by Tim Jeal
‘No?’ Derek repeated stupidly as his head reeled.
‘There’s a footpath to St Mabyn from Faddon.’
‘You had your bicycle,’ Derek protested feebly.
‘The footpath cuts off most of the hill.’
‘How did you know that? You’d never been there before.’
‘I asked somebody. There was a sign anyway.’ Giles seemed shaken and alarmed by his father’s questions.
‘And that’s the truth?’ asked Derek unable to keep the desperation out of his voice.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ shouted Giles.
Derek put his head in his hands. Several drops of water in a watch and a footpath he had never known about. What chance did anybody have of behaving rationally when such trivial things could create such havoc? If the boy really hadn’t seen, and it now looked very much as though he hadn’t, he could hardly have failed to understand what he had been told a few minutes earlier. Derek could feel tears pricking behind his lids.
‘You know what I was trying to tell you, don’t you?’
Giles looked at him very straight. ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’ He moved across to the door but Derek barred his way. ‘I want to go out.’
‘We’ve got to talk about it.’
Giles turned on him furiously. ‘Talking never makes any difference.’
‘So you do know what I meant,’ murmured Derek hopelessly.
‘Of course I bloody well know.’ The boy was trembling with anger. ‘You’ve got what you wanted, now let me go.’ Tears had started to flow down his cheeks. Derek tried to hold him but was pushed roughly away.
‘You must be very upset,’ said Derek quietly.
‘About what?’ shouted Giles.
‘What I told you. I can understand how shocked you must be.’
‘Can you? Well I’m not. I’m upset because …’ he looked away for a moment and then turned on Derek—‘Because you’re so pathetic’ Derek bowed his head and said nothing. Giles said, ‘You told me because you wanted to, you forced me to listen when you knew I didn’t want to. Do what you want. I don’t care.’
‘Don’t care?’ Derek murmured incredulously.
‘Sex is a big deal, isn’t it? Jabber, jabber about it the whole time at school. How Bowles touched up Mary Stebbings and jerks off into her bra and how Keating went the whole way with Sally Harvey.’ He was blushing furiously and looking at the floor.
‘You find it disgusting?’ asked Derek, when he had recovered from his son’s sudden outburst.
‘I don’t care, that’s all. Everybody does it. We’re all here because somebody did it. Millions of us, because millions of people did it. What’s so rotten special about it?’
‘Sex isn’t insignificant,’ said Derek, still shaken and confused.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ muttered Giles, kicking at his empty suitcase on the floor. ‘Gawton, he’s in my form, his mother’s always doing it with a new bloke. He doesn’t come to school weeping. Says he doesn’t give a shit.’
‘And that’s how you feel?’
Giles nodded and started polishing his glasses.
‘And would you still not give a shit if your mother and I split up?’
‘You wouldn’t dare; even if you wanted to.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Derek, unable to hide his anger.
‘You always do what she tells you. You gave up going to Scotland, you wear silly clothes because she buys them, you let her bully you. You don’t like Charles but you came here.’ Giles looked at his father scornfully as though daring Derek to contradict him.
‘Marriage shouldn’t be a battle for dominance, Giles. Husbands don’t have to beat their wives to prove themselves men.’
A long silence. Giles was biting his lip. Suddenly he blurted out, ‘You’ve never done anything I can be proud of. Never.’
When the boy ran to the door, Derek called after him but Giles didn’t look round. Derek felt sure that he was crying and for a moment he wanted to run after his son, but the feeling passed. Giles would merely see that as a further sign of weakness. Self-willed, authoritative fathers do not pursue and plead with their children. A numb empty feeling soon replaced Derek’s sense of shock and confusion. He walked over to the window.
Outside, wispy clouds in a blue sky, a light breeze gently ruffling the shimmering sea; butterflies fluttering, grasshoppers chirping: sweet tranquillity. Little spurts of anger made Derek clench his fists and dig his nails into the palms of his hands. Anger with himself rather than with Giles or Diana. Derek imagined himself stepping out onto a perfectly kept tennis court with Charles. Within minutes Charles was sweating and blowing as winner after winner flashed past him. Sitting at the side of the court, Giles was shouting, ‘Well played, Daddy.’ Giles at school: ‘You should see my dad playing tennis. He’d win Wimbledon if he entered, but he’s too busy. Did you see the reviews of his latest book? It’s been in the best-seller lists for six months.’ Derek rested his forehead against the wall and shut his eyes.
