The Good Father (16 page)

‘All right,' he said, aroused. ‘But let's go in quickly, before the neighbours see us.'

Hope had been afraid that the key wouldn't be beneath the flower pot and that they would have wasted their precious time in going to Peter's house only to have to return to the place she thought of as Guy's den. But the key was there, and it turned in the lock easily.

Inside, the house was cold, insulated from the sun's heat. When her eyes had adjusted to the sudden change from bright sunlight to what seemed like the semi-darkness of the kitchen, she saw that everything was as it always had been. There was the battered kettle on the stove, the tea towels folded neatly on the rail by the sink, the shelves with the rows of brightly coloured mugs and plates that Peter had kept especially for her and the twins when they came to visit. When she was younger, he would sometimes set the kitchen table as though for the Mad Hatter's tea party and an elaborate make-believe game would follow; at other times, all the many dolls and stuffed toys that Peter kept for them in a room upstairs would be brought down and they would have a teddy bears' picnic on the lawn. He would solemnly ask the bears and dolls how they took their tea, allowing them time to answer, talking back to them as if they had.

Lately she told herself that she had been embarrassed by these antics of his, that even as a little girl she had thought how silly and odd Peter was. But in her heart she knew that she had been captivated by him; she had believed he was a magician – that if anyone could make her doll Katie speak it would be Uncle Peter. She knew too that she had loved him more than anyone – even more than her own father, who never had time for such games and even if he had, would have somehow made them less fun. Standing in his kitchen that still smelled of those times, that was so full of her childhood, she told herself angrily that if she had loved him then, she didn't love him now. Peter was nothing but a dirty old man. He made her squirm when he looked at her.

She turned to Guy. Still angry, she said, ‘I'll give you the guided tour.'

He glanced back at the door. ‘Hope, we shouldn't. He's your father's friend, he trusted me.'

‘Trusted you? So you did talk about me!'

‘No!' Guy sighed, exasperated. ‘But he let us go off together, didn't he? Which is more than your father did. I think we should go back to your house – he'll still be at the park with your brothers.'

Although she knew he would stay with Val until late tonight, she said, ‘Jack might come home.'

‘Jack! Why do you call your father by his Christian name? Jack!' Guy shook his head and she could see he was becoming as angry as her. ‘Honestly, Hope – you don't have to be so bloody weird all the time.'

‘Weird?' She laughed harshly. ‘I'll show you weird.'

‘Will you now? How?' He was smiling infuriatingly, making fun of her.

Turning away from him, she walked out of the kitchen into the even darker hallway, not caring if he followed her or not.

He did follow her, after a moment's hesitation. He followed her upstairs and into the bedroom at the back of the house where Peter kept all the toys and games he had bought for them over the years. There was a Wendy house in one corner, a doll's crib beside it, and a rocking horse beneath the window that looked out over the garden. Piled on shelves in the fireplace alcoves were books and games and jigsaws, and the stuffed animals and bears that had so often sat on the lawn where the dolls' tea-set would be laid out in front of them. Katie, the blonde, curly-haired baby doll she had once adored, sat in a wicker chair, the skirt of her beautiful pink satin dress spread out around her, her arms sticking straight out in the stiff pose that had always made Hope want to pick her up, feeling guilty that she had left her alone in Peter's house. She remembered how she would make Peter promise to look after her and he would say that she could take Katie home if she wished. But her father wouldn't allow it. ‘She has enough stuff at home,' he would say. ‘More than enough.'

Guy went straight to the train-set on the table where a bed should have been. He exclaimed, all his irritation with her seemingly forgotten as he flicked a switch and the engine began to speed round the track. ‘I always wanted a set like this. Look – it has a station and everything. Even a little model guard – and passengers!'

She went to stand beside him. ‘He bought it when the twins were born.'

Guy glanced at her, beaming, happy as a little boy in a toy shop. ‘It's fantastic. He's taken so much care with it – everything to scale . . . '

She tossed her head and he frowned at her. ‘Come on, Hope, you must admit it's great. Well, maybe not to a girl.'

‘I didn't want to show you that.'

