My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Once upstairs he whisked the offending letter from his pocket and pored over it anxiously, innards quivering.

  St Bridget’s Mission, Orange River

  Dear Mr Hazelwood

  I hesitated a long time before contacting you, not wishing to visit any embarrassment upon your family. However, I am compelled to inform you that up to the time of writing I have received no money from you since January. As you may be aware the mission relies on charity and without it we should be unable to enact our commitment of educating the poor and ministering to their needs. The young person whom you placed with us many years ago has no other benefactor – sadly, his mother died only six months ago and the Sisters and myself have taken over his guardianship. But without your donations we find it increasingly difficult to do so. Perhaps the payments had slipped your mind? It is, after all, almost eleven years since you left Charlie in our keeping. Even so, I beg you not to discontinue your generous contributions.

  Your humble servant

  Father Albert Guillaume

  How naive of him to expect no response to his lapsed payments! If he had shown any scrap of intelligence he would have realized that a Catholic priest wasn’t going to sit by and see his income docked – that lot were renowned for their acquisition of wealth. He had sent no word of his intention to end the payments, merely stopped sending them, hoping in some foolish way that the priest would simply think he had died or something. He cursed the abject stupidity that had allowed him to disclose his address to the priest. He had never contemplated danger from this quarter, only from the woman. Not once had he bothered to write to her – why should he? – simply sending the money by way of the priest with a covering note.

  Damn and blast! He ripped the letter to shreds, made sure that every last scrap was crammed into his fist and tossed the deadly missive onto the fire.

  Chapter Eight

  Should he pay up? What if the priest wrote again and Rachel got hold of the letter? No, he told himself, don’t weaken now or he’ll be on your back for the rest of your life – besides, what can he do from that distance? Just ignore it and see what happens.

  That was easy enough to say, but each morning the sound of the letterbox brought his breakfast to his throat. Sometimes he was unable to stomach anything at all until after the postman’s visit – and if the postman hadn’t been before it was time for him to open the shop then he grew almost demented.

  But when a month of such torture had brought no further demands, his innards began to uncoil. When another month passed and then another, he knew that his approach had been the right one. Thank God he had had the strength to sit it out. It was over.

  The day of the ceremony came. Jack and Ella Daw spectated from behind their curtains as the new Sheriff climbed into his polished vehicle accompanied by his proud lady and their five eldest children. ‘Just look at her with her chest puffed out,’ delared Ella. ‘You’d think she was off to a coronation. Blasted capitalists, the pair of ’em, and I still say it was Rachel who put the spoke in for your Mayorship.’

  Jack was now aware that this was so – at least, he knew that Rachel had spoken of his wife’s prison record to others; whether that had been the reason he hadn’t been elected, he couldn’t be sure. Even if he had been sure he wouldn’t tell his wife; that would only cause more bother. But he was angry at Rachel and angrier at his friend for allowing it to happen.

  Rachel, unable to see them but sensing their observation, delivered a queenly wave as the car rolled away. She enjoyed every second of the ensuing ceremony, especially the part in which she figured, when the Lady Mayoress’ staff was handed over to her. According to tradition the ebony staff was presented to the Sheriff’s Lady and used as a threat to keep the Sheriff in order, remaining in her possession until her husband promised to be good. There would be another ceremony later in the year when the staff would be handed back, enabling the Lady Mayoress to keep her husband on the right path.

  But the biggest delight was the procession through the streets to and from the Mansion House. ‘Look at your father, children!’ Rachel exclaimed proudly as he appeared in all his regalia. ‘Isn’t he grand?’ And Bertie’s was the loudest acclamation. He could barely wait to get back to school and boast to his friends.

  Russ enjoyed the occasion too. The tension of the previous months had finally been dissipated. For once, the smile he gave his wife and children did not have to be forced. He felt happy and proud and glad for them all.

