Uncle John’s trouble was just about to begin.
V
Six months later in the summer of 1932 Uncle John heard from the headmaster of Briarwood that Evan could not be accepted as a pupil. I heard the news from Evan himself who arrived at Oxmoon as usual for his lessons and cried as he told us what had happened.
Simon and I were both horrified.
“But that’s monstrous!” said Simon, understanding at once. “The headmaster must have a grudge against John!”
I was used to vandals throwing stones but the idea that the headmaster of a preparatory school might have his own stone to throw on the subject of illegitimacy did not immediately occur to me.
“But Evan, why?” I said baffled.
“He doesn’t have children whose parents aren’t married. Dad didn’t tell him but someone else did. Dad thinks he was cross at not being told. Anyway he said if he accepted me the parents who were married would be upset.” More tears. “I did so want to go.”
“Evan,” said Simon, “if that’s the attitude of the headmaster, then you’re better off not going there. It must be a very poor sort of place.”
“But what’s to happen to me?” said Evan, trying to wipe away his tears. “I said to Mum, ‘Is it always going to be like this?’ and she said no, not if she could help it. Then Dad said he’d find another school, but Mum said, ‘And is he going to go on being shut up here every holidays? Or are you going to board him out like Dafydd?’ And then I cried, I couldn’t help it, because I don’t want to be boarded out like Dafydd, but Dad said no, I wouldn’t be boarded out, and then Mum said, ‘Well, what sort of life is he going to have here?’ and then she cried too and I cried all the more because she was crying—”
“Kester,” said Simon, “run and ask Cook to make some cocoa and send it up to the schoolroom with some biscuits. We won’t start lessons just yet.”
On my way back from the kitchens I met my mother, and when I told her what had happened she came with me to the schoolroom.
“Evan—my poor little darling, what a cruel disappointment for you …” I saw the glances she exchanged with Simon and suddenly I felt cold.
“Dad says he’ll find another school where the headmaster doesn’t know, but supposing he finds out! Would I be expelled? Would the boys throw stones at me?” He broke down again, sobbing against my mother’s large comfortable bosom where I had sobbed so often myself in the past, but my mother for once seemed to have no words of comfort to offer. Finally she said, “Evan, I’m going to telephone Bronwen and ask your father to take you home. I think you’re too upset for lessons today.”
“Dad’s not there.” He raised his tearstained little face to hers. “After he dropped me here he went on to Swansea. Mum told him to go away and leave her alone.”
There was a dead silence.
“I see,” said my mother. “Well, never mind, I’ll take you home myself and have a word with your mother. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”
I had just finished my morning lessons when my mother arrived back at Oxmoon. Running down the stairs, I found her pulling off her gloves in the hall.
“Mum, what did Bronwen say? Is Evan all right?”
My mother hesitated before replying: “He was a little better by the time I left.” She dropped her gloves on the hall table and moved towards the drawing room.
“Mum …” I followed, nearly treading on her heels. “Mum, what are you thinking? Tell me, tell me—”
“Oh, stop pestering me like that! God, how you irritate me sometimes!” said my mother crossly, and began to mix herself a large pink gin. However when she saw my expression she added abruptly: “Sorry, pet, I know you’re worried but the truth is I’m worried too. Bronwen’s very unhappy.”
“Do you think Uncle John might take them all away to live somewhere else?”
“Oh darling, that would be no solution because the truth would inevitably catch up with them. Johnny’s situation is widely known now, and wherever he went he’d be quite unable to lead an obscure secluded life. He’d join another golf club and be offered half a dozen new directorships and eventually he’d be certain to meet someone who knew of his past and then the whole trouble would begin all over again.”
I was relieved to learn that no imminent departure was planned, but it was soon after this crisis that the changes began to take place at Penhale Manor. First Rhiannon left Gower directly after her seventeenth birthday and went to London with Dafydd; she found a clerical job in a bank and Dafydd went to work in a garage. After Rhiannon left Bronwen was ill for a while and had to lie in a darkened room. I took her flowers but she was seeing no visitors.
My mother explained that she was suffering from migraine.
Then I noticed that Uncle John had become thinner and more careworn. He stopped coming to my mother’s parties. My mother offered to have all the children to stay while he and Bronwen had a holiday on their own in Cornwall, and Uncle John was keen on the idea but nothing came of it. Bronwen refused to go.
“I’d spend my whole time worrying in case something happened to the children,” she said to my mother.
“But my dear, nothing would happen to them at Oxmoon!”
“Your servants would look down on them—pass cruel remarks—I couldn’t bear Evan to suffer any more—”
“Leave us, Kester, please,” said my mother, and by the tone of her voice I knew I was absolutely forbidden to eavesdrop. All I heard as I left the room was Bronwen weeping: “I didn’t mind when it was just myself. But I can’t bear the children suffering, it’s destroying me.”
In the new year I noticed that whenever I visited the Manor Bronwen seemed to be sorting things out. The toy cupboards were purged. Piles of clothes were set aside for Mrs. Wells to take to the jumble sale. The nursery assumed an uncluttered, almost eerie appearance.
