The Good Father (6 page)

Guy, sitting beside his step-mother, had looked up from the book he was reading. In that sardonic tone Harry had come to loathe, he had said, ‘Yes, Papa, do go. Do have a lovely time and don't think of us at all!'

So he had dressed in his dinner suit, complete with black dickie bow and black satin stripe down the trouser legs, a black cummerbund holding in his belly. Esther had smiled at Ava when she saw him. ‘Doesn't Mr Dunn look the part, Miss?' Ava had only looked at him as though he was a stranger, Esther's expression adding to her confusion. What
part
was he fit for, anyway? He was a middle-aged man in an old-fashioned evening suit, weary, dreading the boredom that awaited him, dreading the return to a house that had been cheered by paper chains. In that time before Val he had begun to feel that he'd had his life – even though it was not one he would have wholly chosen – and that there was nothing left but waiting.

Val had danced with him. Val had worn a green satin dress, close-fitting, even straining a little at the seam that ran down the middle of her backside. He'd imagined the stitches giving way, hot, fervent imaginings that had him wanting to grind his erection hard against her as they danced. The green satin dress was low cut, back and front, that straining seam giving way to a daring split that showed how erotic the backs of a woman's knees could be. She wore no jewellery, nothing to distract from the sheer magnificence of her body, those curves encased so tightly, so perversely restrained. It had been all he could do not to pant, not to take her hand and press it against his cock. He worried that his own hand would leave a big, sweaty print on the small of her back.

As they danced he had asked if he could drive her home and she had declined, of course, afraid of gossip probably, afraid of him too no doubt – that he would be all over her the moment they were alone. But then she had smiled at him. ‘You're a very good dancer – I just wanted to tell you that.'

‘For a fat man, you mean?'

She'd laughed. ‘You're not fat! You're imposing . . . Statuesque.'

She went on smiling, smiling and smiling, and he saw that she was teasing him so that he relaxed a little, his filthy thoughts becoming a little less rampant. He'd even managed to smile at her almost normally, only spoiling the effect by saying, ‘You're the sexiest woman I've ever seen in my life – I just wanted to tell
you
that.'

‘For a spinster, you mean?'

He'd looked away, wanting to close his eyes and groan to release some of the pent-up frustration, at the same time wanting to laugh at the ridiculousness of being forty-five-year-old Harry Dunn who had told himself sex was a joy he could live without. He forced himself to look at her. She gazed back at him, no longer teasing but serious, appraising. No woman had looked at him with such direct honesty; he searched her face, wondering if he could dare to be so honest in return. When she smiled, eyebrows raised, he laughed despairingly.

‘All right. I admit it.'

Her smile became archer. ‘Admit what?'

‘That I want to fuck you.'

She gasped, astonished.

‘I'm sorry.' He stopped dancing. ‘I can't believe I said that.'

‘No, neither can I.'

They stood at the edge of the dance floor and she was still in his arms, still notionally at least his partner. He thought that she should have slapped his face and walked away; he imagined her proud, indignant exit from his life. Instead she seemed to be waiting for something.

Just as he was about to apologise again she said, ‘I heard you're married.'

‘Yes. I am,' he told her.

‘Where is she tonight?'

He was unable to look at her, feeling that she had manoeuvred him into a trap, resenting her even as he felt he deserved his humiliation. At the hotel's bar, he saw Stanley Davies lift his drink in a silent, smirking salute. He thought he had never felt so ashamed, so nakedly foolish in all his life. Quickly he said, ‘I'm sorry, forgive me.'

She followed him off the dance floor and out into the hotel's deserted lobby. Facing her he said, ‘I've never spoken to a woman like that before.'

She stepped back, startled, as though he had swung round too suddenly when she had expected him not to turn around at all. Awkwardly she said, ‘It was flattering really, in a way.'

‘Was it?'

‘No, not really. You made me feel cheap and it was a shock, a nasty little fizzing shock darting through me.' Looking at him she said, ‘Humiliating, how your body reacts, isn't it?'

