The Good Father (25 page)

On nights like that, when he'd returned to his own bed at last and found he couldn't sleep for the empty space beside him, he would take himself back to the skies over Berlin and by reliving a certain mission moment by moment, make himself concentrate only on getting his crew home safely. He never believed he would return there. Before Carol's death he tried to forget that he had ever flown, afraid that he'd find he missed it too much. He found he missed the adrenalin; that tremendous, fearful rush was far preferable to the constant ache of loss. And then he would feel ashamed, because his children needed him to be steady and not to go chasing after the excitement of being twenty-one and in charge of a huge, exploding sky.

Standing on the ground beneath the tree-house, Jack called up and saw the short-trousered, no-longer-chubby legs of one of his sons begin the descent of the rope ladder. ‘So,' he said. ‘Where's this mystery letter?'

Both boys dropped at his feet. ‘Where's Val with our money?'

‘Why are you such demons? Val's inside, powdering her nose. If you have a letter – which I doubt – you'll have your money when you hand it over.'

‘Here.' Martin thrust an envelope at him.

Jack frowned. Just as Stephen had said, the letter was addressed to him in an old-fashioned, copperplate hand. The envelope had been torn open across its seal and he took out the single sheet of heavy velum. It felt gritty and smelled as if it had lain buried under earth. The boys were watching him, mildly curious.

‘Go and play,' he said.

For once they didn't argue, but went off to find Val and her shillings.

There was a garden bench and Jack sat down. He took his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on, his movements slow and deliberate as an old man's. Like an old man's his hands were shaking a little, his guts churning in the kind of state they'd get into just before a take-off. Since the moment he'd seen his name on the envelope he'd had a creeping sense of what it contained; after all, he had always known how vile and malicious Peter's father was and how he would revel in the chance to rub his nose in all that had gone on in the past. Jack scowled. Softly he said, ‘Even from the grave, you old sod.'

He didn't have to read the letter, of course. He could rip it to shreds and toss it over this bloody garden, a place he was certain he would never come back to. But of course he couldn't help himself, like doing any other disgusting, sickening thing you knew was bad for you but was nevertheless compelling. Unfolding the letter, he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and began to read.

Chapter 30

I despaired when Jack arrived. All at once the garden was full of the boys, their noise and energy, full of Jack and Val, too, holding hands and smiling like adolescent sweethearts, greedy for each other. I wanted to ask them to leave. I wanted to cut some of the roses from the garden and lay them on the grave. I wanted to kneel there and try to piece together a prayer for my mother. Most of all, I wanted to be alone. I had sent Guy away and before he left, he embraced me. I was afraid he would cry again and couldn't bear it so I stepped back from him too quickly and perhaps I appeared cold, but I only wanted him gone. I smiled and told him he should go home to bed and try to forget. I thanked him. Perhaps I should have kept silent, but it seems I know only one stiff and narrow way to behave.

My father used to say I was like her. Just like her: wicked and immoral.

He killed her.

He killed her and buried her body in that terrible place and for years and years he had coal stacked over her and had me go down there time and time again, knowing I would stand on her grave. He made me believe she had left me willingly, thoughtlessly; that she had never loved me: how could she, to leave me like that? He put her photograph in a box and buried it beside her, and he buried me there, too, along with everything I might have meant to him.

I stayed by her new grave, guarding it, I suppose, waiting until Jack saw fit to leave. I had made the earth quite flat again, so that no one would suspect she was there. I have seen so many graves without markers, or marked with only the most flimsy crosses I knew would quickly succumb to the rain. The flimsiness of those crosses only mattered to me at first, when dying seemed the worst that could happen to us.

The boys came out, running towards the tree-house. Then Jack, not noticing me, calling to the children, his voice full of his new happiness. I watched him because I have always watched him, looking for the differences between us.

He took something from the boys and they ran into the house, leaving him alone with me. He sat on the bench; after a little while he put on his spectacles so that all at once he looked young, like the shy little boy who was once my ally. He read what the boys had given him, and then laid it beside him. After a little while he stood up and walked across the lawn towards me.

