“Mr. Owen?”
Layton cringed. He didn’t need to turn to know it was the reporter from the Daily Mail. He’d half expected to hear from him after Joe Clayton’s photo appeared in the paper, not his, but nothing had come of it.
But he was wrong. A stocky, broad-shouldered figure stood about six feet away, in the dim light of the alley behind the Queen’s Palace. Stunned, Layton didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he stuttered out, “Hello, Dad.”
His father stepped forward. Layton looked behind him to see if his brother was there too but saw no one else.
“Hello, Doug. I ’ad to come to London on business, an’ I thought I’d go to the variety, see them scenes you paint. The one of the Albert Hall behind Mendel, the Blind Pianist, was damn good. Too bad Mendel couldn’t see it. He is blind, isn’t he?”
“Blind as a bat,” Layton said, smiling. “But he’s the Paderewski of the music halls.”
It was late; the second show had ended, and the artistes and crew were exiting the stage door. Layton extended his hand to his father, and they shook heartily.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night. Not much fog.”
They walked down Whitcomb Street toward Trafalgar Square. For a few minutes, there was silence. Then Layton’s father cleared his throat and said, “I’m glad you got on with yer life, Doug. Yer a good lad. You deserve to be happy.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’m trying to work everything out. It’s not easy to forget that night. It’ll haunt me all my life.”
“It was an accident, Doug, an accident. They shouldn’t have sent ya to prison for it, shouldn’t’ve ruined your life. You should know, yer brother says hello,” Thomas Layton added awkwardly.
Layton chuckled. He knew his brother; he would never send his good wishes. “If it wasn’t for Roger,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here. He set me on my new path in life.”
“You shouldn’t mind your brother,” his father said. “He was always jealous of your success. When you went to prison, he felt you got yer comeuppance for rising above your station.”
“Yes, I could tell that night,” Layton said. “When I returned home.”
“You must be making good wages in the theatre. Hope you’re not pissing away that lolly on drink and tarts. A lot of temptations here in London,” Thomas Layton said, looking suspiciously about.
“I know I was sozzled most of the time when I came back to Puddletown,” Layton said awkwardly. “The drink made me forget all the bad things. But I have control of it now.”
“That’s the ticket, lad.”
They strolled through Trafalgar Square, which was entirely deserted, and on to the Victoria Embankment. As they walked, Layton realized that other than hunting, this was the first time in his life that he’d taken a walk with his father. It was quite pleasurable. Rather than parent and child, they felt almost like friends in a way.
“That scene behind that Irish singer looked a lot like Cannon Field in Dorset.”
Layton smiled and looked at his father.
“You’re absolutely right. It is Cannon Field. Did you recognize the two big trees?” At his father’s nod, he added, “Whenever I do a country scene, I paint something from my memory of those Dorset days: Thorncombe Wood, Snail Creep, Bulbarrow Hill. I remember them all.”
“You and yer brothers knew every square inch of that countryside,” said Thomas Layton, a tinge of pride in his gravelly voice.
“It was a wonderful boyhood. When I was in my cell in Mulcaster, I’d try to transport myself back, imagine that I was free to wander through the downs like I used to. I became good at putting my mind in another time and place. I’d do the same with the house I built in Surrey. It was like I was there, walking through the rooms.”
They reached the Embankment, stood, and watched the Thames flow silently by. To the right and left, a few people milled about in the distance. At this time of night, it was a place for lonely people and illicit lovers, for embracing in the shadows beyond the thrown glow of the streetlights.
“Roger was right,” Layton said abruptly. “I was a bloody shit pretending to be someone I wasn’t. To turn my back on family and my roots like that… What happened was almost like a punishment for what I did.”
Thomas Layton turned to his son and looked him square in the face.
“No, lad,” he said quietly. “Ya did nothin’ wrong. You wanted to better yourself. And in this country, that’s bloody impossible to do. There’s always some bastard putting ya in yer place. You beat all that, became one of the empire’s best architects. You’d’ve gotten a knighthood.”
“I was a fake.”
“Bollocks.” Now his father’s voice was fierce. “If you had told them who you really were, the son of a stonemason from a Dorset cottage, they’d’ve thrown yer arse down the ladder in a heartbeat. I don’t blame or hate ya for what ya did. It’s what ya have to do in this bloody country. And ya made it. With yer talent, ya made it.”
Layton had never seen his father so emotional before. But now a fire burned in his eyes, and his body trembled with the force of his words.
“When I articled you to Hicks, I wanted ya to become a success. I’d’ve been embarrassed of where I come from too, in your shoes.” Still facing his son, Thomas Layton placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember when you invited me to that library opening in Bournemouth? I didn’t come because I didn’t want to embarrass you. But a few weeks later, I went to that library, and I walked around inside, and I said to meself, ‘Blimey, my boy did this!’ For a hundred years, people will be using that library. I was proud of you, lad. As proud as I was of Raymond, winning them medals.”
Layton bent his head. The love in his father’s voice threatened to overwhelm him.
In silence, the two men went back to gazing at the river. After a few minutes, as if by mutual agreement, they turned and walked toward Piccadilly Circus.
At Haymarket, Thomas Layton said, “I’ll be off in the mornin’, but I’m glad I found ya. Take care of yourself, Doug.”
Layton watched the old man walk slowly away. And in spite of himself, he called out, “Dad, can you stay until tomorrow afternoon? I want you to meet my son—your grandson.”