My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Aye, it is a bit, I won’t just now.’ Russ looked tense. ‘About your letter…’

  The Lord Mayor ignored his visitor’s last comment. ‘Early or not, I think I’ll have one.’

  Russ took the letter from his pocket, the one he had received this morning summoning him to this lavish apartment of the Mansion House. He felt like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study, standing here on the carpet, feeling the plush pile shift under his nervous feet. ‘You said you had something to…’

  ‘Thank you, Gerald!’ The Lord Mayor interjected brightly, accepting his drink and dismissing the butler. ‘My goodness! I could do with this.’ He tossed the whisky into his mouth and made exaggerated noises of appreciation. Only when they were alone did he become serious. ‘Now, my letter… I don’t want to mess about, Russ – oh, sit down!’ He paused while Russ took a seat. ‘An allegation has been made which…’

  After the word ‘allegation’, Russ barely heard the rest. A cold feeling began to inch its way over him… like being stroked by a corpse. The Mayor finished. ‘Can you offer any explanation?’

  Russ was toying with the ends of his moustache. At the Mayor’s words he started. ‘Er…’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ The Lord Mayor frowned, bending forward. ‘Here, let me get you that drink.’ He did so, handing the glass to Russ, who looked at it carefully before disposing of its contents. The Lord Mayor did not appear to notice the trembling hand. ‘Now, do you feel able to shed any light on this, Russ? I mean, it’s a pretty serious accusation.’

  ‘Could I ask who made it?’ mumbled Russ, playing with the empty glass, eyes flitting about the decorous plasterwork so that he wouldn’t have to look at the Mayor’s face. ‘I hardly think that matters. Suffice to say…’

  ‘It bloody matters to me!’ Russ found the courage to look at the man now. ‘I want to know who’s been slinging the mud.’

  The Lord Mayor came over, decanter in hand, touching it to the other’s glass. ‘There’s no substance…?’

  ‘None, none!’

  The decanter was put aside. ‘As I said, Russ, it’s a serious accusation. What the letter is saying is that you committed…’ he stirred the air with his hand, searching for euphemism, ‘an indiscretion in South Africa and that… indiscretion is now locked away in your house.’

  ‘It’s all lies!’ Russ gulped a drink, then frowned in mid-action. ‘Letter, you said?’

  ‘Yes, the allegation came in the form of an anonymous letter… so you see, I’m not able to tell you who made it. Luckily for you it was sent to me personally and not the Council.’

  ‘Can I read it?’

  The Lord Mayor studied the man carefully, then said, ‘I can read it to you.’

  Hazelwood’s response was derisive. ‘Scared I’ll rip it up? Destroy the evidence?’ The rest of the drink was consumed at one gulp, the glass planted firmly on a table.

  The Mayor understood his anger. ‘I’m sure I’d feel like doing the same.’

  ‘But you want the proof when it comes to defrocking me!’

  This invoked annoyance. ‘I’d hardly have worked alongside you if I was that way inclined!’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry, Jim…’ Russ looked tired. ‘Just read me the letter, will you?’

  ‘We are on the same side, you know.’ The Lord Mayor took the letter from his pocket and began to read: ‘I feel it is my duty to inform you that the man who holds the honourable position of Sheriff is sadly inadequate for the role. I am sure you cannot be aware – or you would never have dishonoured the post with his name – that Russell Hazelwood is the father of an illegitimate son, conceived while he was married to his present wife, conceived upon a native woman of Africa, conceived whilst on the pretext of fighting for the British Army. Do you not think this disgraceful and hypocritical conduct for a man who professes to be so conscientious about the less-fortunate citizens of York and yet has his own son cruelly locked away in an attic room for fear that the world may learn of his adulterous practices…’

  Russ, looking sick, held up his hand. ‘That’s enough.’ It was obvious who had written it. So, Daw had known all along about Charlie being here – but why had he waited until now?

  The Lord Mayor folded the letter. ‘I have to ask you again if it’s true?’

  ‘No, it’s bloody well not!’

  A nod. ‘As I thought, a cowardly libel. A pity it’s not signed, if it was you’d be able to sue.’

