‘Hello, Father, how are you?’
‘I’m dying, Guy, otherwise I’m fine.’
‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
His father was lying in the middle of the double bed, propped up on several huge pillows, his wife having moved to the spare room months back. The curtains, Guy noticed, were open. On his father’s lap, the day’s Times, and on his bedside table a small pile of books, uppermost Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.
Arthur saw his son look at it. ‘Have you read it?’
‘No.’
‘You should, it’s very good.’
‘Yes, so I’m told.’ His father’s cheeks were sunken; his skin the colour of death.
‘I see you’re wearing your medals.’
‘Yes.’
‘A DCM, eh? Good boy, I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Guy looked up at the familiar framed sampler above his father’s bed.
‘I hear you’re doing well for yourself – a good job, somewhere to live.’
‘Yes, things are beginning to work out.’
‘And what about a lady friend?’
‘No, I have to say that’s not going so well.’
‘Well, there’s a lot of women about and a shortage of men so it shouldn’t take long.’
‘Perhaps. It’s the leg. Puts them off.’
‘Hah, there’s a lot worse off than you, my boy.’
This was the point, thought Guy, where he should tell his parents that he was to be a father, that Mary was expecting his child. This was the point to tell them that their greatest desire, to be grandparents, was about to be fulfilled. But how does one inform one’s parents that he had got their nephew’s wife pregnant, a woman once engaged to his brother. It was better if they never knew.
A knock on the door and Edith came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Couldn’t you have got Lizzie to do that?’ asked Arthur.
‘No, I wanted to do it myself, and see my men. Shall I pour?’
‘For goodness sake, woman, we can do it ourselves. Leave it here,’ he said, tapping the bedside table.
‘Thank you, Mother.’
‘Mind my books.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, Guy.’ She watched as Arthur stretched over and reached for the teapot. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’
‘Yes, yes, I may be an invalid but I’m not a total cripple – yet.’
‘I must apologise, Guy, for your father’s tactlessness.’
‘Oh God, I’m not saying...’
Guy laughed. ‘It’s fine, Father.’
‘Oh blast, look what you’ve made me do.’
‘Arthur, really, the idea is to pour it in the cup not on the tray.’
‘Oh, you do it then. Look what’s become of me, Guy, can’t even pour a bloody cup of tea now.’
‘Arthur! Please.’
‘What?’
‘Your language.’
‘Oh, for... I think Guy may have heard worse.’
‘Yes, but we’re not in the trenches now, are we?’
‘At this rate, he’ll probably rather be back.’
Arthur slumped into his pillows.
‘Arthur, are you all right, dear?’
‘Yes, just, just a bit tired all of a sudden.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Guy.
‘No, it’s not you, Guy,’ said his mother, ‘it’s my fault; I’ve caused too much excitement. It might do him good to rest.’
‘Yes, sorry, son, it just hits me occasionally. Quite often now.’
‘I can always come back.’
‘Listen, come, come closer.’ His eyes were drooping but he took Guy’s hand and clasped it. How bony it felt yet the grip, thought Guy, was surprisingly strong. ‘Thank you for coming; you’re a good lad, and you know what...’ His breath smelt rank, the odour of a dying man.
‘Go on, Father, go on.’
‘Jack. He was too, a good lad, such a good lad.’ His eyes closed.
With that, Arthur’s grip loosened and his hand went limp.
Guy turned to see his mother. She was standing over him, nodding, her eyes filled with tears, ‘I wanted you to hear it yourself, Guy, he’s found it in himself to forgive him.’
Guy looked at his father, his chest heaving with deep breaths. He took to his feet and hugged his mother. She buried her face into his shoulder. Guy looked up to the ceiling and beyond, heaven bound, and smiled.
He never saw his father again.
*
‘Guy, this is George – your son; George, this is your father.’ Mary held the sleeping two-week-old baby a little higher so that Guy could see him properly. ‘Say hello.’
‘My word, he’s lovely,’ said Guy, stunned at meeting his son for the first time.
‘Go on, hold him.’ She carefully placed the tiny bundle into Guy’s arms. Guy was surprised how heavy the baby felt. He felt awkward, terrified of dropping the little chap but George seemed contented enough. ‘Is he really mine?’ he asked.
‘Of course, Guy, I told you so. George is your son, believe me.’
He looked at her, smiled and nodded. Outside, they could hear the sound of a barrel organ grinding its ugly tune. They had met in a small coffeehouse in Liverpool Road behind the Angel. With a two-year-old and a new born, the trip to Woolwich was too much now for Mary. If Guy wanted to see her, he now had to make the trip north to her neck of the woods, which, in effect, put an end to their lovemaking. ‘Dare I ask how Lawrence is?’ he asked. ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’
‘Of course he knows, my name may be Mary but even I’m not capable of an immaculate conception. He’s hardly talking to me. He’s working in Manchester at the moment but he’s due back some time tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Do his parents know?’
‘No, they think I’ve delivered them another perfect grandson. Lawrence doesn’t plan to shatter the illusion; he’d be too ashamed to do so anyway.’
‘I’ve bought him a little present.’
‘Who? Lawrence?’
‘Yes, Lawrence, I’ve bought him a one-way ticket to Brazil. No, George, of course.’ He handed the baby back to Mary who placed him gently in the pram. Guy fished around in his bag and pulled out an unwrapped toy soldier. ‘I expect it’s too big for him still.’
‘Oh, but it’s lovely. Thank you,’ she said, placing the soldier at the foot of the pram. She stared in wonderment at her baby, her creation. ‘You know, I look at him and I see both of you there. You and Jack.’
‘Leave him, Mary, leave Lawrence and come to me.’
‘I can’t, you know I can’t. Lawrence is still Clarence’s father. Please tell me you understand, there’s the three of us now, I’m more dependent on Lawrence than ever. I can’t live on love alone.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Guy sighed. ‘Bloody ironic though, isn’t it?’
She looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For the sake of Jack’s honour, I threw away the chance to take over the business. If I had, I’d have the means to care for the person he loved most. But it’s gone now – sold. I wonder sometimes if this is what he would have wanted me to do.’
‘I know, you’re right, I’ve thought of that too.’
‘He wanted me to live a full life for him. Those were his words, his very last words to me. And of course, I promised him I would. He also asked me to look after you and I now can’t.’
Mary closed her eyes and swallowed. ‘I know I’m denying you the chance to fulfil your promise. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. Really, Mary, it isn’t. I chose to defend Jack’s name from being expunged from our family as if he’d never existed. It’s just that in defending him, I threw it all away so now I feel as if I’m failing him. I’ve already broken my promise.’