  The morning after the ceremony still found them discussing the event. Achievement such as this was difficult to put aside – indeed, they had been talking about it long into the night. Russ ate heartily and without fear of indigestion. The sound of the letterbox had ceased to be an omen of terror for him – in fact he did not even hear it today. The first indication of a delivery of mail was when Biddy brought it in.

  So relaxed was he, so utterly confident that his worry was over, that when, unsuspectingly, he lifted the topmost envelope, the one beneath drew an audible gasp.

  Rachel squinted at him over the breakfast table. ‘What’s the matter, Russ, have you got a pain?’ His face was drained.

  ‘No, no,’ he stammered and rubbed frenziedly at his chest. ‘Just heartburn. I’ll have to stop having a fried breakfast.’ He shuffled the letters together and rose, looking at the clock. ‘I haven’t time to open these now. I’m at court in an hour and I want to give Jimmy instructions before I go. I’ll open them on the way.’

  ‘Not while you’re driving, I trust?’ she quipped as he left the room in a hurry. ‘Bye, love!’

  Outside in the driving seat he applied fevered digits to the envelope which bore a South African postmark. Once extricated, he couldn’t bring himself to unfold it… but eventually had to do so.

  Dear Mr Hazelwood,

  Since I have had no response to my previous letter I must assume that it has gone astray. It is, after all, a long way from South Africa to England and I dare say many letters never reach their destination. So, I am obliged to repeat that letter’s contents…

  Russell’s eyes took in the duplicated plea for him not to end his payments. But lower down the page his heart almost leapt right out of his mouth.

  Mr Hazelwood, forgive me for putting this in writing and God forbid that if you have a wife she should come to hear of it through my intrusion, but I am aware that you did not make these contributions out of mere benevolence. I fear that Charlie’s mother was quite open about his paternity – indeed, before she died she instructed me to continue to speak of you in a good light in front of the boy. She always believed that one day you would return for your son, Mr Hazelwood. Charlie does not know that the money has stopped coming. He speaks frequently of his father in England and is always asking when the two of you will meet. I had no way of answering him until recent events brought a tinge of reality to Charlie’s pipe-dream. It is of some coincidence that I have been summoned to England to teach at a college not far from York. Now, I am very fond of Charlie and without your generous donations to his upkeep I am greatly concerned as to his welfare while I am absent. The Sisters will take care of him as much as they are able, of course, but frankly, Mr Hazelwood, Charlie needs firm guidance which I fear he will not receive in my absence. I have therefore this question to put to you…

  Oh, Christ! He guessed what was coming.

  What would your reaction be if Charlie travelled to England with me? I should of course make no demands on you to meet him, though I do feel that this would not be a bad idea for then we could all discuss his future more clearly…

  ‘Christ!’ It was almost a scream – he looked round swiftly to see if anyone had heard before hunching over the letter again. The blackmailing sod!

  …I have not mentioned this to him, nor have I said that I shall be coming to England in August, so if you decide that you are unable to comply, then Charlie will have no cause to be upset. But I do beseech you to think very deeply about your son’s welfare…

  The las
t few words were a blur. Russ, body rippled by panic, shoved the letter into his pocket, leapt out of the car, lashed furiously at the starting handle, then jumped back into the vibrating vehicle to tear off down the street. He hardly saw where he was going, the priest’s words etched on the windscreen, blinding him. Your son, your son, your son. Oh, God! what was he going to do? The blood gushed through the veins in his neck, pounded at his eardrums. Think! Think! But he was incapable of any rational thinking, his one preoccupation being – what the hell would Rachel say?

  The engine whirred on, reached the main junction. He turned into The Mount without a look to right nor left. Visions flashed past. Russ stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering-wheel – then suddenly there was a loud honking, a scream, curses, and a nerve-jarring bump. His head hit the windscreen with a bang and the rim of the steering-wheel dug into his ribs – though he felt no pain as he bounced back into his seat.

