The White Family (32 page)

‘I’ve been meaning to say, I’ve been enjoying your clippings. I read every one of them. Every word. I’m proud of you, lad. Very proud of you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I sit down and read them, one by one –’

‘I appreciate it, Dad. I really do.’

(He was smiling too much. That was television. They always ended up smiling too much.) ‘– But recently, they seem a bit different. Not all of them. Some of them.’

‘Different good?’

‘Well I don’t know. You’re top of the tree, goes without saying. But it’s like, you’re being more – sarcastic. Not saying what you think. Making jokes of things, like. I liked the pieces where you gave them hell. Laid down the law about right and wrong.’

Alfred saw at once that Darren wasn’t happy. He wished he hadn’t said a word, because he wasn’t an expert, he knew he wasn’t.

‘Journalists don’t lay down the law,’ said Darren. He looked as though he could smell a bad smell.

‘You used to, though. You gave them what for.’

There was a funny pause. Darren was biting his nails. Childish habit, biting your nails.

‘You don’t want to bite your nails, Darren.’

‘
I’m forty years old!
’ He exploded at his father. ‘
How dare you tell me not to bite my nails!
’

It gave Alfred a shock. A horrible shock. His son had never shouted at him. Not since Darren was a little boy. Or quite a big boy. Alfred sorted him out. Kept him in his place, as fathers must. Alfred tried to laugh. Make a joke of it. ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ Alfred said. ‘Just thinking of your television shows. You have to look your best. Don’t you, son?’

Something funny was happening. Darren’s face was very red. ‘How dare you tell me about my writing? Who the hell cares what you think, anyway? What business is it of yours, what I write?’

‘Darren, boy – Darren, lad –’ Alfred made an attempt to pat his arm, but Darren was waving both arms about. His voice was rising. And a nurse was looking, paused in mid-step, you could see she was worried.

‘It’s you who always laid down the law. You were the one who thought you were God. If I did write like that, it was your bloody fault –’

‘But I liked your writing! I’m praising it! I always said, “Darren’ll be a writer!” – Mind you, I thought it would be books.’ At the mention of
books
Darren clenched his fists, it was like the paddies he had when he was little, and Alfred added, hurriedly, ‘But newspapers are very good as well.’

He was doing his best to calm things down. But Darren had forgotten where they were, it was as if he’d forgotten how old he was and slipped back in time to his teenage days (which weren’t very easy, now Alfred thought about it. He was a difficult boy. Too full of himself. Had to dress him down for his own good.)

‘Nothing I did was ever good enough. You always criticized. You never let up
– If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly
. I hear those bloody words in my sleep –’

‘No need to swear. In front of ladies.’ For Pamela was listening. And the nurse. Alfred never saw the need for bad language. ‘It’s done you no harm. You’re rich – you’re famous –’ Alfred tried to find something kind to say. ‘George Millington came round after you lot left. He was saying how everyone’s heard of you. Not as my son. As …
a household name
. That was the actual phrase he used. Me and your mother are proud of you.’

‘
Who the hell cares about George Fucking Millington
?’

It wasn’t working. Darren was getting worse. His voice was going up, he was practically squeaking, it sounded as if his voice hadn’t broken, and Alfred suddenly remembered Darren’s temper, how he couldn’t control it, and Alfred had to hit him –

Had to. Had to. What was I to do? He was a big lad. How can you control them? And Alfred had a temper of his own, as well.

‘I don’t write for the Millingtons. I don’t write for you. You tried to run everything. You wrecked my life.’

It came bursting out. Was he almost crying? It gave Alfred a shock, to see him like that. He felt his whole insides turning over. And he’d had enough shocks already that day. I wrecked his life … What on earth does he mean? It was cruel, saying that. Alfred loved his son.

(How can he attack me, when I’m so ill?)

‘I’m not very well,’ Alfred reminded him. ‘I shouldn’t have upset you. I spoke out of turn. I don’t really know a great deal about writing.’

‘Never mind upset me. You
terrorized
me. You terrorized all of us. Have you forgotten?’

Why couldn’t he leave it? Dragging things up. Raking over things that were best forgotten – Does he think I enjoyed it, being a father, being the one who had to keep them in order?

