The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  Dear Harry: I’m in Cairo. No chance of meeting, I guess? EVAN.

  There was no chance. I was being dispatched to Italy for new horrors in another arena. Even today, if I see a picture of Italy, I want to vomit. Those cruel southern nights. Those arid mountain slopes. The ruined vineyards. The burned-out churches. The women screaming. The stinking corpses. The heat, the horror, the hell.

  “You’ve nerves of steel,” said my commanding officer to me approvingly.

  That’s me. Nerves-of-steel Godwin, plowing through the war without a scratch. But I have scars no one can see. I didn’t see them myself at first. I took me some time before I realized I was bleeding in my mind.

  “I’ve got this rash, doctor.”

  “Been with any women lately?”

  But no, it wasn’t syphilis. I lived in terror of it, thanks to the army’s anti-V.D. propaganda, but I never missed a sheath. Had to have sex, though, had to. It was the only way I knew of staying sane.

  The rash was all over my back although it was barely visible. There were no spots, only patches of angry red skin which flared in white weals when I scratched them.

  “Nerves,” said the doctor at last. “I’ll give you some pills.”

  I couldn’t tell anyone this humiliating diagnosis and presently I found I couldn’t take the pills either. I didn’t dare. They made me sleepy, and my life depended on being wide awake. The rash dragged on like a slow burn. I scratched away, complained of lice, bedbugs, fleas, anything except the truth—that I’d become allergic to war.

  Finally the rash began to suppurate and I was packed off to a military hospital. This saved me from taking part in D-Day and being killed on a Normandy beach. I languished in hospital until some unusually clever doctor said, “Pump him full of dope and let him sleep for a week.” After that I felt much better and I felt better still when I heard that the S.A.S. didn’t want to know me once they heard the diagnosis of nervous exhaustion. I was then left for some weeks in a bureaucratic limbo, but eventually I was raked into the Eighth Army in time to witness the fall of Florence. I told everyone that a bad bout of dysentery had temporarily forced me into more mundane military channels, and in the August of 1944, after the Allied triumph I found myself sitting in a Florentine cafe drinking Chianti and once more perusing my mail.

  Darling Harry, I’m nearly berserk with living like a nun, are you faithful, do you love me, oh yes I know you are and you do but two years is such a long time …

  DEAR DADDY THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT LOVE HAL.

  My dear Harry, it’s your cousin again—I just thought I’d send you a formal line about Aunt C. No doubt you’ve heard the news from Uncle J …

  Wait. What was this? What news? A formal line … What the devil was Kester saying?

  Rummaging through my pile of letters I found the one I’d been saving till last, the envelope addressed in my father’s handwriting.

  My dear Harry, the house at Eaton Walk was destroyed by a direct hit last night. If Constance had been in the shelter I suppose she might have survived but the indications are that she took no notice of the air-raid warning. She often didn’t bother if she was on her own. She wanted the shelter primarily for Francesco when she visited us. I had spent the weekend at Oxmoon and on my return I found the firemen at work. As your time for letter writing is so limited, write to Francesco, not to me. I don’t want sympathy. I wish the marriage could have ended in a divorce court instead of like this, although in an odd way I came to respect her for those principles she refused to abandon. I didn’t make her happy, but at least she knew I tried. I remain as always your devoted father …

  As soon as I could put pen to paper I wrote to Evan: My stepmother’s been killed in an air raid. If by some terrible chance Bronwen’s thinking of remarrying, for God’s sake write and tell her not to. Yours ever, H.G.

  XIV

  In a fairy tale my father and Bronwen would now marry, but the trouble was we were all a thousand light-years from any fairy tale. Over six thousand miles and eleven years apart, cut off from each other by the war, the two of them were hardly ideal candidates for the leading roles in the traditional love story complete with happy ending. I thought of the photograph of Bronwen and shuddered. I was sure my father would go to Vancouver to see her after the war, but I thought it likely that the grand passion would have fizzled into a limp affection. Still there was no harm in hoping and I hoped. We all need our little pipe dreams, and never more so than when we’re living in a brutish sordid world laid waste by war.

