The Doomed Oasis (2 page)

“Mr. Grant?” The woman was staring at me uncertainly.

I nodded. “Of Evans, Jones and Evans, solicitors. You telephoned me a little while back.”

“Yes, of course.” She held the door open for me, a small, neat-looking person of between forty and fifty with deep-set, shadowed eyes. Her hair was greying, swept straight back from the forehead, the face dead white against the dark background of the passage. “Will you come in, please?” She shut the door behind me. “Dafydd didn't want me to call you. But I thought you wouldn't mind, as your firm it is that handled that little allowance for me.”

It was the first I knew we acted for her in any way. I thought she'd phoned me because I'm willing in certain circumstances to take a case without a fee. “What's the trouble, Mrs. Thomas?” I asked her, for she was standing motionless as though unwilling to let me go further into the house.

She hesitated, and then almost in a whisper: “Well, it's Dafydd really, you see. He came back—and then … Oh dear, it's all so difficult to explain.” Now that she had shut the street door, I could see no more than the outline of her face, but her voice, trembling to a stop, told me she was having to fight to keep control of herself. She was frightened, too. “I don't know what he'll do,” she whispered. “And Sue not here. Sue could always manage him when I couldn't.”

“Sue is your daughter, is she?” I knew it would steady her if I asked questions.

“Yes, that's right. She works at the Infirmary, but I didn't phone her because she'd never get back here in time.”

“And David—that's your husband?”

“No, Dafydd's my son. He and Sue are twins. She understands him, somehow.”

“I see, and he's in some sort of trouble?”

“Yes.” And then she added hastily: “He's not a bad boy, not really.” She drew in her breath quickly as though gathering herself together. “If I hadn't written to him like I did, it wouldn't have happened. But I'd had about all I could stand, you see, and then he came home and there was a bit of a row and Mr. Thomas, he said things, you see, that he shouldn't have done, and suddenly they were hitting out at each other. It wasn't Dafydd's fault. He'd had a terrible shock, poor boy. And Mr. Thomas, he'd had a few beers, and then—” She sucked in her breath again as though gulping for air. “Well, then he had this stroke, you see, and I called Dr. Harvey right away and then I telephoned you because I knew it meant trouble for Dafydd.” It had all come out in a rush as though she couldn't contain it any longer. “My husband looked so bad, you see,” she added lamely, “and I didn't know what would happen. I just didn't know what to do, Mr. Grant—not for the best, as you might say. And then Dr. Harvey came and he said there wasn't much hope for him and he phoned the police, so it's glad I am that I called you now. You'll know what to do and what Dafydd should say to them. He's not a bad boy,” she repeated in a voice that was suddenly on the defensive. “Just a bit wild, you know.” And she added quickly: “Mr. Thomas hit me, you see.”

“There was, a family row, in other words?”

“Yes. Yes, you could call it that. But I wouldn't like you to think that because Mr. Thomas was a bit of a drinker there was anything wrong between us. He's good at heart, you know.”

“And he's had a stroke, you say?”

“Yes, that's right. That's what Dr. Harvey called it.” She seemed to have got a grip on herself. “Come in now, won't you, Mr. Grant? He's lying on the couch in the parlour. And Dafydd's there, too. I expect you'd like a word with him. But don't try and rush him, please,” she added in a whisper, and I got the impression she was afraid of her son. “He needs a bit of handling, you see. And he's had a shock, as I say—a dreadful shock.” She pushed open the door and stood back for me to enter. “This is Mr. Grant, Dafydd—Mr. Grant the lawyer.”

The room was lit from the ceiling, a stark, glaring light without compromise. It showed me a couch with the body of a man lying on it. He was in his shirt-sleeves, the brass gleam of a stud showing where his shirtband had been loosened. His eyes were closed and he was breathing with difficulty, his rather heavy, florid features fallen away so that the bone showed through the flesh. The nose had the veined look of a heavy drinker's. Close against the gas fire, one elbow on the mantelpiece, leaned a youth of about twenty. He was rather overdressed in a jacket with a lot of elaborate pockets and tucks and a pair of tight-fitting trousers. His face was as white as his mother's; the same features, too, except that the nose was more beaky, the jaw stronger. He didn't shift his position as I entered the room, didn't even look up. He was staring down at the gas fire and his immobility was oddly disconcerting.

