My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Russ left the account of the German war, which wasn’t half as vicious as his own private battle, and began to peruse the local information. ‘You can’t stay in for ever.’ He himself had only reached this conclusion a fortnight ago and had decided to reopen the shop. For one thing, he couldn’t keep drawing the housekeeping money from the bank and for another, being in the house with a wife and a son who could not hide their repugnance did nothing for his mental health. Also, there was his assistant to consider; Russ couldn’t keep paying him to do nothing. The Germans had done him a favour – people would be too concerned with rallying to the war cry to bother smashing his windows now.

  ‘I am not having folk tittle-tattling about me every time I show my face!’

  ‘They’re not tittle-tattling about you, they’re tittle-tattling about me.’

  ‘And that’s meant to make me feel better? Knowing that everyone in the city knows what my husband is?’

  He gave a curt shuffle of the pages and mumbled, ‘Well, at least you still have your custom.’

  She thrust her face at him. ‘Yes! And do you know why? They come here to gloat! To see if they can get a glimpse of your Charlie!’ After the prolonged glare, she adopted a false pose of relaxation. ‘But I suppose I must be grateful they’re still buying my hats or we’d have used up all the money in the bank with the way you’re performing – and this war’s not going to make things any better, is it? Why, no sooner has it started than the prices are shooting up…’

  ‘Aye well, now I’ve reopened the shop we should be back to normal soon.’

  ‘Normal?’

  His breast heaved. ‘I meant as far as housekeeping is concerned.’

  ‘Yes, well, while we’re on the subject I’ll need some extra cash for tomorrow morning. Biddy went to the shop and there wasn’t a piece of bacon to be had, so it looks like I’m going to have to send her into town for it. And we’ll need plenty of tinned stuff in, we don’t know how long this war’s going to last, it could be months.’

  He lifted a buttock to dig into his pocket, examining the change in his hand. ‘Will twenty-three bob be all right?’

  ‘Good gracious, no! Flour’s already up to half a crown a stone and I’ll need a full side of bacon, not to mention anything else.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s all I have.’ He extended his palm.

  ‘There was hardly any point in asking if it was enough, then, was there?’ Every word she formed was used as a knife.

  Replacing the money in his pocket, Russ abandoned any attempt at reading the paper and rose, intending to leave the parlour. ‘I’ll fetch some home from the shop tomorrow evening.’ He did not come home for his lunch these days.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be no use then! You may as well not bother. Everything will have been snapped up.’

  He kept his patience. ‘All right, I’ll go to the bank first thing… and I’ll hire Pickfords while I’m at it – well, I can’t see Biddy being able to carry all the stuff you’re proposing to buy.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to be flippant! We’re all aware that you couldn’t give a fig about this family’s welfare. Oh, never mind!’ She waved airily. ‘I’m sure I’m not going to beg for it.’

  ‘Rachel, lass,’ he came forward, hands beseeching her, ‘nobody’s asking you to beg. I’ll get some cash from the bank – oh, hell! I forgot, they don’t open again till Friday.’ He rubbed at his forehead and sighed. ‘Look, I’ll take Biddy into town first thing and get everything you need and pay by cheque, they’re telling us to use our cheque books as much as we can anyway. How’s that?’

  Only slightly placated, she delivered a terse nod.

  He lingered. ‘About what you said… we can’t go on hiding for ever, you know. I say we should brazen it out.’

  ‘You might be brazen, I am not!’

  He persevered. ‘There isn’t just us to consider. We can’t keep Charlie penned up indefinitely or we’ll be having the cruelty woman back. Everybody knows he’s here anyhow.’ Charlie had still not been beyond the door of the back yard.

  She couldn’t believe this. ‘Are you suggesting we disport him?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that a day out as a family would do us all…’

  ‘He is not family!’

  His expression grew pained. ‘I know, I know… but if we show them we don’t care what they say…’

  ‘I care!’ Time heals all wounds – what an idiotic adage that was! Far from healing the wound of his betrayal, the days had brought putrefaction.

