New World in the Morning (2 page)

And tonight, in any case, I knew well enough that Moira Sheffield wasn't gay. I could recall the way she'd looked at me.

Instinctively, my head turned towards a set of shelves. This was taken up mostly by books and a CD player but I stretched across and pulled out our earliest photograph album. I opened it three pages in, found a double spread commemorating my sporting achievements when I'd been eighteen. That was the year I'd left school; the year before we'd married. There were pictures of Sam Groves, bowler, batsman and wicketkeeper; Sam Groves, centre-forward; Sam Groves on the diving board; Sam Groves in the boxing ring—with arm upraised to show he was a champ. In each of them you saw either a grinning or else a grimly determined fair-haired giant; healthy, handsome, unstoppable. Poised to win cups, set records, defeat the world.

It all seemed such a long time back. Another life. Yet tormentingly close as well: practically within feel, within smell, within earshot. In and out of present-tense immediacy. Eighteen years ago. Midway.

And really I hadn't changed that much. My hair was hardly any thinner; my stomach, thanks to almost daily sit-ups, remained firm. A few laughter lines; light creases on the brow; no apparent middle-age spread. I was a man now, of course, not a stripling. But essentially I hadn't changed.

I was unaware of Junie's return until I realized she was standing beside me. I closed the album with a snap.

She smiled. “You look as if I'd caught you out.”

“What nonsense!”

“Would you like another drink?”

She replenished my glass. I said: “But you haven't told me yet about
your
day. And where have the children got to? This house sounds suspiciously quiet.”

“Ah. Matt's still sitting in the garden working on his project. Panic stations: it has to be handed in on Monday—
and
before assembly—somebody rang to remind him! And Ella decided to spend the night at Jalna. She went off after lunch.”

“And what about their mum?”

“Well, as for me…” I got the impression that she sounded nervous.

“Yes?”

“Well, as for me, I began on the spare bedroom!”

“What!”

She nodded. “I got the wallpaper stripped off, sanded down the woodwork, put undercoat on the door and skirting boards. I didn't get so far as the window because it was growing late and I had to start the supper.”

“But…?”

“It must've been the sunshine or something. I felt like it. You don't mind, do you? I was hoping you'd be pleased.”

Pleased? I was certainly surprised. The decorating had always been my province; not the choosing but the actual work. I'd been planning to embark on that particular bedroom the following Tuesday evening.

Yet on the other hand… It wasn't that I lived for colour schemes and renovation.

“Yes, of course I'm pleased.” I felt there wasn't enough conviction in my tone. I tried again. “
Very
pleased! Tell me, though. Whatever happened to Baby June?”

There was a ritualistic answer to that one as well.

“Oh, something rather horrible!”

She laughed.

“You know, I really quite enjoyed myself. Sang lots of songs, thought lots of thoughts, listened to the radio a bit. Was almost sorry when it was time to put on the supper, take a lightning-quick bath, and make myself all fresh and gorgeous for my lord and master.”

My lord and master: it seemed a long time since I'd last heard that.

“
Indescribably
gorgeous,” I said.

“You know I never contradict!”

“I love you, Junie Moon.”

“I love you, Samson Groves.”

That was a frequent minor variation. Samuel and Samson were fairly interchangeable.

3

Ella not being at supper, Matt was given her share of the wine—which, even when added to his own, still wasn't much. So naturally, if only as a question of form, he lodged his brief complaint.

Matt was our twelve-year-old, large-boned, darkly blond, favouring myself, whereas Ella, at fifteen, took after Junie. In fact, Matt was so like me at the same age the resemblance could sometimes make me wince; and at such moments I often experienced a sharp longing for my mother—adored, adoring mother—who'd died of cancer a few days before my thirteenth birthday. He had my mother's brown eyes, along with the freckles which, again, I myself hadn't inherited.

Now at table he turned on me that soft and trustful look and I knew at once there was something which he wanted.

“Dad?”

“No. Whatever it is, young man…no!”

He grinned. “After supper
will
you help me with my project?”

I'd forgotten. Before we sat down I had said
We'll see
. “Oh, you nuisance! Yes, I suppose so. If I can't get out of it.”

