The Good Father (3 page)

But she had told herself not to think of Harry, and especially not to compare him with this man who sat beside her. Impossible to compare the two of them, anyway – like putting a terrier in competition with a wolfhound. And Jack Jackson was handsome – at least, the girls in the typing pool thought he was. More than one or two of them had their eye on him; she had seen the looks they exchanged behind his back. And Jack had been a pilot during the war, had flown bombers over Berlin. Val guessed how many of the girls liked to imagine him in his RAF uniform flying through exploding, fiery skies. Harry had been in the Army, a translator, disarming Nazi prisoners with his perfect German. ‘I wasn't their idea of an English Army Major,' Harry laughed as though remembering SS Officers' astonished faces when he opened his mouth. ‘I looked like Oliver Hardy and sounded liked Hindenburg!'

He was wrong. He didn't look like Oliver Hardy. And in bed, his face soft with desire, he was the most beautiful man alive.

Hadn't she told herself
not
to think about him? She turned to the dance floor. A few couples had begun to jive but mostly this was a place older couples frequented, couples who expected waltzes. The band seemed to take the hint, and began to play ‘Moonlight Serenade'.

‘Would you like to dance?' Jack stood up, holding out his hand to her. He smiled and she thought that he was handsome in a way that she might grow to appreciate. Smiling back at him, she stood up and took his hand.

Jack Jackson had first asked her to have dinner with him one bleak Monday lunchtime as they both queued in the canteen. Clutching her tin tray and bent cutlery, wondering whether to have the meat pie or the boiled fish, Val had turned to Jack and asked him what he thought looked less horrendous. He had laughed and said that yes, it was the usual Hobson's choice but he'd probably risk the meat pie. She and Jack had been exchanging friendly remarks like this for years, in the canteen, in corridors and on stairs as they passed each other on the way to meetings and minute-takings. She had worked for Davies & Sons for only a week when Joan, one of the other secretaries, had told her that Jack Jackson was a widower and wasn't it tragic to have your wife killed like that, leaving you to look after three small children! Joan had sighed, a mixture of sympathy and wistfulness that Val would come to associate closely with Jack over the coming years.

Joan was only one of many who would have liked to comfort this widowed man, although it seemed to Val that he didn't much notice any of these women. He was cool and professional; she appreciated his good manners, the fact that he wasn't a groper or a bottom-pincher; she liked that he talked to her more or less as an equal and not in the absurdly patronising tones used by most of his male colleagues. She thought that he was aloof and attributed this to his status as office curiosity. Obviously, he knew he was talked about. Obviously, he had decided that the best way to deal with the gossip was to keep a dignified silence.

But that Monday lunchtime, amidst the canteen's din and clatter, the stink of boiled cod all around them, Jack had said suddenly, ‘I know a little restaurant where the food is pretty good – Italian. It's only a backstreet place, off the High Street . . .'

He smiled awkwardly and she'd realised he was asking her on a date. Handsome Jack Jackson, the man all the women of a certain age mooned after, had asked
her
on a date. She had almost laughed because it seemed so unlikely; instead she had looked down at the plate of pie and mashed potato she had just been served before joking to him. ‘Well, if the food is better than this . . .'

He had smiled back – in relief, it seemed to her. They had sat down together at one of the long tables as they often had before, and their date wasn't mentioned again until Jack began on his treacle pudding. ‘How about this Saturday?' he said. His eyes were dark, serious, and at once she had regretted her earlier glibness. She shouldn't have encouraged him; she imagined the gossip there would be when it came out that she and Jack had been out together. But then she thought how pleasant and ordinary it would be to have dinner with this man, perhaps even an antidote to Harry. That any man could be an antidote to Harry was such a foolish idea that now she could hardly believe it had crossed her mind. But then she had smiled and said, ‘Yes, dinner on Saturday would be nice.' Nice! Niceness had never figured in anything to do with Harry.

