The Good Father (21 page)

Chapter 24

Matthew had gone to the Castle and Anchor, telling Val that he needed a drink after all that bloody nonsense with fella-me-lad. Her father found it impossible to speak Harry's name nowadays. But at least he didn't go on about what a lousy bastard he was, as he often did. At least he didn't try to lecture her again about how she had made the right decision. Val thought that perhaps this was because he had suddenly felt sorry for Harry – such a great big man who was once so confident, so full of life and spirit and sheer, joyous generosity – reduced to someone so unsavoury, a sweaty fatty in a crumpled suit, his bloodshot eyes watery with tears.

Val had carried one of the kitchen chairs out into the yard. She sat beside the geranium tubs, her fingers worrying the flowers' soft leaves, releasing the pungent scent. In their loft her father's pigeons cooed, settling for the night even as the warmth of the day still hung around the yard, trapped within the crumbling redbrick walls. She smoked steadily, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling, not wanting to think. She had made the right decision; she hadn't needed her father to tell her this even if he had been so inclined. Jack was a good man, reliable, hardworking. And beneath all that there was still a trace of the devil-may-care, of the man who had learned to fly for the hell of it when, at least in England, war was still an evil to be busily negotiated against. The RAF had given him Lancasters to fly, seeing something in him that suited a bomber's dogged determination rather than the breathtaking glamour of Spitfires.

Jack was steady, then. Jack was also a considerate lover now that he was used to her, now that he was no longer so starved as to be desperate. He kissed her, his tongue, his lips, his hands, working their way down her body discovering what she liked best, what would most make her squirm or cry out. And he would look up and smile at her, although his eyes revealed how serious sex was to him. He was not like Harry, who was never truly serious in bed. And Jack was fitter, bigger, his size made her gasp, made her sore, he hurt her if he wasn't careful, as he had hurt her in that alley, the first time. Even then she had thought that this was all there should be to a man, this girth, this virile power forcing itself deep inside her, such a dirty thought, pornographic, degrading to them both, but helping her come, nonetheless.

Val flicked ash onto the ground. Sometimes she believed she was a slut; other times she knew how ordinary she was.

Today had been her birthday and there was still, even at her age, a different feel to this day, a sense of anticipation – excitement even. She had told Peter this when he had visited her this morning, bringing her a neatly wrapped gift. ‘It's really nothing,' he said, and smiled that heartbreaking smile of his, his startlingly blue eyes teasing. ‘Nothing to become excited over, anyway.'

Her gift was the drawing he had made of her one Wednesday evening after supper. He had made her look more beautiful than she believed herself to be, calmer and more certain of herself. He had seen something in her she hadn't recognised until then.

‘Thank you.' She turned to him from gazing at this likeness he had created and laughed awkwardly. ‘You've made me look like a grown-up. You know – that person we don't feel ourselves to be . . . '

‘Don't want to be?'

‘No. No, it's not that.' She looked down at the portrait again. He had been barely inside the door and now he came to stand beside her. As always when he was close by, she felt her skin tingle, a kind of nervousness as though she was daring herself to stand even closer to him but wasn't nearly brave enough. If she moved her fingers they would brush against his; he would turn to her and his angelic face would frown, questioning, gentle. He would say softly, ‘Is this what you really want?' She had shuddered then, wondering if there were any other women as shockingly bad as her, wanting a man merely because he was beautiful enough to stop her heart.
Merely
! Sometimes she thought Peter's beauty was all that mattered, that she would sacrifice everything for a night in his bed. But she thought this only when he was with her. When he was gone, she was only relieved that she hadn't made such a fool of herself as to act on her lust. When he wasn't with her, she found she couldn't quite picture his face.