  His head lolled in defeat. ‘Oh, Rache…’ and he sought for some form of inducement. ‘Look, how would you like a new dress?’

  She donned a look of utter disbelief. ‘You really think you can wipe this away with a new dress?’

  ‘Of course I don’t! I’m not trying to… what I meant was, well, you’re always saying you feel nice in something new.’

  ‘I’ll never feel nice again – and I am not going out and there’s an end to it!’

  He backed off and stood with hands in pockets. ‘So how long d’you intend to keep this up?’ His enquiry was ignored. ‘Till Father whatsisname comes? Then will you show your face?’

  ‘I may do. Then again I may not. I fail to see that it should concern you.’

  ‘They’ll still talk. Just because Charlie mightn’t be with us doesn’t mean he’ll be forgotten.’

  She slammed her work onto her knee. ‘How very reassuring!’

  ‘Rachel.’ He sank onto the sofa beside her. ‘I know, I know I did wrong, but for pity’s sake…’

  ‘Pity?’ she snarled, rearing away from his touch. ‘Pity me and your poor children who have to put up with the gossip! Pity poor Robert who’ll probably have to face more bullies at his new school – you’ve ruined him! Ruined him! He thought the world of you!’ And so did I, she wanted to sob.

  ‘I know he did.’ Russ hung his head. ‘I’ve tried my best to make things right between us, but he doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me. I’m desperately sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you, but acting like hermits isn’t going to make it any easier. We must try to get back into some sort of routine… even if, as you say, it’ll never be normal.’

  After a look of pure contempt, she picked up her sewing and replied, ‘I’ll consider your proposal,’ and from then until supper time, when she asked if he wanted tea or cocoa, never said another word.

  It wasn’t until the following morning that he received an answer. ‘I’ve decided,’ she told him before he left for the shop. ‘We shall go out as a family. I don’t see why we should all suffer because of you. The children are back at school on Monday and they’ve been nowhere in these holidays. There’s a show on at the Empire tonight. The first performance starts at seven.’

  Taken aback, he waited for her to say more, but with the long silence that ensued it became clear that this was to be the limit of her breakfast conversation. He could not conjure a suitable response. The one he gave sounded totally false. ‘Well, that’ll be very nice, I’m sure.’ A thoughtful nod. ‘The children’ll like that.’ He looked at her again. ‘Rachel…’

  She turned her face away, indicating that she did not intend to chat. He turned his gaze down at his plate, fingered a knife, put it down again. His hand reached for a slice of toast from the rack… then laid that down too. ‘I’ll go then…’

  After a short delay he swivelled his knees from under the table and left, taking Biddy shopping as he had promised. This took longer than he had anticipated, for not only was the city centre jammed with traffic but there were long queues outside every food store. By the time Biddy got to the counter there was little to be had in the way of tinned produce.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ wailed Biddy on presenting her paltry haul to the mistress. ‘That’s all there was left. We shoulda been there yesterday.’

  Rachel made scathing examination of the purchases, then tossed a similar expression at her husband, who hung in the doorway. ‘It was hardly worth writing a chequ
e for, was it? You’re useless, the pair of you!’

  Russ gave way to his depression and trudged out.

  * * *

  The children, told about the concert at teatime, were thrilled, for up until this point in the school holidays they had been forced to make their own amusement. Rowena was the first to ask what sort of show it was.

  ‘A variety,’ said her mother, and gestured at the paper rack – there was no longer the need to conceal every journal; the wayward Sheriff was yesterday’s news. ‘There’s a list of the cast in the press. You can have a look after you’ve finished eating – Robert, take some more bread, dear.’ She spoke coaxingly. The boy had become very subdued in his father’s presence, although when Russell was absent his unhappiness seemed not to be so acute.

  There was only the mumbled reply, ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Now, you don’t want to end up falling down the cracks in the pavement, do you?’ attempted Russ with a smile.

  Bertie acted as if he hadn’t even heard. All the boy’s father got for his pains was a show of compressed lips from Rachel.