‘I'm sorry.'

She sat down on the hotel's stairs. ‘Is your wife at home looking after the babies?'

He thought of Guy, his son, who wasn't a child, who sometimes, it seemed to him, had never been a child at all, and told himself he wasn't really lying when he said, ‘We don't have children.'

‘So she doesn't like parties, then?' Val took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and he stepped forward, offering her a light. As she accepted, she met his eyes, that same honest look sizing him up. At last she said, ‘Why don't you sit down?'

He sat beside her on the stair, relieved that it was good and wide and could accommodate them both without any part of their bodies touching. He sat stiffly, straight-backed, feeling huge beside her; in an effort to feel easier, he took out his own cigarettes and they smoked together in silence, music from the ballroom a steady beat he concentrated on. The music and the cigarette combined to calm him; he began to think that perhaps he could get away with behaving so badly. She was a stranger, after all; he would never have to pass her desk in his office or nod to her in his street. He would never see her again after tonight; she would never
want
to see him after tonight. The thought of never seeing her again was bleakly comforting; he knew he would wallow in the sweet agonies of unrequited lust.

He got up to fetch an ashtray. When he came back she had stood up too. She stepped towards him, grinding her cigarette out hard, the force pressing the ashtray against his palm; he imagined he could feel the stub burning through the thin tin. She stood close to him; he could smell her perfume that earlier he had tried not to inhale, not wanting to be more overwhelmed by her than he already was. Now though, he had an urge to press his face against her neck, not only to smell but to taste her. Feeling his unruly cock begin to stiffen again, he stepped back.

‘Your wife . . .'

He shook his head; he had the terrible, absurd feeling that he might cry. She stepped towards him, close again, and touched his hand.

‘My wife.' He laughed painfully, remembering how Ava had looked at him so blankly over the coiled links of bright paper. All at once he felt angry, a surge of animating feeling that made him desperate, selfish. ‘I want to take you home. I want to be with you, alone in my car.'

‘You want what you wanted on the dance floor.'

He gazed at her just as she had looked at him, honestly, coolly, despite his raging hard-on. When she looked away, he caught her hand and held it tightly. ‘Shall we go?'

In his study, Harry picked up his glass of gin only to put it down again. He thought of Val in his car, arching her back in response to his kisses, to his hand cupping her breast. They were still in the front seats and the gear stick had got in the way; he was too big a man to climb all over a woman on the back seat of a car, even a car like his, built to impress, for comfort rather than speed. He had pulled away from her groaning in frustration and despair, his head back, eyes closed, so that it was a surprise when he felt her hand unbuttoning his flies and closing around him. Her hand was cool, soft, and she was tentative at first, as though she had never touched a man before. But she was expert, really, an expertise he had guessed at, of course. Her experience was one of the things he loved about her. When he was with her he didn't have to be careful; she was his equal, he could relinquish control.

He got up and went to the window, staring out at his neat and tidy garden, kept neat and tidy by a gardener, just as his home was kept thus by a cleaner, just as Ava was kept by Esther, just as a series of boarding schools had temporarily at least managed to keep control of his son. His life ran rather smoothly, considering, considering there was a hole in his chest where his heart had been.

He thought of Hans – unexpectedly, because thoughts of that man always crept up on him, ambushing him in his weakest moments – Hans leaning across the table in the interrogation room, his handsome face frowning as though the question Harry had asked of him was deeply puzzling. ‘You ask me
why,
Major Dunn?' He'd smiled that film-star smile of his. ‘Now, that's not an
official
question, is it? Come – you are being prurient!' Sitting back in his seat, he'd laughed. ‘Why: I don't have to tell you why. Just as you don't have to tell me how many women have refused to fuck you.'