“Bronwen’s beginning her spring cleaning early this year,” I said to my mother.
Once I saw a letter lying on the hall chest. It was addressed to Bronwen and bore a Canadian stamp.
“Who do you know in Canada?” I said to Evan.
“Mum has cousins in Vancouver. We’re going to visit them in the spring.”
“Gosh, what fun! I wish I could go too!” I said, and when I returned to Oxmoon I remarked to my mother: “Uncle John’s taking everyone to Canada for a holiday in the spring.”
“No,” said my mother. “Uncle John won’t be going.”
“Well, I suppose, it would be inconvenient for him to be away for such a long time when he’s so busy,” I conceded, and retired to look up Vancouver, in my atlas.
At Easter the Canadian visit seemed to come closer when six new trunks were delivered to the Manor to be packed and sent on in advance.
“Heavens!” I said to Bronwen. “How long are you going for?”
“I don’t want the children to get homesick,” she said, “so I’m taking as much as I can with me, all their favorite toys and games.”
The departure was fixed for the sixteenth of May, and on the Sunday before that date my mother invited all the children to tea at Oxmoon. Bronwen did not come; she had another migraine and we did not see her when we collected the children from the Manor.
I enjoyed playing with the younger ones. Sian was very pretty; I spent some time amusing both her and Lance who had a mild shy equable temperament. In contrast Gerry was far too noisy for me to tolerate for long, but my mother gave me a rest by taking him for a walk in the woods. Later he and Evan and I played croquet, but Gerry soon tired of that and demanded a cricket bat.
“Another perfect Godwin in the making!” I groaned to my mother, but she didn’t smile. All she said was “It’s very sad.”
Two days later they all departed, Uncle John driving them down to Southampton, and that evening, just as I had finished my homework and was on my way to my room for a quiet read before dinner, I glanced out of the landing window and saw Uncle John’s Rover speeding up the drive.
I paused.
The car was going much too fast. I knew, even before it screeched to a halt, that something was very wrong. When Uncle John jumped out I saw that his face was a grayish white. Pushing back his disheveled hair, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stumbled up the steps to the front door.
I hared down the corridor, plunged into my room and found that the housemaid, thank God, had left the window wide open. Below me on the terrace my mother was sipping her first pink gin of the evening and browsing through her latest copy of Glamorous Romances. As Uncle John blundered out onto the terrace, I sank to my knees beside the window seat.
“Johnny—my dear—did you—was it—oh God, I’ve been thinking of you so much …”
Without hesitating, I jumped up to look down at the scene below me. They were embracing. My mother was even stroking his hair, and then as I watched in stupefaction he drew back from her to pull out a sodden handkerchief, and I had my first glimpse of his overpowering grief and despair.
3
I
I FELT AS IF I WERE WITNESSING the end of the world—or at least the end of civilization as I knew it. To see Uncle John—my heroic Uncle John—reduced to tears was shattering enough, but when I realized that the tears must indicate some unparalleled disaster I was terrified. Kneeling on the window seat, I trembled from head to toe.
“I can’t bear to think I’ll never see her again,” said my uncle, making a futile attempt to wipe away the tears that were streaming down his face. “I can’t bear to think of my children growing up without me. And I can’t bear to go back to that house—it’ll be worse than it was after Blanche died—I can never live in that house again—”
“No, of course you can’t. Stay here for a while. I thought you might feel like this and I’ve had your old bedroom prepared for you. Sit down, my dear, and I’ll get you some brandy.”
My mother steered him to the wrought-iron chair next to hers and disappeared into the drawing room. As Uncle John sat down and buried his face in his hands, I noticed for the first time that his hair was graying at the temples. He was forty-one.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without them,” he said as my mother returned with the brandy. “I just can’t think what I’m going to do.”
He wasn’t the only one. By this time I had realized that Bronwen had left him, and I was feeling sick. How could I bear to lose Bronwen and Evan, the two best members of my family apart from my mother? Evan—my acolyte—my hero-worshiping almost-brother … I felt as bereaved as if he were dead.
“I’ve made such a mess of my life,” said Uncle John in between mouthfuls of brandy. “I’m such a failure.”
“But my dear Johnny—”
“Never call me that again! She called me that. If you go on calling me Johnny you’ll simply remind me—”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry. But John, you’re not a failure, you’ve just been terribly unlucky—that wretched woman in London—”
“I’ve lost everything that made life meaningful. That’s failure.”
“Rubbish,” said my mother, and suddenly I saw her as someone who knew what tragedy was all about, someone—perhaps the only person—who could help my uncle at this darkest time of his life. “You must think of the children that you still have,” she said. “Think of Harry and Marian. And at least Bronwen’s children aren’t dead—like Robin. They’ll just be absent for a few years—as Declan was. They’ll come back to you in the end, just as Declan came back to me.”
“Yes … I daresay you’re right I’m sorry, I know it’s unforgivable, breaking down like this—”
“Oh, what rot, it’s healthy! God knows if you bottled up your troubles as Bobby did you’d soon be mad as a hatter!”
