Уильям Николсон - Motherland

Larry kneels, resting his elbows on the armrest, letting his head sink into his hands.

‘Lord Jesus Christ,’ he prays, ‘take my beloved father into your loving arms. Let him know the peace and rest he deserves. Tell him I admired him so much. Tell him he was the only truly good man I’ve ever known. Tell him I loved him all my life. Tell him … tell him … Dad … don’t leave me now. Don’t leave me. Dad, I need you so.’

Then he lets himself cry, wetting his jacket sleeves with his tears.

In time the tears pass. He looks up and sees, through the open dressing room door, on the wall above the chest of drawers, a blur of colour. He blinks and dabs at his eyes. He rises from the prie-dieu and goes into the dressing room. There, close beside the rail of suits his father wore that still carry his familiar smell, hang two small pictures on the wall. Two views of Mount Caburn, with Edenfield church in the foreground. Two pictures painted by a son who had disappointed his father. Bought from the Leicester Galleries five years ago, by a father who wanted only that his son should be happy.

Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine .

The Carmelite church is packed for the funeral. Looking around the pews Larry sees board members, directors, managers, storemen, porters, maintenance workers; ships’ captains and crew men; company representatives from Jamaica, Honduras, the Canaries, Cameroon. These are the people his father served. These are the people he too has served in his turn. And now it’s all over.

This is not how it should have been. His father’s death should have been celebrated as the end of a good life, his achievements recognised and perpetuated. He built a company that he meant to outlast him. And when he took his leave, honourably, asking for nothing for himself, looters and wreckers rose up to destroy his heritage.

Who are these mighty masters of the world, these presidents of a far-off empire who look with their cold eyes on balance sheets and turn them into shrouds? Zemurray and Brunstetter and McKinsey and the rest, what God do they worship? In the name of what grand design do they exploit their workers and corrupt their governments?

Dies irae !

‘Oh what fear man’s bosom rendeth, when from heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth!’

So while others mourn, Larry rages. His anger is directed against himself, too. His father entrusted the company to him, and he promised to keep the company safe, and he failed.

I have killed my father.

Libera me, domine .

‘Deliver me O Lord from eternal death on that awful day when the heavens and the earth shall be moved, when Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.’

Sitting in the car following the hearse, with Geraldine by his side elegant in black, leading a convoy of cars from Kensington to Kensal Green, he feels entirely alone. Standing by the grave-side, watching the priest sprinkle the coffin with holy water, he wants to laugh at the absurdity of the whole charade.

My father isn’t here.

‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

What mercy? The good men are broken and the hard men endure. Here lies a man abandoned by God. He built a business, and that business was the well-being of others. They told him a slow buck is still a buck. But they lied.

No, don’t rest in peace, Dad. Stand up before that heavenly throne and rage. Waken the anger of the Lord of Hosts. The time has come to judge the world by fire.

‘What I don’t understand,’ says Geraldine, her voice soft and insistent, ‘is why you resigned?’

‘Hardly a resignation,’ says Larry. ‘Even while I was in that meeting, back in London they were clearing my office.’

‘But you said you resigned.’

It’s true. Larry clings to this version of events to salvage something of his honour. When asked to preside over the butchery of his father’s company, he declined.

‘I had no choice,’ he says wearily.

The funeral is over. The guests are gone. The tall dark house is left to Geraldine and him.

‘I’m sure you’re right, darling,’ says Geraldine, ‘but I wish I could understand. Why couldn’t you have stayed on, and done your best to make it not be so bad? I don’t see what you meant to achieve by resigning.’

‘Why should I keep my job and my comforts when the rest lose theirs? Because that would be all I’d be left with. The title, the salary, the car. Do you think I’d have been able to look my colleagues in the eye, as they cleared their desks and crept away?’

‘Yes, I do see that, darling. But how are things any better this way? I don’t see how it helps them having you out of a job too.’

Larry contemplates his wife. She seems to him to be living in another universe, far away. Nothing touches her. She remains perfectly groomed.

‘You miss the title, and the salary, and the car?’

‘Am I wrong to worry?’ she says. ‘What will we live on? Do we even own this house?’

‘Yes, Geraldine,’ says Larry. ‘We own this house. And the house in France. We have some shares in the company. We won’t starve. And anyway, we’re young still. We can work.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know.’

Then he realises he does know; or at least a part of it. With this knowledge comes a release of kindness for his wife.

‘Geraldine. Please. Let’s not pretend any more.’

‘Pretend what?’

But she’s frightened. She knows too.

‘Our marriage hasn’t worked. It doesn’t work. We don’t make each other happy.’

She looks away. She’s trembling.

‘I’ve done my best,’ she says in a whisper. ‘I’ve tried and tried.’

‘I know you have. It’s not your fault. It’s just who we are.’

‘But Larry, we’re still married. Nothing can change that.’

‘We can divorce.’

She gasps, as if he’s struck her.

‘Divorce! No!’

‘Then you can find someone you can really love. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life here, with me. You know you don’t.’

‘But Larry. The sacrament. We can’t break it.’

‘It’s only words.’

Again that quick sharp gasp.

‘Only words! And is the Church only words? Is the love of God only words? Are we all to do as we please, and think only of our own pleasure, and live and die like animals?’

‘But Geraldine— ’

The words pour out of her in a fervent stream, overwhelming him.

‘What does it matter if you and I aren’t as happy as we’d like to be? We can bear it. We know how to do our duty. We’re married. For better, for worse, till death us do part. You swore it, and so did I. That’s real, Larry. That’s the rock on which we stand. Nothing can ever change that.’

She clasps his hands, willing him to join her.

‘We’re bound for eternity, Larry.’

‘It’s too late,’ he says.

‘Too late? How can it be too late?’

‘I’ve gone too far. I’m sorry. I just can’t go on any more.’

She lets go of his hands. Her voice changes, becomes bitter.

‘It’s Kitty, isn’t it?’

‘No— ’

‘You can never have her! She’s another man’s wife. I know you love her, I’ve always known, do you think I’m blind and deaf?’ Now in her pain and anger her face contorts, becomes ugly. ‘What do you think it’s been like for me, seeing you dangling around her, playing your childish little games? But have I ever said a word? Not one word! How do you think I feel, knowing my husband loves another woman? But have I ever told you not to insult me with her presence in my house? Never! Not once! I am your wife. I know my duty. But do you know your duty? Because believe me, at the peril of your immortal soul, you must do your duty! You can’t have her, Larry. Would you lose your immortal soul, would you burn in hell for ever, for one silly little woman?’