Turning away from the window, from his white-faced, flabby reflection, Harry went to his desk again, took out Tom Wright's will and put it in his briefcase ready for Monday morning. He thought of Peter Wright, a man whom Lieutenant Hans Gruber would have shot through the head if Hans had cared to look at him more than twice. Gentle people like Peter Wright incensed Hans; they wasted the air they breathed. So, without Hans to carry out an execution, he would have to deal with him. Harry sighed. Picking up his glass, he drank its contents down in one and went to pour himself another. 

Chapter 5

Hope stood on the street outside the church, waiting for her father to finish with the polite, necessary business of shaking Father O'Brien's hand and exchanging pleasantries. A little way along the street, the twins hung off the railings surrounding the church, their feet on the low wall, their bottoms swinging out so that those leaving the church had to step in the gutter to walk round them. The boys were wearing their best Sunday clothes, and she thought that she should call at them to climb down, to stand and wait nicely, to be good rather than risk tearing their trousers and dirtying their white shirts. But she knew they wouldn't take any notice. Besides, lately she had begun to think rebellious thoughts about her father, because weren't these two naughty little boys
his
responsibility? She heard her father laugh, saw Father O'Brien clap him on the shoulder as he shook his hand. Then Jack Jackson put on his hat, straightened it and pulled on his gloves. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. At last he was ready to leave and Hope felt her relief mix with exasperation at her father's inability to do anything quickly and decisively, or to ever consider her – her time, her impatience at being kept waiting. Today of all days he should have been quick. Today she had somewhere to go.

Last week, Irene Redman had invited her to her birthday party. Irene was in the second year of the sixth form, a girl she knew only slightly, but all the same, this pretty, popular girl had stopped her outside the school gates and said, ‘Here, this is for you.' She'd thrust an envelope at her, smiling. ‘It would be jolly nice if you could come.'

Then, Irene had gone, leaving Hope looking down in surprise at the invitation to her eighteenth birthday party.

Ever since she had received the invitation she had wondered why she'd been asked, and whether or not she should go; worrying that she wouldn't know anyone well enough, that she would stand on the edge of the party, ignored. The Redmans lived in a huge house overlooking the park. Mr Redman was a lawyer, Mrs Redman was known for her charity work; her photograph was often in the
Gazette
where she'd be posed surrounded by nurses or nuns or little sick children. When Hope told her father that she had been invited to this party he had merely raised his eyebrows. ‘Moving in high society, eh? Excellent!' He'd grinned ironically; she'd thought how useless he was as an only parent because he understood so little. She began to worry again why Irene Redman had condescended to invite her.

Her father walked down the church path and went immediately to the boys, scooping them down from the wall and snapping, ‘Behave yourselves!' Turning to her he said, ‘Right, are we ready?'

They began to walk home, the boys holding their father's hands, Hope trailing a little way behind. As they crossed the road leading to their house, he said, ‘I did mention that Peter was coming to lunch, didn't I?'

‘No!'

‘Well, no need to look so alarmed – the chicken's quite big enough, isn't it? We'll just have to peel a few more potatoes.' He grinned at each of the boys in turn. ‘It'll be fun having Uncle Peter over, won't it?'

The boys agreed excitedly as Hope felt a creeping anxiety that had nothing to do with chickens or potatoes. She had been trying not to think about Peter. She had lied to her father about having too much school-work to go to Peter's lessons, but now it dawned on her that of course she couldn't get out of seeing him altogether; he was still her father's oldest, closest friend, still liable to call at their house at any time. Realising this, she felt a kind of panic as she remembered how he had looked at her at his father's funeral. She remembered too that last lesson, and how he had smiled at her as he'd taken the pencil from her hand, finishing the bird she had attempted to draw with such quick, fluid skill he'd barely needed to take his eyes off her. His smile was too warm, his gaze lingering on her too long after he'd placed the pencil down. She tried to tell herself that he smiled like that only because he was amused by the clumsy way she'd drawn the bird's wing; but in her heart she knew it was more than that. He had turned the same smile on her as she stood at the back of that church feeling lumpy and childish in her school blazer. It was a smile that wanted too much. The panicky feeling grew stronger. She knew that he would never stop coming to their house, never stop looking at her in a way that made her feel naked, and that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

As she followed her father and brothers up the path to their house she said sullenly, ‘Why did you ask him today, of all days, when you knew I was going to Irene's party?'