Jack cleared his throat, afraid that his voice would break, that he would let himself down. He felt a kind of numbness, the same disbelief he'd felt when he was told that Carol was dead. He realised he couldn't think of a single thing to say. What he had just read had knocked all the sense out of him.

Val came out of the house, holding the boys' hands. He turned to them, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. ‘Darling, would you take the boys inside for a while? I won't be long. I just need a private word with Peter.'

She led the children away, laughing at something Martin had said. He watched them and told himself that nothing had changed, that his sons were the same as they were a few minutes ago. Nothing had changed, nothing of any substance or worth. He realised he would have to tell himself this for the rest of his life, and all at once he felt weak with the thought of such endless effort; he doubted he had the strength left. Then he thought of Hope. She had always been his; from the moment he had held her in his arms he was her father. He wouldn't listen to the whispering voice in his head that told him that this was unimaginably different.

He made himself stand up straighter. Turning to Peter he said, ‘I've decided to sell this house. I've been wondering what would be best for the children once Val and I are married, and I've decided we should all make a new start. We're emigrating. Canada. We're going to Canada.'

Peter looked dumbstruck, as though he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. ‘Canada? No . . . You don't mean it.'

‘Yes, I do. It's best.'

‘Best? No, you can't –'

‘Why? Come on, Peter, you tell me. Why can't I take my children away?'

Peter glanced towards the letter he'd left on the bench and Jack followed his gaze.

Turning back to face him, Jack said, ‘Your father left it for the boys to find. It's addressed to me but it's all about nothing, really. Read it, if you like.'

He had to go. If he didn't get away from Peter at once he would say all the things he'd always believed must be kept to himself. And then he'd have no pride left, only the hollow satisfaction of having finally given voice to his hatred. He turned away but Peter caught his arm, his grip strong.

‘Jack.' He let go, leaving a filthy mark on his sleeve. Painfully he said, ‘You wouldn't take them. You wouldn't.'

‘Why wouldn't I?' He couldn't help himself. Intensely he said, ‘
I'm
their father. It's
my
name on their birth certificates. You're nothing to them. You were always nothing!'

‘Please don't take them away.'

Jack gazed at him. He thought how pitiable he was; there was a part of him that had always thought this, despite Peter's physical strength. Despite the way women looked at him. He thought of Carol, who had never lost her obsession with this man, the unsettling, agitating effect he had on her. And yet he seemed not to understand the power he had, like some beast that had been kept in chains and beaten every day of its life. Unable to look at him he turned away, but once again Peter caught his arm.

‘You're their father, Jack. And you're right – I'm nothing to them and every day they grow older I become even less. They're slipping away from me, every day a little further. Hope has already gone – you've seen the way she looks at me. Please, Jack, please don't take the boys away, too – not yet . . . '

Jack shook him off, his skin crawling. ‘I have to.' He thought of saying that putting an ocean between them was the only way he could stand it, but the words seemed too pompous, too measured and controlled when really all he wanted to do was lay into him with his fists. Instead, he met Peter's gaze, seeing Hope in him just as he always had. But now he saw the boys too, and he thought that he would kill him if he ever had to look at him again.

This time, Peter let him go. Jack began to walk towards the house, only to find himself running as he saw the twins come out into the garden. He swept them into his arms.

Val smiled at him. ‘So, what was in the mystery letter that cost me so much?'

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘Stuff about the past, that's all.' The boys were squirming, wanting to be put down, too big to be held like babies. He kissed them, holding on to them still. ‘Come on. Let's go home.'

I read the letter, of course I did – who would not? Who, if they found that their life had suddenly collapsed, would not want to try to make sense of it? The letter was quite short and to the point.

Dear Jack,

If you are reading this, then the boys are as clever and curious as I expect them to be – or rather, as I know them to be, given that they are my own flesh and blood.

I'm certain that Hope is my son's child: it's so obvious, isn't it? Hope takes after him and his mother. The twins' likeness to him is less obvious – one would have to know my family to see it. I recognised them at once, the first time your wife showed them off to me. Perhaps she thought that because they don't look so much like him, their secret would be kept safe. But Martin and Stephen so resemble my twin brothers, both killed in France in 1916. Seeing my grandsons was like having my brothers back – I can't tell you how much that has meant to me.