  Rowena nibbled her bread and watched the play of feature. She had tried asking Bertie why he was so unhappy and why he had run away, but he had refused to tell her, saying only what she knew already, that it was because of Charlie. Her sisters assumed it was mere jealousy, but she regarded this as an inadequate explanation, for it wasn’t just Charlie who was receiving hostile treatment but Father too. It must be really serious. He had never been out of favour for this long.

  She finished eating and, gaining permission to leave the table, picked up the press to read aloud, ‘The Great Garenzos – they’re acrobats, Marvellous Marco the Magician, Robinson’s Nigger Minstrels…’

  ‘Ooh, Charlie!’ Becky clapped her hands chirpily. ‘You might see someone you know among them.’

  But Charlie’s reply was cut short by Rachel who said coolly, ‘He won’t be coming.’

  All eyes turned to her, including her husband’s. ‘I thought you said we’d all be going out together.’

  ‘I said as a family,’ came her stiff reply. ‘It could hardly be an enjoyable evening if everybody was staring at us.’

  ‘Aw, that’s not fair!’ objected Becky.

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, young lady,’ warned Rachel. ‘When you’re older you’ll learn that nothing is fair.’

  Becky said she was very sorry. ‘Oh, but please can’t Charlie come?’

  ‘I’m not coming if he’s coming,’ contributed Bertie.

  ‘Don’t come then!’ retorted Becky. ‘I’d rather have Charlie.’ This sparked another burst of squabbling.

  Oh God, make it end, prayed Russ, listening to the arguments for and against Charlie. Please just let me die or something.

  ‘I don’t like going to the theatre,’ Charlie announced above the row.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Rachel. ‘All that fuss was for nothing. Now, if you’ve all finished eating you can go and get washed and change into your Sunday clothes. We set off in half an hour.’ She rose from the table and went off to change herself.

  ‘I am sorry, Charlie.’ Becky hooked a sisterly arm through his and patted his hand.

  He formed an unconvincing smile. ‘I told you, I don’t want to go.’

  ‘I think you’re just saying that. You would’ve enjoyed it, especially the minstrels.’

  ‘They’re not real negroes like him, stupid,’ spat Bertie, kicking his chair back. ‘They’re only white men with stuff on their faces.’ He left them. They heard his feet thud on every stair until he reached his room.

  ‘They’re not, are they, Father?’ Becky turned to Russ for confirmation. At his nod, she said deflatedly, ‘Oh well, I’m sure Charlie would enjoy the magician anyway… that’s if Mother wasn’t so mean and allowed him to come.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that about Mother,’ accused Rowena. The fact that she liked Charlie made her feel disloyal to her mother. Someone should support her. Beany thought so too and added her alliance.

  Becky stood firm. ‘Well, I think she’s mean, don’t you, Lyn?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been really nasty to Father as well, hasn’t she?’ came the reply. Despite Rachel’s attempts to be civil to her husband in front of the children, they could not fail to detect the coldness in her voice nor hear the arguments that went on in the front parlour.

  Russ came out of his nightmare. ‘No, no.’ He shook his head wearily, not caring for the way this was going. There was the danger that his family would be split down the middle, some of the children on Rachel’s side, some on his; he didn’t want that. ‘You don’t understand. Your mother, well… she isn’t herself lately.’

  ‘Can’t you buy her some flowers and get round her?’ pleaded Becky.

  ‘I’m afraid they don’t sell the blooms of Utopia round here, lass.’ He rose, saying tiredly, ‘Sorry, Charlie, but it’ll only make things worse for you if I were to argue with her. Come on now, girls, you’d best get ready else your mother’ll be cross.’ Some evening out this was going to be. He wished he had never suggested it.

  Shepherding his daughters from the room, he went to prepare himself for his ordeal. Half an hour later, as he stood aside for his wife to leave the kitchen, he glanced at the scullery where the door was ajar. Charlie was standing by the sink, helping Biddy with the washing up. Hearing the children’s goodbyes, he turned, caught his father’s eye and gave a tentative smile. To the beleaguered Russ it punished as effectively as his wife’s rejection.