‘I'd forgotten about that,' Jack admitted, ‘but it won't make any difference, will it? I know – Peter could give you a lift to the party on his way home. Save me and the boys having to walk you there, eh?' He beamed, pleased with this idea.

Horrified, Hope said quickly, ‘Don't ask him to drive me there. Honestly – don't.'

‘Don't be silly! He'd be only too pleased. There,' Jack unlocked the front door and ushered the boys inside, ‘that's decided. Come on, I'll help you with the lunch.'

Peter said, ‘This is delicious, Hope.'

Hope looked up from her plate of roast chicken, mashed potato and peas to smile at him briefly, the first time she had looked at him directly since he'd arrived. All afternoon she had avoided his gaze, becoming more and more self-conscious, convinced that he was watching everything she did, listening too attentively to everything she said. His attention made her clumsy, her skin prickling whenever she couldn't avoid dodging past him. She had even dropped the gravy boat on the kitchen floor as she became more flustered and felt her face burn as Peter at once took out the dustpan and brush from beneath the sink and swept up the broken shards of pottery, despite her protests that he really shouldn't bother. As he'd replaced the dustpan it occurred to her that he knew the house too well, knew where every last thing was kept just as if he lived with them. Her father, lounging against the kitchen dresser with a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, had smiled at her behind Peter's back, an eyebrow raised, mocking look as if he thought Peter fussed too much. His contempt only made her feel more anxious; if her father believed this man was odd, then he truly must be.

Now, finishing his meal and placing his knife and fork neatly together on his plate, her father said, ‘Hope's been invited to a party this afternoon, Peter. At the Redmans', no less, and at such an odd time. I can't decide if this Redman girl is rather too old for a tea-party or much too young for a cocktail party – seems a bit rum to me.'

‘It's just a party.' Hope glared at him, wanting him to see from her expression that he shouldn't say anything more.

He only grinned and went on, ‘Anyway, Hope is rather nervous – you know, over whom to curtsey to, all that . . .'

Peter smiled at her – an ordinary, kindly smile. Ever since she could remember he had sympathised with her over her father's relentless teasing. Instinctively, out of long habit, she found herself smiling back. Angry with herself for this lapse, she looked down at her half-finished meal and pushed her plate away.

Peter said, ‘I daresay the Redmans will be very kind, Hope. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time.'

‘Of course she will!' Her father sounded exasperated. ‘My God –
I
would like to go! You'd like to go too, wouldn't you, boys? Have a good old snoop around? They have a tennis court in their garden, isn't that the bees' knees?'

The twins said together, ‘Can we come, Hope? Can we – please? We'll be good.'

Peter laughed. ‘You haven't been invited, only Hope. How would it have looked if Cinderella had taken two little rascals like you to the ball, eh? It wouldn't have done at all.'

‘She isn't going to a ball and she's not Cinderella!'

Peter glanced at her then turned to the boys again. ‘It's not a children's party, boys. We'll have a party of our own here.'

‘I rather hoped you'd give Hope a lift to the Redmans', Peter.'

Peter looked at her, questioningly. ‘Is that all right, Hope?'

Her father shook his head. ‘What'd you mean? Of course it's all right. Hope doesn't care who takes her, do you, Hope?'

Feebly, knowing she would be over-ruled, she said, ‘I could walk.'

‘Nonsense. You'll want your posh new friends to see you getting out of a car, not arriving all flushed and sweaty. Peter will take you, he doesn't mind. You'll pick her up too, won't you, Pete?'

Peter nodded, glancing at her as if to gauge her reaction.

