The Good Father (17 page)

Chapter 19

Harry sat in Wright's garden. The boys he was supposed to be minding were up in a tree-house and at least were being quiet, perhaps worryingly quiet, although he wasn't inclined to get up from the garden bench to investigate. A few minutes ago, they had run out from the house where they'd been for some time. He noticed when they ran past him that their clothes were dusty and that old cobwebs clung to their backs.

Harry was smoking a cigar, for consolation he supposed, indulging his unhappiness. He rested his head back, savouring the taste of the fine tobacco, and, now that he was alone, he allowed himself to think about Val. Today was her birthday, her thirty-first.

A year ago today he had driven her to the Lake District, to a hotel he knew on the banks of Ullswater where they'd had lunch on the terrace looking out over a garden that sloped down to the still water. He had ordered champagne to be waiting on ice by their bed, along with two dozen red roses, and he had bought her a gift, secret in its velvet box in his pocket, his fingers returning to it time and again, worrying its soft pile so that he was afraid when he finally presented it to her that it would be sweat-stained and shabby-looking. When she was in the bathroom, he placed it on her pillow and the box only looked dark and expensive, impressive against the white counterpane just as it had in the jeweller's shop. He moved it a little to the left so that it was more central, only to snatch it up and return it to his pocket as she came out from the bathroom. She was wearing the black silk negligée he had bought her; it clung to her hips, her thighs; her breasts spilled pale as milk from the low-cut bodice.

She'd teased him. ‘I thought you'd be in bed by now. You haven't even taken your tie off.'

‘You look beautiful.' He stepped towards her. Holding her face between his hands he kissed her tenderly, tasting the port they'd drunk after lunch. ‘I love you.'

She frowned. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing! What could possibly be the matter when I'm with you?'

But his tone was too vehement and he was sweating, a film of perspiration on his face caused by the rich food and wine, the midsummer heat, the idea that he might be about to change his life for ever, one way or the other. She searched his face, concerned: he was perfect heart-attack material, after all, and she made his heart work too hard, she knew that. Touching his cheek she said, ‘Lie down. I'll undress you.'

The jeweller's plush box stayed in his pocket; Val thought that the roses, the champagne, the weekend in the hotel with its expensive smell of polish and pot-pourri were her birthday present. He didn't propose to her until months later. He thanked God for those months, the extra time he wouldn't have had if he'd kept his nerve in that hotel room.

The twin boys dropped from the tree-house's rope ladder and ran towards him. He steeled himself, sitting up straighter, having an idea that they might climb all over him. But they stood a few feet away, looking at him as though he was an exhibition in a museum; he half-expected them to begin talking about him as if he was a not very realistic waxwork. He thought how beautiful they were. He thought too of how Ava would have adored them; she would have laughed at his idea that they were too naughty to be loveable, she would have told him that he had a cold, wicked heart, that all children were easy to love. She had loved Guy, after all, but Guy was supremely normal compared to these peculiar little boys.

Smiling at them, in the faux enthusiastic voice he seemed to use on all children nowadays, he said, ‘That's a fine tree-house.'

‘Uncle Peter built it.'

‘We helped.'

‘I'm sure you did.'

‘Where are the funny dolls?'

‘They've gone home.'

‘See?' Martin turned to his brother. ‘I told you they weren't
his
! That would be just stupid.' He looked at Harry as though he expected him to agree.

Stephen said angrily, ‘Whose were they then?'

Harry sighed. ‘They belonged to the lady I was with.' At once he was ashamed that he couldn't bring himself to tell these children that Ava was his wife. When Martin asked if he meant the lady who had wet her pants, he said too sharply, ‘Run along, now. Go and play.'

Behind him, Peter Wright said, ‘Yes, boys. Go on, off you go. No more questions.'

He sat down beside Harry. Watching the boys run back across the lawn, he said, ‘I'm sorry, they can be quite brutal.'

Harry laughed shortly. ‘Quite.' Turning to Wright he said, ‘You got Ava home all right?'

‘Yes.' He smiled. ‘Esther even stopped apologising – but then she started thanking me instead.'

‘She believes everything is her responsibility – her fault.' After a moment he said awkwardly, ‘Ava didn't ruin the car's upholstery, I hope?'