Until I saw them I thought my son wasn't mine, that I had been cuckolded as you have. But Martin and Stephen are undeniable proof that Peter is my son, for all that he has shamed me, for all that often I wish he'd never been born.

Perhaps you know already that these boys are not your blood. Perhaps your wife was as honest with you as my own wife was dishonest with me. But if you didn't know, if you doubt the truth of this letter, all you need do is ask my son. He longs to tell you they are his. Remember though, that they are yours. He is no more than their fool, their entertainment. You have shown yourself to be a good father; a far better father than my son would ever make.

Through you, I've left everything to my grandchildren, and I know that you will make the most of the opportunities money allows for; this was the reason why I have not left it in trust for the children as at first I thought I might. I want you to know that I have always admired you for your steadfastness and loyalty to Hope, for taking her on as your own, just as I know you will continue to accept the boys as your own.

Forgive me for the curious way you came across this letter. All I can say is that courage has often failed me and part of me still wants secrets to be kept, even after I am dead. One never quite believes in death anyway; even as I write this, I can't bring myself to question my own immortality.

I am ten years old and it is Christmas and we are alone, my father and I, because there has only ever been the two of us; all we have is each other. I love him and want him to be happy and I've drawn him a picture – the first that I believe is even half-decent. I know that he is drunk – not too drunk, I tell myself, no worse than usual. But, as usual, I underestimate him. He must have been drinking all day. He takes my drawing and stares and stares at it, and all at once tears are falling onto it. He lifts his head and looks at me and says, ‘I should have killed you, too. And Christ only knows why I did not.'

I could tell myself that I knew then that she was dead, but I didn't. I was too afraid for myself. Fear has stalked me all my life. I think I'm tired of it now. I think I should put a stop to it.

Chapter 31

Harry had dressed Ava, keeping up a stream of words, trying to get over the self-conscious feeling that he was talking to himself. When the words had dried up, he sang, nonsense songs from his childhood that his father had sung to him. Harry stopped mid verse of ‘Lily of Laguna' to laugh bleakly. ‘You know, Ava, he was such a kind man. I've never really thought about that before – how kind he was. Even when he'd had a drink or four, people loved him. Life and soul. They loved him, but they thought he was a buffoon – a silly old bugger.' He'd snorted. ‘Am I like him? Oh yes. I am under no illusions.'

After a morning spent reading to her and working on a jigsaw she seemed to have no interest in, he imagined that if he spent another hour like this he would go mad with boredom and frustration. He thought about the Home he had found, run by the nuns whose existence Val had not believed in. But they did exist, and Sister Agnes had been thoughtful and sympathetic as she'd shown him round her quiet, cloistered asylum. In her office with the statue of the Virgin holding out Her arms to him, she told him that she understood how difficult it was for families to leave their loved ones, even there, where they would find peace and safety. He had felt ashamed of himself, could never admit to this woman, a woman he was beginning to think of as a saint, that he would only feel relieved. All the same, he said that he was merely considering his options.

Val had believed he wouldn't shut his wife away again and he was afraid to insist that he would, because how would such insistence appear? In his heart he believed Val only loved the man who wouldn't give up on his wife, a man he'd created only with Esther's help.

He led Ava out into the garden because after the night's storm the sun was shining in an innocently clear blue sky. They would eat lunch outside where she liked to listen to the birds. Because he had forgotten Danny and Martha, he went back inside to fetch them.

Guy was in the hall, quietly closing the front door as if afraid to be heard. It was obvious he had been out all night. Dishevelled, his son looked at him, only to look away, making to side-step him. But Harry had seen his expression and was shocked. Wanting to sound concerned, instead alarm caused his voice to rise as he said, ‘Guy? What's happened?'

Guy tried to slip past him to the stairs but Harry stepped in his way, his bulk of occasional use, at least. More gently he said, ‘Guy, I can see you're distressed . . . ' He noticed how dirty his son's clothes were. His anxiety increasing, he repeated, ‘What's happened? Tell me – you look like you've been pulled through a muddy field.'

