The Good Father (4 page)

‘Ready?'

She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist as he entered her. Deep inside he stopped, drawing his head back a little to look at her. ‘Good?'

‘Yes.'

He grinned, but then his face became anonymous again, that of every man who had ever fucked. She closed her eyes, catching the dog-piss-and-rain stink of the wall as he reached his own climax. 

Chapter 3

It's very odd how empty and silent the house feels now. Even though in the last few months of his life he never left his bedroom, my father's presence made itself felt. I was always listening for the thump of his walking stick on the bedroom floor whenever he wanted me to attend to him, a noise that seemed to travel along the crack in the dining-room ceiling and threaten to bring down lumps of plaster. Much as I was used to this noise, it would almost always startle me, concentrating as I was on my work, lost in it, often, so that I'd managed almost to forget about him completely. Sometimes, not often, I would make him wait, but the thump-thump-thump would come again – and besides, I had been put on edge, unable to continue. Best if I went to him immediately; he would be calmer then and less inclined to be a swine.

I was meant to excuse his foul temper, his insults, because he was dying and in pain. But he had been foul and insulting to me all my life, and although I cared for him as best I could, I never felt the pity that most people would have felt. I suppose I never really believed in his pain either, because he seemed so unchanged by it, remaining the nasty, spiteful man he had always been. Only sometimes, when I washed him, or later when I had to move him often to prevent sores, would I see the pain manifest itself in his expression. He would never betray his agony to me in any other way, never tell me that I hurt him, not directly. He would just shout out how clumsy I was, a bloody clumsy half-wit. I tried to be as gentle as I could; I tried to keep him quiet.

Sometimes, when he was in a more reflective mood, he would tell me how much like my mother I was: useless and ungrateful. ‘That slut,' he would say, ‘that flighty piece – she cared for nothing and no one, interested only in her fancy men, her own pleasure.' His lip would curl then and his nostrils flare as if he could still smell her scent on his sheets. He always used the same stock words about her, the same stock phrases. From these words and phrases I've gathered that she was blonde and very young, and that she left shortly after I was born with a man I know only as That Bastard. There are no photographs of her that I have ever seen; I'm pretty certain there are none in existence. I imagine that she was a bottle-blonde, that she laughed a lot and wasn't afraid of my father. So not like me at all, then.

There was a time in my childhood when I thought about her a lot, even imagined that she would soon come back for me. But even then I knew I was only making up stories for myself, like the story I invented where a wealthy-looking, handsome man helped her into a fast, fancy car. The man was That Bastard, of course, and he was about to whisk her away.

I wanted my mother to be film-star bright and daring when I was a young child. Later, I didn't want her to be anything at all. She had left me and wasn't worth thinking about. I remember feeling sullen when I decided it would be best to forget about her, as though I was stubbornly refusing to apologise for something bad that I'd done, knowing that it would weigh on my conscience. But that feeling didn't last. I'd started at ThorpGrammar School by then and it took all my concentration, all my energy, just to pretend to be normal enough to fit in.

This morning, I worked in the garden. After all the quiet respectfulness of the last week, I felt that I needed to do some hard work in the fresh air, work that would make me ache with weariness so that I looked forward to going to bed rather than dreading the sleepless night ahead. I dug out the old roses that had grown so leggy and spotted with mildew; I made a bonfire of last year's leaves and thought I could toss into the flames some of the rubbish that had accumulated in the house – the old bills and bank statements and such that my father refused to throw away. As I watched the smoke drift into the sky, I heard my name being called, and turned to see Jack, Martin and Stephen. The boys ran to me, almost knocking me off my feet. Jack said, ‘Oh, steady you two,' as though he was terribly exasperated with them both. I looked past him, wanting to see Hope following him into the garden, but they were alone and I made myself smile through my disappointment.

Martin said, ‘Can we go and play in the tree-house, Uncle Peter?'

They didn't wait for my answer, but ran off towards the oak tree with its trailing rope ladder. Jack gazed after them. After a little while he said, ‘Monkeys. It's just like living with a pair of tireless monkeys.' He turned to me. ‘Listen – I'm so sorry about yesterday, terribly sorry –'

‘It's all right. You explained on the phone, there's no need to apologise.'

