James Long - Sixth Column

‘Goodnight,’ said Johnny and on impulse added, ‘Dad.’ Father sounded too formal. Dad was a sort of joke.

‘Dreadful word,’ said Sir Michael but he looked pleased for all that.

Left to themselves, Johnny felt a moment of awkwardness. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe anything I ever said again,’ he said.

‘I do believe you. When you told me that story about your name, after the flying, you said you didn’t like calling yourself Kay because that was your stepfather’s name and he was a smooth, rich shit. You said your mother was off her trolley and you preferred using your father’s real name… The thing is, I believed you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. I think I was right to believe you. Swap Parry for Kennedy and I think it was pretty close to the truth, wasn’t it?’

‘If it was, I didn’t know it at the time.’

‘But you do now?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think I do.’

That was the final straw. Lady Viola didn’t want to listen any more.

‘Turn the bloody thing off,’ she said to Sibley in an unsteady voice. ‘This has been a terrible, terrible experience.’

She turned on Sir Greville. ‘Michael’s got him,’ she said, ‘That’s the end of it. The little sod’s taken it all in, every word of it.’

‘Look, Viola,’ said Sir Greville uneasily, ‘I quite understand how you feel, but we do now have a wider problem. Parry’s going to let the cat right out of the bag on Rage, that’s clear. If he knows about the field tests too, we’re in a lot of trouble. Sibley here’s going to have his work cut out to pull the chestnuts out of the fire this time.’

Lady Viola swung round on the other man, ‘So what do you suggest we do about it, Sibley?’

He paused judiciously before replying. ‘I’m afraid most of the obvious options are rather ruled out by the fact that Johnny is your son, Lady Viola.’

‘He cannot be both my son and Michael Parry’s son,’ she said slowly and clearly. ‘He’s made his choice. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not my son, not any more.’

The first thing that came into Johnny’s mind when he woke up to a morning of sunshine and birdsong was not the momentous unburdening he had been through the evening before but the finale, the last few minutes before he went to bed.

‘I’d forgotten,’ he’d said, when they were by themselves, ‘You need a lift back.’

‘No, not tonight. I’ll stay here too. I often do. I like to keep him company when I can.’

They stood there at the study door, looking at each other.

‘I want you to know something,’ she said, ‘I’m very glad you said all the things you did this evening.’

‘So am I. It is true, you know, once I’d met you the first time, you really were the only reason I came back. The rest, staying here and everything, was just an accident.’

‘There’s a good person in you,’ she said softly. ‘Sleep well, you deserve to.’

He moved towards her, took her hand, went to kiss her but she turned her head just slightly aside and he kissed her cheek instead. She squeezed his hand.

‘I’ve only just met the real you,’ she said, ‘Go slowly or I can’t keep up. Goodnight.’

He joined them for breakfast, welcomed by smiles, and it felt almost like a familiar domestic routine.

Over the coffee, toast and eggs, Sir Michael studied him for a while, then said, ‘I suppose you’ve got a bit of a decision to take. Over the job, I mean.’

‘I’ve taken it. I’m going to resign. I thought about it last night. It’s the only thing I can do really. I’m not even going back in the office. They can whistle.’

‘What will you do instead?’ asked Heather.

‘I haven’t a clue. Maybe I’ll go for my commercial licence and become a proper pilot after all.’

She laughed, ‘But not in Australia, I hope,’ she said.

Sir Michael wrinkled his nose, unsure what she meant, ‘If you resign, how does that leave you, er… financially?’ he said a little diffidently. ‘I could help, you know.’

It felt odd, being offered money by this ex-stranger. He wasn’t used to the idea of having a father yet.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m all right for a while.’

A fleeting look of something that could even have been disappointment crossed his father’s face.

‘Can I contact you if there’s a problem?’ he added quickly.

Heather looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I mustn’t be late. I don’t want to hurry you, Johnny.’

Hopes of a day together shattered. ‘Late? Are you working?’

‘Yes. Oh I’m sorry, didn’t I tell you? Today and tomorrow. I do one weekend in four.’

‘Oh… right. I suppose I’d better get back to London, then. I’ll drop you and go on from there.’ He turned to Sir Michael. ‘I’ll see you at the weekend.’

‘You can stay if you like. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘That’s true. I’m looking forward to it, but I think I’ve got to let it all sink in for a few days first.’

‘What will you say to Viola?’

‘I haven’t a clue. She’ll be round like a flash when Sibley reads my letter.’

‘Rather you than me,’ said Sir Michael, and he patted him on the back.

The old man stood there waving as they drove off, roof down, each glancing back at the house from time to time until it dwindled out of sight round the curve of the drive.

‘You’re very lucky,’ Heather said, ‘not just finding a father, but finding one like that. He’s a real dear.’

‘It’s a shame you’ve got to work.’

‘No it’s not. It’s a very good thing,’ said Heather practically. ‘I can tell you’re a great one for rushing in to things.’

‘I’m not sure that’s right. I feel like I’ve just taken off a great big blindfold,’ he said. ‘Which way?’

‘Right then first left. Are you regretting anything you said last night?’

‘No.’ He said it with a new tone of certainty in his voice.

She glanced at him surreptitiously. It had to be her imagination but the profile of his face seemed sharper, firmer, as though in the course of evading himself for so long he had blurred not just the emotional side of him but the physical side too. She was very fond of the father. It was easy to feel fond of the prodigal son.

Heather’s home was a small stone cottage on the edge of a village, hanging baskets of bright flowers livening up its porch and tomato plants climbing out of pots up the side wall in the sunshine. Her little Citroen was parked outside.

‘I hope it starts,’ she said, ‘it’s usually all right in the summer. I don’t know why it’s being so difficult.’

Happy for an excuse to prolong their time together, he opened the bonnet and looked at the tiny flat twin engine tucked away low down inside. ‘Have you got a rag?’

He cleaned the plug leads, wiped the oily dirt from all the exposed electrics and made sure the contacts were good. ‘Try it now,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t go, I’ll take the plugs out.’

Much to his regret it started first time. ‘Thursday evening, then,’ he said, ‘I’ll ring you with the details. I should be able to meet you all at King’s Cross.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I must go,’ then she bent towards him, kissed him on the lips and was in to the car before he could react, leaving only a sweet taste and a haze of exhaust fumes as the Citroën buzzed away, swaying down the road. As he watched, its brakes went on hard and, gears whining, it reversed back to him. The lower half of the window shot up, latching in place with a crash, and Heather bent her head out.