Guy kept his face resolutely turned away. ‘Nothing's happened.'

‘You were out all night, weren't you?'

‘Most of the night. And so?' He seemed to force himself to look at him. ‘What the hell do you care? Don't start pretending you care now! Just don't – it's too bloody late! You should have cared years ago, but you were too busy befriending fucking Nazis!'

‘Keep your foul language to yourself!'

‘Should I say it in German? No, that would make it sound even more
foul
, wouldn't it? Funny, isn't it, that all you care about are the words I used and not what I actually said.'

Harry sighed. ‘Guy, Ava wasn't a Nazi.'

‘No? Well, you keep telling yourself that.'

‘Why are you saying these things now? Something's happened. Tell me what's happened.'

Guy shook his head, smiling as if he'd been told a bad joke. ‘Oh, what's happened, Dad? Where should I start? When I was four and you left me in the care of total strangers? You don't want to hear about them, believe me.'

Harry felt his guts contract, a combination of guilt and regret and a shameful unwillingness to know more than he had to about those years when he had lost touch with his infant son. His excuse was the war, of course, and as excuses went it was certainly adequate. But he could not excuse his own heart, his own lack of connection with that little boy he'd left with the matron of that first prep school.

Dully he said, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry? Yeah, I bet. You always looked sorry when you were walking away. Christ, sometimes you actually ran, you were so
sorry
to leave me!'

‘That's not true, Guy.'

‘No, you're right – it wasn't quite running. You were always too fat to run.' He bit his lip and Harry could see that he felt he'd gone too far. Besides, Guy would normally think such childish insults beneath him and it worried Harry that he was upset enough to stoop so low.

He became aware that he was holding Danny and Martha in his arms as if they were real children. He laughed bleakly, shifting the dolls so that he held them less carefully. ‘I wasn't so fat in those days, was I? If I was and I embarrassed you, then I'm sorry.'

Still seemingly unable to look at him, Guy mumbled, ‘Don't say sorry again.'

‘No, all right. But can I say that you were always so brave, and you never cried when I said goodbye?' When Guy didn't respond he said more softly, ‘I was grateful that you didn't cry – you made me feel that you were all right. I was grateful when I should have realised you were unhappy. There,' he ducked his head to smile into his son's downcast face. ‘Now I want to say that word you don't want me to say.'

Guy made to brush past him only to turn to him abruptly, his face pale, his eyes full of tears that fell down his face unchecked. ‘Dad . . . ' Guy crumpled and became a little boy again, rocking himself backwards and forwards as he wept.

It took a little while for Harry to coax the story from Guy. Halfway through, with many apologies, he had to leave him to check on Ava, only to find her dozing in a deckchair. Sitting the dolls at her feet, he returned to his son, feeling as sick as if he had uncovered the bones himself. And he was afraid for Guy; the walls his son had built to keep the world from touching him had collapsed, breached by this one, traumatic event. But those failed defences had kept other traumas at bay and now Guy was as overwhelmed as any of the shell-shocked soldiers Harry had seen, those men who had witnessed one horror too many. Some of Guy's horrors he knew about; it was those he was ignorant of that scared him.

They sat side by side on the stairs. Harry had given Guy a small measure of brandy and he seemed calmer. Wiping his nose on the handkerchief Harry had pressed into his hand, he looked down at his drink. ‘I shouldn't have told you.'

‘Yes, you should have.'

‘It was against the law, wasn't it, what we did?'

‘No one's going to go to the police.'

‘I shouldn't have told you, shouldn't have got you involved.' He began to cry again and Harry put his arm around him, holding him so that his head rested against his chest. Stroking his hair, he said, ‘It's all right, Guy. Everything's going to be all right. You don't have to worry about anything – I'm here now.'

Suddenly Guy said, ‘I can't stop thinking about how frightened she must have been.'

Harry held him still closer. ‘Have you thought that it might have been very quick? She may have felt nothing, known nothing.'

