Death be Not Proud (12 page)

“Well, well, so there you are, my dear. I do love a good story.”

Dad stood up, pulling his still-buttoned tweed jacket down at the back, ready to go. Mrs Seaton seemed reluctant to let us leave. She put her bird-like hand on my arm and leaned conspiratorially close to me while looking sideways up at my father.

“My dear, did I mention that your father was a bit of a rascal in his day?”

I shook my head automatically, still embroiled in the story just recounted.

My father blustered. “I really don't think Emma needs to hear about that…” but Mrs Seaton cheeped on.

“Don't be taken in by his veneer of respectability,” she twinkled at me. “He cut quite a dashing figure, you know, quite the ladies' man. Before he met your mother at one of our tennis parties – did you know we had the most
splendid
grass courts back then? Tennis and Pimms… I swear the summers were longer then… Anyway, before he met your mother, there was Susan Forde…”

“
Aunt
Susan?” I turned to stare at him. It was one of those strange facts that comes as a shock when you realize that your parents had a life – a sex life – before you were born. “You said that Grandma and Nanna used to come here, Dad; you didn't say
you
did.”

“Good heavens, your father was a frequent visitor and Susan was definitely not your
aunt
, my dear. She thought – and we all had the same impression – that there would be an
engagement before the year was out, but then we had that fabulous tennis party – you remember, Hugh, don't you? The one where Teddy broke his elbow…”

“… And Penny had to take his place in the doubles. Yes, of course I remember; how could I forget? She had a magnificent backhand.” His face softened.

“You jilted Aunt Susan? How could you, Dad? That was a rotten thing to do!”

He missed the intended jibe and grumped, but Mrs Seaton caught it and we both burst out laughing at the look on his face.

“I think it's probably time we were making a move, Joan; we've imposed on you quite long enough.” He tried to maintain his dignity but failed miserably, succeeding in looking awkward instead.

“Never mind, Hugh,” Mrs Seaton said, chortling at his discomfort. “Your secret's safe with me. Don't take yourself so seriously. Ah, but I haven't had a good laugh like that for a long while; you've been quite a tonic – the pair of you. And as for you…” she said, taking me by the arm and looking directly at me, “… there's nothing wrong with
you
that a good doctor can't fix.”

It was my turn to colour horribly, and I didn't know where to look – certainly not at my father, who made his displeasure perfectly clear.

She walked us slowly, reluctantly, to the gnarled front door, which had seen so much history that I wanted to absorb it through my living skin; instead, I let my fingers trail along its surface as the cold air greeted us.

“I do hope that we will meet again, but at my age, my dear, that might be asking too much. Life is always too short for all the things we hoped to do but never quite got around to doing.
Well, there you are; do remember me to your grandmother and mother, won't you?”

I assured her that I would, and we left her looking suddenly frail and shrunken on the doorstep of her world.

The tension in the car on the way back home became palpable as my father sank into a brooding, tight-lipped silence. I ignored it for as long as I could, but my hopes were futile, and the simmering suspense boiled into a familiar rant, starting with an accusation.

“I thought you said you were researching for your college work – not anything to do with that… doctor.”

I stared out of the windscreen, watching the white lines in the centre of the road whip before me, waiting for the rest of it.

“You lied to me, Emma. Don't think that I'm taken in by what you told Joan Seaton. I know you think there's some connection between
him
and this Lynes family Joan spoke about. What I want to know is why you find it necessary to lie about it – why you have to deceive us.”

That hurt and I bit my lip, fighting the urge to snap back. He was right, of course; I had lied about why I wanted to go to Oakham and Martinsthorpe, but the obfuscation went far further than that, far back into my childhood, and I didn't want to get drawn into a fight with him. He continued talking, using that “I'm being the responsible parent” tone he always adopted when he lectured me.

“There's a lack of trust here, Emma – a fundamental lack of trust. If your mother and I can't believe you over something as simple as this…”

I tried not to let my voice wobble. “Don't bring Mum into it; this is between you and me.”

“Trust,” he continued regardless. “A question of duty and trust. You were not completely honest about this boy, were you?”

Anger, uncontrollable and hot, welled up in me and I clutched at the edge of the car seat, on the brink of combustion. My broken arm ached from the pressure.

“Matthew – his name's Matthew – not
him
, not
that doctor
, not
boy
. Matthew – use his name.”

He grunted. “
Matthew
– if you insist.” He twisted his name into something ugly. That did it.

“Yes, I bloody well
do
insist!”

“There's no need to swear…” He swerved to miss a rabbit at the edge of the road. I ground my teeth together, feeling the edges grate painfully.

“This Matthew – you lied to us about him.”

“No – I didn't tell you the whole truth – there's a difference.”

“Not in my books…”

“Always
your
books,
your
rules. Have you never asked yourself why I find it necessary not to tell you everything that goes on in my life? Have you? I'll tell you, shall I? Do you remember what happened when I was stupid enough to tell you about Guy? I thought that I could trust you when I needed your help. I came to you and you let me down. You went behind my back and…”

“It was my duty as your father to protect you; the man took advantage of you.”

“But you didn't have to
hit
him – what century are you living in, for goodness' sake!”

“Being a father means making some difficult decisions on your behalf.”

“How could you make any decisions for me when you don't even know me? How
dare
you make assumptions about me based on… based on your antiquated notion of duty.”

My voice had risen until it filled the claustrophobic interior of the car.

“I'm driving, Emma.”

