enjoyed boarding-school life as much as Harry does, but Kester’s not Robin and he’s not Harry and he’d hate it. He’s a sensitive, solitary child—”

  “Very much too sensitive,” said Uncle John nastily, “and very much too solitary—and that’s exactly why he should be sent away to school! He must be toughened up, he must be put in the company of other boys, he must be made to play games so that he can learn about leadership and team spirit—”

  “Johnny, that’s all simply lovely and absolutely the spirit that built the Empire, but it’s got nothing to do with reality. The truth is Kester would be bullied to pieces, and I’m sorry but I’m not going to let my child be tortured like that!”

  “My dear Ginevra, I’ve never heard such melodramatic exaggeration in all my life! The truth is that you’re a woman and you’ve no idea what goes on in boys’ schools—you’ve heard a few horrific stories and so you assume the places are all dens of sadism—”

  “And aren’t they?” said my mother.

  “Certainly not! Briarwood’s a splendid school—I’ll have a talk with the headmaster about Kester to make sure the boy gets exactly the care he needs, and then you can rest assured that he’ll be well looked after from his first day to his last—and what’s more, he’ll enjoy his school days and be grateful for them! You simply can’t keep him at home, Ginevra! A fatherless boy needs—”

  “I’ll be the judge,” said my mother, “of what my son needs.”

  “But what would Robert have said? I can’t believe he would have approved of the boy being tied to your apron strings like this!”

  “Some apron strings!” said my mother with a little throaty laugh. I could imagine her knocking back the pink gin, and sure enough a second later I heard the gurgle of the bottle as she mixed herself another drink. “Sure you won’t join me, Johnny?”

  “No. Oh, all right, yes—thanks. Ginevra, I’m quite sure Robert would have wanted Kester to be toughened up in a masculine atmosphere. I mean … well, for God’s sake, do you want your son to be a man or don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” said my mother, “but I happen to believe there’s more to being a man than wearing an Old School tie, knowing one end of a cricket bat from another and indulging in that homosexual horseplay known as rugby football!”

  The word “homosexual” bounced aimlessly off my brain but none of the other words did. I nearly expired with ecstasy. Clutching the lavender bush to steady myself I wondered if I dared peep over the windowsill but my nerve failed me as Uncle John said from somewhere close at hand, “I give up.”

  “Thank God,” said my mother. “Look—here’s your pink gin—let’s drink and be friends. You know how much I rely on you and how marvelous I think you are!”

  Uncle John heaved such an exasperated sigh of resignation that I could picture the stream of air rushing through the open window above my head. Finally he said, “I’ve certainly no wish for a quarrel. But I just can’t tell you how wrong I think you’re being—in fact I think your decision is bound to mean that you’ll have trouble with Kester one day.”

  “Do you?” purred my mother in her richest, most dangerous voice. “How interesting! I rather think you’re going to have trouble with Harry. You see, my domestic situation is so boringly straightforward that Kester can only yawn and feel secure. But your domestic situation, romantic and thrilling as it is, isn’t quite so restful as mine, is it? In fact sometimes I think I can hear a time bomb ticking, but if any bomb goes off in the Gower Peninsula it won’t be here at Little Oxmoon. It’ll be at Penhale Manor.”

  There was a silence before Uncle John said evenly, “Perhaps your domestic arrangements won’t be so dull now that Robert’s dead. I can see that Kester’s best hope lies in acquiring a sensible stepfather.”

  “Oh my dear, no—no, no and again no! I’ve had marriage, thanks very much, absolutely had it.”

  “I thought perhaps—”

  “Yes, I daresay you did, but there’s going to be no third marriage. Twice was quite sufficient.”

  “But …” Uncle John seemed to find this baffling. I couldn’t think why. It seemed eminently sensible to me and I was delighted.

  The last thing I wanted was a stepfather; it was bad enough trying to survive a bossy uncle. “You mean to go on as you are?” he said confused at last.

  “Why not? The present situation suits me very well—although I must say, I do wonder if it’ll remain unaltered now Robert’s dead. It’s as if the journey’s over and one must inevitably drift apart from some if not all of one’s traveling companions.”

  “If things do change, might you return to London?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not going to do anything in a rush. I’ve spent quite enough of my life jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, and now I intend to stay where I am until Robert’s been dead a year.”

