Susan Howatch - Ultimate Prizes

Finally there was Christian, now sitting opposite me at the far end of the table. What can I say to convey the unique quality of this, the most extraordinary member of my family? I could never write ‘so much for Christian’ at the end of a brief description of him, because no brief description could convey more than the bare bones of his personality. Perhaps I can best capture the aura of glamour he exuded by stating that Christian was the idealized son which men so often dream of fathering but so rarely ever do. Christian was the self I would like to have been, a genetic miracle, my own self glorified. Exceptionally clever, blessed with the gift of reducing every classics master he encountered to a stunned admiration, talented at games, popular with his contemporaries, he was fifteen years old, still growing and evidently destined to be not only charming, witty and accomplished but tall, dark and handsome.

I regarded him with a deep, fierce, utterly private devotion which I was quite unable to articulate. I could be demonstrative with Primrose because men were allowed to show affection towards their daughters, but with my sons I had a horror of indulging in any behaviour which might be judged sentimental. The kindly authority I exercised had never included barbarous physical punishment, but no matter how much I wanted to demonstrate my affection I was unable to do more than produce an air of mild good will. In Yorkshire we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves – and perhaps too I could never quite forget Uncle Willoughby declaring in 1909 that a sentimental father who slobbered over his male offspring was the kind of fool who inevitably wound up in an early grave.

‘Daddy …’

I returned to 1942 with a jolt. ‘Yes, James?’

‘After the war ends, what will happen to the newspapers? There won’t be any more news, will there?’

‘There’ll be blank pages edged in black,’ said Christian, ‘to mark the utter cessation of journalism. But who says the war’s going to end? As far as I can see it’s all set to go on for ever.’

‘Nonsense!’ I said roundly. ‘Think of Napoleon! Once he attacked Russia he was finished – the British army merely had to mop him up at Waterloo.’

‘I wish the British army would start mopping up Rommel in the Desert.’

‘Daddy,’ said Primrose, ‘why aren’t you in the army?’

‘The Bishop said he couldn’t spare me from my work in Starbridge. Not all clergymen are called to serve God in the army, even in wartime.’

Christian said suddenly: ‘Do you ever regret abandoning your pacifism after Munich?’

‘Sometimes. I still believe pacifism is intellectually consistent with Liberal Protestantism, but unfortunately Herr Hitler doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency.’

‘I’m beginning to think it’s Liberal Protestantism which doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency. How can you play down evil and maintain your optimistic view of the universe when you’re confronted with a catastrophe like Nazism? I mean, what do you do with someone like Adolf Hitler? You can’t simply pat him on the head, cite the compassion and forgiveness of Christ and say cosily: “Go thy way and sin no more!”’

I was much taken aback. I had to remind myself that fifteen-year-old adolescents were notorious for questioning their parents’ views. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what you do with someone like Hitler,’ I said abruptly. ‘In practical terms you fight him. And in spiritual terms you pray for him and remember that there’s a divine spark in every human being.’

‘But isn’t that hopelessly idealistic? Isn’t that out of touch with the reality of the evil going on here? Try talking to the Jews about Hitler’s divine spark!’

‘Idealism is also a reality – the reality to which we must all continually aspire.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Christian, I’ve had a long hard day, I’ve wound up in a hovel and quite frankly I’m not in the mood to discuss theology. Can we continue this debate later?’

‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to have a real conversation with you for once.’

I stared at him. ‘But we always have real conversations!’

‘No, they’re usually about Latin and Greek and how well I’m doing at school.’

‘Well, what’s so unreal about all your splendid successes?’ I stood up with one arm encircling Sandy and held out my free hand to Primrose. ‘Bedtime, my love,’ I said to her, ‘and let’s hope that tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep we’ll find our holiday taking a turn for the better.’

‘It could hardly get much worse,’ said Christian.

But he was wrong.

Norman’s condition showed no improvement the next morning. Grace – perfect as always – had remembered to bring a thermometer, and when we discovered he had a high fever I trekked to the nearby village in search of a doctor. Influenza was diagnosed. Grace was obliged to spend most of her time caring for the invalid. The weather was not only wet but cold. The younger children quickly became fractious.

It was on the fifth day after our arrival, just as Norman’s condition began to improve, that Grace fainted. Rushing upstairs in response to Norman’s frightened yell for help, I found she had collapsed on the bedroom floor.

‘I haven’t felt well for some time,’ she whispered later, ‘but I was afraid you’d think it was the last straw if I couldn’t cope.’

When the doctor returned he ordered her sternly to stay in bed. Afterwards he told me that she had probably made matters worse by ignoring all the signs that she had caught Norman’s influenza.

But Grace did not have influenza. She had caught a chill after being soaked on a shopping expedition – it could never have happened in Devon where the village shop stood next door to our cottage – and now she was suffering from pneumonia.

At eleven o’clock that night she began to have difficulty with her breathing. On arrival the doctor took one look at her and said: ‘She must go to hospital at once.’ He made no attempt to summon an ambulance. He drove us to the hospital at Keswick in his own car. I remember thinking what a blessing it was that Christian was old enough to be left in charge at the cottage.

Soon after she was admitted to hospital she became delirious and the pneumonia was finally diagnosed. I telephoned her sister Winifred in Manchester. To my great relief she at once offered to come to my rescue. I was unable to leave the hospital, and although Christian was capable of taking charge of four children for a short time I could hardly leave him without assistance for more than twenty-four hours.

The day passed. Winifred arrived and could barely bring herself to leave the hospital. I had to remind her sharply that if she wanted to help her sister she should attend to the children. Winifred cried but left. More time passed. The sympathetic nurses offered me cups of tea but I could hardly drink. Eating proved quite impossible.

For some time Grace was unconscious but in the evening when the sun was setting far away in the other world beyond the hospital walls, she opened her eyes and said clearly: ‘I can’t go on. But I must. She’d never care for the children.’

For a long moment I was so appalled, so overpowered by my guilt and my shame that I was unable to speak. Then leaning forward I clumsily clasped her hands as if I could somehow infuse her with strength, and stammered: ‘You mustn’t say such things. You mustn’t even think them. I love you and no one else but you and you’re going to live. ’

She died a minute later.

‘Passion may be dangerous, but for all that it is the driving-force of life …’