‘No. There was an old blanket in the boot. Esther folded that . . . ' He trailed off, and Harry suspected he was as embarrassed as he was, but it seemed he was merely frowning at the boys who were swinging perilously on the rope ladder. When they jumped to the ground he said, ‘Anyway, they're home now, safe and sound.'

Stiffly Harry said, ‘Thank you.' He glanced at him, feeling he ought to say more, offer some explanation, but he felt too weary.

Wright caught his eye. Gently, as though he was a survivor of some catastrophe, he said, ‘Mr Dunn, would you like a drink? I have a bottle of Scotch in the house.'

He went inside and came back with two tumblers. He handed the glass with the larger measure to Harry and sat down, squinting a little against the sun as he looked out over the garden. Harry was wondering if he missed the place when Wright said, ‘I should mow the lawn.'

‘Leave it. It's not your problem any more.' Carefully Harry asked, ‘Is Mr Jackson going to move in?'

Wright sipped his drink. After a while he said, ‘He wants to. And I think he will – soon, actually. He's just about finished convincing himself that it's a waste for a house like this to stand empty.' Taking another sip of the Scotch, he went on, ‘Jack's getting married again. He'll want to bring his new wife here, away from the home he shared with his first wife.'

‘And what about you? Are you settled in your new home?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

Thinking of Val, Harry asked, ‘How are you getting along with your neighbours on Inkerman Terrace?'

Watching the boys, Wright said, ‘It's rather a coincidence, but Jack's marrying my next-door neighbour.'

Harry felt his heart lurch, some inkling of what Wright was going to tell him making him brace himself in order to withstand the blow. As evenly as he could, he asked, ‘Oh? What's her name?'

‘Val Campbell. She works with Jack at Davies and Sons.'

The twins ran to Wright, tugging at him. ‘Play with us! Play with us now!'

‘Soon. Go into the house and find the best hiding-place – somewhere you think I won't find you.'

When they'd run shouting into the house, Wright turned to him. ‘You look unwell, Mr Dunn. Would you like me to drive you home?'

Harry got to his feet. His legs were shaking and he staggered.

Wright stood up, too. He caught Harry's elbow, steadying him. ‘Sit down, finish your drink in peace whilst I go and find the boys. Then I'll drive us all home.'

I imagined the boys would find Hope upstairs; I imagined that she and Guy would be standing shamefaced in the hallway as Martin and Stephen jumped around them. But of course, they must have run out of the house as soon as they thought they could without being seen. For the first time I felt ashamed of her; I never would have believed she could behave so badly.

When I arrived at the house with Dunn and his poor creature of a wife, I had an idea that Hope was inside. The key from beneath the plant pot that Hope had always known about was in the back door and the door was ajar. The boys had run straight to the cellar – they have always been attracted to its damp scariness. Dunn, his wife and the girl who looks after her, waited in the garden and I said nothing to them about my anxiety as I went inside to fetch the car keys. I walked as quietly as I could into the hall, holding my breath. From upstairs I heard a panicked scrambling and I stood still, straining to hear, half-hoping that it was burglars even as I berated myself for leaving the key in such an obvious hiding-place. But in my heart I knew it was Hope and Guy. It was so obvious that they should come here. She was just like her mother, just as bold and defiant, just as heedless of the feelings of others.

Standing so still and quiet, they must have believed I'd gone, because after a moment I heard their frantic whispering, first the boy and then Hope, indisputably Hope. They were in my father's bedroom and I was so angry I almost went upstairs to confront them. But if she was naked, if they were lying together naked on that bare mattress, I was afraid I would completely lose my head. And outside the children were playing, and that poor woman and her timid nurse were waiting for me to drive them home; and then there was Dunn himself, of course, who looks at me in such a patronising, insufferable manner, who was slumped on the garden bench as if he hated to be beholden to someone like me. I couldn't cause a scene in front of any of them. I'm used to controlling my anger, after all, used to keeping it tightly contained within myself and behaving as if nothing is wrong. I even managed to smile as I came out of the house with the car keys, to be pleasant as I drove the two women home. I felt sick to my stomach; if Guy had appeared in front of the car I think I would have run him down.

I knew the twins would be in their usual hiding-place – the place that half-scares them to death, which is why they like it so much. At the top of the cellar steps I turned on the single, unshaded bulb that casts its poor light in the low, dank room dug beneath the kitchen. There is nothing much down there; the boys were hiding in the old coal store and I went straight to them, hearing their stifled giggles, thinking of Hope, how she must have held her breath as she anticipated being found.

