On the bank of this, his English holy river, Edmund sits dry-eyed, remembering all that is Wynhope and wishing he could cry. It is a perfect evening for fishing – muggy, the threat of a storm luring the fish to the fly – but he hasn’t even been able to bring himself to thread the reel. He will miss this perhaps more than anything, because through it all, there has always been the river: he threw stones in this river, each pebble a counted prayer for his mother to live, while he waited for his mother to die; he swam in the three-fathom pool the day after her funeral and wondered if it was a sin, to still love the slide of his naked thighs into the icy water and the wonderful wet wildness of it all; he smashed his father’s treasured salmon rod and threw the pieces in this river, watched the fragments drift away on a slow summer stream, snagged by a fallen sycamore. But more than all those moments are the unnoticed, unnumbered days, as a child, a teenager, a man, with the murmur of turning water for company, the drifting fly, the wading stick to read the riverbed and the rod held low and lightly, waiting, always waiting for the tug on the line. For him, fishing has always been a spiritual experience: complete attention to the moment co-existing with complete absorption in the imminent future, a fusion of deep peace and heightened suspense, all that is past part of the stream around him. Sometimes he still prays here, in a way which is different from the prayers he offers himself in his chapel.
Perhaps more than anything it is the way the river speaks to him. Wading out, aware that even his presence in the water changes the conversation, he listens to the steady rush of the weir behind him, closer to him the gentler lilt and babble of stones in water. It is as though there is a child hidden in the water, playing with words and laughing at all the amazing sounds and infinite songs he can sing. Sometimes when Edmund fishes, if it is warm, he hangs his coat from one of the low branches of the willows, and at the end of the evening, he hands back his soul in exchange for his coat. This evening he is not looking for baptism, but for confirmation of his new creed.
He has decided to leave. It was ridiculous to think Wynhope could ever be anything other than a perpetual graveyard; it was equally ridiculous, once he decided never to have children, that it could be anything other than a historical dead end. And on the question of children, it was ridiculous that he ever thought he would be good enough to look after Mikey. He is a very unsuccessful man.
That is the saddest thing. He was just beginning to teach him to fish. How surprised he was that this boy, taut and suspicious as a terrier from a rescue home, was able to spend hours standing right here, waiting and watching, then walk away not having caught a thing, but still happy. Talking didn’t matter when it came to the important things in life like cricket or gardening or reading or listening to music or fishing, nor when they ambled back over the park, where the trees were too old for gossip, the rooks too busy for small talk. They only dropped hands when they spotted Diana scowling out at them from the kitchen window. She wanted Mikey and she didn’t want Mikey. He never understood it, but now it doesn’t matter; she will never care for the boy again and nor will he. Surely Grace will have him, she won’t be able to say no and it will be better for the child that way.
In a shower of water, Monty leaves the river, barks expectantly, but Edmund is leaning over the old stone bridge staring into the pool, deep in thought, planning the mechanics of his departure and where he might go. Over the years, he has tried many ways of living in many different countries, leaving Wynhope to take care of itself. Money lets you do that, turn into some parody of a wandering minstrel: a bar in the Caribbean, a yoga retreat in the Himalayas, a job in a safari lodge in South Africa, studying in Cairo, a bank in New York; all punctuated by periods of staying at Wynhope usually associated with marriage and moments of leaving Wynhope usually associated with death or divorce. Perhaps he could learn from the nomads he saw on the steppes, moving on with their yurts and their horses, taking their selves with them as they go.
Not just himself, Edmund isn’t so stupid to think that they won’t all be with him on the empty seats beside him on the bus: his parents, his wives, his half-dead wife in particular, the boy he hasn’t looked after, the children he hasn’t fathered, the house and the slaves who built it, and the history he will put on the market. All tattooed on his flesh, but even so, he tasted freedom on his fishing trip and he feels an adolescent lurch of excitement at the idea of walking away down the drive on his own two feet. He turns in the direction of the main road and salutes the gates. He’ll have nothing more than a pack on his back. A gap year. A gap life.
Already back at the house, Monty is waiting for his supper with the absolute certainty that it will be provided. Edmund can’t allow himself to think about leaving the dog. He and Marguerite took in a rescue dog once, adored him, then he savaged the sheep and they had to return him to the kennels. Edmund is still haunted by the look in his eyes as the volunteer clipped the chain on the collar and led him back to his cage.
Having closed all the doors and turned off all the lights, he restricts himself to the sitting room for the evening. Although the chimney is cold, last year’s wood is dry and the fire catches quickly. Monty settles tired and happy on the hearthrug. With a bottle of expensive Burgundy, Edmund streams the soft porn film on mute and turns up Bach’s St Matthew Passion to full volume. Sometimes, when he is all by himself, he can manage it this way.
The slam of a car door. Monty cocks his head, barks. Edmund stops what he is trying to do. Who calls this late? The police? Perhaps the hospital sends someone to tell you if someone dies, then he realises how ridiculous that is. People die in their thousands every night, there would hardly be enough living to read out the telegrams for the dead. The bell rings again, louder, longer. Whoever it is does not seem to be prepared to go quietly so Edmund sorts himself out and goes to the front door.