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders a little as he does when he feels awkward. Watching the bonfire spark and smoke, he said, ‘I suppose letting one's friends down is just another consequence of being a damn wage-slave.'

The boys came down from the tree-house having found the pop guns, holsters and cowboy hats I'd left there for them, and began to chase each other around the lawn making shooting noises. Jack turned his attention on them, frowning. ‘I don't remember being so noisy when I was their age. But then I suppose there was only one of me.'

I laughed, patting his shoulder because he looked so weary. ‘Come on in. I'll make you a cup of tea.'

*          *          *

In the kitchen, as I busied myself making tea, Jack stood at the window and watched the boys run around the bonfire. I have known Jack Jackson since we sat next to each other on our first day at Thorp Grammar, listening to our new form master telling us how we were to behave. The form master – Mr Jeavons – had a wooden leg with which he would threaten to bash our stupid heads in; he was a veteran of the First War and scary as a devil. He knew my father – they had the war in common; he made me believe that all the men who returned from the trenches were vicious, that the fearfulness of it all had knocked out any kindly feelings they might once have had. Jack sat beside me as Jeavons ranted, as rigid with terror as I was, only smaller and weedier-looking. Jeavons singled Jack out because of this weediness; I was singled out just for being me. Thus a bond was created between us.

Jack turned to me. He said, ‘So, he's dead. Odd, really – somehow he gave the impression that he'd see us all off.'

My father liked Jack – as much as he liked anyone. He used to ask him why he was friends with a fool like me. Now, Jack glanced up at the ceiling, as though my father really was still alive, aiming at immortality, about to start his banging. Looking at me, he said, ‘You look a bit knackered, if you don't mind me saying so.'

‘I'm fine.'

I wanted to mention that Hope came to the funeral, to ask him if he had sent her, his envoy, but I'm almost certain he didn't. I thought of her again in the church, how she looked so concerned and yet timid all at once. As casually as I could I asked, ‘Where's Hope today?'

He didn't hear me, as he was back at the window, scowling at some antic of the boys. He rapped on the glass. Turning to me again he said, ‘How would you like to adopt two six-year-old boys? I'm sure they'd much rather live here with you – you're the one who builds tree-houses, after all.'

He sat down at the table and I poured him a cup of tea. Taking out his cigarettes he lit one, impatiently thrusting the case and lighter back into his pocket and exhaling smoke down his nose. Just as impatiently he said, ‘I'm not sure what to say to you, Peter.'

‘You don't have to say anything.'

‘I know. It's just that I remember how it was when my old man died.' He rolled his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray. ‘To say it was bloody awful – well, that's understating it.'

I wanted to laugh, to say, But you loved your father, Jack! Your father loved you! I'd expected him, of all people, not to behave like everyone else. Yet it seemed that this man, who knew more about grief than anyone, still wanted me to make a show of my grieving, still susceptible to these lies the bereaved have to tell. Bitterly, because sometimes I am jealous of him, I said, ‘I don't feel awful, Jack, only relieved.'

‘I felt numb at first, too.'

‘I'm not numb
.
'

He looked at me, baffled as though he hadn't understood. Perhaps he hadn't; people who loved their parents speak a different language from those of us who didn't. At last he said, ‘Anyway, I know what it's like and if there's anything I can do . . .' He smiled awkwardly. ‘There. Enough said.'

Clearly he thought he had embarrassed me and went back to the window to watch his sons. I watched them too, thinking of the imps and sprites I'd drawn early that morning, sharp-faced creatures climbing through tangled ivy leaves and thorns, shaking down blossom to fall at the feet of the princess lost in the dark woods. I realised that I had put too much malicious glee in their expressions, but of course, they wanted the princess to be terrified: her fear was entertainment, a spectacle. I had been right to draw them as I did; it's only when I'm away from my work that the doubts begin.

Jack said, ‘Do you know that it's been almost five years since Carol died? It doesn't seem that long and yet sometimes . . . Well, sometimes it seems a lifetime ago. At least no one can accuse me of rushing into the arms of another woman.' Looking down at his cigarette, suddenly he ground it out as though it sickened him. Sharply he said, ‘I went out with Val again last night.' He glanced up at me, only to look away again. ‘I'm never sure what to make of her.'