‘No?' He looked at her briefly, only to return his attention to the train-set, picking up one of the other engines and turning it over to look at the workings underneath.

‘Put that down and come over here.'

Above the fireplace was one of Peter's drawings.

Peter had presented her with the picture on her thirteenth birthday. He'd had a party for her, just her and the twins and Jack – she'd already had a party with her schoolfriends at home. After she had blown out the candles on the cake Peter had bought for her, he had brought out her present.

Laughing and groaning at the same time, her father had said, ‘Pete, you've already given her a present. You don't have to spend your money like this.'

‘I didn't spend any money.' Peter had smiled at her. ‘Open it. You can probably tell what it is, anyway.'

From the shape of it she knew that it was a picture, a boring present compared to the roller skates she had asked for and he had duly bought. Smiling so as not to hurt his feelings – she had still desperately cared about his feelings in those days – she had made a show of being excited as she tore off the cheap wrapping paper. There, in astonishing, colourful detail, was the prince from
Sleeping Beauty
, the story she most loved of all the fairytales he read to her.

In the picture, as if about to step from it, the prince led his white horse through dense, dark woods, his eyes watchful, afraid even. He wore a blue and gold brocade coat, a matching cap with a gaudy feather that shimmered in the single stream of sunlight breaking through the trees. The horse's mane had ivy leaves woven through it, each leaf finely veined. Its eyes were as wary as the prince's, its nostrils flared; it seemed to be picking its way carefully, as though the ground beneath its hooves was treacherous.

But you had to look carefully to see what the picture was really about. There, in the undergrowth almost out of sight, was a goblin-like creature, peeping from behind a tree trunk. The creature smirked from its hiding place, such a look of up-to-no-good on its ageless face. At first she hadn't noticed the goblin at all – she had eyes only for the handsome boy leading his horse so nervously – until her father pointed him out to her.

Hope had come to believe that Peter had meant the goblin to be a surprise, that he hadn't wanted her to see it that first time, had wanted her to believe that the creature had crept into the picture when her back was turned, that there was still magic in the world even for a girl who worried so much about her father and brothers, about everything, in fact. Looking at the picture as she did often, her eye was drawn to that corner where he lurked, where the mischief was. Finally, she had asked Peter about the goblin, curious because there were no such creatures in
Sleeping Beauty
.

‘I didn't draw any goblin,' he protested.

‘I know you did!'

He'd smiled. Then, more serious than he ever normally was when they were alone together, he said, ‘I suppose he's there to remind you to be careful.'

Standing beside her in front of the picture, Guy said, ‘Is this what I'm supposed to be looking at?'

‘He drew it.'

‘Who?' Stepping closer to the picture, Guy peered at it. ‘Peter Wright.' He touched the signature in the bottom left-hand corner. ‘Peter who lives here?'

‘Yes.'

He whistled through his teeth. ‘It's good, isn't it?' Still peering at it, he smiled and she knew he had caught sight of the goblin. ‘What's this? It looks like a devil climbing out of hell. I suppose if he thought of putting something as scary as that in a kid's picture, maybe he is a bit weird.'

Looking at the picture, Hope said, ‘It's meant to be a warning.'

‘Of what?' Guy turned to her, ready to tease. ‘You know there are no such things as fairies, don't you? I think he might believe in them, though.'

‘I think it's a warning about boys . . . sex.'

He laughed. ‘Yeah? Well, you should have taken more notice of it, shouldn't you?' He turned away from the picture and looked around the room. ‘Why does he keep so many toys in his house?'

‘They're ours. We were always here. Dad could never be bothered with us.'

Guy sighed. Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her head. ‘Do you think all fathers are bastards, or just ours?'

Hope wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him closely so that he might go on holding her; there was a strength, a solidness about him that she couldn't get enough of. She thought of him leaving, abandoning her, and wanted to cry.

Softly he said, ‘Hope . . . ' He laughed brokenly, stepping back from her. ‘Hope, I don't know if I should say this . . . '

Alarmed, she said, ‘What? Say what?'

He gazed at her. Brushing a strand of her hair from her eyes, he said, ‘That I love you.'

She looked away from him, feeling her face flush.

