2
I
TO SAY THAT MY GRANDFATHER dropped dead is perhaps a slight exaggeration, as he did live for several hours after the stroke, but the hours were passed in a coma and he never regained consciousness.
“What a merciful release!” said my mother to Uncle John when he brought the news, and added: “Too bad it didn’t happen immediately after Margaret died.”
My mother’s experiences had left her outspoken on the subject of death. “Death’s all right,” she said with shattering directness to my uncle. “It’s dying that’s the nightmare. When I pop off I hope to God it’s quick. Keel over—bang—out. That’s what I want. No fuss, no mess and lashings of pink gin for everyone after the funeral. You will remember that, won’t you, Johnny darling? As I’m twelve years older than you I’ll probably pop off first.”
But my uncle looked as if he thought these remarks were in bad taste and said stuffily that she should put her wishes concerning her funeral in writing and attach the document to her will so that there would be no risk of a misunderstanding among her heirs.
The gossips declared that Mrs. Straker had stolen even the ring off my grandfather’s finger as he lay dying, but everyone hated her so much that people would willingly have believed a story that she grew horns and vanished in a puff of smoke. It was true that the Godwin family signet ring was missing, but poor old Grandfather was so dotty that he could easily have thrown it away in a fit of absentmindedness. The stroke overtook him when he was in bed, a fact which both my mother and Uncle John thought implied the presence of Mrs. Straker, but although my mother was convinced Mrs. Straker had stolen the ring Uncle John believed in her innocence.
“That woman could twist any man around her little finger,” said my mother darkly, a remark that conjured up the most extraordinary pictures in my nine-year-old mind, but Uncle John said, “At least she left him tidy and dignified and removed any humiliating evidence.”
“You mean she delayed calling Gavin, packed her bags and skipped off at first light! I think it’s absolutely disgusting that she walked out immediately like that …”
As they argued irrelevantly about Mrs. Straker I edged closer and closer to my mother until finally I could tug at her sleeve.
“… so my dear, you’ll simply have to give him a lavish funeral, no choice. … Yes, what is it, Kester?”
“Am I … now that Grandfather’s dead …”
“That’s right, pet, we’ll go and live at Oxmoon now. Johnny, there’s absolutely no need to have a ghastly formal lunch afterwards—throw open the ballroom for a champagne reception and even Aunt Ethel will be lost in the stampede!”
Uncle John groaned at the thought of Aunt Ethel, who was a family legend and synonymous with complete awfulness. She was my grandmother’s sister, and I had long pictured her as a snake-headed Medusa who lived in a pottery kiln in Staffordshire. She was fond of my Uncle Thomas (by far the most awful member of the Godwin family) and sent him a pair of hand-knitted socks every Christmas.
“… and anyway,” my mother was saying, “with any luck the Staffordshire crowd will refuse the invitation. Yes, what is it, Kester? Don’t tug at my sleeve like that!”
“Am I very rich now?”
“No. You’ll go on having your sixpence-a-week pocket money and that’ll be that. How’s the mortgage, Johnny?”
“Not so bad. We’ll have the estate back in good order by the time Kester’s eighteen.”
“What happens when I’m eighteen?” I said.
“That’s when you come into your inheritance,” said Uncle John. “Your grandfather became legally responsible for Oxmoon when he was eighteen, even though he didn’t gain control of it till he was twenty. He always treated eighteen, not twenty-one, as the time we all came of age.”
“But do you mean Oxmoon won’t really be mine for another nine whole years?”
“Of course it’ll be yours, silly-billy,” said my mother exasperated, “but you’ll have to have people looking after it for you while you’re growing up. What did you think was going to happen? Did you see yourself sitting on a throne in the hall and issuing orders to your servants?”
This was in fact exactly what I had visualized. I tried not to look mortified. As usual, reality was proving a very poor second to my fantasies.
“You and I are the trustees, aren’t we, Johnny? Thank God Bobby didn’t include Thomas—my nerves wouldn’t have stood it. … No, Kester, I’m not answering any more questions—run off and ask Nanny to take you for a walk.”