Satisfied that he wouldn't have to be saddled with the tedious business of walking her home from the party, Jack said cheerfully, ‘Right, let's get this table cleared. There's apple pie and custard waiting!'

They lived in a semi-detached house, brand new when her father had bought it the year the boys were born. Her mother had liked its clean modern fireplaces, its kitchen with its many fitted cupboards, its bright, white, tiled bathroom. There was a lounge and a dining room, and of the three bedrooms, one – the smallest – would be hers to do just as she liked with. This is what her mother had told her, crouching in front of her awkwardly, big with the twins: ‘You'll have the cosiest, most lovely little room all to yourself.' But unlike the room she had shared with her parents in her grandmother's house, this new room had space only for her bed and a wardrobe. There was nowhere for her dolls' house or rocking horse, nowhere for her baby dolls and their pram. All of these toys had once belonged to her mother and were now hers, her grandparents having lovingly kept their only child's possessions. Hope remembered sitting on her bed in her new little box of a room and thinking how rotten it was that she should have the baby room. But the doctor had already discovered the second heartbeat in her mother's tummy – she was to have two new brothers or sisters, and wasn't that twice as much fun, twice as exciting? So, of course, she was to have this little room so the babies could have the space they needed. It was rotten, but she conceded that it wasn't unfair. She had always been, as her father kept reminding everyone, including her, sensible.

Her bedroom remained unchanged since that day, still papered with the same, pink rosebud-covered paper her mother had helped her to choose, the matching curtains still hanging at the window that looked out over the street. Standing at the window, Hope could hear her father and Peter talking in the lounge below; she heard her father laugh, heard Peter's soft, smiling voice say something in return, unable to make out words, only tone. She had to admit that Peter had a nice voice, quiet – too quiet sometimes because he could never control the classes he taught. She remembered her discomfort when the girls in her class took advantage of him, his weakness – his
oddness
as she had come to see it. Sitting in that art class, as her friends talked and laughed and ignored his efforts to teach them, she had found her embarrassment turning to anger. He should simply behave like all their other teachers and be firm, as strict as the art mistress who eventually took over from him and wrote such critical reports about her inability to sketch.

Her father had told her once, ‘Uncle Peter has had a lot to put up with in his life.'

She had thought he meant Peter's father, a terrifying old man who would sometimes grab her hand and pull her to him, forcing her to sit on his knee and holding her too tightly, his heavy hand hot on her thigh. The old man had difficulty breathing. She remembered how wet his laboured breath seemed, how it smelled of the peppermints he sucked constantly – sweets he would offer to her, smiling his sly smile. His wheezing was terrible, like that of one of the monstrous creatures Peter drew for his handsome princes to slay. This man would be a lot to put up with, she thought. She had thought then, when she was younger and Peter was still
uncle
, that he didn't deserve such a father.

Lately though, her father had begun to tell her a little about his war and, from his incidental comments about Peter's war, she had learned that the
lot
Peter had had to put up with also included being held prisoner by the Japanese. ‘I can't imagine what he must have suffered,' her father had said in a rare reflective moment of serious sympathy. She remembered feeling hardly any sympathy for Peter at all, only pleasure that her father had finally begun to talk to her as an adult. After all, he had always treated her as an adult, ever since her mother's death.

Hope went to her wardrobe and, opening its mirrored door, stared at her small selection of clothes. The dress she had thought she might wear to the party was pale yellow, with a sweetheart neckline, short puff sleeves and a cinched waist above a full skirt. She was afraid that it would make her look too young, not fit to be invited to an eighteenth birthday party. Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that if this dress did make her look like a child, then Peter would stop looking at her as though she was a grown-up. She let this thought go, not wanting to look like a little girl for whatever reason. She had decided as she'd washed the dishes after lunch that she would begin to treat Peter with a disdainful aloofness. If he wanted to behave badly, then so would she. The decision had steadied her; she felt less afraid of him now she had a planned response to those smiles of his.