  “Did you say your name was Godwin?”

  I was drinking again at the same cafe and two soldiers had stopped at my table. I agreed my name was Godwin.

  “Any relation to Bugger-God Godwin—or Goddamn Godwin, as the Yanks call him?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Oh, you mean Pigshit Godwin!” called a man at a nearby table. “Escaped from a patrol by hiding in the undergrowth and grunting like a pig!”

  “We’re related,” I said with reluctance, and learned to my horror that Thomas was swaggering the streets of Florence. I bumped into him soon after that and we got drunk in some hole stiff with soldiers and whores. I remember noticing that there were torn posters of the Italian lakes adorning the walls, a spoiled vision of unattainable beauty.

  “Wonderful thing, war,” said Thomas. “Only life for a man, of course. I can say that to you, Harry, because I’ve heard you’re a hell of a success, bloody hero, all that sort of thing, and you’ll know what I mean.”

  “Quite,” I said.

  “God, I can’t begin to tell you what a wonderful time I’ve had …”

  He told me his war experiences. They weren’t particularly interesting. The incident in which he had escaped from the enemy by grunting like a pig was clearly apocryphal.

  “… and so there we are. Christ, it’s good to see you again, Harry—let’s have another bottle of this filthy stuff—yes, I always felt you and I had a lot in common. Brought up by the same man, marrying sisters, living side by side in Gower—more like brothers than uncle and nephew—here, grab that cunt and let’s get some more wine—that’s right. More Chianti!—have to shout at these bloody foreigners to make them understand. … where was I? Oh yes, like brothers, both of us real men, not fucking artistic pansies like Kester—if he can fuck at all, which I doubt. Look at him—six years married and can’t produce one daughter. Look at you—six years married and four fine sons! Christ, Eleanor says you only have to look at Bella to get her pregnant! Sexy girl that, by the way,” added Thomas meditatively as the new bottle of wine arrived. “I’ve wondered once or twice if I married the wrong one, but no, I’m bloody fond of Eleanor—she’s a decent old girl, and you couldn’t find a woman cleverer at managing a pig.”

  He spoke quite without irony. I somehow managed to keep a straight face. God, he was a stupid man.

  “I’d like some more sons myself,” said Thomas, “but Eleanor’s not too keen. Wish I could have two wives, one for friendship and one for reproduction.”

  “How enthralling that would be for the neighbors.”

  “Neighbors! Don’t talk to me of neighbors, don’t remind me of bloody Kester! God, I could murder him!”

  “Not in the Gower Peninsula, old chap. Not the done thing. I know we’ve all been murdering away happily for months out here but one must draw the line somewhere.”

  “Oh, of course—good God, Harry, I wasn’t serious! But I feel bitter about Oxmoon. It should have gone to John and if John hadn’t wanted it then it should have come to me. I mean, am I my father’s son or aren’t I? I was damned fond of the old bugger—hell, I even called my son after him. Poor old sod, what a mess he got himself into, all those pillowcases John and I had to bury—”

  “What pillowcases?”

  “My father’s little bits of nonsense, old boy. John and I buried the lot after Milly ran off back in ’28. Wonderful chap, John. Just like a father to me. Well, he was a father to me after the old bugger brok
e down—”

  “Tell me more about these pillowcases.”

  We talked and talked and got drunker and drunker. Finally Thomas said, “So there we are. My father fucked himself to death with that cunt Milly Straker. Bloody sex. Revolting. Hate it. Ought to be abolished.” And he keeled forward, upsetting his glass, and laid his face on the table amidst a small pool of wine. I was just wondering how I was going to get him home when he raised his head and said, “Can’t say that about sex, though. Not the done thing. Have another drink.”

  I somehow steered him back to the hotel where he was billeted. Luckily he was shipped out of Florence soon after that so I didn’t have to see him again.