  Russ dismissed this rapidly. ‘Ah, it’s best left alone – just rip it up.’

  The Lord Mayor hesitated for a long time. Russ turned his back, pretending he wasn’t concerned, but remained fearful until Ridsdale finally threw the letter on the fire. But even now he wasn’t fully relieved.

  ‘Naturally I didn’t believe a word of it… but I had to let you know.’ The Lord Mayor watched the paper scorch and blacken.

  Russ gave a gesture of acquiescence. ‘I’m glad you did.’ Christ, what was he going to do? The time bomb had been primed. ‘Look… if you want me to resign…’

  Incomprehension from the Mayor. ‘But why on earth would I want that? You’ve just shown it’s from a crank.’

  ‘But if it should get out? I mean, even the inference…’

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely. Only you and I know about the letter.’

  ‘And the person who wrote it. What if he should write to the press?’ Russ condemned his tongue: for God’s sake, what are you trying to do to yourself?

  The Mayor sighed and puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’d cause some fun and games, no doubt. But then if it’s not true I think we can weather it, Russ.’

  ‘But how can we prove it’s not true?’ came the defeatist query. ‘Once a thing like this has been said… you know the press.’

  ‘The only comfort I can give you is that we must hope it never comes to that – and if it does you have my total support, Russ. By the way, how’s Rachel? Marjory suggested we have dinner together next week sometime. I know we see a lot of each other in an official capacity, but we never seem to get a quiet moment to chat about our families and such. Can you make it on Wednesday?’ At Russ’ vague nod, Ridsdale detached himself. ‘Good! I’ll have to be off now, I’ve a lot of bumf to see to before the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you there, will I?’

  With a departing nod and still in a daze, Russ left the Mansion House. He lingered at the bottom of the steps, indecisive with shock. Traffic and people milled around Saint Helen’s Square. Someone bumped his shoulder, almost knocking him off-balance. He grabbed a railing for support… then made for the nearest pub.

  Here, he drank more heavily than was usual for him and was forced to sponge up his overindulgence with a meal of bread and cheese, though he was far from hungry. With nothing more pressing to listen to in the afternoon than the City Engineer’s proposal to erect a new convenience at the corner of Kent Street, and discussion of the new road from Pavement to Piccadilly, Russ was able to sit and consider his embroilment with little distraction. However, the final subject on the agenda – the deteriorating state of the slums in the Walmgate sector of the city – lured him from his self-contemplation. Jack Daw was demanding to know why there was still no proposal to lessen the concentration of poor in that area. Russ listened intently, smouldering with frustration. He knew it could only have been Jack who had sent that letter – the bloody traitor!

  Daw was stabbing a finger in the direction of the Conservative councillors. ‘I’ve even heard the appalling suggestion from one councillor that these people are used to their environment and it would be a downright cruelty to take them away from the area, split them up from their friends who they’ve known for years…’ Judas! seethed Russ. ‘…and there are some among us who claim to be so conscientious about our less-fortunate citizens…’

  The exact words of the letter! An incensed Hazelwood shot to his feet… then realized he could say nothing here and, to a few surprised looks, sat down again to nurse his fury.

  After
the meeting was over, though, and the council chamber was almost vacated, he approached Daw to prevent his departure. ‘We have things to say.’

  Jack gathered his papers, responding with brevity, as was his style. Russ sought to jolt him from his relaxed manner. ‘How’s your toothache, Jack? Plucked up enough guts to visit the dentist?’

  It had the desired effect. Daw looked around him swiftly. ‘Eh, keep your voice down, Russ!’ He eyed the door where the last few people were leaving. ‘I thought we weren’t going to say…’

  ‘So did I! It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Jack went back to shuffling his papers, regaining his calm. ‘It still is me, as far as I know… least it was when I got up this morning.’

  ‘You know bloody well what I mean!’ Suppressed fury and the liquor had tinged Hazelwood’s eyes with red. ‘How did you know he was here?’

  ‘Do I detect from this frantic tone that your sinful past has caught up with you, Filbert?’