  “That seems sensible, I agree, but all the same … how very unorthodox you are, Ginevra!”

  “That makes two of us, doesn’t it, darling? But where we differ is that when I practice my unorthodoxy Kester knows nothing about it—and neither does anyone else.”

  Uncle John left soon after this, and as soon as his new Rover had roared off down the drive I rushed back to the drawing room.

  “You were marvelous, Mum!” I said hugging her. “As good as Boadicea!”

  “Naughty little boy, I hope you didn’t leave the chocolate box among the lavender bushes—oh yes, you did! Go and fetch it at once before I spank you. How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?” said my mother, but she was smiling at me indulgently, and after I had retrieved the chocolate box I rushed upstairs to the schoolroom and tried to look up UNAUTHORDOCKS in the dictionary.

  IV

  “Unorthodox, old chap,” said Cousin Harry some time later, “means not doing the done thing. You’re unorthodox, not going to school. Honestly, how feeble! No wonder your father’s dead—I bet he died of shame!”

  This time I was the one who started the fight but before I had the chance to relieve my feelings Bronwen entered the nursery with Gerry, blue-eyed and chubby, in her arms. As Harry and I at once recoiled from each other Bronwen said simply, “Fighting’s wrong.” She made it sound so obvious that I had an absurd urge to kick myself for not having come to this, conclusion before. “Evan!” she called over her shoulder. “Kester’s arrived for tea!

  Harry, just hold the high chair steady for me, would you, please—I need both hands to carry the baby at the moment because I mustn’t strain myself.”

  That was when I noticed Bronwen was changing her shape again. I had not seen her for some time, because my mother and I had been visiting Aunt Daphne in Scotland.

  “Are you having another baby, Bronwen?” I said with interest, just to make sure.

  “Yes,” she said with a brief smile, and busied herself with tucking Gerry into his high chair.

  My visit to the Manor progressed in predictable fashion until six o’clock when my mother arrived to collect me. Uncle John was at a board meeting in Swansea. Dafydd, who spent most of his time nowadays with cousins in Cardiff, was absent but Rhiannon appeared from the Home Farm, where she lived with her aunt, and stayed to tea. Ghastly Cousin Marian flounced around saying how bored she was and how divine it would be to return to school next week. Harry withdrew to his room to conduct a tadpole experiment. I played with Gerry—an exhausting occupation since he had reached the age when he wanted to destroy everything in sight—but eventually settled down to a more peaceful task, helping Evan to paint picture
s. After tea we designed a landscape showing a gorgeous crimson sun setting over Rhossili Bay, while on the far side of the room Marian, Harry and Rhiannon played Monopoly to the accompaniment of remarks like “You cheat!” “I’m not cheating!” “You pig!” “That’s mine!” “Oh no it isn’t!” and “Oh yes it is!” I have always loathed Monopoly and consider it quite one of the most pointless games ever invented.

  As the cuckoo clock in the nursery whooped six my mother streamed into the room. “Hullo, pet,” she said to me. “Hullo, everyone. Evan, what a lovely picture! Oh, isn’t that clever of Evan, Bronwen! Bronwen … are you all right?”

  Bronwen said in a muffled voice that she was.

  “Come and sit down—no, not in here—God, what a noise all these children make! Let’s go into the night nursery for a moment.”

  “Paint another flower just here, Evan,” I suggested casually, pointing to a blank spot on our masterpiece, and drifted to the playpen to retrieve a brick which Gerry had just thrown beyond the bars. As I stooped to pick it up I found the hinges of the open night-nursery door were a foot from my left ear.

  “When is it due?”

  “February.”

  “Is … is it perhaps not quite what you want?”

  “It’s not what Johnny wants.” A stifled sob. “It was an accident.”

  Gerry roared for his brick but I ignored him. The hinges of the door were too alluring.

  “And you?” my mother was saying.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Oh, if only Constance could see what she’s doing to us—”

  “If this were a detective story,” said my mother, “somebody would murder that woman.”

  But nobody did murder Aunt Constance, and nobody was able to change her mind either on the subject of divorce. Bronwen gave birth to her third illegitimate son early in February, but I barely noticed because at that moment, even before all the gossiping tongues could sink into an exhausted silence, the great miracle happened, my grandfather dropped dead and at nine years old I became master of Oxmoon.