“Well, of course that’s what it means! Don’t be such a stupid little ass! Don’t you know anything about the facts of life?”
After three terms spent among ninety boys ranging in age from eight to thirteen I had acquired a shadowy idea of such basic biology but still found the whole business bewilderingly grotesque. I began to grasp at facts which I could understand more easily and tried to arrange them in some sort of orderly classification.
“But, William,” I said, “if Papa loved Mama—”
“Shut up,” said William.
“—why did he kiss her and everything! Does he love her as well as Mama? I don’t understand.”
“Oh God,” said William, “it’s so obvious it’s painful. You’re such a baby, Adrian. I know you can’t help it, but—”
“Then tell me! Explain! I want to know!”
“There’s nothing to tell. Papa was living with two women at once for years and years, that’s all, and he didn’t stop till Mrs. Castallack decided to have a judicial separation. It just goes to show what a sham marriage is. Even if he’d been married to Mama he would still have lived with Mrs. Castallack whenever he had the chance—what happened at Brighton would still have happened no matter which one he’d been married to. Marriage doesn’t mean anything at all. He had two women to choose from, so he had them both.”
“That was wrong of him,” I said at once. “That’s bad.”
“Not bad. How could it be? Papa’s not a wicked person.”
“But if Papa loves Mama—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake stop talking as if it were all one of your fairy tales! I don’t believe true love exists. Papa just likes Mama better than Mrs. Castallack now, that’s all. He lives with her because he likes her best. But when it comes to just sleeping and the other thing, it doesn’t matter who he likes best and he’ll just do it if he has the right opportunity. He probably gets tired of doing it with the same person all the time and likes to have a change now and then.”
I was hopelessly at sea. “But of course there’s such a thing as true love!” I protested. “They’ve both told us they love each other! So why was Papa deliberately unfaithful?”
“He wasn’t unfaithful! He’s not even married to Mama!”
“He was unfaithful to her,” I said stubbornly. “She loved him and he loved her and it was just as if they were married. But he betrayed her. I simply don’t understand it at all.”
“Well, obviously he still loves Mama best because here he is still living with her.” He turned his back on me. “It was just a casual thing with Mrs. Castallack at Brighton don’t you see? It didn’t mean Papa liked Mama any the less, it didn’t mean anything special. … When I’m grown up I shall have casual things and never get married, and if I find someone I like better than anyone else I’ll live with her and still have casual things when I feel like it.”
“But that’s wicked!”
“Why? I think it’s more wicked to get married and make all those promises to love someone forever when you know you’ll probably break those promises later and hurt people who didn’t deserve to be hurt in the first place.”
“But …” I felt dizzy suddenly. My head was beginning to ache. “Marriage and true love are good,” I said stubbornly, “but casual things are wrong. Papa told me. God forgives true love but not casual things. Papa told me at Brighton. I shall never, never have any casual things and if I love a person I shall try and marry her if I can. It’s sinful to love a person and not marry her if nothing stands in your way. It’s fornication.”
“Oh, don’t be such a beastly little prig,” said William, leading his horse into the yard. “You know as well as I do that if it hadn’t been for fornication neither of us would be in this world at all.”
“But William—”
“Be quiet, damn you! Can’t you see I don’t want to talk about it?” His eyes shone with tears. “Leave me alone!”
And he turned, mounted his horse and set off at a gallop to the comforting solitude of the woods.
2
I was dreadfully upset and felt sick with bewilderment. After a long while I managed to find Mama alone in her sitting room. She was busy doing her household accounts.
“Mama,” I said wretchedly, hovering around her like some restless fly. “Do you mind about the baby?”
She did not answer immediately. She was busy examining the butcher’s bill.
“I feel sorry for the poor little baby,” she said at last, “coming unwanted and unloved into the world.”
“Are you angry with Papa?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I love him too much ever to be angry with him for long.”
“Did you know the baby was coming?”