  ‘You bastard!’ Russ clenched his fists at his sides.

  Daw shoved his papers into a case. ‘Not a word to fling about these echoing chambers.’

  ‘I should’ve known Hawk-eyes would’ve seen him – you miss nothing! All these weeks I’ll bet you’ve been laughing fit to bust, couldn’t wait to pass on the knowledge. You’ve always been jealous of me, haven’t you?’

  Jack stopped then, to donate a pitying smile. ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Aye, bloody jealous! Jealous of my success, jealous of my brass, jealous of my family – aye and that most of all! What really galls you is that I have so many kids and you’re not even man enough to father one!’

  There was no raised eyebrow this time, only a raised fist.

  It was in the act of being aimed at Russell’s face when a shout from the Lord Mayor delayed it.

  ‘What the devil is going on here?’ An angry Ridsdale strode back into the room. ‘Brawling in council chambers – Daw, put your fist down, you damned fool, and tell me what’s going on – Councillor Hazelwood?’

  ‘He doesn’t like the truth!’ spat Russ breathlessly as Daw shrugged his jacket into place, both glaring at each other.

  ‘Truth isn’t something you’re good at either,’ returned his opponent. ‘I may not have a child as proof of my virility but by Christ if I had to resort to your methods to prove it… at least I’m man enough to shoulder my responsibilities.’

  ‘But not man enough to put your name to a letter!’ yelled Russ.

  Jack’s face screwed up in exasperation. ‘What’re you bloody wittering on about, man?’

  The Lord Mayor stiffened. ‘Just a minute, Russ, are you inferring that Councillor Daw wrote that letter?’

  Russ realized to his horror that he was on dangerous ground. Unsure of the best answer, he said nothing.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what either of you are on about,’ said Jack tightly. Then, when the Mayor explained, ‘I’m not in the habit of writing anonymous letters – you should know that, Russ. If I have anything to say I’ll come right out and say it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t come that with me!’ snapped Russ. ‘You were the only one who knew about the la—’ he broke off, but too late.

  ‘Russ… you said there was no substance to the allegation,’ Ridsdale pointed out slowly.

  ‘There isn’t! I…’ Russ spun away with an exclamation of surrender. Oh, you bloody imbecile!

  ‘So, it was all true about your liaison? The child?’ The Mayor was answered with a defenceless nod. ‘Even the piece about you keeping the boy a prisoner?’

  ‘I’m not an animal! I haven’t locked him up… We were just keeping him safe while… somebody comes to collect him and take him back to Africa.’

  The Lord Mayor recouped his authority and looked about him, ill at ease. ‘We’d better discuss this more privately – come on.’ He started to exit. ‘You as well, Jack.’

  ‘I want none of him!’ shouted Russ. ‘He’s ruined me with his poison pen.’

  Daw came up close then and spoke right into his face. The anger was almost gone, replaced by a kind of amusement. ‘Do you want to know something really funny, Russ? You want to know who’s responsible for getting you into this mess – your own big mouth. Because though I couldn’t tell you who wrote that letter…I do know that it certainly wasn’t me.’

  * * *

  The first Russ was aware that his confession had received a wider audience than the two people in council chambers, was the following morning when a woman spat in his face. That she was a particularly common woman made it no less shocking. He had emerged through the front door, raised his hat to her as she passed and had been about to climb into his car when she had pursed her lips and aimed the stream of spittle that now wound its way down the side of his nose. Staggered, he did nothing, made no move to wipe it away, simply held her with speechless mien.

  Then, ‘Adulterer!’ she had snarled at him, flung her shoulders round and stalked away.

  Still mesmerized, Russ stared after her until the effects of her scorn began to tickle his cheek. Pulling out a handkerchief, he dashed it away. Then, instead of getting into his car, he redirected his feet towards the house.

  Rachel took scant notice of his re-entry. She had dealt him few words since Charlie’s arrival – at least, not civil ones. But when he just stood there, made no excuse for his impromptu return, it sparked a listless question, ‘Did you forget something?’