  Angry faces surrounded the car. ‘You stupid dolt! What the devil were you playing at? Somebody call a copper!’

  But Russ just sat there paralysed with shock and saw Rachel in the front parlour confronted by the black boy who was his son.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, Russell, how could you do this to me?’ Rachel brandished the newspaper at her husband, face disfigured by anguish. ‘I knew, I just knew you were hiding something! For weeks you’ve been furtive… how could you?’ She threw the paper at him and he caught it in a crumpled mess, seeing again the headline that had provoked this display: City Sheriff Fined For Speeding.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me before it got into print? Prepared me… you’ve made me look such a fool! And the expense! Five shillings plus costs – not to mention the embarrassment! I mean, what were you thinking about?’

  ‘I must’ve been daydreaming,’ he mumbled vaguely. The bruises on his chest had turned yellow and the nick on his forehead was healed, but the mental injury was as acute as ever.

  ‘Yes, you must! Well, you’ll have plenty of time for daydreaming when you lose your position – you were lucky not to have been imprisoned. The shame of it!’ She plucked at the bunch of white lace on her blouse.

  ‘Rachel, I’ve told you it was an accident,’ he offered dispassionately. The only emotion Russ ever shared was happiness. Sadness, shame… fear, he kept tightly chained in his breast.

  Not so Rachel, who flung herself about the room in humiliation. ‘You were speeding! Twenty miles an hour the paper says.’

  ‘They’re exaggerating.’ He wished she would shut up. If she knew what really caused the crash… oh, my!

  But Rachel went on and on – then perversely refused to speak to him any further, cutting off any attempt at reunion with a cold flick of her hand.

  For the next couple of days every hour spent at home was passed in similar mood, the only ones to hold a conversation with Russ being his elder children. Breakfast became a test of resilience for which he could never raise the stamina and so found it simpler to eat quickly then escape to the shop, where he was at this moment.

  ‘The customer’s waiting, Mr Hazelwood!’

  The urgent tone penetrated Russ’ abstraction and he started. ‘What? Oh, sorry!’ He counted out the change to his assistant who relayed it to the customer and opened the door for her, coming back to ask,

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on now, Mr H?’

  Russ was in a brown study again. ‘Aye… aye,’ he nodded, not really hearing, eyes vacant – then suddenly he came to life. ‘Aye, you do that, Jimmy! But if you hear the bell go, will you see to it? I’ve something important to attend to.’ He was permitting this to become more vital than it actually was. He could and would put a stop to it right this minute. With purposeful movements he seated himself behind the cash desk and, selecting a piece of paper from the drawer, dipped his pen into an inkwell and wrote:

  Dear Father Guillaume,

  I must apologize for falling behind with my payments and herewith enclose the full arrears with this letter. To compensate for any inconvenience I also send an extra five pounds to spend on Charlie as you see fit. In answer to your query, I must tell you that on no account must you allow him to accompany you to England. I accept that he is the result of a mistake on my part and as such will adopt all responsibility of a financial nature… after a pause he underlined the word ‘financial’ before continuing, for his upbringing, but I must consider my wife and children and in doing so am sure that if Mrs Hazelwood ever finds out about the boy the shock would surely kill her. You must understand that I do not wish to shirk my duties and forthwith I shall endeavour to send regular payments… It looked as though Mr Cranley would have to be resurrected… but I insist, Again he underlined the word ‘insist’, that you make it clear to Charlie that he must relinquish any hope of us meeting in the near future or indeed at any time. I do not wish to see him ever and do not consider him as my son. Do not let him be in any doubt about this. I wish you to be entirely honest. Your co-operation will be greatly appreciated.

  Yours…

  After a flourishing signature he read and re-read the letter then, with a determined pinch of his fingers, folded it and slipped it into an envelope. Taking a stamp from the petty cash tin he pressed it into place and gave it a final bang with his fist. It was no good mincing about; one had to be resolute in such matters. It was annoying, that he had had to back down over the money, but better that than Rachel finding out.