To be Samson now, to put his shoulder to the foundations of the house and shake it like a toy, to speak wrath like a storm, to dispose a mighty army in the field for a just cause. To be Moses turning the sea to blood.
A lovely afternoon ahead, full of cakes and ale and festive village quaintness. Little jokes about the Penfillian Silver Band, witty remarks about the villagers and the side-shows. Confront Diana and Charles with what he knew. Tell them at the ox roast while the band played on. Throw in the story of his coupling with Angela for good measure. A moment of decision: Caesar at the Rubicon, Napoleon at Waterloo, Derek Cushing at the Penfillian Ox Roast; that old self-mockery, that trusty and well-tried preventative of any action likely to lead to extravagant or immoderate behaviour. To hell with it now; to hell with proportion. What price his existence if he went on feeling obliged to laugh at his anger and his sorrow?
Did a fall hurt less because caused by a banana skin? Because he had confessed unnecessarily to his son, because it had been pathetic and absurd, did that make it any more acceptable? To go on smiling stoically in the face of every new insult would be to acknowledge his life as no more than a farce with moments of pathos. How convenient to plead ironic detachment and acquiescence: a fine excuse for those too lazy and fastidious to risk active participation in the lives chance had allotted to them. Tell them, muttered Derek. Tell them.
They had made his life a farce but they would be repaid more generously—a fine corrective comedy, aimed at their heads rather than their armpits or their groins. Farce would be too blunt an instrument; their forfeit had to be more than a kick on the rump or a lost pair of trousers. If there were to be laughter, it should hurt and humiliate; without pain there would be no purging. Familiar themes in this comedy: lust, betrayal, jealousy, deceit. At first the audience feels secure; Charles smiles, Diana laughs, but not too loudly; impersonal laughter, without malice. Such emotions exist, we know that, we worldly, civilized, urbane people know it all; we are never shocked or censorious; occasionally we feel diffidently compassionate. But soon smiles cease and silence comes to the auditorium. Something is wrong with the lights and with the seats; something is very badly wrong. Suddenly they know that all the time they have been sitting on the stage. Their faults, their weaknesses have been exposed and now they see them clearly, now at last they see themselves.
Chapter 9
A silver-grey Lancia speeding along the narrow Cornish lanes, a glittering metal dart parting the warm hazy air; in front Charles and Gilbert, and behind, Derek, the jam at the centre of a tight-packed female sandwich made up of Angela and Diana. Get-away people, one and all; Gilbert had got away from his conscience, Charles from his wife, Angela from her husband, Diana was getting away from hers, and the archivist … what of him? Derek frowned. Was his not a subtler, rarer escape? It is not given to many to contemplate calmly the surrender of security, decorum, forbearance and acquiescence all on a single summer day. Nor is it usual for scholarly men to travel in the back
of fast and expensive cars wedged between a wife and a mistress. Stranger still in such company to include for good measure a wife’s lover and a parent. At times Derek felt solemn about the task ahead, at others he wanted to laugh to relieve his nerves; apprehension struggled with tense excitement. Music filled the car: a cassette of Mozart’s quintet for clarinet and strings.
Diana turned to Derek and said for Charles’s benefit, ‘I really can’t think why Giles wouldn’t come with us. I’d have thought he’d have been delighted to, but when I suggested it, he virtually told me to go to hell. It’s most unlike him, don’t you think?’ Derek said nothing. He knew that she expected him to make some light remarks about Giles’s serious nature and his frequent self-absorption. Then they could all laugh and not feel guilty about having left the boy behind. When a sharp nudge failed to make Derek say what was expected, Diana added brightly, ‘Of course thirteen’s such a difficult age.’
A brief silence, then Charles saying in a concerned voice, ‘Any idea why he didn’t want to come?’
‘None at all,’ answered Diana. ‘He ought to realize how rude and inconsiderate it is to go off on his own all the time when he’s staying with people.’