On that first date with Jack she had dressed carefully, believing that she should look demure but also as though she hadn't made too much effort; she didn't want this quiet, family man to think she was out to seduce him. So she left the clothes she would have worn for Harry in her wardrobe, clothes he had bought her – jewel-coloured cashmere sweaters and slim-fitting pencil skirts, her favourite black dress that nipped in her waist and emphasised her breasts. Instead she had worn a dress in a busy, floral print, its circular skirt boosted with a net petticoat. In the full-length mirror in her bedroom she realised that the dress was too young for her. She was thirty and the mirror reflected a woman who seemed to want to look ten years younger, sweeter, and less experienced. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb,' she had said aloud. But it was too late to change; Jack was already waiting downstairs, she could hear him making stilted conversation with her father in the front room – a room her father Matthew kept only for those he considered class. As she came downstairs, Matthew had come out into the hall. He had winked at her then said loudly, for Jack's ears, ‘By, you look a proper Bobby Dazzler!' Her father wanted her to like Jack, and Jack to like her. He wanted there to be happy endings, for Harry to be forgotten.

On the Grand Hotel's dance floor, Jack held her closely, leading her expertly, a good, competent dancer. She imagined this slim, deft man was good and competent at most tasks he set his mind to. He liked machines; he liked numbers, things that could be fixed and controlled and predicted. On their first date in the Italian restaurant, he had told her about his twin boys in a way that had made her believe he wished he could occasionally tidy them away in a cupboard. Then he had mentioned his daughter Hope, and his expression softened. ‘She's a little mother to the boys, of course.' He had laughed self-consciously as though he felt he'd been boasting, only to add, ‘She's just so terribly sensible.'

He hadn't told her just how beautiful Hope was, or how self-contained, although she might have guessed. Cool, confident, beautiful Hope had smiled at her when Jack had introduced them, had said in her clipped, careful voice, ‘I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Campbell.' And Val had thought she saw a glint in the girl's eye that belied her good manners – something like suspicion mixed with a determination not to appear too friendly, too eager to be liked.

‘Moonlight Serenade' ended. Jack stepped back from her. To her surprise, he took both her hands, lifting one to his lips. ‘Val,' he said, glancing over his shoulder then back to her. ‘Val, I thought we could go back to my house – for a nightcap. The children will be in bed . . .'

‘All right.'

‘Yes? I mean, if you don't want to, if you're tired . . .'

‘Jack, it's all right. Let's go.'

He nodded gravely, as if the whole idea had been hers. ‘Very well. Let's get our coats.'

He murmured, ‘Oh God, Val, oh sweet Christ . . .'

He lay on top of her on the sofa, his hand on her bare thigh between her stocking-top and cami-knickers. He had unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra and had lifted his mouth from her nipple to gaze at her with such desperation that she had pressed her hand to his cheek. ‘Jack,' she whispered, ‘it's all right, it doesn't matter. Hush now, hush . . .'

It seemed he was unable to look at her. Scrambling away from her, he got to his feet and hastily cleaned himself up with a handkerchief before buttoning his flies and thrusting the soiled, crumpled hanky into his pocket. ‘I'm sorry.'

Val sat up and held out her hand to him. ‘Sit down.'

‘No.' He glanced up, towards the rooms where his children slept. ‘I'll walk you home.'

Her breasts were uncovered still, heavy, too white in the yellow light from the standard lamp behind her. Her nipple stood out, glistening with his saliva, expectant-looking. For all his clumsiness, for all his weight on top of her, his frantic roughness, she was wet, ready for him; she had thrust her groin against his, opened her mouth wide as he kissed her, searching out his tongue and grasping his head, her fingers pressing hard against his scalp, making him groan, just as she had groaned when he'd pushed his hand up her skirt. She had been much too wanton altogether, and she had robbed him of control. As she fastened her bra she had a feeling that this might be the end of their pretending they were suited.

Her head bowed, her hands busy with the buttons of her blouse, she heard him light a cigarette. After a moment he said, ‘It's been a long time for me.' He laughed painfully. ‘You wouldn't believe how long. Sometimes I don't believe it.'

He was standing over her. Gently nudging her foot with his he said, ‘I've never felt so much like a fifteen-year-old boy – not even when I was fifteen. Your fault – you shouldn't be so sexy.'