“Well, bloody well stop driving and
listen
.”

He didn't correct me this time and instead glared ahead at the road, taking a sharp right turn, crossing the trickle of oncoming traffic. He drew into a parking area above the reservoir, where a few other cars slumbered with their windows misted with condensation. He switched off the engine and released the catch on his seatbelt, pivoting cumbersomely in his seat.

“Now, what is all this about?”

I saw his closed expression, his mind made up before I could explain mine.

“Haven't you heard a word I've said? Or don't you
want
to listen? I don't tell you about my life because you have
never – been – part – of – it
.”

I emphasized each word, driving it home with all the venom of years of hurt that I could muster. His heavy face blanched, then flushed, then lost all colour again. I had hit home and I was merciless.

“When were you ever there for me when I needed you? When… when were you there to help me with my homework or to watch the Christmas play at school? I don't ever remember you just
being
there at all. My friends had fathers
who were at least visible. But you – the only times I saw you were when you had my school report in your hand. ‘Why did you only get a B, Emma?' ‘I expected you to do better than that, Emma.' ‘History isn't a proper career, Emma.' I was never good enough, Dad; I was always a
disappointment
.”

He didn't say anything, but I could tell that at last he was taking in everything I could fling at him.

“Do you know what Beth said to me the other day? She said she's jealous of me because she thinks you love me more than her because you paid me more attention; and all the while I was jealous of her, because at least she got to see you when she was young. Hah!” I spat. “We've wasted years being jealous of each other, and for
what
? The only time I felt truly loved – other than by Mum and Nanna – was by Grandpa…”

I remembered what Matthew had said about my father's perception of my grandfather's role in my life, but I strode roughshod and callous on ground brittle with years of battle, beyond caring.

“He loved me for who I am, not for what he could make me. He spent time with me, he taught me things – he
talked
to me. And he listened. Even when it must have been as boring as hell for him, he still listened. And he didn't judge me, or criticize me. He let me
breathe
, he let me
grow
. Do you understand?”

My father's voice came rough and low.

“I had to be a father to you; your grandfather didn't have that responsibility – he didn't have to discipline you. I didn't like it, but that's what a father has to do.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Dad, listen to yourself – while you pontificate about the duties of fatherhood, did you not think that one of them might be
loving
your children?”

Hurt flashed in his eyes. “I do love you, Emma – and your sister – of course I do…”

“When did you last tell us that you love us?” I challenged, not wanting to soften the attack, but sensing creeping compassion for a wounded animal nonetheless. I steeled myself, but he made it easy to resist giving in.

“Tell you? I shouldn't have to tell you, you should know.”

“How? By telepathy?” I shot at him. “When did you –
do
you – ever show us you love us? You haven't and you don't. I'll tell you why I don't tell you everything about my life – it's because I can't trust you to support me in the decisions I make, and part of loving me as a father is to
trust
me.”

“I don't want to see you get hurt.”

“You see? That's just my point; you don't trust me even to make my own mistakes. You smother me, Dad, you always have. You smother me with your expectations and your criticism and you just won't
let me go
.”

“But you can trust this… Matthew – is that it, Emma? You can trust this stranger whom you've known for a matter of weeks, more than your own family – than your own father.”

“With my
life
… I already have.”

He became angry now, all pretence of maintaining dignity lost beneath a welter of gall, his mouth distorted. I looked at him, suddenly aware; I saw him and I understood.

“You're
jealous
!” I said, stunned.

“Ridiculous,” he barked back.

I gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Matthew said you were jealous of my relationship with Grandpa, but it's not just that, is it? You're jealous of Matthew. You were jealous of Guy. Of course. Of course, of
course
…”

My father slumped back in his car seat like a deflated balloon, all fight gone. It all began to make sense. All the
years spent arguing, and neither of us had even begun to understand where the other was coming from.

When he spoke, it was almost to himself, and his voice shook.

“I should never have let the family be separated – it was a mistake – we should have stayed together, or I should have left the Army earlier. But we wanted you to have more stability than we had given Beth, and I was too driven to give up my career. My
career
.” His face skewed.

I had just heard him admit for the first time in my entire life that a decision he had made had been wrong.

“I didn't want you growing up thinking I didn't care. And you were always such a bright little girl. I tried to show an interest in what you were doing…” His voice broke, and he held his clenched fist to his mouth, biting on the knuckle. “I always found it difficult to be close to you, Emma – to show you how much I loved – love you. I still do.”

He sounded like a little boy – lost, alone, affectionless. The hurt that had driven my anger turned to pity.

“I know, Dad. I think I understand.”

We sat together as the car steamed up, both staring blindly as the sharp blue of the wind-rippled water below us disappeared behind the misting windscreen, lost in our own parallel worlds. I wondered when they had ever touched. It was well past teatime, and the setting sun ripened the western sky apricot.

“Dad, let's go home.”

He nodded mutely and turned the key in the ignition, letting the air from the engine warm and clear the windscreen before reversing the car across the rough surface of the car park. Now our wounds had been laid bare, what salve could we apply that wouldn't irritate them further? And would
time in itself prove to be the healer, or merely provide a scab that could be picked at whenever our tempers itched? I knew from my past that some wounds can only be healed from within, but only once all infection has been excised. I had cut Guy out of my life and allowed God into it, but if healing were to begin, first I had to remove my defences. The problem with that was that they had been built for a purpose. Sometimes, though – as Matthew had found to his cost – the enemy lies within.