‘Come on, you two. I'm taking you home.'

‘We don't want to go home!'

‘Do you want me to leave you down here with the mice and spiders? Come on, quickly now.'

I followed them up the stairs. As we walked out into the garden and as I locked the door behind me, pocketing the key, Stephen said, ‘We found some bones down there.'

I wasn't in the mood for their stories. Sharply I said, ‘That's enough.'

‘We did! We found them ages ago and we just didn't tell you!'

Dunn had stood up. He looked pale and was sweating, wiping his brow with a big white handkerchief when he saw me, attempting to smile which only caused him to appear sicklier. Despite the fact that he seemed so ill, I felt no sympathy. He's too fat, no doubt he smokes and drinks too much, indulging himself without a thought for anyone. Calling to the boys, I walked to the car. Dunn followed me, meek as a lamb.

Chapter 20

Matthew had gone fishing. He'd said, ‘Sure you don't mind me leaving you alone on your birthday?'

Val had laughed. ‘Go, Dad. I don't care about birthdays at my age.'

‘
Your age
!' He snorted, packing a box of maggots into his haversack. ‘I wish I were your age. You're nowt but a bairn.'

A bairn, a child, young. She wasn't young, although she lived more or less the same life she had lived when she was sixteen. All the girls she had been at school with were married and had children; one girl, Dorothy Hedges, had a daughter of fifteen – no doubt, soon enough, Dorothy would be a grandmother. Val was the only one who was just starting out, about to be married, leaving her father at last.

When she'd told Matthew that she was going to marry Jack, he had exhaled sharply as though he had been holding his breath all these years she had been unmarried. He'd nodded. ‘Well, if you're sure about him.' After a moment, unnecessarily, he added, ‘I'm pleased. He's a grand lad.'

Jack was a grand lad because he had a good job – a career – and his own home. He could talk easily about cricket and Middlesbrough FC; he was straightforward and pleasant. Most of all, he had been an officer in the RAF, and although Matthew's lip curled when on rare occasions he mentioned the officers he'd served under in 1916, Jack escaped his contempt because, she supposed, flying a bomber wasn't a bit like ordering young lads over the side of a trench into machine-gun fire. Her father liked Jack, although he had seemed to have forgotten that he had children. Sometimes she wished she could forget. Forget Hope, especially, who seemed to be colder towards her with each meeting.

Jack was sleeping, lying on his side, his nose almost touching hers because her bed was so narrow. They hadn't intended to go to bed, only to spend some time discussing wedding plans. But after all there seemed little to discuss: they were to marry in a register office, with only the children, her father and Peter as witnesses; then they would go to the Grand Hotel for lunch before she and Jack left for their honeymoon in Filey. Peter was going to take care of the children. Jack had sighed over this. ‘Hope will kick up a fuss – she can't stand being in the same room as him nowadays. God knows what's got into her. Ever since she met this damn boy . . . '

Val remembered what she had been like at Hope's age, when boys were the most important creatures on earth and adult men – her father, her teachers – were just laughable or cringe-making and usually both, too much a part of the childhood she so desperately wanted to escape from. She could well imagine why Hope wouldn't want to be around Peter.

Not wanting to think about Hope, Val brushed her nose against Jack's. ‘Jack, wake up.'

He blinked his eyes open, confused for a moment. ‘I wasn't snoring, was I?'

‘No. But we should get up, in case Dad gets back early.'

‘I was dreaming we were already married.'

‘We will be, soon.'

He was gazing at her. At last he said, ‘It
is
what you want, isn't it?'

‘Of course!'

‘Only sometimes . . . ' He sighed. ‘You seem sad, that's all. Sometimes you seem very sad.'

‘I'm not.'

‘I do love you, you know. It isn't just about me wanting a wife . . . '

‘I know,' Val said. ‘And I love you.'

‘Do you? Honestly?'

‘Jack – of course! What's this about?'

‘Nothing. Only . . . if you have any doubts, any doubts at all . . . ' He pulled himself together. ‘Christ. All right, I'll tell you what it's about. I overheard some talk in the office. I got the impression that they thought you were on the rebound.'

She felt herself go cold. ‘I'm not.'