The alley beyond the yard gate was quiet now since the children had been called inside. Lately she noticed children more, found herself looking at babies in their prams; lately her job seemed to be a poor substitute for one of these alien little creatures she would be half-afraid to hold. Work had become something she was filling in time with until Jack made her pregnant. Becoming pregnant, to be so unimaginably transformed, so excitingly expectant, was all she thought about, and it was only since Jack that this had happened; she thought that there must be something about Jack that her body recognised as a good father. She sighed, flicking ash, thinking how she might sabotage the johnnies he was always so careful to use.

Harry had said that he would give her children, and something inside her had leaped at this, but it was that part of her that was too wild and careless, that didn't think of consequences, the same part that had climbed into Harry's bed in the first place. She had to tell herself again –
again
– that Harry was a married man. Also, she told herself that Harry had never been a good father; it had been weeks before he told her he even had a son, although he'd told her he had a wife – would have told her even if she hadn't already known.

‘I should tell you about my wife,' Harry had said.

She had heard that his wife was an invalid, a mental case, retarded, that there had been some kind of accident; no one knew the full story and lack of facts made them cruel, not least because she was known to be German.

They had been in Harry's car that smelled of expensive good times and he was driving her home from the Christmas party where they had met. Outside her house he pulled on the handbrake and turned in his seat to face her. He said, ‘My wife is the most precious thing in the world to me, but precious in the sense only that I must keep her safe from harm. I can't stop caring for her because if I did, I would be the kind of man who ought not to be alive . . . ' He'd laughed shortly. ‘God help me, I'm a pompous bastard.' But she knew that he meant what he said, he could just never honestly admit to the seriousness in his heart.

She had often wished that his wife had died in that accident.

‘I'm wicked,' she said aloud. ‘The wicked get what they deserve.'

‘Val?'

His voice came from beyond the yard wall. She found herself sitting up straighter, stubbing out her cigarette beneath her foot as Peter opened the gate hesitantly. ‘Val… I thought I heard you.'

Oh, but he was beautiful – not handsome, not even sexy, but so beautiful that if she slept with him it would be excusable and not unfaithfulness at all because he was so extraordinary. It would be like taking a fantasy to bed, the man she had invented as a twelve-year-old when she had first allowed her hand to slip between her legs.

What rubbish, she thought, and made herself smile at him, a cheerful, ordinary smile to hide behind.

‘It's too warm to sit inside,' she said.

He stepped into the yard, leaving the gate open although she wished that he would close it so that it would be just the two of them, safe behind the high walls. He said, ‘It's a lovely evening.'

She stood up. ‘Stay – I'll fetch a chair.'

‘Allow me.'

He went inside and came back with another of the kitchen chairs. Placing it beside hers, he sat down. Looking up at the sky he said suddenly, ‘“Look towards heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them”.' He glanced at her ‘Genesis'.

She laughed, surprised. ‘Do you know the Bible off by heart?'

‘There are passages I remember, that's all.' After a moment he said, ‘I was a prisoner of war, in Burma. One of the very few possessions I managed to keep was a tiny Old Testament. It was confiscated eventually, but not before I'd memorised most of Genesis.'

She imagined him in the wet heat of the jungle, turning the fragile pages before a Japanese guard snatched the book from his hands. He had never spoken of his war before, and she had never asked. In her heart she had pictured him as a conscientious objector – bravely committed to the cause of peace; her heart often presumed too much, more often lately, since she had met him. Even now she couldn't imagine him carrying a rifle. She thought of all the raggedy, loin-clothed men filmed as the camps were liberated, and realised it was easier to picture him like this, stripped and vulnerable, but dignified still. Moved by this idea of him, she reached out and took his hand.

He gazed at her. At last he said, ‘You're not wicked, Val. And you deserve everything your heart desires.'

She drew her hand from his, embarrassed that he had heard her – that he had admitted to hearing her. She laughed brokenly; to her horror she realised she was close to tears. ‘Everything my heart desires? You don't know me well enough to say that.'

‘Tell me what you want most in the world.'

She laughed again, swiping at the shaming tears in her eyes. ‘Why?'