I retired in great humiliation. The master of Oxmoon was to ask his nanny to take him for a walk! And no increase in pocket money! As I went for a walk by myself, trudging drearily through the March drizzle, I saw all my dreams of grandeur dissolve one by one. I wouldn’t have the leading role among the mourners at the funeral. I wouldn’t have Uncle Thomas fawning at my feet in the dining room, and as there was to be no formal lunch I would have no chance to sit in my grandfather’s great carved chair at the head of the table. Instead I would be wholly overlooked during the reception in the ballroom, trampled underfoot and suffocated by the reek of pink gin. Tears came to my eyes. I cried.
My mother, seeing me return red-eyed from my walk, became crosser than ever. “Now what’s the matter, for goodness’ sake! I thought Grandfather meant no more to you than half a crown occasionally!”
“I feel sad for me.”
“You! Good God, you’ve just inherited Oxmoon—you’re the luckiest little boy in all England and Wales! How dare you be sad! There’s your heroic Uncle John, keeping a stiff upper lip and being simply wonderful as usual, and here am I, grappling with all kinds of upsetting memories of poor Bobby but trying my best to be calm and sensible, and you have the nerve to stand there and be sad! Oh, I could slap you!”
It was an Anglo-Saxon tradition in our family that children below the age of puberty did not attend funerals, but as my grandfather’s heir I naturally had to be present, and as soon as he heard that I would be there Cousin Harry, not to be outdone, said he wanted to be there too.
“You’re just trying to impress your father,” I said scornfully on the day before the funeral.
“Not at all, old chap,” said urbane Cousin Harry. “I’m going because it’s the done thing. After all, I’m the eldest grandson, aren’t I? And,” said Cousin Harry very nastily, “I was the favorite grandson too.”
“A fat lot of good that’s done you!” I said wittily. “I’m the one who’s inherited Oxmoon!” And I skipped out of his way feeling in very high spirits indeed. In fact, soon my tears were quite forgotten because I heard that Uncle John had decided to give a formal luncheon after all; he had been helped to this decision by the news that dreaded Aunt Ethel and her cohorts had decided not to attend the funeral, and as soon as I heard that the reception in the ballroom had been cancelled, I began to dream urgently again of taking my seat in Grandfather’s great carved chair.
The family began to assemble at Oxmoon where Mrs. Wells, Uncle John’s housekeeper, had once again temporarily replaced the wicked Mrs. Straker. The first guests to arrive were Uncle Edmund and Aunt Teddy with their two little boys Richard and Geoffrey. Uncle Edmund was subdued, maundering on and on about how guilty he felt because he hadn’t visited his father more often, but Aunt Teddy did her best to cheer him up. Aunt Teddy was bright and bouncy, like a rubber ball, and looked as if she were constantly on the verge of dancing the Charleston. But I noticed she was very cool to Uncle John, never speaking to him if she could avoid it, and I remembered that she and Aunt Constance, who so badly needed to be murdered, were sisters.
My brother Rory, who was between jobs as usual, turned up in his red two-seater and surprised me by saying sentimentally what a wonderful man my grandfather had been. “Bobby was very good to Rory and Declan when they were boys,” my mother explained, seeing my astonished expression, and added with a sigh to Rory: “It’s sad Kester has no memory of Bobby as he used to be.” This struck me as an interesti
ng remark, but before I could ponder on it further my Aunt Celia arrived from Heidelberg with her daughter Erika and I was faced with the ordeal of being sociable to an unknown cousin who spoke no English. Erika was eight, blond, blue-eyed and very, very fat. We gazed at each other in mutual horror before I escaped to my room to try on my new black suit.
I half-wondered if Declan would come from Ireland, but he merely wrote a letter of sympathy to Uncle John and asked my mother to send a wreath in his name; however I read the letter. Uncle John showed it to my mother and left it carelessly on the hall table as he went off to drink pink gin with her, so it was easy for me to take a quick peep. Dear Mr. Godwin, I read. Please allow me to express my sympathy to you in your bereavement. Your father was a fine man and treated my brother and myself with a kindness and generosity which perhaps we took too much for granted during those happy days we spent at Oxmoon long ago. My wife and I send our good wishes to you and your family. Yours sincerely, DECLAN KINSELLA.
What surprised me about this letter was its Englishness. My picture of Declan as an illiterate Irish barbarian underwent a significant revision.