‘Sorry,' he said immediately. ‘I'm really sorry.'

‘No, it's all right.'

He smacked his brow. ‘Damn! I've made things awkward now.'

‘No!' She touched his hand. ‘I think I love you, too.'

‘You think?' He smiled crookedly. ‘I suppose that will have to do, then.'

After a moment he turned to the drawing. ‘That bloody creature's watching us,' he said huskily. ‘Come on – you said you were going to give me the tour.'

Chapter 18

Harry walked in the park with Ava and Esther. Ava held Esther's hand, Ava's other hand holding onto his arm so that they took up the whole of the path leading to the bandstand and others had to walk around them. Some of the children, even some of the adults, turned to take a second look; they did appear to be odd, Harry supposed. Esther carried the rag dolls because Ava kept dropping them, causing Esther to appear almost as eerily childlike as his wife. And the way she held the dolls didn't help; she clutched them both to her breast, Danny's head lolling because the stuffing in his neck had drifted. Harry smiled at Esther after yet another ill-mannered child had turned to gawp.

‘Maybe Danny should see a doctor.'

Esther smiled shyly and touched the doll's black wool hair. ‘Maybe. Or maybe I'll just put a few stitches in him when Mrs Dunn has gone to bed.'

‘Perhaps I should buy a pram for them. Do you think Ava would like to push a pram?'

‘I don't know.' Her face became closed, as though she thought that actually this was a very bad idea, crass and insensitive. Because it was, of course. Harry sighed, wishing he hadn't volunteered to accompany them here. He hated parks; he hated the way people looked at Ava. He hated most of all the fact that he had nothing whatsoever to say to this timid girl who took such great care of his wife. But the sun was shining and he had no work to do and he had thought it might be pleasant to be out in the fresh air. He'd had an idea that he would start up a conversation with Esther, questioning her about her family, her childhood. Now, in the face of her stoic quietness, such questions seemed impertinent.

Then, her voice brighter than he had ever known it to be, Esther said, ‘Look, there's Guy!'

Sure enough, he saw his son walking towards the park's main gates, too far away to be hailed. He was hand-in-hand with a girl, a blonde who was almost the same height as him, her shapely figure emphasised in a tightly-belted, full-skirted dress. They reached the gates and disappeared from sight, and Esther turned to him, laughing a little to hide her obvious, surprising disappointment.

‘We won't catch them up.'

‘No.' Harry imagined that being caught up by them was the very last thing his son would want. He would have to explain this odd threesome to his girl. Wildly, Harry imagined only speaking German as he was introduced, forcing Guy to translate for the benefit of his friend. Esther, understanding every word, would be embarrassed, of course, but all the same it would be interesting to see Guy's reaction. At the very least it would teach him not to be so secretive about what went on in his life.

Turning to Esther he said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘That would be very nice, thank you.' Sotto voce, she added, ‘And I think Mrs Dunn needs to go to the toilet.'

He smiled bleakly, wondering why he should care that she said toilet instead of lavatory. Perhaps if he sat down and thought about it for long enough he wouldn't care at all; perhaps his snobbishness was all surface and knee-jerk.

‘Tea then,' he said, hating the teeth-grinding cheeriness in his voice. ‘Tea and cake, I think.'

The park's café was a bottle-green, half-timbered chalet looking out over the boating lake. There was a long counter the length of one wall with glass cases displaying slices of fruit cake and scones, and ham or cheese sandwiches made of very thin white bread cut corner to corner. A box of Blue Ribbon chocolate biscuits stood beside the tea urn that lent the place its peculiarly war-time smell, a smell of over-boiled water Harry associated with train stations and sturdy women in Red Cross armbands. Minus their armbands, the same breed of women manned the café's urn and were rushed and flustered because the sun had brought everyone out, everyone wanting tea and a sit-down at the same time. With no unoccupied tables, customers were carrying out trays of tea and sitting down on the grass verge surrounding the lake.

Joining the end of the queue that snaked outside the café's double doors, Harry smiled encouragingly at Esther and his wife. Quietly he said, ‘Esther, do you want to take Ava if you think she needs to go to the lavatory?'

‘Will you hold on to these?'