  He couldn’t stand this. He couldn’t stand it one moment longer. He might as well be dead for all the quality of his life now. The heat in here was terrible, squashed as he was into this inadequate theatre seat between a portly gent and Rachel. A sweat had broken out all over his body and his starched collar was like a garrotte. His temples throbbed. On the stage, a pack of idiots yelped and cavorted in time to a concertina. His mind kept drifting away, but their noise denied its total absence and brought him crashing back to reality every five seconds, when his palms would move in edgy fashion up and down his trousered knees in an effort to calm himself. He must get out.

  The decision was made. Leaning to one side, he whispered in his wife’s ear. She eyed him testily as his rising frame blocked the stage from the view of the people behind. He struggled to the end of the row, standing on toes, excusing himself. Outside, he took three deeply grateful breaths of sultry air, then set off with intent in his step.

  * * *

  After the final curtain, a very annoyed Rachel led the exit from the concert hall, bent on another flailing when she caught up with her husband. By coming here she had laid herself bare to the gossips, had put herself out for the sake of presenting the family as ‘normal’ – all at his suggestion – and what did he do? He sneaked away and left her to face the ordeal alone. He had forfeited the right of respect in front of the children; they would have to be made aware just how fickle their father was.

  But he wasn’t outside and neither was the motor car. Disconcerted, she gathered her family around her and looked up and down Clifford Street. ‘Wherever can your father have got to? It’s disgraceful of him to leave us alone like this.’ She struck out a brisk march. ‘Come along, it looks as if we’ll have to make our own way home. It’s a good thing it’s not dark. This is typical of your father.’

  Because the town centre was still crawling with military traffic and soldiers, Rachel decided to make the journey home on foot by way of Skeldergate Bridge and Bishopthorpe Road. All the while she berated the absent Russ, seeing him in her mind’s eye back there drinking himself silly. When the family turned into the last stretch she was still debasing him. The children tried to divert her by discussing the show.

  ‘I loved those little dogs, didn’t you, Mother?’ attempted Rowena.

  Rachel performed her darting smile. ‘Yes, they were excellent.’

  ‘It’s a pity Father missed them,’ said Beany, earning disgruntled grimaces from he
r sisters.

  ‘Yes, well, your father obviously had more pressing things to do,’ was Rachel’s starchy response.

  ‘Which act did you like best, Mother?’ Rowena tried again.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know… the magician. Though your father does a pretty good disappearing act himself.’

  Here and there along the way a man in uniform would emerge from his house and, after a clinging kiss, march off along the street. The pavement began to incline. There were two soldiers marching some thirty yards in front of the family. One was only half a soldier – khaki tunic and cap, but civilian trousers. The other was clearly proud to be fully kitted out, for he carried his civvies in a rolled-up bundle under his arm. Bertie, the variety show having produced a temporary lightening of mood, let his own feet walk in unison with the men’s brisk step. The ringing of the soldiers’ boots lured the girls into following suit. Talk of the show was forgotten with the rhythmic swinging of arms and striding legs. Rachel barely noticed anything, dominated by her own furious thoughts.

  At the junction in the road, the soldiers parted company. The children continued to ape the one with the bundle under his arm who was going in their direction. Shortly after the soldier turned the corner, so did they. The soldier came to a halt further down the street and opened a blue gate.

  Rachel stopped dead – it was her gate. He couldn’t… He couldn’t have done that to her, not on top of everything else. The soldier caught the marching children from the corner of his eye and, turning full face, lingered on the threshold to wait for them. All but the boy gave a squeal of recognition and scampered up to jostle him. His wife came more slowly, face rosy and glistening with the heat.

  She looks so pretty, agonized Russ as he removed his peak cap, fingering the brim. On her way she caught Bertie’s elbow and piloted him forward. Wordlessly, he performed a detour round his father, back glued to the passage wall in order not to be contaminated by his touch. Once past, he went straight up to his room.