‘No? All right.' After a moment he repeated, ‘All right.'

She got up and began to dress and all the time she sensed him watching her. She kept her back to him, thinking that he would be able to see from her face that she was lying, that perhaps he could even tell from the way she put on her clothes – quickly, shyly – as though he had never seen her naked before, as though she would rather be with someone else. She thought of Harry, who had wanted to marry her, who had come up with a plan he had only half-thought through, the half that concerned only him, his own happiness.

Quietly, Jack asked her, ‘Will you forget I said anything? We're together – that's all that matters to me. The past is past.'

She knew he was thinking about his wife; he thought of her all the time, after all, and sometimes he had to close his mouth on some story about her. Her name had become a sentence with all the other words cut off, all the memories, all the anecdotes falling away from those two syllables. He would shut his mouth on them and avoid her eye. But that was all right, she didn't want to hear about his dead wife, just as he wouldn't want to hear about Harry. This mutual discretion was for the best, and was kinder and more considerate than a messy unburdening of grief.

She turned to Jack. He was lying on his side in her childhood bed, his head propped on his elbow, his eyes on her as if he wanted to search into her soul, to discover secretly what she was feeling without any painful discussion. He looked vulnerable and therefore young, like the man Carol would have known when they first met. A moment ago, Val had told him she loved him; she hadn't told him this very often, not quite believing it, only wanting to. After all, she would love the child they would have together and that love would spill over onto him, she had no doubt about this.

Going to him, she knelt by the bed. She had been about to tell him again that she loved him, stressing the words, making him believe it; her conscience stopped her and she only kissed his mouth. ‘Get dressed,' she said softly. ‘I'll make you a cup of tea.'

Harry sat in Wright's car and thought that he might be having a heart-attack. He tried to hold himself very still, stiffening himself against the pain; he rested his head back and closed his eyes and didn't care what Wright thought of him. He didn't care what anyone thought any more. If this was dying, he was terribly afraid. It was as though he was entombed; there seemed no way out to the ordinary world Wright and the children inhabited. He whimpered and he wasn't even ashamed, and then he heard Wright say, ‘Mr Dunn? Are you all right?'

He sounded alarmed and also distant, as though he was speaking to him through the wood and silk lining of his coffin. Harry felt the world begin to slow, heard Wright's voice nearer now, calmer, felt his arm around his shoulders. ‘You're home now, let's get you inside.'

He was led into his house. He thought how strong Wright was, how reassuring his voice as Peter said, ‘Try to breathe deeply, Mr Dunn, try to be calm. You're quite safe; everything is going to be all right.'

He wanted to believe him. He felt himself lowered onto the couch in his sitting room and opened his eyes; Wright crouched beside him, his kind, concerned angel, and Harry made a great attempt to smile at him.

Wright said, ‘That's right, breathe deeply now. You're safe at home, all's well.'

‘I thought I was dying.'

‘I know. But you're not. You're not. You're fine.' He said gently. ‘I know what it's like – you feel as though you're never going to be able to breathe normally again . . . But there now – you're all right.'

Wright glanced over his shoulder to where the two little boys stood anxiously in the doorway. ‘Go and wait in the car as I told you to.' Turning back to Harry, he said, ‘I'll go and fetch you a glass of water.'

When he came back, he said, ‘Esther and your wife are in the garden. I thought it best not to disturb them.'

Taking the glass of water from him, Harry took a sip, avoiding his eye, ashamed of himself now he was calmer. He wanted Wright to go, he wanted to be left alone in his misery; he would shut himself in his bedroom and think about Val marrying another man – this man's friend, if they were still friends after that business of the will. Perhaps Wright hated Jackson as much as he did. All at once he was curious about Jackson – best to know one's enemy, after all. Looking up at Wright, he said, ‘Why don't you sit down?'

‘I should go, the boys –'

‘Tell them to go and play in the garden. Esther will keep an eye on them.'

‘I think it would be best if I took them home. And you should rest. Goodbye, Mr Dunn.'

‘Wait.' He sighed. ‘Listen, perhaps I could buy you a drink sometime, as a way of thanks.'

‘There's no need to thank me.'

He left, closing the living-room door softly behind him. Harry heard him call out to the boys to get in the car and do as they were told for once in their lives. He sounded angry, but also as though anger didn't come naturally to him. Obviously something had upset this gentle man very much indeed.

