Instant Father

Chapter Six

He was gone three days, and managed to fix up some short-term finance that would give him a breathing space, though it would also increase his debt. On the last evening he went to have dinner at the home of Brian Kendel, a business contact with whom he was vaguely friendly. He found his host and hostess a little flustered and behind with their preparations. “We started playing with the new toy and forgot the time,” Brian said self-consciously.

“New toy?” Gavin echoed politely. He had visions of an executive knickknack, all clicking beads and colored lights, such as were supposed to relieve stress in businessmen.

But his host produced a neat little camcorder. “It’s our second,” he explained. “We got the first one when Simon was born, three years ago. Now that we’ve got Joan, as well, we bought a new one. When the kids are grown-up we can rerun the tapes. It’s like snapshots, only better.”

He played a tape on the television, showing his baby son from the first day to his third birthday. Gavin watched with a fixed attention that was more than mere politeness and made his hosts think well of him. In fact he was merely thunderstruck by the realization of how much of Peter’s growing he’d missed, and the discovery of how he could at least fix the present on tape.

“Where can I get one of these things?” he asked urgently.

He left London next day with the latest model on the backseat of the car. All the way to Norfolk he was thinking of the pleasures of using it. Perhaps Peter would be intrigued by the machine, they could discover its workings together, and at last break through the barrier that still separated them.

The road home took him along the coast. The tide was still out, although coming in fast, and he looked across the flat sands where the boats were just beginning to float again, remembering the time he’d been here, and all that had happened that night.

He slowed the car as he saw two figures, one tall, one short, walking out in the direction of the sea. Even at this distance he was sure they were Norah and Peter. In his present mood, he felt charitable toward all the world. He would follow, and show them the camera and the three of them could enjoy it together. He stopped the car and called to them, but they were too far out to hear. Gavin began to run after them.

Peter was carrying a box, which he put carefully down on the sand and opened. The two of them were so absorbed that they weren’t aware of Gavin, although he was now quite close. He heard Norah said, “Lift him out.” Peter reached into the box and took out a sea gull, which he held carefully between his two hands.

He set the bird down on the sand and took a step back. There was something natural and practiced about his movements, as though he’d done this many times before. The sea gull hesitated a moment before pattering a few tentative steps. Then it seemed to smell the salty air and sense the breeze on its back. It moved faster-then faster-and suddenly it was airborne, winging away across the water, directly into the sun. Norah and Peter watched it go, their hands shading their eyes.

But suddenly Peter brought up his other hand to cover his face and turned so that he could hide against Norah. She embraced him at once. “I loved Joey, too,” she said. “But it’s better for him to fly back to his natural life. He’ll be happier that way.”

But Peter shook his head violently and cried in a muffled voice, “It’s not Joey.”

Norah sighed and held him more closely. “I know. Mum and Dad. They used to love releasing things back to the wild, and we’re going to remember them every time we do this. But, darling, one day it won’t hurt. It’ll be like the gull. We’ll remember only the time we had together and be grateful for it, and we’ll understand why we had to say goodbye. That time will come. I promise.”

Pain slashed through Gavin. It was akin to the pain he’d felt at the funeral when Peter had whispered “Goodbye, Daddy.” But that had only been a moment. This seemed to last for an age. Gavin regarded himself as a man in control of his emotions, but this was more than he could cope with. His misery gave birth to a cruel demon, and it was the demon that spoke harshly from within him, saying, “And the sooner it comes, the better.”

They whirled and stared at him. There was shock and dismay in Peter’s face, horror in Norah’s. “For pity’s sake!” she said angrily. “Do you have to-?”

“Yes, I have to, because I’m tired of this. I’ve been patient while you turned my son into a namby-pamby, but I won’t allow it any longer. At some point he’s got to grow up and stop crying.”

Peter wrenched himself away from Norah. If he’d run to his father Gavin would have opened his arms to him, but Peter avoided him and fled back across the sands in the direction of home. Gavin turned to go after him, but Norah seized his arm.

“To think I believed you were learning a little sensitivity,” she raged. “It was all a front, wasn’t it? The truth is that you’re harsh and cruel and completely without understanding. You don’t care for Peter as a person. If you did, you couldn’t have acted like that. He’s a possession you came here to reclaim, and you’re getting impatient with having to go slowly.”

“If you mean that Peter is mine, you’re right-”

“You saw Liz in the same way. That’s why you lost her. You think about nothing but possessions, money and success.”