  The surrender of Italy improved my life for I was never in danger again during the remainder of the war, but the lessening of tension failed to terminate my medical problems. After I’d stopped thanking God I was still alive a reaction set in. I felt depressed, had nightmares, couldn’t eat, drank too much. My rash began to suppurate again and once more I was confined to hospital. This time there was no intelligent doctor to make a correct diagnosis and I certainly wasn’t going to confess that my nerves were in shreds, so I was kept under observation for a time while everyone wondered which foul disease I’d picked up. Then I made the mistake of trying to seduce a nurse and the doctor at once decided I was well enough to be turned out. I rejoined my unit. The next day I was on my way to liberate a prisoner-of-war camp in the Italian Alps. Nerves-of-steel Godwin, or what remained of him, was once more on the warpath.

  Peace came in May. Now all I had to do was wait for repatriation. I waited and waited, slept around and got drunk. I was tormented by the fear that I’d die in an accident before I could reach home. I became afraid to cross streets. In the end I even became afraid to go out. Another doctor said I had agoraphobia and told me to pull myself together. I was terrified, thought it might be some sort of V.D., but he said it was just a fear of open spaces.

  “Can I have some pills for my rash?”

  “What rash?”

  Away we went again. This doctor turned out to be one of the clever ones.

  “Hm. Eczema. Nasty. You’re obviously a nervous, sensitive type.”

  I laughed, told him I’d been in the S.A.S., bragged of the nerves of steel. He looked polite, said: “The best medicine you could get is being demobbed. I’ll see if I can speed up your repatriation.”

  I thought I would go mad before I ever saw England again but at last I was dispatched westward, shunted across Europe on a packed train which stopped at every station. I started to get claustrophobia, just for a change. Everything was itching, arms, legs, hands, feet. I even itched between my toes.

  On went the train. People at the stations began to talk French. We were eventually disgorged at a Channel port—it was Dieppe but it might have been Timbuktu for all I cared—and crammed into a transport ship. More hell followed. I was seasick into a foul lavatory. I was afraid the ship would sink. But it didn’t and at last I was at Newhaven, standing on British soil, and the autumn light was shining on the long green rolling lines of the Sussex Downs.

  But I was afraid to give them more than a brief glance in case agoraphobia overwhelmed me again. Meanwhile I was once more deep in panic. Supposing the train crashed on the way to London? All through the journey I thought I’d break down, and when we reached Victoria Station I did—I fell out of the train, blundered around in a daze, couldn’t see where I was going. Tears were streaming down my face. I kept saying, “I did it, I did it” until I started to shudder and had to lean against the nearest wall. The station was swarming with people in uniform. The cavernous echoing station reeked of fumes. People were talking English. I wasn’t quite in paradise, not yet, but I was definitely on the first rung of the ladder.

  A timid little hand touched my arm.

  A plump frightened young woman gazed at me speechlessly. I saw light brown eyes shining with tears and some carefully set mouse-brown hair beneath a little navy hat.

  “Bella?”

  “Harry … oh my God …”

  We embraced. We wept. I started to shudder again.

  “Oh darling, how wonderful to have you back—and I’m so proud of you—all those medals—”

  “Oh, that was nothing, all rather a lark, had the time of my life.”

  I hardly knew what I said. I just knew I couldn’t talk about the war. I couldn’t even bear to think of it.

  “Harry! Darling—what’s all this?”

  We were in a little hotel half an hour later.

  “Oh, it’s not catching, just an allergy. It’ll go away now I’m home.”

  “Oh my poor darling …”

  What was I doing in this strange bed with this strange woman who called me darling?

  “Harry, you still love me, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be idiotic—of course I do!” But did I? No idea. I was like a robot catapulted to an unfamiliar planet. Couldn’t think clearly at all. Perhaps now I really had gone insane.

  We had sex. Without a sheath. And suddenly my mind clicked into focus. I saw the view behind her on the summit of Rhossili Downs; I saw the arching spine of the Worm rising from the sea as the Shipway sank beneath a mass of roaring foam.

  “Remember the fuck rock?”