“Yes, Papa told me some time ago.”
“Were you unhappy when he told you?”
“Not for myself. I knew by then that Mrs. Castallack was seeking a judicial separation and that Papa would not be returning to her any more.”
“But weren’t you angry when Papa caused the baby? He shouldn’t have caused the baby, surely. That was bad.”
“Not in the eyes of the church,” said Mama. “Papa had a moral duty to try to live with his wife even though they made each other unhappy. When husbands and wives live together it’s natural that they should have children. However, now everything is changed because he and Mrs. Castallack are legally separated and he is no longer obliged to live with her, so there won’t be any more children.”
I slowly began to feel better. “So Papa really did love you best all the time. He just saw Mrs. Castallack now and then because he was trying to be good.” I fidgeted absently with the calendar on her desk as I digested the information. “But, Mama—”
“Yes?”
“I know it was good of Papa to do his duty, but wasn’t it upsetting for you whenever he went to see Mrs. Castallack?”
“I expect it was upsetting for Mrs. Castallack,” said Mama, “whenever he came to see me.”
“But—”
“Everyone gets upset sometimes, Adrian. But you see, I love Papa so very much that I can never be upset with him for long.”
“Then you’re not feeling hurt now because of the baby? It’s just that I don’t want him to make you unhappy again like you were at Brighton. You’re not unhappy, are you, Mama?”
“No, darling, of course not! You mustn’t waste your sympathy on me. Think of the poor little baby instead—now he really does deserve your sympathy. I can’t think what will become of him.”
“Won’t he come here?”
“Not for at least a year. He must be with his mother while he’s still so young. After that, I don’t know. No doubt the judge will have to be consulted again, although Papa isn’t anxious for the child to come to Allengate.”
“Why?”
“Oh …” She was totally absorbed in adding up a column of figures. “Reasons… Now, darling, I think you’d better run along and let me finish these horrible bills. And don’t, please, be worried and anxious any more. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”
I did in fact feel better after that. Later William reverted to his old careless self again and apologized to me for being so bad-tempered in the stables. No one else seemed to be disturbed. Marcus and Mariana played croquet together; Hugh and Jeanne loyally weeded the patch of earth that Philip had requisitioned near his “mine” and dignified by the name of garden. Philip himself had gone off somewhere in the woods as usual. Fat little Elizabeth tottered onto the lawn with Edith the nursemaid and tried to pull up the croquet hoops, and Mama played with the baby for a while in the shade. It was exactly like any other day.
But in spite of my comforting conversation with Mama and the seeming normality of everyone around me I still felt oddly lost and dissatisfied.
3
Papa did not go down to Cornwall for the baby’s christening. He did not even speak of the baby except to tell us what it had been called.
> “Jan-Yves!” said Mariana distastefully. “How peculiar!” And afterward she added privately to Marcus, “How common!”
“Not a very suitable name for a young English gentleman,” said Papa dryly to Mama. “But I’ve no intention of being provoked into contesting the choice.” He made it sound as if Mrs. Castallack had chosen the name to annoy him.
“Jan-Yves is Cornish for Jean-Yves,” Marcus explained to us cautiously, “and Jean-Yves was the name of Mama’s father. He was French and lived in St. Ives when he was alive. He was in shipping.”
“Oh, I would so love to see the new baby!” sighed little Jeanne. “Papa, can’t we go down to Cornwall and see Mama and the baby soon?”
“Not at present, my dear,” said Papa kindly, stroking her long golden hair. He was very fond of Jeanne. “Perhaps later.”
“When?” said Philip.
“Well see,” said Papa.
He always said that. He said that until Christmas, and after Christmas he simply said, “I’m afraid you can’t visit Mama at present. She’s left Penmarric and gone back to Roslyn Farm, and the judge won’t permit you to visit her while she lives there.”