Close by his feet was a litter of broken glass from the smashed front of one of those overpretentious china cupboards. The mahogany beading as well as the glass had been broken in the struggle, and the bric-a-brac with which the cabinet had been filled, mostly white china souvenirs from seaside towns, lay in confusion on the worn carpet. A vase, too, lay where it had fallen from the table by the window. It was unbroken, and beside it lay a much-thumbed photograph album spilling press-cuttings. There was something a little macabre about the whole room—nothing cleared up after the struggle, and the father lying there half dead on the couch with a blanket tucked round him, and the mother and son standing, facing each other, absolutely still.

I could feel the tension between them. It wasn't hate, but it was something just as strong, an emotion so violent that the man on the couch, myself, the state of the room didn't exist for them.

“Well, now.” I addressed the boy, my tone as matter-of-fact as I could make it in that sort of atmosphere. “Suppose you tell me what happened.” But it was like talking to a brick wall. He had a sullen, withdrawn look.

“I've told you what happened,” his mother said in a whisper.

“Quite so, Mrs. Thomas, but I'd like to hear it from your son.” She looked deathly tired. I turned to the boy again. “You've had a shock,” I said gently. “It's natural you should be a bit dazed by what's happened.…” But even as I said it I knew the boy wasn't dazed. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the mantelpiece were white with pressure and there was a muscle working at the back of the jaw. He was holding himself in like a boiler under pressure and I wasn't sure how best to handle him. His gaze had shifted now and he was staring at his mother. I felt sorry for the woman. “Listen to me, young man,” I said. “I understand Dr. Harvey has called the police. They'll be here any minute now. If you want me to act for you, then you'd better start talking now, before they arrive.”

A slight movement of the shoulder, that was all the answer he made. It wasn't a shrug, more a muscular twitch as though he was impatient for me to go.

“Mr. Grant is only trying to help, Dafydd.”

“
Dammo di!
What the hell good is a lawyer man now? It's done, and arguing about it won't alter anything.” His voice trembled. And then he turned on me, a flash of pale amber eyes, and told me to get out, the words violent, laced with obscenities.

“Dafydd!” But she was frightened; she had no control over him.

“All right,” I said, and I moved towards the desk, where I'd left my hat. “I hope for your sake,” I added, “that your father's condition isn't serious.”

“He's not my father.” The words flashed out from between clenched teeth. “I'd have killed him if he'd been my father.” I turned to find his pale eyes fixed on his mother. “I mean that, Ma. I swear I'll kill the swine—if I can ever find him.” The words had a violence and a bitterness that appalled me.

“He's not himself,” his mother murmured. “He doesn't know what he's saying.” Her hands were plucking at the apron round her middle, and her brown, doelike eyes were wide with fear. She knew he'd meant it.

“You'd better get control of yourself,” I said. “You've done enough damage for one day without threatening more and frightening your mother.”

But now the pressure inside him couldn't contain itself any more. “You get out of here.” He said it quietly, and because of that his words had force. “What's happened here is nothing to do with you or anyone else. It's between my mother and me.” He spoke through clenched teeth as though he were still trying to keep some control over what he was saying. And then suddenly he lashed out wildly, all control gone: “When you're suddenly told you're illegitimate, and your sister's illegitimate, too, you want to know a little more about it, don't you? You want to talk it over with your mother—ask her a few questions, find out who and what the hell you really are.”

He flung out an arm, pointing dramatically at the album on the floor. “See that? Uncle Charles's scrapbook. She subscribed to a press-cutting agency. Every story the newspapers published about him—it's all there, pasted in with loving care. My own mother clinging to the worn-out bed of an old love. Jesus Christ! It makes you want to weep. And me and Sue coming up the wrong side of the bloody blanket, and being fooled into calling that poor drunken sot Dada.” He stared at me balefully. “Eight years old I was when I first stole a peek at the contents of that book. A relation, that's what she said, an uncle of mine. Started me getting interested in Arabia, it did. I thought he was a bloody hero. Instead, he's just a low-down, dirty heel who left my mother flat. Well, what do you say to that, eh? You're a lawyer. Maybe you can tell me what I ought to do about it?” And he glared at me as though I were in some way responsible.