“Thanks, Pop. You're a good bloke.”

“For the moment, perhaps.”

“No, no, for ever.”

It gave me a warm feeling, being a good bloke for ever, even if he did conspicuously inspect his fingers to let us see that they were crossed.

While his mother and I were having coffee I told him to run to a nearby shop to buy a couple of Aeros and two bags of crisps—for Junie had shaken her head with regard to herself—so that we'd then have something to nibble on as we laboured in his bedroom.

“Can I get a Coke as well?”

“
May
I?” I spun one of the coins I'd been about to hand him. “If it's tails—yes.”

It landed on the carpet with the Queen uppermost.

Blithely disregarded.

“Thanks, Dad.” He gave my cheek a hasty kiss. “We'll have a sort of midnight feast.”

“Just so long as it finishes at least three hours
before
midnight!”

His bedroom was as untidy as ever but definitely appealing: his divan with its row of brightly coloured cushions, the walls covered with travel posters, postcards, magazine cutouts—mainly of sports stars—and with pictures of animals he'd drawn himself. Books and records filled not only his shelves but overflowed onto his desk; also onto the carpet where they mingled, much at risk, with cars and tennis balls and a seaplane in the process of construction. It was a junior, domesticated version of a treasure island, very father-friendly. I sat on the floor, my feet tucked under me, and Matt drew up his comfortable but battered armchair. In his lap a few sheets of loose-leaf rested on a boys' adventure annual, circa 1970.

It was one of my own, which I had relinquished to him some eighteen months before.

“Now then,” I prompted. ‘The six people whom I'd most like to change places with.' Six seems rather a lot, doesn't it?”

“Well, I suppose we've had a month to do it. Too long really. With only a week, I wouldn't have forgotten.”

“Mmm,” I said. “Well, maybe.”

“In any case, I've done five.”

“Who?”

“Greg Rusedski, Alan Shearer, Darren Gough. David Duchovny and Noel Gallagher. But I couldn't think of much to write about Noel Gallagher.”

Alan Shearer reminded me of Moira Shearer. We'd hang onto Alan Shearer, even if we dispensed with all the rest.

“It doesn't seem very varied. Three sportsmen. Two bods out of show business.”

“Yes, but different branches of sport and different branches of show business. And no one said it needed to be varied.”

“But no politicians…doctors…women…”

“What do I know about politicians—or doctors—Miss Martin said she wanted it to come from the heart. And the girls will probably write about the women: odds-on it's Mariah Carey, Demi Moore or the Spice Girls. Yuk!” He gave an imitation of somebody being sick.

“Yes, but if all of you are writing more or less about the same people, isn't it going to be extremely boring for Miss Martin?”

“That's her problem.”

“Yours, too, in a way—if you're aiming to rise above the common herd.”

“Listen, Dad. I've done those five. They're fine. I don't want to change them, I haven't any time.”

I looked at his face and saw how obdurate he was. I decided not to push. “Okay, then. So the sixth has got to be a real humdinger!”

“Gosh! How you keep up with all the modern lingo!”

“Quiet, you.” While we searched for candidates we opened our bags of crisps and munched companionably. He offered me his can of Coke; I shook my head. “Do these people have to be alive?”

“Oh, Dad, I'm not going to write about Julius Caesar or Napoleon. Or William Shakespeare. Or Robert Louis Stevenson. Forget it.”

“How about Ghandi?”

“No thanks.”

“But with all of history to choose from, can't you see your list seems a little… Impoverished?”

“She said from the heart.”

I had a burst of inspiration.

“How about Superman?”

“What? Oh, for Pete's sake, Dad! Get real!”

“Well, wouldn't you change places with Superman? I would. And I bet she didn't exclude people out of the comic strips and fiction.”

He looked at me pityingly. “I wouldn't change places with Superman. Superman is creepy. He's a pain.”

“Christ! You're difficult to please.”

“Watch it,” he said more happily. “I'll tell Mum!”

We settled back into ruminative crunching. I said: “I hate to feel restricted, though.”

“Then don't.”

“Want to find the really perfect example.”