Apparently, I learned to my astonishment, Mrs. Castallack had been a farmer’s widow before she had married Papa, and she still owned the farm, which was near Papa’s estate, Penmarric. However, the judge was naturally reluctant for the children to be brought up on a mere farm when they could live at a place such as Allengate Manor, and it did not seem to me in the least surprising that he would not allow them to visit her in these circumstances. But the Castallacks found his decision harder to accept than I did.
In the end Philip said to Papa, “It doesn’t really matter where she lives, does it? You wouldn’t have let us visit her anyway, even if she’d stayed at Penmarric because she wouldn’t have left Penmarric if she’d thought she would be allowed to see us there. But while she was at Penmarric you had to pretend you might let us visit her. Now she’s gone to the farm you don’t even have to pretend any more. You’re never going to let us see her.”
But all Papa said was “The judge ruled that she is allowed to see the girls and I have no intention of disobeying his ruling on the matter. Since the girls can’t visit her at the farm I intend to arrange a meeting at the townhouse in London when the time is right. It’s true you boys aren’t allowed to see her at the moment unless I consent, but I think it would be ill-advised of me at this stage if I ignored the judge’s decision to grant me absolute custody and allowed your mother rights she doesn’t legally possess. However, if all goes well and everyone behaves satisfactorily, the judge may well see fit to modify his ruling on the matter in due course. Until that time there’s nothing further I can say on the subject. The decision was made by the judge, not by me.”
“You made him make it!” cried Philip. “And you could make him unmake it if you wanted to!”
“Indeed I could not! The judge reached an independent decision after meeting your mother and myself and talking to all of you. I intend to abide by the order of the court, that’s all. It’s as simple as that.”
That all seemed very reasonable to me but the Castallacks remained upset and Philip was convinced that Papa was only obeying the judge to the letter in order to make Mrs. Castallack as unhappy as possible.
“As if Papa would do that!” I scoffed privately to William.
It did not occur to me until much later that Papa must have been very angry when Mrs. Castallack sought a judicial separation instead of a divorce and that angry men seldom act in a calm, dignified, reasonable manner.
In the new year while we were at school for the spring term, Mrs. Castallack, accompanied by a friend of Papa’s called Mr. Vincent, journeyed to Oxfordshire from Cornwall to see the girls, None of the boys was there to greet her; Hugh was by this time at a preparatory school near Banbury, Philip was still at school in Surrey and Marcus was in his second term at Eton.
“Mrs. Castallack did not choose to come to Allengate,” wrote Mama, who had been visiting a friend of hers in London at the time, “but Papa decided that it would be best for the girls not to leave their new home where they’ve all settled down so well, and so he withdrew his original proposal that the meeting should take place at his townhouse in London. He did wonder if Mrs. Castallack would come in view of the fact that his decision would make her journey more difficult and her visit more arduous, but I myself felt she would not be deterred from seeing her daughters no matter how adverse the circumstances, so I wasn’t at all surprised when she agreed to come to Allengate. I’m glad Mariana, Jeanne and Elizabeth had the chance to see their mama again, but I fear poor Philip will be very distressed to hear that he did not share their opportunity, and Marcus quite broken-hearted …”
Philip came home from school at the end of term in a towering rage. As soon as he saw Papa he walked straight up to him, his fists clenched, his chin tilted, his head held high.
“Mama was here three weeks ago to see the girls,” he said, his voice much too loud. “You only let her come when I was away at school, and you told the headmaster, not to let her see me when she called at school on the way home to Cornwall.”
Papa said levelly, “The judge has ordered that it would be best for you not to see her for a while. It’s a temporary measure made in your own best interests. I explained it to you before.”
“But she wanted to see me!” Philip cried. His voice was trembling. “How can it be in my best interests not to let her see me? How can it be?”
Mama took pity on him. She stooped, and kissed him and took him in her arms. I was conscious of my usual pang of resentment to see her pay him attention. “You mustn’t be upset, Philip dear. I’m sure you’ll be able to see your mama before too long.”