And then he suddenly moved, a quick step forward that brought him face to face with me. “Now you just get the hell out of here and let me talk to my mother alone, see?” His eyes had a wild look, the sort of look I'd only seen once before on a boy's face, but that had been in the midst of battle.

I'd known how to deal with it then. But this kid was different. It wasn't only that he looked tough; I had a feeling he
was
tough. Well, I'm not exactly soft, but I don't walk into things with my eyes open. But then I glanced at Mrs. Thomas, saw how scared she was of him, and after that there was nothing for it but to stand my ground, not knowing what exactly he'd do, for I could feel the tension building up inside of him again. He was like a spring coiled too tight.

And then the ring of the ambulance bell sounded down the street and the violence suddenly died out of him. The ambulance drew up outside the house and a moment later two hospital attendants came in with a stretcher.

The attention of the three of us was focused then on the man on the couch. He murmured as they shifted him, an inarticulate sound, and Mrs. Thomas, fussing over him now, spoke his name. The tone of her voice had a quality that is only possible between people who have shared their lives together, and it seemed to reach him, for his eyes flicked briefly open and he murmured her name: “Sarah.” It came quickly from his twisted lips, obscured by the effort of moving half-paralysed muscles. “Sarah—I'm sorry.” That was all. The eyes closed, the face became clay again, and they took him out.

Mrs. Thomas followed them, sobbing uncontrollably. The door swung to of its own accord and the room was still. “I shouldn't have hit him. It wasn't his fault.” The boy had turned away and his shoulders were moving. I realized suddenly that he was crying. “Oh, God!” he sobbed. “I should have known. If I'd any sense, I should have known.”

“You couldn't have known he'd have a stroke,” I told him.

He turned on me then. “You don't understand.” The tears were standing in his eyes. “He and I—we hated each other's guts. I can see why now. But at least he stood by us, poor sod.” And he added viciously: “He was a dam' sight better than my real father. If I can ever lay my hands on that bastard …” He checked there and gave an odd little laugh. “Bastard! That's funny, isn't it, me calling him a bastard.” He turned away then, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes. “I wish I hadn't hit him,” he said quietly.

“He'll be all right.”

“You think so?” But then he shook his head. “No, he's going to die. That's what the doctor said. He was the only father Sue and I ever knew,” he added, “and now I've killed him.”

“Don't talk nonsense. It's not as dramatic as that. He's had a stroke and anyway you're entitled to defend your mother when a man hits her.”

He looked at me. “Did she say that?” And then he laughed, a little wildly. And after a moment he said: “Yes, that's right—he hit her.” And he added: “Christ! What a bloody mess!” The door of the ambulance banged in the street outside and he turned to stare out of the window. The engine started and it drove off. As though its departure had started an entirely new train of thought, he swung round on me. “You're Whitaker's lawyer, aren't you?”

The name meant nothing to me, but then no doubt Mrs. Thomas's allowance had been arranged by Evans years ago and it would be handled by my clerk as a matter of routine. “Whitaker is the name of your father, is it—your natural father?”

“That's right. My
natural
father.” He spoke the word slowly, savouring it for the first time. And then he said: “I want his address.”

“Why?”

“Why the hell do you think?” He was back at the window again. “A bloke's got a right to know where his father lives, hasn't he?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I'm afraid I don't know his address.”

“That's a lie.” He came back to me, his eyes searching my face. “Well, you've got it on your files, haven't you? You could look it up.”

“If he's a client of mine, then I'm not at liberty to disclose—”

“Not even to his son?”

“No, not even to his son.” I hesitated. The boy's temper would cool and, after all, he'd a right to know where his father was. “If I've got his address,” I said, “then I'll write to him if you like and get his permission—”