‘Do you know that Dirk is practically a fascist? And do you know where he got it from?’

‘That’s bloomin’ stupid. Are you calling me a fascist? I lived through a bloomin’ war against the fascists –’

Then Alfred remembered losing control. He remembered hitting Darren as he lay on the ground, he had just called his father a ‘little Hitler’, he didn’t know what he was saying, of course, but Alfred couldn’t listen to something like that, we spent so many years hating Hitler, and then my own son –

My own dear son
. For he was crying, now Alfred saw it clearly, dreadful to see the tears running down, what would they think, the watching women – he hauled himself up, using all his strength, stretched out his hand and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Darren, my duck. Darren, Darren –’

So all his efforts had led to this.

He’d got things wrong, then. Done it wrong. He’d done his best, but got it wrong –

I never meant to. Does anyone
?

‘Everything all right, Mr White?’ It was Staff Nurse Akalawu. Very pleasant. Though coloured. She seemed to be keeping a weather eye.

‘Darren here is a bit upset. If you could leave us alone for a minute …’

‘Just one minute, then I’m afraid he’ll have to go.’

Darren pulled himself together. He had snot on his nose. He looked like he used to when he was a boy.

So I wasn’t a good father. Perhaps it was true. Of course Dirk’s a bit odd, and Shirley’s had her problems, but Darren – I thought we’d got that part right.

Alfred bit his lip. How could you ever know? You just had to get on with it, there wasn’t a textbook, you did the things you thought fathers had to do. And May never criticized, May backed me up, if I was so wrong, you’d think she would have said – ‘Mum and I only wanted the best for you.’

‘My life is a mess. I hate my life.’

‘You’re upset, Darren. You’ll feel better in the morning. Go and get some air. Have a word with –’ What’s her name? How can I remember, if he keeps on marrying? ‘– your wife. She seemed a sensible girl.’

‘It’s nothing to do with my
fucking wife
.’

Darren stared at Alfred, furious, his jaw stuck forwards, his fists half-raised, but pulling his coat-sleeves over his hands, a peculiar gesture, trying to hide.

Alfred thought, I suppose he’s embarrassed himself. But his son was still angry. Would go away angry. Alfred couldn’t help feeling he was at fault.
He wants something from me, but I don’t know what
.

‘It isn’t any good my saying sorry.’ Alfred knew it wasn’t. He wasn’t one for sorrys. Best not to do things, if you’re going to feel sorry.

But Darren’s response was not what he expected. ‘Well you
could
say sorry. It would be something.’

There was a long pause. Alfred was annoyed. Had Darren thought about his illness, one bit? Making a scene. Demanding things. Wanting him to crawl, with so many people listening.

But then he remembered Darren’s tearful face, so like his face as a teenage boy. Those years had been awful, if Alfred was truthful.
For me as well. It was miserable. I never enjoyed it, being the dictator …

How Alfred had longed to get out of the house, away from Darren’s cheek, his sulks, his anger. He’d almost started to hate the kids. You couldn’t say a word without somebody rowing. There was never any time alone with May … And in the end, it was her who mattered.

I escaped to the Park whenever I could. And later I forgot. We got over it, didn’t we?

It seemed they hadn’t, after all.

‘I’m sorry, then … I am, Darren.’ Alfred didn’t find it easy. It caught in his throat. But he did mean it. Of course he was sorry. If he had faults, they should be pointed out. (But it wasn’t fair to talk about
fascist
.)

‘You’ve left it rather late to say it.’

They were Darren’s parting words, shot over his shoulder. He didn’t said goodbye, not properly, and his soles made an angry sound on the floor so he couldn’t hear Alfred trying to speak, he was old and hoarse, his voice didn’t carry – ‘But what can I do, lad? To make things right?’

So Alfred just lay there. All shook up. The doctors had told him he ought to keep calm.

He’d never get to sleep, if he thought about Darren …

Or Dirk and his friends. His queer new friends. With their leather jackets, and crewcuts, and chains.

Fascist
–

Nonsense. Put it out of your mind.

He had taken his pills, which were nothing, really, just tiny little things, but if they offered them, well … If May didn’t know, she wouldn’t worry.