The day of the funeral dawned and in great excitement I dressed in my new suit. “I think I look well in black,” I said to Nanny, “but I wish I could have long trousers.”
“Not before you’re twelve,” said Nanny. “Only common boys wear long trousers before they’re twelve.”
I wondered who had invented that rule. Who in fact had invented all these rules which set out the differences between doing the done thing and behaving like a savage? It was all most mysterious, but as I prepared for the funeral that morning I knew very well that I was approaching an occasion on which the need to do the done thing was absolutely paramount. Proper behavior at a funeral could mean the difference between universal approval and eternal damnation by the People Who Mattered (Uncle John). Clutching my prayer book, I thought what a good thing it was that Grandfather had meant so little to me; thanks to my emotional apathy I felt sure I could be a perfect Godwin, sustaining a stiff upper lip for the duration of the funeral.
But at the church I remembered my mother’s remark “It’s sad Kester has no memory of Bobby as he used to be,” and then in my mind I heard her say, “I do wish you could remember Daddy before he became ill,” and suddenly I felt not only bereaved but deprived twice over, shortchanged by a fate which had cut me off from the two men in my life who should have been of such importance to me. Tears filled my eyes. I bit my lip, but it trembled inexorably. Panic filled me. I snuffled, choked, sniveled in my pew.
Nudging me sharply, my mother hissed, “Stop it!” but that only made me worse. Luckily we were in the front pew so nobody could turn around to observe my humiliation, and certainly no one behind us could see I was awash with tears, but I shuddered at the thought of Uncle John, who was standing next to me. As my mother furiously thrust her black lace handkerchief into my hands I prayed for him not to look aside from his hymnbook, and in praying I diverted myself so successfully that I forgot all about poor little me, shortchanged by fate. My tears stopped but then—horror of horrors—we all withdrew to the churchyard, and when I saw the open grave, the silent crowds and the clergyman looking like death personified, I was struck by the inescapable reality of my grandfather’s nonexistence. I felt that everyone was looking at me. Terrified of breaking down I tried to hide behind my mother’s ample black coat.
“Kester! Don’t be such a little ninny!” My mother was furious again. “Stand up straight this instant!”
The earth looked dark and wet. The sky was gray, the wind was cold and I thought how awful it was that we should all have this hideous fate awaiting us in the future. Tears streamed down my face as I dwelled on the tragic destiny of mankind.
“God, look at that little pansy!” muttered bestial Uncle Thomas.
“Shut up, you brute!” snapped my mother at him.
“Ginevra—Thomas …” It was Uncle John. He was stooping over me, but although I braced myself for his anger it did not come. His arm slipped around me. His voice was quiet and infinitely kind. “Kester, don’t think of your grandfather. Think of Oxmoon and show all these people here that you’re a young man to be reckoned with.”
I gulped, gripped his hand tightly and dashed away my shameful tears as I thought of Oxmoon and my new eminence. But then …
“Ashes to ashes … dust to dust …”
Tears streamed down my face again. It seemed so terrible that anyone, even dotty old Grandfather, should be reduced to dust and ashes, and suddenly I thought, Poor Grandfather; how beastly I’ve been! And I was deeply ashamed. After all Grandfather had left me Oxmoon, a magnificent gesture which must surely have meant that he cared about me in some vague peculiar way, but what had I ever done when he was alive to express my gratitude? Grumbled that he gave me only half a crown occasionally! Wailed that I didn’t want to be bothered to go and see him! How loathsome I was! Hating myself, I wept in utter desolation.
My mother then administered the coup de grâce. Bending over me she whispered savagely, “Look at Harry! And pull yourself together at once!”
I looked at perfect Cousin Harry, tearless at his father’s side. He looked back pityingly and lowered his bone-dry lashes over his velvet-brown eyes in an expression of utter contempt.
I stopped loathing myself and loathed him instead. My tears of grief were now tears of rage. I could hardly wait to beat him up and sure enough, as soon as we reached Oxmoon, the opportunity quickly presented itself.