Standing up, she took the cigarette from him and inhaled deeply before handing it back. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I got a taxi home, Jack.'

He stepped back from her. ‘If you like.'

‘We're both tired.'

‘Yes. Of course.' Then, tapping the cigarette ash into the dead fire, he said, ‘Did you enjoy this evening?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘I mean apart from just now. Apart from my disappointing performance.'

She sighed. ‘Jack . . .'

‘You're very cool, aren't you? It's almost as if you want to give the impression . . .' He snorted, shaking his head, his voice becoming bitter as he said, ‘Oh well, never mind, eh? Put it down to yet another experience.'

She brushed past him. ‘Good night, Jack.'

‘Wait.' He caught her arm. ‘Val, wait . . . I'm sorry.'

Shaking free of his grasp she gazed at him, keeping her anger in check only because he looked so miserable. He attempted to smile but his eyes gave him away. Perhaps they should just call it a day – but that was too cruel a thing to say to a man who looked like he was about to cry, who already felt himself to be humiliated. She pressed her hand against his cheek; softly she said, ‘I think you're a lovely man.'

He grasped her wrist, lifting her hand away from his face. ‘You think I'm a lovely man?' He laughed nastily. ‘Jesus! Do you want to make that sound a little less patronising? What's the next line? And I really like you but? Don't you dare brush me off like this.' He let go of her wrist abruptly. ‘Don't you dare!'

‘Because if there's any brushing off to be done, you're the one to do it?' she retorted. Then, ‘Look, I think I should just go home.'

‘Not yet. You can't go yet.'

‘You're upset.' Wearily she added, ‘Like I already said, we're both tired.'

‘I'm not tired. I'm not upset.' He burst out: ‘I wanted tonight to be special.'

‘I know.'

‘Well, you don't have to sound so bloody resigned. You wanted it too – I know you did.'

His hair was sticking up. Earlier she had undone some of his shirt buttons and now she could see his grey-white vest and a few wisps of chest hair dark against his pale skin. She remembered how lean and angular his body had felt against hers, how his urgent need for her had been a savage, mindless thrill. She had thought she'd experienced too much to ever feel so desperate for sex again.

Reaching out, Jack touched her arm lightly. ‘Val? Don't look like that.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like you've made a dreadful mistake.' Suddenly he said, ‘I'm not boring really.'

She laughed, astonished. ‘I never said you were!'

‘But you think it. Actually, I am boring. Not when I was younger, but now . . .' He pulled himself together. ‘You want to go home. I'll walk you there.'

They walked along the quiet streets in silence and Jack kept a small distance from her so that she felt stiffly self-conscious, as though she took up too much room on the pavement. The semi-detached houses of Jack's suburb began to give way to the rows of terraces that in turn gave way to the High Street.

As they turned into the last of these terraced streets, Inkerman Terrace where she lived with her father, Jack stopped. Taking her hand, he pulled her into an alleyway, backing her against the wall as he guided her hand to his erection. His lips close against her ear, he groaned, such a longing, needy sound, infecting her with his lust. Her free hand pressed against the damp wall, the filthy old brick crumbling in her curling fingers as Jack ground himself against her; he grunted, bending his knees, pushing up her skirt and tugging at her knickers until they fell around her ankles. Covering her mouth with his, he thrust his fingers inside her.

She turned her face away from his. ‘Jack, wait . . .'

‘Let me, please.' His fingers still inside her, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her face as he whispered, ‘Please . . . I love you, you know I love you.'

She closed her eyes. He had withdrawn his fingers, had begun to work on that place that would bring her to climax. She groaned, opening her legs a little more as she felt herself slump against the wall. He kissed her and she heard the smile in his voice as he said, ‘There, you like that. You're so wet. Little hussy, little bitch on heat . . . there!'

She came, arching her body against his, her head back so that her throat was exposed. He bit into her neck delicately even as he put his leg between hers so that she could ride out her orgasm. Then, quickly, he was unbuttoning his flies and closing her hand around his cock as he took a Johnny from his pocket.