He seemed gratified by the degree of importance I was attaching to it. Held out the Coke again. I accepted. I think we both felt very close.

“Hey, I've got it! A fellow, Matt, that no one else will think of. Do him justice and you're guaranteed to shine.”

“Who is it, then? You?”

“Well, that hadn't actually occurred to me.”

This time Matt was puzzled by my suggestion rather than outright dismissive.

“Theseus? You mean, the bloke that killed the Minotaur? What makes you think I'd want to be like him?”

“Oh, lots of reasons.”

My son looked sceptical.

“Firstly, young Matthias, he rid the world of the greatest evil then hanging over it. He saved hundreds of lives. Thousands. Maybe millions if you bring it up to date…the cumulative effect of unborn children…”

“Dad, it's a myth! Theseus is a myth! But you certainly do believe in things, don't you—I mean, once you get going?”

He sounded half admiring, half uneasy. I ignored it. I gave him a moment to relate this myth to modern times: to think in terms of nuclear warheads and the like, of tyrants such as Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein. I hoped he would make his own connections.

“Secondly, he delivered people from other kinds of oppression.”

I thought Nelson Mandela might come into his mind. Or Martin Luther King. Mother Theresa. Albert Schweitzer. He probably hadn't heard of Dag Hammarskjold or Pope John XXIII.

“You make him sound like Jesus.”

I decided to ignore this, too. It was no part of my aim to encourage irony on such a subject.

“Thirdly, he had a marvellously romantic love affair. When he set off to kill the Minotaur, Ariadne held the thread which would later guide him out of the labyrinth, even though by doing so she was betraying her own family.”

I paused again, endeavouring to remember all the great twentieth-century love stories in which a woman provided similarly heroic assistance. Surely there had to be a plethora.

But I could come up only with
Spellbound
.
Pandora and the Flying Dutchman
. And Jean Kent throwing herself in the path of a bullet intended for Stewart Granger.

“Fourthly, it seems to me that right from the moment he started getting ready to go off in search of his father he led an absolutely golden existence. Full of adventure and achievement and a steady sense of purpose!”

“Imagine going off in search of your father!”

“But what do you think of it?”

“Well, I don't know. Just Superman in shorts and sandals…tunic and sandals.”

My incipient impatience began to increase. “Matt, I simply don't believe you'd choose not to be like him! And why the heck should he be creepy? Oh, forget the movies, can't you?”

Yet he remained indecisive.

“Here,” I said, “pass over the paper and the biro!”

That made up his mind. He surrendered them at once. He also handed me the annual.

Then thoughtfully unwrapped his Aero and with a mouth full of chocolate began to cut out the shot-putter from an empty packet of Scott's Porridge Oats—to the detriment, no doubt, of his mum's sharpest pair of scissors.

4

There was still enough light to permit a pleasurable wander in the garden—Junie and I strolled hand in hand across the grass. The air felt gentle and a blackbird singing in the branches of one of our apple trees was answered, counterpointed, by a thrush. We made a tour of the estate: admired the goldfish in the fishpond and the splendour of a clump of daffodils upon a bank; the tiny buds of blossom that were now appearing overhead: we had pear and cherry trees as well as apple. It was a beautiful half-acre, bounded by a high wall of weathered brick. We sat on a wooden bench in a small natural arbour, stretched out our legs, looked back in the declining light at the soft red brick of the house itself.

“You know, I never take this place for granted,” said Junie. “Do you? That's one of the things I was thinking about today. How fortunate we are.”

“Especially when you consider what's going on in other parts of the world. Genocide, oppression, torture… Earthquakes, floods.”

I should have been a moralist.

Clearly, already was!

“Yes, but I wasn't meaning that. I meant—without comparison.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Remember how we so much liked this house that we used to make detours on our way home from school, simply to look at it? It wasn't grand or anything but I just knew any family must be happy here. At peace with themselves. I imagined flagstones on the kitchen floor, rows of jams and pickles in the larder, breakfast in the garden, flowers on a polished table in the hall. Sunlight filling every room.” She paused, in wonderment. “And in some ways it's been even better than that. For instance I hadn't reckoned on that bright red Aga: practically the hub of the whole house…”