Derek concealed his anger and said with a smile, ‘I’m quite sure Charles doesn’t expect Giles to do things simply to please his host. By that token we’d all have to watch what we said and did. Nobody likes having grateful and grovelling guests to stay.’
‘Of course not,’ laughed Charles as the clarinet quintet came gracefully to an end. A pleasantly cooling breeze blew in through the open windows of the car. They slowed down to go through a shallow ford.
‘If I hated Mozart,’ went on Derek affably, addressing the back of Charles’s neck, ‘you wouldn’t expect me to say I liked it. When I’m lucky enough to be asked to your London flat, I don’t admire your new de Kooning or your Magrittes because I feel I’ve got to. I never make cooing noises about your Frink bronzes because I’m indebted to you for the food and drink I’m about to consume.’ Derek caught a glimpse of Charles’s slightly disconcerted face in the mirror; at the same time he felt Diana give him a warning pinch. He gave her a pinch in return and continued, ‘I wouldn’t insult anybody by admiring their taste, their money and their possessions out of gratitude.’ Derek noticed that Angela was trying hard not to laugh.
‘It’s just coincidental that your taste’s exactly the same as my brother’s.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Derek. ‘Charles likes interesting people, and so do I. He hates the dull and second-rate. I do too. We both find that a rich merchant banker, a scholar manqué, a theatrical impresario, a painter and a well-known columnist provide just the right balance for a successful dinner party.’
‘You’d be lucky if anybody at all came to dinner with you in your present form,’ cut in Diana hastily.
‘Just as well Charles finds academic failures like me amusing,’ replied Derek with a grin. ‘Nobody ought to confine their acquaintance to the successful; a failure or two gives a far better blend. Less vulgar somehow.’
‘I like people for themselves,’ said Charles abruptly; making it quite clear that he had had enough of the present topic of conversation. Diana gave Derek a furious look. They drove on in silence. A little later Angela tried to slip a hand into Derek’s pocket and giggled when he repulsed her.
*
On the far side of the crowded village square, against the churchyard wall, the ox was being roasted on a spit over a large smoking fire. From a hundred yards away they could smell a powerful aroma of burning fat. In the centre, clustered round the war memorial, sat the band, dressed in wine-coloured uniforms. The youngest musician was about ten, the eldest in his late seventies. They were playing a medley of hits from South Pacific. Some Enchanted Evening had just finished, and they were now attacking I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy. Bunting and coloured streamers fluttered overhead, and in front of the shops stalls had been set up: lucky dips, hit a coconut, fortune telling, buy some local jam, try your strength. Signs pointed the way to a large tent where several hundred hens and rabbits were shortly to be judged. Gilbert wandered off on his own to get his fortune told.
The rest of them were walking past the coconut shy when Charles said in a joking voice, ‘A fiver if you hit one.’
‘Fine,’ said Derek, handing Diana his striped jacket.
‘Don’t be a fool, Derek. He didn’t mean it. It’ll cost you a fiver if you miss.’
Derek said nothing but started rolling up his sleeves carefully. He paid the boy and was handed six wooden balls. Angela watched him with amusement as he examined the balls knowledgeably as though he spent much of his life in fairgrounds. The first three balls went hopelessly wide of any of the twelve coconuts. Each time there was a dull thud as the ball hit the canvas screen at the back of the stand.
‘Scrub the bet if you like,’ laughed Charles.
‘I’d like to double it,’ Derek replied calmly.
‘For God’s sake,’ cut in Diana. ‘You can make a fool of yourself any day of the week without making a special effort.’
Derek threw carefully but his fourth ball missed. With the next throw he took no trouble at all, just tossing it at random. The ball went nowhere near any of the coconuts but hit the base of one of the wooden stands. The movement was just enough to topple his prize onto the matting.
‘Bravo,’ shouted Charles. ‘Do I get a chance to win it back?’
‘Sure,’ replied Derek.
Diana said, ‘You’re not going to take his money, are you?’
‘It’d be rather insulting if I didn’t,’ came back Derek.