“Success matters. That’s how a man knows what he is.”

“Well, what are you?” she demanded. “A man whom nobody loves.”

He hardened his face, refusing to let her see that this accusation was like a blow to the stomach. “There’s more to life than love,” he grated. “I want my son brought up to see things as they are, not through the rose-colored spectacles you all wear in this place.”

“What do you mean, rose colored?”

“I mean today’s touching little ceremony. Sick creatures don’t always recover, and there isn’t always a happy ending. You call me harsh. Well, life is harsh, and he’ll survive better if he’s prepared for it.”

“Don’t you think he already knows life is harsh?” she cried. “He just lost two people he loved.”

“He still has his father, and eventually you’ll have to let him come with me. If you’re sensible, you’ll face the inevitable now.”

“I don’t believe it is the inevitable. I won’t lose hope. Liz used to say I had a touch of Mr. Micawber in me, and she was right. I always believe something will turn up.”

“And just what kind of miracle do you think is going to turn up?” Gavin asked skeptically.

“Anything might happen. The court might decide that Peter belongs with me, where he’s happy. Or you might decide the same thing.”

“That will never happen,” he snapped.

He turned on his heel and went back to the car. When he reached Strand House he went in search of Peter. He found him making up feed with Grim, the two of them working quietly together, anticipating each other’s movements. It was clear they’d done this often before. It was Grim who looked up and saw Gavin, but he was sure Peter had known he was there and simply refused to acknowledge him. “Looks like you’re wanted,” Grim said.

Reluctantly, it seemed to Gavin, Peter lifted his head. His eyes were distant. “I’d like to talk to you,” Gavin said.

It was unnerving the way a child could be so docile, while still shutting out his father. He set down what he was doing and came toward Gavin, but there was no communication in his manner. His obedience was simply another form of armor.

“Look, I know you think I was hard on you just now,” Gavin said awkwardly. “Perhaps I was. Harder than I meant to be. It’s this place. I’m not comfortable here, and it makes everything wrong between us. We can’t get to know each other properly.”

Peter’s lips didn’t move, but his eyes said, “Why not?”

“Because we can’t talk proper…I mean, I need to be able to talk to you without feeling you’re going to run off to Norah as soon as I’ve finished. She’s a fine person but-we’re father and son. We may not have seen much of each other, but we’re still father and son. We always will be. Nothing can ever change that.” Perhaps he said the last words a little too firmly.

Flick appeared from nowhere and brushed against Peter’s leg. The boy reached down and scratched her red coat absently. “You might look at me while I’m talking to you,” Gavin said tensely, and Peter straightened up at once. But his very obedience seemed like a kind of snub. It was as if he were saying, “I’ll obey you in every detail, to cover the fact that my heart isn’t with you.”

Gavin felt a snub keenly, and despite his good intentions it put an edge on his voice. “This place is nothing but a fool’s paradise, and nobody ever gained anything from living in a fool’s paradise. You’ve got to learn how to fight the world like a man, and you’ll only learn that with me.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had an eerie feeling-as if the world had sideslipped. The air seemed to sing about his ears. It was as if he were living this moment for the second time, and the first time was there with him, still living, endlessly repeating. He gave himself a little shake. It was the first time he’d ever experienced a sensation of déjà vu, and it baffled him.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he demanded. “I don’t want my son to be a milksop, and that’s what you’ll be if you stay here.”

Unexpectedly Peter turned and looked at him with a look Gavin had never seen before. For the first time his eyes weren’t distant and withdrawn, but angry and defiant. “Don’t look at me like that,” Gavin shouted. As Peter began to turn away, something snapped within him. “Don’t turn away from me. I’m talking to you.” He seized his son by the shoulders and forcibly swung him round, shaking him slightly. “Don’t,” he shouted. “Don’t do that. I’m your father. Why can’t you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t really know what he was trying to say. He had an overwhelming impulse to pull the child against him and enfold him in a gigantic hug, but a self-control perfected too long ago to remember restrained him.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. Run along now.”

He turned sharply and walked away. If he’d looked back he might have seen his son watching him with a longing expression that would have given him hope. But he didn’t look back.

That evening at sunset Norah walked down near the shore. She could hear the waves splashing as the tide, which had come in, began to withdraw. She walked until she saw Gavin sitting on a rock staring out over the water. “You weren’t there for supper,” she said.

“I didn’t want any.”