He tried to push her away. “I don’t want you saying nice things.” His voice was high with grief. “Leave me alone.”
Ungrateful little beast, I thought.
Mama was upset. “Mark—”
“That will do, Rose,” said Papa abruptly and she was silent.
Later Marcus said to Philip, “I’ve been talking this over with William. I don’t think Papa’s going to let Mama see us for a long time, and I don’t think the judge will change the order for a long time either. I know Papa talks about it being a temporary measure, but how temporary is temporary? I don’t think he wants us to see her till we’re grown up.”
“The order can’t last forever,” said Philip. “I’ll make him tell me when it stops.”
But Papa’s answer was unsatisfactory. He told Philip that although the judge might reconsider the order if he felt the circumstances warranted it, he would always, in amending or confirming his earlier decision, be guided by what he felt were the best interests of each child. In Papa’s opinion the judge was unlikely to change the order as it affected Philip until Philip himself was at least sixteen years old, and there was no question of the order expiring conveniently at an earlier date.
“I’ll show him!” muttered. Philip afterward, “I’ll show him! When I’m sixteen I’m off. I’ll be big enough then to fight anyone, even a judge. As soon as I’m sixteen I’ll leave school and go and live with Mama at the farm and Papa can go to the devil for all I care.”
And he drew up a five-year calendar, hung it on the wall at the foot of his bed and meticulously began to cross off the days.
There was something about this merciless attention to passing time that chilled me. I would look at the last month, June 1911, and as I wondered what would have happened by then I could feel uneasiness grip me like a vise. I tried to imagine what I would be like at fifteen and a half and decided that I did not like the idea of growing up at all.
“If only the years would pass more quickly!” Philip would say, beside himself with impatience. “If only I were a man!”
As if in answer to his wishes he began to grow. By the time he was thirteen he was unusually big for his age. At fourteen hiş voice had broken and he was six feet tall. At fifteen he could ha
ve passed for a young man of twenty. Awkwardness, lankiness, spots, pimples, shyness—all the banes of adolescence—passed him by and left him unmarked. Even I, who hated him, had to admit he was the most striking youth I had ever seen. Marcus, who would normally have appeared an exceptionally prepossessing young man as well, was over-shadowed by Philip’s enormous golden splendor, and even William, who was reasonably good-looking, seemed nondescript in contrast.
To my disgust I became plainer and plainer. For a long time I would not grow and remained humiliatingly short. Then when I did grow I grew so fast that I became painfully thin.
“Like a skeleton,” said Hugh with interest. He also was very small, so my sudden growth was encouraging to him.
None of my clothes fitted me. My feet became too big and whenever I tried to fold myself neatly into an armchair my limbs seemed to sprawl uncontrollably in all directions. My voice broke in the worst possible way and squeaked ignominiously whenever it was vitally important for me to maintain a deep pitch. My skin troubled me. Every aspect of puberty was an unspeakable embarrassment. I was miserable.
“Don’t worry,” said William encouragingly. “It doesn’t last forever. You’ll probably turn out presentable enough in the end.”
But I could not believe him and instead wasted many futile minutes envying the Castallacks their good looks. Only Elizabeth was fat and plain, although no one knew whether the baby Jan-Yves was ugly or not. Jan-Yves had not been summoned to Allengate. Mrs. Castallack had left him behind at Penmarric when she had returned to her farmhouse and he was being brought up there by a nanny. I thought this was unexpectedly correct of Mrs. Castallack, since according to the judge’s order she was not allowed to see or bring up any of her sons, but Mariana and Marcus thought it was odd and would discuss the subject from time to time.
“Since Papa doesn’t want it at Allengate you’d think that Mama might like to keep it at the farm,” Marcus said.
“Since Papa doesn’t want it and Mama won’t live with it” said Mariana, “it must be odd.”
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