Derek watched the intense concentration that Charles gave to each throw. His aim was far more accurate than Derek’s, but all six balls missed; two of them very narrowly. Charles pulled out his wallet and handed two five-pound notes to Derek, who stuffed them into his trouser pocket. Then he took his coconut from the boy and handed it to Charles. Angela clapped loudly. Diana took Derek by the arm.
‘You know quite well he meant it all as a joke.’
‘He should have told me then.’ Derek turned to Charles. ‘Was it a joke?’
‘Of course not,’ said Charles with a forced laugh.
‘The least you can do is buy us all lunch,’ snapped Diana.
‘Why should I?’ asked Derek mildly. ‘Charles lost the bet and I won. He wouldn’t expect me to feel obliged to part with all my winnings.’
‘I expect you to,’ returned Diana loudly.
‘You’re in no position to expect anything,’ said Derek in a level voice.
The band had started to play If You Knew Susie. A man with a megaphone was announcing that the best cuts of the ox were about to be auctioned.
‘Far too nice a day to quarrel,’ said Charles.
‘I can’t see that the weather’s got anything to do with it,’ Derek replied.
Charles took his arm. ‘Come on, Derek. Enough said.’
Derek pulled his arm away so violently that Charles dropped his coconut. The shell split and milk dribbled out on to the ground.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Charles with a mixture of surprise and anger.
‘Why did you fuck my wife?’ said Derek.
A long time, as it seemed to Derek, before Charles murmured, ‘Do what?’
The band still playing, the sun shining as before. A small boy nibbling some candy-floss wandered between them.
‘Fuck my wife,’ Derek repeated obligingly in a controlled voice.
Charles started to laugh. Then Diana shouted at Derek, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’ Derek shouted back.
Charles was still laughing. ‘He’s joking again. Got to be,’ he spluttered.
‘He’d better be,’ said Diana.
‘Didn’t sound like it to me,’ cut in Angela.
‘Not joking?’ Charles’s laughter evaporated. He now looked indignant but too surprised to be angry. ‘You can’t be serious, Derek. I mean it
’s absurd.’
‘I rather thought you’d react like this,’ said Derek, unable to stop his voice shaking with rage. ‘Worked it out, did you? If he ever finds out, laugh at him and then be righteously offended. What kind of a moron do you take me for? Bogus dentists, fictitious furniture courses, her in her dressing-gown in the middle of the afternoon.’
‘You’re raving,’ muttered Charles.
‘Trying to shoot Giles off with the Scouts, fixing up her time here for the only two weeks I’d be bound to refuse.’ Derek was breathing heavily. He could hear the blood surging in his ears. ‘Raving, am I?’ He was dimly aware of a crowd forming round them. ‘Mad Derek who thought his wife was screwing away when she’d just been given a certificate of virginity by the pope. Quite a laugh for you to visit me in my padded cell.’
A very different Charles now; his face red and his right eye twitching. His expression a parody of outraged innocence.
‘You could have chosen a better place to make these ludicrous accusations,’ he managed to choke out. The look of wounded reproach which he gave Derek proved too much to bear.
‘Your wife left you because you fucked around so why stand there looking at me as though I’ve just pissed on one of your art treasures. Adultery. That’s all I said. Nice and easy; an ideal game for two people of opposite sexes. Only rule is, they’ve got to be married to somebody who isn’t playing. You’ve played it before and I’m sure you’ll play it again.’ As Derek heard people behind him starting to laugh, he saw Diana cover her face with her hands as though trying to hide herself from a photographer. His attention focused on a throbbing vein in Charles’s neck. The sharp flash of light which Derek saw a split second later was not caused by a flash-bulb but the impact of Charles’s clenched fist on the side of his face. For several seconds Derek could see nothing at all, just blackness and then a few popping flashes of light. He heard scuffling around him and a long way off a man shouting, ‘What am I bid for this lovely cut of meat? Do I hear three? Four from the gentleman in the straw hat …’ Somebody was helping him to his feet. Derek realized that he could see again, only his vision seemed to have been affected by the blow; everything was blurred. A man was trying to give him something. A moment later he recognized his glasses in the man’s hand. Being plastic, neither lens had broken.