“If it’s any interest to you, Peter’s very unhappy.”

“Of course it interests me, but he doesn’t want my comfort. If I reach out to him, he runs away. You know that.”

“Perhaps that’s because when you reach, you grab. You might get further by waiting for him to come to you.”

“I could wait forever for that,” he said bitterly.

“Well, what do you gain by sitting out here sulking.”

“I’m not sulking. I came back to get my camcorder, but of course it was too late.”

She sat down beside him. “What camcorder?”

“I bought one in London. I wanted to film Peter. I’ve missed so much of his growing up, and I thought I could catch him now. I brought it down the beach this afternoon. I was going to show it to both of you. But I must have dropped it somewhere.”

“Well, you can always get another.”

He shrugged. “What’s the point? He’ll probably hate the idea, anyway.”

She considered this. “If you just point the camera at him he probably will hate it,” she agreed. “Little boys don’t like being photographed or filmed. It embarrasses them. Didn’t you try to get out of it when you were a child and your father wanted to take snaps of you?”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “He never wanted to. He’d have called it a sentimental waste of time.”

“And your mother?”

“I can barely remember her.”

Norah nodded, as if she’d understood something. “If you want to film Peter, why don’t you tell him it’s Flick you’re interested in?” she said.

“How would that help?”

She sighed. “Hunter, sometimes you can be painfully slow. You ask Peter to hold Flick up for the camera, then Peter’s so busy thinking of Flick that he forgets you’re filming him, too. That way he won’t be self-conscious and you’ll get what you want. Everyone’s happy. There, I’ll make you a present of that suggestion.”

“Why?” he asked, watching her carefully. “Why make me a present of something that might give me the breakthrough to Peter? Don’t you want him to stay here with you, after all?”

“Of course I want him to stay here, but only if he wants to. I don’t want him opting for me only because he never got to know you. Now why don’t you come home before it starts to rain and you get soaking wet-again?”

She said the last word significantly, and Gavin looked up at her. “Again?” he asked.

“Oh, of course, I was forgetting. You don’t remember, do you?”

He managed a wry grin. “Perhaps I do. I suppose I ought to thank you.”

“Well, don’t kill yourself doing it. Just don’t get wet. I won’t rescue you a second time.”

“Thank you for the first time, anyway. I could have got pneumonia.”

“Don’t pile it on,” she said, laughing. “You might have caught a small chill, but no more.”

“No, I’d have caught a big chill. Unfortunately it’s the way I’m made. The slightest little thing and I go down with something nasty.”

She cast a curious glance at his big, sturdy frame, redolent of health and vitality, looking as if it could withstand a siege. Who would ever have dreamed it housed this secret weakness? “It must be a great inconvenience to a tycoon,” she said, “wheeling and dealing-and the things tycoons do-all threatened by the sniffles.”

“I don’t have sniffles. I take things to hide the symptoms until I have time to be sick.”

“And when is that?”

“Usually never. By the time I have time, I’m over it anyway. Perfectly simple.”

“Is it? Do you really get over it? Or are all those little maladies waiting to join together and sock it to you?”

“Now you stop that,” he said, amused. “I’m not one of your sick donkeys.”

“Donkeys aren’t the only creatures in the world that get sick,” she pointed out. “There’s such a thing as being sick at heart, and it’s much worse than pneumonia.”

“C’mon, stop psychoanalyzing me. I’m not sick at heart or sick in any other way, and I don’t need looking after.”

The smile died from her face. “I think you do,” she said softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever really looked after you in your life.”

He shrugged. “Liz tried. I wouldn’t let her.”

“Why?” she asked curiously.

“Because…” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that once he gave in to being cared for it could become a drug from which he’d never want to free himself. But, as so often was the case, caution intervened, and he simply said, “Because I didn’t need to be looked after.”

“But she needed to do it,” Norah pointed out. “Liz had a powerful need to care for others. I learned that about her very quickly.” She hesitated before saying, “Maybe that’s what Dad offered her that you couldn’t.”

“Nonsense,” he said shortly.

“I don’t think so. I think you don’t know how to let yourself be looked after, and you’re sick from the lack of it.”

He looked away from her, out to sea where the setting sun was turning the water red. It was at moments like this that she was most dangerous, for the idea of being lovingly cared for was suddenly more seductive than beauty, more alluring than perfume, more vital than life. The sweet warmth flowed from her in a river that threatened to engulf him and drag him down to his doom, to the place where weakness lay in wait.