Still feeling shaky, Harry got up. He went to the window and watched Wright drive away. It seemed that Wright had known he wasn't – as he himself had believed – having a heart-attack, but merely some kind of crisis of nerve. Wright had recognised that he wasn't dying and had reassured him, as if he too had suffered such a crisis. No doubt he had, given his war-time experiences.

Harry snorted. They'd all had
war-time
experiences
, all unique, all just as bloody ghastly. Wright was just one of thousands, in no way special – he shouldn't persist in thinking of him as somehow special. He rested his aching head against the cool window pane. Wright lived next door to Val, and in Harry's present, hysterical state, Wright's link to her made him special enough. He had a vision of himself going to Wright's house, and on some pretext, going upstairs to drill a hole from Wright's bedroom into Val's so that he might spy on her. He would watch her undressing, he would watch her climb naked into bed and, holding his breath, he would go on watching as she began to masturbate – an act she had once confessed to. When she came he would come too, groaning in ecstasy and despair, and she would hear him and know that he was there, that he would always be there, that he would love her no matter what bastard she was married to.

Harry slumped down on a chair. He heard Esther and his wife come in from the garden and hoped that they wouldn't come looking for him. He couldn't face Ava in the state he was in. Even if she had no idea of his adultery, he felt that simply being in the same room as his wife sullied her. And she had been the kindest, most honest woman he had ever met and she would have tried to understand. She would have forgiven him, just as she forgave Hans.

He had asked Hans why he had murdered his neighbour.

‘I don't have to tell you why.'

‘You do, if you want me to defend you properly.'

‘
Properly
!' Hans had laughed as though delighted. ‘Will they hang me any more properly?'

Harry remembered sighing, he sighed often around him as though Hans was a naughty seven-year-old, exasperating but also beguiling in his way. He had to keep reminding himself that Hans was a grown man, one who was unrepentant of all the crimes he had committed, of which sticking a knife in his neighbour was only one. It was also the most mysterious one. The neighbour had been a good Nazi, after all, a member of the Party. Harry didn't want to be intrigued, but he was, although he couldn't allow Hans to sense his curiosity.

Trying a different approach he said, ‘Your sister's been here, asking if she can see you.'

Hans snorted, glancing away.

‘She's very concerned about you, apparently.'

‘Apparently?' Hans frowned at him. ‘Didn't you see her?'

Gazing at him, Harry said, ‘I'm going to call her in, question her.'

‘Why, when I've confessed? Have you nothing better to do?'

‘Don't you think she could help your defence?'

He was silent and Harry repeated his question.

Hans bowed his head. Softly, he began to sing the anthem of the SS. The guard stepped forward. Grasping a handful of Hans's hair, he jerked his head back.

‘Answer the Major.'

His eyes contemptuous, Hans said, ‘You must do only what you think is right, Major Dunn, sir.'

Doing not what he thought was right, but what he thought would satisfy his curiosity, he had Ava brought in.

She had sat opposite him in one of the less forbidding interrogation rooms, her back very straight, her hands held together on her lap. Harry noticed how thin she was and pale; he guessed at how poor her diet was. Believing that she was no more than twenty, he saw from her papers that she was twenty-nine. She had worked during the war in a paper mill; two brothers had been killed on the Eastern front, her parents in an air raid late in 1944. Hans was her only relative, her little brother, and she looked like him; she had the same green eyes, the same soft, full mouth. Just as Hans was handsome – a poster-boy for Teutonic manhood – Ava was beautiful, although she was too slight, too delicately fine to advertise Fatherland and Motherhood. When he smiled at her and told her she had nothing to worry about, she bowed her head shyly and explained that he didn't need to speak German; her English was quite good.

Quite good
, such a typical expression of Ava's. She understated everything – her ability to speak his language, her ill-health, her love for her brother – this last most of all. Although she had seen, as he had, the film of the bodies being bulldozed into the pits at Belsen, she refused to believe Hans had had anything to do with it. About the neighbour he had all but eviscerated, Ava had nothing to say – only that the neighbour was very wicked.

Harry had laughed at this, a lapse in self-control for which he forgave himself because he was so weary of the excuses, the blame these people cast at each other. Studying her, he said, ‘Tell me what he did that was wicked.'

She only shook her head, her lovely mouth turned down as if her answer would be of no importance.