She thrust the two dolls at him. He and Esther were the only people allowed to touch them, but all the same he turned to Ava. ‘Is it all right if I take care of Danny and Martha?'

She gazed at him and he reached out to touch her cheek. ‘Go with Esther,' he said softly. ‘When you come back we'll have some tea.'

He watched Esther lead Ava towards the back of the crowded café, heard her repeated, shy
excuse me
. Her accent wasn't anywhere near as broad as some in Thorp, although she had been born and brought up in the town; in fact, it was quite difficult to assess where Esther came from by her voice, even which class she belonged to – which rather disconcerted the few people he knew who had met her. If he had taken the trouble to explain to them that both of her parents were Austrian Jews, he was sure that a look of smug knowingness would cross their faces, a look that came with the reassuring pleasure of having their snobberies left unchallenged.

Esther had been the answer to a prayer he hadn't prayed simply because it had never occurred to him that he could ever find a German-speaking woman who would be willing to do what was required. Preparing for Ava to come home from her last nursing home, he had set out only to find a kind, competent woman to be Ava's nursemaid – the most accurate job description he could come up with; even if he found the description demeaning, at least it was accurate.

He had advertised the position in
The Lady
magazine and of the few replies he received, none of the women he interviewed seemed to him to be right, being too old and either too timid or too domineering. Then one day Esther applied for the job of secretary in his office and during the interview he had asked about her Germanic surname. Nervous with hope, he had asked if she spoke her parents' language. Then he had told her about Ava, a little at least, as much as she needed to know. He told her that he would pay her three times the amount he was offering for the position of secretary, and that she would have free board and lodging – her own lovely room, the run of his large house, a beautiful garden she could sit in whenever she wanted to – everything he could think of to entice her. And it did feel as though he was enticing her, baiting his trap so she might be coaxed into leaving her beloved parents.

He knew that she loved them; they most certainly loved her. He knew because he had invited Esther and her parents to tea the following Sunday afternoon in order that they might meet him and see for themselves his impressive, well-managed home, the light and spacious room that might be their daughter's if she would only come and work for him. He thought it expedient not to mention Guy, who at any rate was away at school for most of the year, and tried to impress on this wary couple that Esther would be happy in his peaceful home, even though it was obvious that the job wasn't what they wanted for her. Her father had told him that Esther had been the best student in her year at secretarial college, the brightest of the bright girls. ‘And she speaks German, Mr Dunn,' her father said, ‘and French. She is not a maid, not at all.' Her mother, sitting on the edge of his sofa, her tea-cup and saucer rattling slightly in her hands, had managed to overcome her nervousness to ask, ‘How poorly
is
your wife, Mr Dunn?' Coming straight to the point was, Harry conceded, her duty as the girl's mother.

Finally though, it was Esther's decision. While he tried to convince her parents, she had taken Ava out into the garden and he had become distracted from explaining Ava's condition as he caught glimpses of Esther pointing out a robin to his wife. He heard her laugh, heard her say in German, ‘See – he's flown into that tree up there? Perhaps he'll come down again if we're quiet.' Harry stopped talking to watch surreptitiously for the bird, telling himself that if it flew down, Esther would stay. He held his breath. The robin landed in a flash of red a few yards from the two women.

The queue for tea shuffled forward and Harry became aware of two small boys staring up at him; he smiled at them awkwardly, never comfortable with children, hoping that this response would snap the pair out of their staring and they would go away. But they only smiled back at him in uncanny unison. One of them reached up and touched Danny's dangling leg.

‘Why have you got
two
rag dolls?'

The other boy said, ‘Are they twins? We're twins.'

Harry sighed. ‘Are you?'

‘Most people can tell.' Just as his brother had, he touched Danny's leg. ‘Can we see? They're very odd.'

‘Boys!'

Harry turned to see Peter Wright stand up and edge hastily through the packed café to reach him. Smiling apologetically, a hand on each of the boys' shoulders, Wright said, ‘Mr Dunn – hello. The boys were curious, I hope you don't mind. Martin, Stephen, this is Mr Dunn. He helped me when my father died.'

The boy called Martin looked up at Wright. ‘How did he help?'