And he was desperate for sleep, after Darren. He couldn’t bear to lie awake, thinking about what the lad had said, wondering if his brain would kick or jiggle or fit or whatever it was they called it. Wondering if he would have an
event
.

(It was a funny word. He had known great events, he had stood in the street on VE day after the news came over the wireless, his heart bursting with happiness, and watched all the people flooding out, they didn’t clock off, they just got their hats and ran into the streets to be together, out of the factories, out of the shops, all flushed, excited, with sparkly eyes … They looked so alike, to his recollection. Like one big family. It was glorious. The way his own family had never quite managed. Why did things never work out as planned?)

VE day, now, that was really an event. We were all together. All part of it.

But these new events were something quite different, something he couldn’t understand, something that happened behind his back, as if life went on, but he was left out.

Darren’s voice stabbed him as he tried to doze.
You wrecked my life
. Alfred winced and fretted.
You terrorized us
. The boy was upset.

Put it out of your mind.

But he couldn’t, just yet.

Chatting to Thomas had been very pleasant. A nice young man, a decent sort. Bit of a perpetual student, maybe, bit of a dreamer, but a good heart. Pity the wife had run out on him. That was women, though. They liked men to be men. If you were too soft, they would trample on you. (Not May, of course. His lovely wife. May was a very feminine woman. He was still in love with her, forty-odd years on.)

I hope we make it to our golden wedding.

It had been agreeable, talking to Thomas. For an hour or so, he had forgotten it, the thing the doctors had told him today, the thing that was waiting at the bottom of the bed, the thing that was lurking inside his head … I was feeling pretty chipper, talking to Thomas.

Then Darren barged in and lost his rag.

Please let me sleep.

I need to sleep.

I took the bloody pills, I deserve to sleep.

They clanked so much, the bloomin’ trolleys. And the swing-doors swinging and whooshing closed. And the low thunder of the air-conditioning, he’d never held with air-conditioning, or was it the heating, it was always too hot – It was never quiet, on the ward. And the voices of the nurses.
Sweet and low
. There had been a song once,
Sweet and low
, sweet and low when he was young … They were sometimes quite loud, to tell the truth, but he admired the nurses. Always patient. Always smiling. Even the coloured ones. Lots of them were coloured. That gave him a surprise, to see so many brown faces. But he had to be fair. They were as good as the white. Not that he’d tell the white girls that, he wouldn’t dream of hurting their feelings … They were all good girls. A decent lot.

It was just that at night, he didn’t want strangers.

His own bed, his own dear wife.

His eyes wandered restlessly across his blankets. That statue thing that Shirley had given him. A great disappointment, once unwrapped, which he’d finally done when they all went away. It looked marvellous in its packing. Shining, gleaming. A bottle of really special spirits, he’d guessed. Very nice at Christmas, or on his birthday. Cherry brandy, maybe, to which May was partial. It would glow like wealth on the front-room sideboard. But when he got the paper off, he saw the little figure.

Ugly little bugger, to his eyes, at least. What did she want to buy a thing like that for? A nonsense, really. Expensive rubbish. There never was a John Bull, that he knew of.

And I know my history. Most of it.

‘Land of Hope and Glory.’ Stuff and nonsense. We had it once. Hope, and glory. Now the British Empire doesn’t exist. I never thought that day would come. In my own lifetime, the end of the empire.

He reached out fretfully to push the thing away, but his arm was tired, his hand was heavy. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see it. Just go to sleep and leave it be …

Then he jerked awake, and it was looking at him. False little smile, like a wicked little demon, a devil that had got inside his bed. Or inside his head. He had to get it out. He gathered his strength and lunged out towards it, to turn it round so he couldn’t see its face, but without his glasses in the dim light he caught it clumsily, it spun on its side, tottered, nearly fell, and he tried to steady it but only succeeded in pulling it towards him – it fell against the metal bedstead and then on the floor, with a sickening crash.

He thought of the woman next door’s bare feet. Wandering around in the middle of the night.

Guilty, ashamed, he rang his bell, and the nurse came at once, tall, leaning forward as if she had lived her life in a hurry, a young coloured nurse who had bathed him this morning, though he’d told her he could manage alone –