In the porch, the silhouette of a man with his back to him, hands in the pockets of a dark outdoor jacket, a black beanie pulled low over his head. It was Diana who insisted on security lights. He always hated the way they set themselves up in opposition to the moon so as soon as he realised she might not be back, he turned them off. This fear is his punishment for being presumptuous, to peer into the darkness and not recognise the night visitor at the door.
‘Edmund.’
‘John!’ The immediate relief disappears as Edmund senses bad news and cold air fills the hall around him. ‘Is there something wrong with Mikey?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
John has had a drink problem in the past – ex-army, didn’t they all? – and he looks as if he is spoiling for a fight. For that matter, they are both probably drunk. There is something going on with Grace and John which he doesn’t understand, how they walked away from Wynhope as though they were glad to escape and the antagonism from their granddaughter when he visited.
‘Are you going to invite me in? Or should I go round the back to the tradesman’s entrance?’
It is an unnecessarily caustic comment from someone who Edmund believes he has always treated as an equal, but, letting it pass, he leads his unexpected visitor into the sitting room. The fire is almost out, the bottle is empty, the room is a tip. On the television, a black woman is licking a white woman’s nipples. Edmund snatches the remote and the screen goes blank.
‘Do you want to take your coat off?’
‘I won’t be here long.’ Glancing around the room as if he is looking for something, John picks up the DVD of Titanic, opens it, snaps it shut. ‘I’m not going to mess around. I want to know what the fuck is going on with Mikey.’
So that’s it. Edmund does not want this conversation. He had planned to say whatever needs saying over the phone in the morning, when he can think clearly, not now, under threat, under the influence. Spreading his arms wide, John sarcastically reminds Edmund of his fisherman’s promise.
‘Every morning, that boy gets up, packs his rucksack and sits at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door, waiting for you to come. Can you
imagine that, Edmund? So we call and you don’t answer, we leave messages and you don’t reply. And at bedtime, we have to tell him that you’re not coming. Again. You’re a selfish bastard, do you know that? How can you do that to a kid?’
As Edmund doesn’t know how he can do that to a kid, he doesn’t answer.
‘Well?’
Edmund shrugs in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘No, you don’t,’ says John. ‘But I do know what you’re up to. This is not about me and Grace. We can look after him, we have been looking after him, as you well know. I bet you’re thinking, oh, they’ll have him, they’ll never say no.’
An involuntary turn of the head gives Edmund away.
‘I thought so. It’s a speciality of your type, isn’t it? Taking advantage of other people on a grand scale for hundreds of years, and more recently as far as our family’s concerned. Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Anything goes, as long as you get what you want. I, that’s your favourite letter, isn’t it? I for idle rich.’
Edmund tips up the empty wine bottle. ‘Whisky?’
‘You’ve had enough, and I haven’t popped round for a drink before dinner.’
Turning his back on the sneer, Edmund takes some time in the dining room, gets himself a whisky, downs it in one, wonders if he should just tell John to go or threaten to call the police. In the end he pours himself another and one for his guest, and despite what he said John takes it from him without a word and sits down. Edmund remains standing. The alcohol helps him to say what needs to be said.
‘I’ve screwed up, I don’t mind admitting it. I’ve coped pretty badly since coming back and finding Diana, well, finding her like she is.’
‘It can’t have been easy. I’m not saying that and I’m sorry about Diana. I didn’t like her, don’t like her, you know that well enough, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But all I want to know is whether you’re coming to get Mikey tomorrow or not.’
The fire spits, and Edmund scuffs at the spark with his shoe, leaving a black stain on the rug. With great effort, he speaks straight to his former gardener.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not. I was going to call in the morning. I’ve done some thinking and I know, however fond I am of Mikey, I can’t look after him. Not on my own. So the answer’s no.’
Having taken a large swig from his whisky, John puts the glass down slowly. He crosses the room towards Edmund. ‘You were going to call? What, leave another voicemail? Like Tuesday? Because you’re not man enough to have the conversation face to face, with us, or with Mikey? You’ve got no balls, have you?’
He’s so close to him now, Edmund can smell the disdain.
‘You don’t fool me, Edmund. Grace gets taken in by you, but not me. You’re not planning to look after Diana, or Mikey, are you? You’re planning to look after yourself. Number one. Like a spoiled brat who never grew up. Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
Hands against his chest, whisky on his breath, John is right in his face.
‘Packed your pigskin suitcase already, have you? Booked your first-class flight out?’
Even in the playground, Edmund always stepped away. ‘Oh, sit down, John, for Christ’s sake. You can hit me, I wouldn’t care.’
‘Well, thank you. I will.’
Out of nowhere, all at once, shirt grab, whiplash, crack, blood, black. Staggering backwards, Edmund’s hand goes to his nose. No pain, not immediately; that comes minutes later as he leans over the washbasin, wondering if he is going to vomit. Finally, firm enough on his feet to let go of the sink and reach for the towel, he runs it under the cold tap and holds it tentatively to his face. No one has ever headbutted him before, let alone a man twenty years his senior. He had no idea it was so painful, but even he can’t stay locked in the toilets until the end of break.