‘He told me what I had to do with all the things my father owned.'

It was hard to tell whether the child was satisfied with his answer or merely utterly bored by it. The explanation seemed unnecessary to Harry; he had always believed that children should be ignored, on the whole. To him the boy said, ‘They are very ugly, your dolls. Why are you carrying them about?'

‘Martin, I don't think that's any of our business.' Wright glanced back at the table he had just vacated and saw that it had been taken. ‘Oh, I should have saved it for you. I'm sorry.'

‘It's all right, I was thinking of sitting outside.'

‘Well, it is a lovely day.' Wright smiled suddenly. ‘And they do very good teas here. Once again I can recommend the fruit cake, if you ever reach the front of the queue.'

Harry thought how much he seemed to have changed in the months since he'd last seen him, as though he had lost ten years. Because he wasn't quite as gaunt, Wright looked less like a scarecrow – even almost ordinary in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off his tanned, surprisingly muscular forearms. His hair was neatly cut, his trousers pressed, shoes polished. It struck Harry that no matter how much he tried to impersonate a run-of-the-mill ex-Army officer, he still looked like one of the angels ordered back to earth to check up on the struggling mortals. And the twin boys were his small apprentices, by the looks of it. Knowing that Wright had no brothers or sisters, Harry asked too jovially, ‘And who do these two boys belong to?'

Wright squeezed the children's shoulders as though claiming them. ‘They're my godsons.'

Esther returned from the ladies' lavatories, leading Ava by the hand. Flustered, not noticing Wright or the children, she said, ‘There was such a long queue and she wouldn't wait nicely – but now I'm not sure how long she can hold on . . . ' She glanced at Wright and her face flushed darkly. ‘Oh, I'm sorry.'

Harry smiled at her to try to lessen her embarrassment. ‘Mr Wright, this is Esther, my wife's companion. And this is my wife, Ava.'

‘How do you do, Mrs Dunn, Esther.'

One of the boys said loudly, ‘What's wrong with that lady, Uncle Peter?'

Wright took the boy's hand. ‘Perhaps Mrs Dunn is feeling unwell, Stephen.'

The boys began to giggle, hands over their mouths, and Harry saw Esther look down, horrified. Ava had urinated on the floor.

Holding their noses the boys said, ‘Phew! Look what's she's done! How stinky.'

‘Be quiet, boys.' Wright frowned at Harry sympathetically. ‘Why don't you take your wife outside, Mr Dunn? I'll let the staff know there's been an accident.'

Outside the café, in the bright, blinding sun, Harry thought how wonderful it would be if he could run away. Run and run to a place where no one knew him, where he couldn't be found. He would start again. There were other lives he could live, he was sure, other far less complicated lives, the kind that other men lived, with sweet, contented wives and untroubled children. He closed his eyes against the disorientating brightness, saw the dark spots on his eyelids explode and burn out. Esther went on apologising. Wearily he said, ‘It's not your fault Esther, please – don't say any more.'

The twin boys ran around; it seemed they found it impossible to stand still to wait for their godfather. Brats, Harry thought. He could never remember Guy behaving so badly. In his memory, Guy as a small child was always a model of good, quiet behaviour. He sighed, profoundly miserable, and tried to imagine how Wright could possibly be explaining the fact that a woman had pissed on the café's floor. But he had faith in him; he would know how to deal with such an event. Wasn't he an angel, after all? Harry smiled, despite himself. He turned his smile on Esther and said, ‘It will be all right. Everything is going to be all right.'

Just then, Wright came out of the café. He said, ‘There, no harm done. Listen, my house – my father's house – is just the other side of those gates. The car's parked in the garage. If you wish, we could all go there and I could drive Esther and Mrs Dunn home – if you wouldn't mind looking after the boys until I get back.'

Harry thought just how long and miserable the walk back to his own home would be, and how uncomfortable for Ava in her soaked skirt and underclothes. Gratefully he said, ‘That would be very kind of you.'

Wright smiled and touched his arm lightly. ‘Not at all.' To the boys he called, ‘Come on, you two. We're going to the old house. Run on ahead – you can be my reconnaissance party.'