“I feel mad now, I feel demented—oh God, maybe if I were to go after them—give everything up—”
“John, listen. I know we’ve been over all this a dozen times, but let me go over it once more so that you’ve got the truth firmly nailed up in front of your eyes. Bronwen’s being immensely brave and emigrating to Canada so that those four children can have the chance of a normal life. If you go crashing after them now you’ll mess everything up, make a mockery of Bronwen’s courage and ruin their lives all over again.”
“I know but—”
“Remember what she said to you: ‘If you love us you’ll let us go.’ Now, you told me she said that, didn’t you, and you also told me you thought she was right—”
“If only she hadn’t said no letters, money by bankers’ order but no letters—I know I could bear it better if only I had their letters to look forward to—”
“But my dear, I thought it was you who said it must be a clean break because anything else would be too difficult and too painful?”
“Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe it won’t work out. Maybe if I were to go after them later I’d find—”
“John, you must let those children grow up in peace. Think how poor little Evan’s suffered!”
“Oh Christ—”
“I’ll get you some more brandy.” She disappeared with his glass. Uncle John blew his nose on the sodden handkerchief and wiped his eyes on his sleeve and pushed back his hair distractedly again. When she returned he said in despair, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Harry and Marian.”
“Well, personally, my dear, I think they should both have been told last holidays and I think those four little ones should have been told too.”
“But we couldn’t face it—how could we have explained—so much pain—all the agony—the misery—”
“I know, I know, and don’t think I don’t sympathize, but I do so strongly believe it’s better to be honest with children, John, no matter how difficult it may seem at the time. … I assume you’ll be going to Harrow to tell Harry?”
“But I can’t upset him now! He has his exams soon—and several very important cricket matches—”
“My dear,” said my mother, “some things in life really are more important than cricket, and this is one of them. Harry can barely remember Blanche. Constance doesn’t count. Bronwen’s the only mother he’s ever known. You simply must see him as soon as possible to explain.”
“I can’t!” cried my uncle, obviously in a dreadful muddle and still too beside himself with grief to think clearly. “He’ll blame the whole disaster on me—he’ll feel I’ve let him down, he’ll be so disillusioned—”
“Well, he’s fourteen years old—it’s about time he realized parents are flesh-and-blood people, not angels with halos!”
“But what can I say? How can I possibly explain?”
“Just tell him the truth, for God’s sake! Tell him you and Bronwen are acting for the sake of the children. Damn it, go the whole hog and say Bronwen got so upset that she didn’t want to go to bed with you anymore!”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell him that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, we just don’t talk about that sort of thing.”
“But he must have asked you about sex by this time!”
“Oh no, he never asks anything like that. Anyway I’m sure he’s picked up the facts at school. I mean, if not why hasn’t he asked?”
“Perhaps he was waiting for you to say something. Perhaps he was embarrassed by the knowledge that you and Bronwen weren’t married. Perhaps—oh John, do go to Harrow and talk to him!”
“Very well. All right,” said my uncle, appearing to sink even deeper into despair. “But if I tell Harry I’ll have to stop afterwards in London to talk to Marian, and Marian will want to know—”
“—if you intend to go back to Constance. Yes, of course she will—now that Marian’s come out a stepmother like Constance would be very useful to her, but just declare your intentions firmly so that she doesn’t cherish any false hopes. Unless … heavens, John, you wouldn’t go back to Constance, would you?”
“Ginevra,” said my uncle, all despair at once annihilated by his rage, “I swear to you I shall never, never, NEVER, so long as I live, go ba
ck to that woman!”
He went back to her six months later.
II
“No!” I said appalled when my mother broke the news.
“My dear, yes!” My mother was equally shattered.
“But that’s impossible!”
“Quite impossible, yes. But he’s done it.” My mother adjusted her spectacles and began to read Uncle John’s letter again as if she feared she was suffering from a hallucination.
I had gone to her room to share her early-morning tea, and so I had been present when the parlormaid came upstairs with the post. It was November; outside it was drizzling and I was enjoying the coziness of the room’s thick carpet, sensuous paintings and energetic little fire roaring gamely in the grate. My mother, propped up on mounds of snowy pillows with her thick hair cascading around her shoulders and her reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, looked like a Roman empress examining a communication from a particularly recalcitrant Christian who was insisting on being thrown to the lions.
“But why’s he done it?” I demanded.
“Well, pet, he says …” She consulted the letter again. “ ‘I have decided to do this so that Harry and Marian can have a normal home at last and also, of course, to make amends to Francesca for all the years I’ve been away;’ ” After reading the words in a wooden voice, she refolded the letter, removed her spectacles and reached without comment for her tea.
“But you don’t believe that, do you, Mum?” I said, watching every line of her face for clues.
“Oh yes,” said my mother, “I believe it. But I don’t think this is the whole story—in my opinion it would take an earthquake to send John back to that woman, and I don’t think this decision can conceivably be explained away by saying he was overwhelmed by the desire to do the done thing.”
The Wheel of Fortune Page 78