Bending forwards, breathing out noisily, once, twice, John is sitting down with his head in his hands. Edmund recognises the techniques; he tried the course himself once at Marguerite’s suggestion. She was a great believer in therapy, but, as she admitted, he had enrolled at the wrong level. It was all about how to manage your anger, not how to allow yourself to be angry to start with. Slowly, unsteadily, he selects a log, places it on the fire and pushes the ashes with the poker, just to buy time.
‘Where was I,’ says Edmund, ‘before I was so rudely interrupted?’
‘You were telling me about your plans. Tell you what, you can apply to go on that programme, Dear Future Me.’
The words batter Edmund, but he deserves it so he doesn’t protest. He is so very tired now, he’s never been so tired. He wants to go to bed. He wants to tell John to bugger off, to tell them all to bugger off, but John is still there, his unrelenting inquisitor.
‘So what do you imagine is going to happen to Mikey now?’
It is a ridiculous question. How is he meant to know? The future always has been a dropped pack of cards. ‘I don’t know. You’re right, I was going to talk to Grace and see if there was any chance of him staying with you. I can pay, like they do for fostering. The money isn’t a problem.’
‘It’s not the answer either, though, is it? Didn’t you ever buy the record? Money can’t buy you love and all that . . .’
Flicking the crystal glass with his fingers, Edmund listens to the chime, then the silence, and in that dead space he finds it within himself to stare the counsel for the prosecution in the eye. ‘I didn’t mean it like that and you know it.’
Suddenly it is John who looks exhausted. He pulls off his hat, runs his hands through his hair. ‘Well, you need to know something. We’re not keeping him. Grace and I have been over it again and again, because we guessed this might happen. It’s not fair on Naomi. They’ve got Liam and Louisa at home. There’s no room, it just won’t work, not long-term, and anything else wouldn’t be good enough. So you know what that means.’
Edmund does know, but he cannot let the thought form in his mind, let alone voice it.
John fills in the gaps for him. ‘Social services, that’s what. They won’t find a family, not for a kid with his problems, so it will be some residential home, with a load of paedos and a different social worker when the wind blows and, believe me, I know what that’s like. Why do you think I joined the army at sixteen? Can you really do that to him, Edmund? Can you?’ John swirls the remaining whisky round and around and lowers his voice. ‘Grace says she’s never seen you so happy as when you’re with Mikey.’
Happy. If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. It is such a childlike word, head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes. Skip, that is another one. Play. Going home time. Stories. Closing his eyes, Edmund finds himself telling John a story, all about the decisions he has made, to move abroad, to sell Wynhope, leave enough for Diana to be cared for and for Mikey’s education, and give all the rest of the bloody money to charity if that will put things right. That seems about the only way to fit through the eye of a needle.
‘I don’t know if Diana meant to kill herself or not, but I’ve thought about it myself,’ he confesses. ‘What sort of father would I be? History repeating itself, Wynhope series two. Christ knows, we could make a box set before long.’
John says it wouldn’t have to be like that.
‘You’re a man’s man, aren’t you, John? As you’ve just so aptly demonstrated.’ Edmund’s hand rises instinctively to the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve seen the way you used to look at me, like when I had to ask you to, oh, I don’t know, mend the mower or something like that.’ Something registers in the handyman opposite him, the glance at the door, the pulling down of the sleeves. ‘I bet you’re thinking what a pansy, with his public school education and City millions and he can’t even mend a fucking mower. Isn’t that right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, as you’ve seen this evening, that’s just who I am. An all-round, one-hundred-per-cent-guaranteed disappointment. Even my own father saw no future in me. I’m rock bottom now. I can’t do it.
’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Can you see me, a single dad, doing the school run, cooking fish fingers, at my age?’
‘Yes.’
Yes. The word takes flight in the room, a kingfisher in a rookery. Yes. Edmund repeats it silently to himself and then out loud.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, if you choose to. You’re a bright bloke, you’ve got the money, a spare bedroom or two, the time on your hands, and you’re kind, really, aren’t you? It could be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, let alone Mikey. That’s what Grace thinks anyway.’
But if I say yes, Edmund is thinking, if I say yes, there will still be Wynhope, ghosts under the catalpa tree, shots in the tower, and if I say yes, there will still be Diana, or what’s left of her. But if I say yes, there might be other things as well, things I dare not name. Like love, for instance.
‘And what about Diana?’
‘I only care about Mikey,’ John replies. ‘I’m sure a man of your means can find a solution for Diana . . . if it comes to that.’ He gets up. ‘I need to be going. I told Grace I’d only stay five minutes. She didn’t really want me to come at all.’ He pulls his hat back on. ‘So, to make it clear, we’ve told Michael you’re not very well, which isn’t so far from the truth, looking at the state you’ve let yourself get into. You’ve got until Friday. If you haven’t let us know by then, we’re calling social services.’
The Half Sister Page 26