“It’s time I was getting back,” he said.

To his relief she didn’t try to pursue the subject, and they talked about indifferent things on the way back.

That night he awoke shivering. He was submerged in a black misery from which there seemed no escape. He vaguely sensed that it was connected with a dream he’d been having, but he couldn’t remember a single detail of it. He only knew that he’d been in hell and that hell’s tentacles still reached out beyond sleep, threatening to pull him back. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He remembered a file he was working on and decided to fetch it. Anything was better than going back to sleep.

Norah had worked late that evening. As soon as one job was finished, she found another one to do. She knew time was passing and the rest of the house had gone to bed, but she kept on inventing tasks, delaying the moment she knew she would soon have to face.

At last she gave up putting it off and sat down at her father’s desk and took out his papers. She’d been through his diary once already, but nothing seemed to have stuck in her brain. Now she knew she must try again, not just the diary but his next book. His publisher had called her that afternoon, gently asking if the book would have to be abandoned. But Norah resisted the idea. She wanted to see Tony’s last work published as his final memorial.

He’d finished the first draft of the manuscript, but it needed revising, and she could do that through the extensive notes he’d left-not only written notes, but the ones he’d dictated into a small machine that went everywhere with him. It had been recovered from the car and given back to her, but she’d placed it in the desk without looking at it. She’d promised herself that she’d listen when she could face it, and now she must summon up her courage.

She took out the machine and discovered that it was undamaged. She switched it on and there was Tony’s voice, cheerful, humorous, talking about the birds he’d seen a few hours before he died. She listened, her heart aching.

The diary was even more painful. The moment she opened it he seemed to be there, in the irreverent notes he’d made against every entry.

Remember to call Harry-try not to go to sleep when he tells me the story of the baboon for the fiftieth time.

She could hear him saying it in the voice that had always seemed on the edge of a chuckle. In her young girlhood they’d been everything to each other, forging a bond that even his marriage hadn’t shaken. And Liz had been wise enough to understand that. She’d never been jealous or tried to come between them, understanding that she and Norah each held a different part of Tony’s heart, which was why they got on so well together.

And now they were both gone forever: Tony, with his booming laugh, his huge love of life, and Liz, with her beauty and dizzy charm. The home that had been so warm and happy had been ripped apart, and she would never see either of them again. Suddenly the pain that had possessed Norah’s heart for weeks leaped up to her throat, tightening it in a grip of agonizing intensity. She gasped, feeling the sobs fighting to the surface, tearing her apart. She pressed her hands to her mouth and the hot tears flooded over them. Her chest heaved painfully. She tried to cling onto some sort of control, not to make a noise in case she awoke Peter. At this moment she was the strong, safe point in his life, and the evidence of her grief would frighten him if he saw it. But there was no way she could control what was happening to her. It was like being buffeted by a whirlwind.

She’d cried when she first heard of the accident, but it hadn’t been like this. The effort to sob silently seemed to throw her body into spasms, making her clutch the desk. Only once in her life before had this happened, when she was eight and her mother had died. But then Tony had been there with his strong arms that had held her tight, shutting out fear and misery, carrying her into a world where they could love and grieve together. But Tony would never be there to comfort her again, and suddenly she was terrified that her strength wouldn’t be enough for the road ahead that was full of so many problems.

Her surroundings receded. She was only dimly aware of the door being pushed open and Gavin standing there. “What is it?” he asked. Then horror seemed to overtake him, as he saw her face. “Norah,” he stammered. “What on earth…?”

But it was clear that she couldn’t hear him any more. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably. There was only one thing for him to do, so he did it, crossing the room quickly and putting his arms about her. A moan broke from Norah. It went on and on, not rising or falling, but intensifying until it dissolved into violent sobs. Gavin tightened his arms and pulled her head against his shoulder.

At first her body was stiff against him, but gradually he felt her relax and yield to her grief. He stroked her hair, wondering at her, wondering at himself. She’d seemed so strong, more than strong enough to stand up against grief, comfort Peter and fight himself at the same time. He’d thought of her as stiffened by a backbone of ice, but the slim body in his arms now was warm and soft, molding itself against his like an animal seeking comfort.

“Norah,” he said uncertainly, “Norah…”

But she couldn’t hear him, and he gave up trying to talk and just caressed her, stroking her hair and her wet cheeks and waiting until the storm subsided. “Norah,” he said again.