  “Oh Harry, yes! And the burrows at Llangennith—”

  “And the potting shed—”

  “And our bedroom at the Manor—”

  The Manor. Penhale. Oxmoon. I moved up another rung on the ladder and saw paradise.

  Hugging her to me again I buried my face against her breasts and whispered fiercely, “Take me home, take me home, take me home …”

  XV

  We caught the train the next morning, a dirty but uncrowded train which stopped only once before Bristol. Holding Bella’s hand I gazed speechlessly at the drab wintry English countryside as it floated past the window. My agoraphobia had vanished. I knew now I was going to get home. The family would be waiting for me at the Manor and my father alone would be in Swansea to meet our train.

  “We’ve got a surprise for you!” added Bella after imparting this information.

  I tried to look interested but the idea of a celebration party left me cold. I wanted to go to bed and listen to all my gramophone records nonstop for a week.

  When I saw my father at the station I found him looking wonderfully well, so slim and smart and bright-eyed that he could have passed for forty. I was touched to see how my homecoming had rejuvenated him, and we embraced as emotionally as decency permitted.

  “Harry—welcome back!” His shining eyes were a deep brilliant blue. In fact he looked not just rejuvenated but reborn altogether. I wasn’t reborn yet, but I thought I might be heading for it. The dreamlike quality of the journey was fading and I was able to believe I really was with him again in Wales.

  Leaving ruined Swansea we drove into Gower.

  The fields were pastel-colored beneath the pale sun. Every turn of the road was precious to me. Oxwich Bay began to flash through the trees to the left. Cefh Bryn flickered on the right. And finally in the distance I saw Rhossili Downs.

  Immediately I forgot Italy. I forgot North Africa. I was clambering up the last rungs of the ladder to paradise, and unlike Orpheus I had no intention of looking back into the hell I’d left behind.

  The car swept past Oxmoon. I had a split-second glimpse of unmarred perfection beyond the gates, and the next moment as I thought of the white piano in the ballroom the music began in my head. It was Mahler’s mighty Symphony of a Thousand. I listened. We drove on to Penhale, and Mahler evolved into Elgar. I was back with “Pomp and Circumstance” again, and on cue at the top of the crescendo I heard the chorus of the Hebrew slaves from Nabucco.

  The car turned through the gates of the Manor.

  “Welcome home, darling, welcome home …” Bella was kissing me lavishly but I was unable to respond. I was still listening to Verdi and it was only when I got out of the car that the music stopped.

  A g
reat silence fell. I paused, struck by its intensity, and as I listened I heard time shifting its gears again; I saw the present splintering to dust before the battering ram of the past, and suddenly as the circle completed itself I knew that my most treasured memory lay not behind me but in front of me once more.

  I stood waiting in the drive. I knew it was going to happen but I still didn’t dare believe it. And then as my father shouted cheerfully, “Where’s the reception committee?” the miracle happened, the front door opened and my magic lady came out to welcome me home.

  4

  I

  HE MARRIED HER SIX WEEKS later and they lived happily ever after—more or less. Well, it does happen sometimes. Kester hit the nail on the head when he said even the cynics have to admit romance does occasionally triumph; to say no one lives happily ever after is as much at odds with reality as saying that everyone does.

  Wonderful. I was ready for a fairy tale. I wanted it all—champagne, golden sunsets, true love, eternal bliss and the theme from Gone with the Wind playing endlessly in the background. It was the perfect antidote to drinking, whoring, murdering and going out of my mind.

  “Whenever I heard a piano playing the tunes you liked to play,” said Bronwen, “I’d look across the circle and I’d hear your echo in time.”

  Quite. Bronwen was above all a resilient practical woman; nobody brings up four children in a foreign country merely by listening to the music of the spheres. But she had this trick of treating fantasies as concrete facts and concrete facts as fantasies. To her it was natural to be a magic lady; she would have described her magic as common sense. It wasn’t, but for Bronwen magic was as normal as common sense, something to be recognized without surprise and even taken for granted.