‘Does she know what to make of you?'

He frowned at me with that same, puzzled expression that I realised he has been using rather a lot on me lately. All at once I had the feeling that our friendship was slipping, that I could lose him if I didn't try harder to be more like the other men he knew and less like an eccentric relic from his childhood. Quickly I said, ‘Did that sound glib? I'm sorry.'

It was as if I hadn't spoken. He said, ‘Carol would have wanted me to be happy, wouldn't she? Not mourning her for ever. But I still feel disloyal! And Val, well – she's been around the block, I know. Sometimes I get the feeling she thinks I'm incredibly dull.'

‘I'm sure she doesn't.'

‘Sure?' He shook his head dismissively. ‘Well, you weren't there.'

No, I wasn't there, and so my opinion was worthless. And I'm sure he believed that it would have been worthless even if I
had
been there, knowing as I do so little about women, about anything very much of the real, manly world in which he strides about. There, I'm bitter and I'm jealous. These low feelings must have shown on my face because he said, ‘Oh listen, I'm sorry – going on like this when you've just buried your father.'

I laughed, imagining my father not dead but only buried – thumping on the lid of his coffin for me to come and dig him up again. My laughter must have sounded deranged because Jack gazed at me with such a look of pity that for the first time in my life I was angry with him. I couldn't sit there enduring his wrong-headed concern any longer. I got up and went out into the garden. The twins ran to me, grasping my hands.

‘Come and see what we've found, Uncle Peter. Come on!'

I was tugged along, a boy holding each hand, their fingers warm and damp with sweat, soft, dirty little hands I had held so often before without ever feeling as I did then, suddenly and forcefully, a sense of furtiveness. Since their birth I have always been intimate with these children; I know the bony feel of them, their scent, and their salty, sharp taste when I kissed them. I have held them both on my knee and thought nothing of our easiness together. But now I wanted to pull my hands away from theirs and I would have, only I knew Jack was watching me. More than that, I had the idea that he was assessing my behaviour. I would have to act as I always had, the loving uncle, not the oddity I felt myself to be.

The boys led me behind the garden shed where three headless mice were lying in a neat row, their tails artfully arranged so that they appeared tied together. Next to these pathetic little corpses was a dead blackbird, intact, glossy still, its bright yellow beak the last vivid colour left in this gruesome little world. Still holding my hands, the boys looked up at me, grinning.

‘We've been finding as many dead things as we can.'

Behind us Jack said, ‘For goodness sake, you two!'

Martin and Stephen turned to him. Proudly Martin said, ‘It's our cemetery, Daddy.'

‘Go and wait for me in the front garden.' Making an effort to control the anger in his voice, he looked at me. ‘I'm sorry –'

‘It's all right.'

‘No, it's not.' He turned to the boys again. ‘Didn't I just tell you to leave us? Go on, quick about it.'

‘We want to stay with Uncle Peter!'

‘Well, you can't. You've done a horrible, disgusting thing and you're to go home.'

‘Jack, it's all right, it's nothing.'

He stared down at the dead creatures, his lip curling in disgust. Martin made to speak and his father shouted, ‘Get out of my sight, both of you!' His voice was so loud that the boys' faces paled. They stepped back from him, stumbling a little before turning to run across the garden and along the path leading to the front of the house. Jack watched them, anger setting his mouth into a thin hard line. When the boys were out of sight he said stiffly, ‘I'm sorry, Peter, I shouldn't have brought them here.'

‘Of course you should have.' I attempted to laugh. ‘You're always welcome, all of you.'

He glanced down at the dead mice. ‘I'll have to scrub their hands when we get home – God knows what diseases these vermin carry. Christ, they're disgusting. Were we ever as vile?'

‘It's just a few dead mice, Jack, and they're just boys being boys. Don't be hard on them, not for my sake.'

Prodding the blackbird's corpse with the toe of his shoe he said, ‘A cat must have killed them – some well-fed cat killing for the sake of it. I'll get rid of them for you. Do you have a shovel?'