She lifted her face, streaming with tears. “I can’t-stop…” she choked.

“Then don’t try. Go on. Let it happen. You’ve held this in for too long.”

“But I-mustn’t…”

“Who says you mustn’t? You need to.” He drew her close again and held her, rocking gently back and forth while her anguish expended itself against his shoulder. After Peter’s quiet self-containment, he could almost have thanked Norah for needing him.

At last it was finished, and she sat drained. An amazing feeling of warmth and contentment pervaded her. “Are you all right now?” Gavin asked quietly.

“I think so,” she said in a shaky voice that touched his heart. She sighed. “It’s very strange…”

“What’s strange?”

“I was thinking of how Dad used to hold me when I was unhappy, and wishing he could be here to hold me now. Fancy it being you.”

“Yes, fancy.”

She drew back and rubbed a hand over her tear-streaked face. “You make a better father than I thought,” she said huskily.

“Father?”

“Taking Dad’s place just when I needed you.”

“Oh, I see.” He was obscurely displeased at being equated with her father, but he supposed it was better than “grating Gavin.”

“I’m sorry if I awoke you, making so much noise.”

“You didn’t disturb me. I was awake already. In fact I was on my way down here to collect a file when I heard you.”

“You and your facts and figures,” she said huskily. “No, that’s not fair. I’m sorry. You were kind.”

“And you didn’t think I could be?” he asked with irony.

“If I did you an injustice, perhaps it’s your own fault. You work hard at not letting people know you can be kind. I wish I knew why.”

Once he would have said immediately that kindness was a kind of weakness, but he knew if he said that now she would pull out of his arms. And he wanted her to stay there, comfortable and at ease with him. He wanted to go on holding her sweet body against his. “You should have had that cry long ago,” he said gently.

“I couldn’t afford to.” She hiccuped, and he had to fight an instinct to gather her tightly against him. “I had to be strong. I couldn’t afford the time for weakness,” she whispered.

He heard someone-it might have been himself-say, “Grieving isn’t a weakness. It’s a way of replenishing your strength. Don’t stare at me like that. I can be human.”

“Yes, you can,” she said in wonder. “It’s just that you save it for the oddest times-and the oddest people. What you just said is so right. I wish you could remember it where Peter is concerned.”

The sound of his son’s name gave him a shock. For a moment he’d forgotten all about Peter, forgotten everything except how good it felt to be close to her, feeling that she trusted him. “I’ll try to remember,” he said slowly. “But it’s difficult with Peter. I’m floundering.”

“Well, I gathered that,” she said, not unkindly, but with a little smile. “I think the camcorder’s a good idea and if you also-” She stiffened suddenly. “What’s that?”

Gavin too had looked up at the sound of scuffling in the hall. The next moment the door was pushing open and Flick came streaking into the room. Close behind him came light footsteps, making them jump apart a split second before Peter entered in his pajamas. He seized the fox up in his arms and stood looking at them wearily. “It’s two in the morning,” she chided. “You should both be asleep.”

Peter nodded and backed out of the door, still clutching Flick in his arms. Gavin and Norah looked at each other self-consciously, each feeling a faint regret that the moment had gone. From somewhere in the house, Osbert honked faintly.

“I suppose we ought to call it a day,” she said. “When you’ve found your file, I’ll turn out the lights.”

“My what?”

“The file you came down for.”

“Oh, that. Never mind. I guess I don’t need it any more.”

She gave him a wondering look, but turned out the lights without saying anything. Gavin seemed awkward now, and she guessed that he, like she, was conscious of what might have happened if Peter hadn’t interrupted them. It was a good thing that he’d come in when he did, she told herself firmly. Life was already complicated enough, without confusing things further by yielding to a temporary attraction. In tomorrow’s light she would see the illusion for what it was. Gavin would help the process by barking at her in his usual way, and she would forget the kind, understanding man she’d met briefly tonight. Doubtless he was only a rare visitor.

They climbed the stairs together and stood, in mutual embarrassment, outside her door. “Good night,” he said gruffly. “I-you’ll be all right now, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine now. And Gavin-thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said quickly. “Well, good night.”

It was only when he’d closed his door behind him that he realized she’d called him Gavin instead of Hunter. It wasn’t the first time she’d used his name, yet tonight it had sounded different. He got into bed and fell asleep almost at once, and this time the bad dreams didn’t trouble him.