‘She was pregnant.' Guy struggled from Harry's embrace to look at his father. ‘How could he have done that?'

‘I don't know.'

After a while Guy said quietly, ‘Hans would have known;
he
would have understood how someone could murder a pregnant woman.'

Harry kept silent; he felt as though he was holding his breath. Guy had never mentioned Hans before, and he wondered how much Ava had told him – whether he really did know more than he knew himself. Often he wished he had forbidden Ava to talk about her brother to Guy, but he had never been able to bring himself to be so heavy-handed; could never, in truth, bring himself to speak his name. He regretted such weakness now. Guy should have been kept innocent of a man he seemed to understand so well.

Guy said, ‘Esther found out about Hans. It's why she left.'

Harry sighed. He had found Ava's diary and the photograph of Hans on Esther's stripped bed, the two speaking to him far more eloquently than her stilted resignation letter. He had read the diary, of course, years ago, looking for clues as to what had gone on in that spring of 1946. He had found none, only a reaffirmation of what he already knew: that Ava had loved her brother more than she loved anyone, with the possible exception of Guy.

Guy swallowed the mouthful of brandy he'd given him. ‘I should go to bed, although I don't think I'll be able to sleep.'

Harry got to his feet. ‘Then would you sit with Ava? I need to go out. For an hour or so, that's all.'

Guy looked up at him. ‘You're going to see him, aren't you?'

Harry hesitated. Eventually he said, ‘Yes. I think he may need someone to talk to.'

After all, hadn't he always been the one to talk to? Hans had always insisted on talking to him and only him. Many men would have called their exchanges confessions but Hans would never allow himself to be so craven. Hans was only telling a story, nothing more.

‘You've been a good listener, Harry,' Hans had told him at the end. ‘Rapt. But then you'll leave this place and the spell will be broken. You'll wonder how you could have believed a single word.'

‘No. I'll go on believing you.'

Hans studied his face. ‘Do you think others will believe as you do?'

‘You've left enough evidence.'

He sighed. ‘You're always so blunt, Harry. It's good that you don't let me get away with my whimsies. Keep pointing to the evidence – you're right to do so. Truly, I'd despise anyone who denied what we did.'

Harry stopped outside Wright's house – not the house on Inkerman Terrace, for he guessed that Wright wouldn't return there just yet. At least, he hoped he wouldn't. He didn't want to be so close to where Val lived. He had been trying valiantly not to think about Val, but he knew how far he had to go before the pain of being reminded didn't feel like it would kill him. Even now, looking at a house that might only be part of her future was difficult. But at least he hadn't made love to her in its rooms; there would be no scent of her, no sense of her presence to distract him from his brave efforts at forgetting. He would concentrate on Wright; he would offer him his services as a listener, although he guessed at how condescending he would sound and wondered if Wright wouldn't see right through him, to his insatiable curiosity, that same curiosity that Hans had recognised with such glee.

He walked up the path, following it along the side of the house to the garden, half-expecting and dreading the sight of the newly dug earth. But the garden seemed undisturbed and rather beautiful for the way it had been left to the wild. He allowed himself to stand at the garden's edge, catching his breath, composing himself. A robin flew down at his feet; he watched it for a moment before letting himself into the house through the open back door.

He called out, once again self-conscious at the sound of his own voice seeming to go unheard. Going from room to room he became aware of the terrible stillness, the deep, oppressive silence. He called out again, more urgently, his heart quickening as he climbed the stairs. He had experienced such a silence before, when he had found Guy asleep beside his mother's body. It was as though the dead left behind an aura that only the frantic blundering of the living could disperse, because when he burst into Wright's bedroom, the silence became ordinary, was suddenly broken by birdsong. The window was open, the breeze from the garden scenting the air.

For a moment Harry imagined dropping to his knees, tearing at his hair in a fit of histrionic grief and rage, and it crossed his mind that it would be a relief to finally let go like that. Instead, he began to talk softly, not caring now that there was no one to hear him, but keeping up a soft stream of reassuring words as he righted the toppled chair. Climbing up, he lifted Peter's body into his arms.