  ‘D’you want that posting, Mr H?’ Jimmy had appeared with two cups of tea as Russ addressed the envelope.

  ‘No… I’ll do it, lad. I might as well go early if you’re sure you’ll be all right.’ He had a civic engagement in an hour. At the young man’s confirmation he made for the door. ‘Right, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t accept any chocolate sovereigns.’

  Once the letter had disappeared into the oblong yawn of the pillarbox, he felt able to breathe a little easier and, as the days grew warmer and there was no answering envelope, he was lent the belief that his problem had been solved. He threw himself into his civic and commercial duties, putting Charlie into the file labelled Things I would rather forget.

  Would that his wife could forget so easily. It had been weeks since the accident yet whenever he made a small digression it was still thrown at him – like this morning when they had had a tiff over breakfast. He wondered, as he closed the shop this evening, what he could do to regain her alliance. Maybe his news that there was to be a banquet at the Mansion House would make her sweeter-tempered. She loved any excuse to dress up and flash herself off to the neighbours. Oh, that was it! He could take her a dress-length from the shop – that lavender-coloured silk she had so admired when it had arrived from the manufacturer’s last week. Aye, that should solve it – and some flowers! Smiling, he postponed his exit to measure a length of the fabric, breaking into song as he did so. After this, he locked up and went to purchase a bouquet.

  * * *

  Rachel was sitting with her children in the front parlour. Bertie, now very much the young man at almost twelve, was seated next to her. He was still the only son. This being so there had perforce been alterations in the sleeping arrangements: the parents had moved into the second largest room at the back of the house and Bertie had taken sole occupancy of the former nursery – much to the complaint of his sisters, who had to squeeze into half of the front bedroom which had been partitioned; the other half was the new nursery. The girls’ ages ranged from nine months to ten and a half years, there being six of them. The five eldest children were receiving education, leaving only two for Biddy to care for during the day which made her life fractionally easier.

  Biddy balanced the tray on one knee before entering the parlour, took a bottle from her apron pocket and enjoyed a long tipple. The Lord grant the mistress a new baby soon or Biddy would be forced to buy the stuff herself, and her meagre wage was hardly likely to sustain her addiction.

  She finished swigging and, gasping with relief, tucked the bottle back in her
pinny, then rattled in with the tray. Bertie was trying to convey the Pythagoras theorem to his mother, whilst the girls chirruped about who had done what to whom at school. Rachel merely smiled and nodded as she worked on her hat, saying, ‘Yes, dear,’ and, ‘Oh, how interesting!’ whilst hearing only a collective prattle.

  ‘Tea, ma’am.’ Biddy waited with the tray containing milk and biscuits for the children, tea for Rachel and a plate of bread and butter for all, until Rachel scooped the pieces of material from the table and instructed Biddy to spread the cloth.

  Once seated, Bertie clamped his teeth on a piece of bread, using his free hand to reach for another. ‘Robert, you can only eat one piece at a time,’ reproved his mother.

  Deliberately, he left the imprint of his teeth on it before returning it to the main plate and warned his sisters, ‘That’s mine.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ hissed Rosalyn. ‘No one wants it when you’ve spit on it,’ and was vociferously rebuked by her mother who sometimes found it very hard to control them.

  ‘And Robina, I hope you don’t intend to leave those crusts? There are starving people in the world who’d be most glad of them. Eat up now.’

  ‘But how can eating my crusts help the starving people, Mother?’ Robina, or Beany, was the only plain child among them, mousy of hair and muddy of eye – though her family knew that the bland exterior concealed a tempestuous and sensitive nature. All the children had fresh complexions and neat features… all except poor Beany, whose translucent skin bore not one smudge of colour save the marbling of blue veins at her temple. ‘I mean, if I eat them they’ll still be starving, won’t they? It would be much better if we parcelled them up and sent them off to the poor people, don’t you think?’