All the family were assembled in the drawing room and drinking champagne, both in memory of my grandfather and in the hope of staging a rapid mass recovery from the unspeakable ordeal at Penhale Church. Canapés were being circulated by Lowell, the butler who had replaced the Venerable Bayliss (died a martyr after suffering many years of Mrs. Straker’s tyranny), and by a strong silent parlormaid called Caradoc (promoted by Mrs. Straker on account of her ability to hold her tongue). Harry and I, the only children present, had been provided with our own little dish of sausage rolls and were drinking lemonade.
“A bit weepy, weren’t you, old chap?” he said, snatching the largest sausage roll before I could grab it. “I suppose that’s because your mother keeps you at home and lets you get soft.”
“If you had a mother like my mother,” I spat, inwardly burning with humiliation, “and if you had a home like Oxmoon, you’d jolly well want to stay at home too. But all you’ve got is a rotten old manor house which no one ever visits and a father who lives in sin!”
He hit me. I hit him back. We fell writhing to the floor amidst a shower of sausage rolls.
“Kester! Harry! Stop that at once! Oh God, where’s John? Thomas, stop them, for goodness’ sake!”
“Why bother? Let them beat each other up! Do the little pansy good!”
“Thomas, next time you call my son a pansy, I’ll—”
“Now, you listen to me, Thomas Godwin!” bellowed Rory, who had been drinking steadily since breakfast. “Next time you insult my mother by calling that little nitwit a pansy I’ll smash your face in!”
“My, look at that dustup! Edmund honey, your nephews are trying to kill each other!”
“I say, chaps, we can’t have this,” said Uncle Edmund. I was dimly aware of his hand wavering above us before clutching ineffectually at Harry’s collar.
I took advantage of Harry’s loss of concentration to land a perfect right to the jaw.
Harry yelped, wrenched himself free and spun round on Uncle Edmund in a rage. “Leave me alone, you stupid old fool, and get out of my way!”
Everyone gasped and suddenly I saw that Uncle John had returned to the room. I immediately felt sick. Scrambling to our feet Harry and I stood trembling before him.
At first he had eyes only for his son. “How dare you behave like this and disgrace me!”
Urbane worldly Cousin Harry was suddenly a stammering little boy of ten. “I’m very sorry, Papa.”
“Apologize at once to yo
ur uncle Edmund.”
“I’m very sorry, Uncle Edmund.”
“That’s all right, old boy,” said Uncle Edmund awkwardly. “Upsetting things, funerals.”
“Go out into the garden,” said Uncle John to Harry, “and wait there till I send for you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry, and stumbled away.
“Kester,” said Uncle John, abruptly terminating my enjoyment of Harry’s discomfort, “you’ll come with me to the library.”
I glanced automatically at my mother to make sure she would be there to protect me, but my mother, champagne glass in hand, regarded me with a bleak eye and made no move to accompany us.
“Come along, Kester,” said Uncle John, seeing my hesitation and perfectly understanding it.
I shot my mother a reproachful glance and tramped miserably out of the room.
“So much for the new master of Oxmoon,” said vile Uncle Thomas as the door closed.
I was still boiling with rage and shame as I entered the library. “I’m sorry, Uncle John,” I burst out, “but Harry was beastly to me, and—”
“No,” said Uncle John. “No telling tales, please. No sneaking. If that mother of yours would only see sense and send you to school, you’d soon discover there are some things one simply doesn’t do.”
“But Harry—”
“Never mind Harry. Harry at least had some excuse for behaving like a jealous child, but you had none—and at least Harry conducted himself decently at the funeral! But you! You made no effort at all to behave properly. You humiliated your mother and you appalled me. All those tears were quite unnecessary. It was sheer histrionic self-indulgence, an unpardonable display of emotion.”
I knew this was true, and as the shame overwhelmed me I found to my horror that I wanted to cry again.
“Women,” said Uncle John, “are permitted a certain amount of latitude in exhibiting grief; they’re the weaker sex and allowances must be made for them, but men are expected to behave like men and that means controlling your emotions and behaving in a manner that won’t be a source of embarrassment to everyone around you. Women look to men to display strength and men look to their leaders to provide an example for them to follow. When you’re grown up you’ll be the first man in this parish and everyone in Penhale will look to you for leadership. You’re going to have to provide that and you’re going to start learning how to provide it today. Now we’ll have no more tears, if you please, and you’ll come out with me into the garden to make your peace with Harry.”
The Wheel of Fortune Page 74