‘Because sometimes we should speak our hopes aloud. And look,' he smiled, glancing at the sky before turning to her again, ‘the countless stars are listening.' More softly he said, ‘And you need to chase away what you said just now, when you thought there was no one to hear. Break the spell.'

‘I think you've illustrated too many fairy stories.' All the same, she looked up at the stars. Quickly she said, ‘A baby.' She glanced at him, feeling herself colour, recognising that this was the most intimate conversation she had ever had. ‘I want a baby.'

He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers. At last he said, ‘Is that why you're marrying Jack?'

‘Not the only reason.'

‘You love him?'

‘Yes!'

He breathed out heavily. ‘I'm sorry. It's really none of my business.'

‘Except that you're his closest friend.'

He laughed emptily. ‘We're more like family now – not friends at all. The children . . . ' He trailed off. As if he hadn't realised it before, he said, ‘You'll be their stepmother.'

‘A wicked stepmother!'

‘Don't say that.' He frowned at her. And then, as though he was about to break bad news, he said, ‘What if Jack doesn't want any more children? Would Hope and the boys be enough?'

Val turned away from him, keeping her gaze on the clouds scuttling across the bright face of the moon. She thought of Hope who had become even colder and more disdainful since Jack had announced their plans, of the boys who were so unruly, so desperately naughty whenever she met them. So far, it seemed Jack thought it best mostly to keep her and his children apart, and she had accepted this with guilty relief.

Lighting a cigarette, she said, ‘Jack will want children because I do.'

‘But what if he doesn't?'

‘You remember what you said just now, about it being none of your business?' She stood up. ‘It's getting chilly – I think I'll go inside. Good night.'

He stood up, too. ‘Val, wait.' Catching hold of her hand, he repeated, ‘Wait.'

‘No, I should go in.'

He took the cigarette from her fingers and threw it to the ground. They stood facing each other, his fingers tight around hers. She saw how dark his eyes were, frowning with concern for her. No one had ever looked at her like that before, with so much compassion, and she gazed back at him, thinking that of all the times they had shared together she was the one who had talked and he had only listened. The most he had ever told her about himself was a moment ago and she had been filled with a pity that had felt like love; the feeling remained, a confusion of sympathy and desire: he was so beautiful, after all. She thought that if he kissed her, she would respond and allow him to lead her into his house and up his stairs to his room. They would make love and she wouldn't speak, just as she knew he wouldn't, keeping silent so that their betrayal would be nullified. She imagined how gentle he would be, and slow, gentle and slow and strong as her want for him. She stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face and he turned, kissing her palm.

‘Val . . . Oh Christ . . . '

She touched his mouth. ‘It's all right.'

‘You shouldn't marry Jack. It would be wrong –'

She stepped back from him, ashamed now that he had broken the silence so resoundingly. Still feeling his eyes on her, hating the glibness in her voice, she said, ‘I must have got carried away with all your talk about stars, eh?'

‘Val . . . ' He held her by the shoulders, forced her to look at him. ‘Please think about whether you really love Jack, whether you really want to marry him.'

She was angry now because it seemed he had encouraged her to behave as she had; it crossed her mind that all his soft looks and words were a test for her to pass or fail. Perhaps Jack had put him up to it. But then surely he would look triumphant or at least self-righteous; he only looked sad, afraid of the hurt he might have caused. Wearily she said, ‘You'd best go home. Good night, Peter.'

As she turned to go inside he said quickly, ‘Would you marry me, instead?'

She laughed, astonished.

‘Is it so funny?'

‘No . . . ' More gently, she said, ‘No. But I love Jack.'

‘What if he can't give you what you want most in the world?'

There was something unnerving about his intensity; she thought how jealous he must be, and how lonely. She should have been more careful of him; his strength was no more than an illusion. She wished now that she hadn't opened her heart to him, that she had realised how vulnerable he was. Jack had warned her about him, after all. She hadn't believed him when he'd told her how strange Peter could be, thinking only that he was jealous.