  He turned his eyes in the direction of her voice, but gave no answer. He had told her nothing of the anonymous letter, nor the shame induced by his own foolish tongue, nor of the Mayor’s advice that he should resign. He opened his mouth but still remained mute, moving his head from side to side.

  Rachel scowled – then the door knocker sounded to divert her focus. ‘Answer that: Biddy’s gone on an errand.’ She reverted to her hat-making, distancing herself once again.

  Russ devoted only half an ear to the man on the doorstep, missed his identity. When the caller asked if he could come in and speak to Russ he dazedly agreed.

  The young man thanked him, took off his hat and laid it on the hatstand, then reached into an inside pocket. ‘I shan’t keep you long. I’d just like to know if there’s any truth in the rumour that you’re about to resign.’

  Russ became alert then. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  The hand came out of the jacket bearing a notepad. ‘Brian Green, reporter for the—’

  ‘Out!’ Russ swung the door open and gestured into the street.

  The reporter did not leave; he was finding a clean page in his notepad. ‘These imputations—’ They were the only words he was allowed to utter. Russ cupped his elbow and shoved him forcefully into the street, slamming the door.

  He leaned against the wall, chest tight, mind numb. There was no further option. He would have to go in and tell her… then he would have to compose a letter of resignation.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sensation At Guildhall! Sheriff Resigns. Illegitimate Son Revealed.

  Rachel allotted him the most rancorous, the most despising glare, then closed the evening paper, flung it at him and stormed out of the back door. He did not try to stop her. With jellied legs he moved to where the paper had fallen and picked it up, rustling its pages back to their former neatness, then folding it and laying it aside. He hovered, not thinking, just standing. His mind and body seemed in two different places. With their coalition, he reached slowly for the paper, bypassing the advertisements on the front to read the impeachment yet again. It was fast work. He could almost admire them for their efficiency. Only a matter of hours had passed since he had given formal notice, but already it was receiving full circulation.

  He was still ignorant over the authorship of the damning letter – not that it mattered very much now – but he would like to know who had waged such underhand war on him. Naturally, Rachel thought she knew already, hadn’t believed Jack’s denial. ‘If it wasn’t him who wrote it,’ she had snapped, ‘then it must’ve been his wif
e. No one else knew of the boy’s existence, did they?’

  He looked up sharply as the door was shoved open and his children poured in, accompanied by Charlie. Bloody Charlie. How he had come to hate that name. Seeing the boy flinch, he realized he had been scowling at him and turned away, feeling guilty. But he couldn’t help it; it maddened him the way the boy continued to fetch and carry for him despite the constant rebuttals, smiling that inane smile of his.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he asked, uncharacteristically short with them.

  ‘We’ve come for our story.’ It was said as if to an idiot. Rhona was pawing at his trousered leg. He looked at the clock and gave an audible groan before slapping the pages of the newspaper together – then, remembering its startling content, shoved it under the seat of the chair, out of their sight.

  ‘Where’s Mother gone?’ enquired Rowena, having just heard the door slam and knowing it meant Mother and Father had been arguing again.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Russ went to the sofa as Biddy came out of the scullery with the customary tray of milk and biscuits.

  ‘We’ve been talking about our holidays,’ said Becky. ‘Will Charlie be coming to Aunt May’s with us?’

  ‘I’m afraid we won’t be going to Aunt May’s this summer,’ replied Russ softly. At their cries of disappointment he added, ‘I’m sorry, but she’s written to say she and Uncle Bill’ll be going away themselves during the fortnight we usually stay with them.’ Lies, all lies. There had been communication between Russ and his sister but it was Russ who had made the excuse of going somewhere else this summer. ‘Anyway, she says we might be able to spend a week there at spud-picking time so don’t be too downhearted.’

  This cheered Lyn up, if not the others. ‘Ooh, I’ll enjoy pickin’ taties.’

  Rhona attempted to climb on her father’s lap. He kissed her but dissuaded the motion. ‘Listen, Father’s got things he needs to do. You’ll have to do without a story tonight.’

  ‘Oh, why?’ moaned the little girl – the others showed surprise too. ‘Why, Father, why… why?’