William Boyd - The New Confessions

I went back through the letters and slowly charted the course of their love affair, how they were condemned by the dignity and honor of their own positions, and the impossibility of ever requiting their love. My mother never referred adversely to my father, never complained or criticized. It was clearly one of those passionate relationships not so much doomed as stillborn, both parties knowing in their hearts that nothing can come of it, but seizing a moment’s consummation as some sort of futile symbol of what might have been.

Then. July 21, 1898:

Dear Faye,

I am with child again. I do not need to tell you how fear mingles with joy. Innes is delighted, but I have not said anything to anyone else but you, not even Donald.…

Not even Donald . Why not? I watched the process of my own prenatal growth with a horrid fascination. My mother’s joyful anticipation (she prayed I would be a girl …) and her prescient fears for her own health, after the narrow escape she had had with Thompson, made ghoulish reading. But I could not finish her last letter, dated two weeks before my birth. It started:

Darling Faye,

I feel a little fitter today. Perhaps everything will be fine after all.…

I knew I could not stand the strain of those terrible, fatal ironies. I put the letters back in the box file. I felt I should cry, but I was too exhausted for tears. I had learned too much and my brain jabbered with argument and supposition. I was too preoccupied with new knowledge to weep over my dead mother. Unless I was very much mistaken, all the evidence seemed to point to one conclusion. I knew it all now — although, deep in myself, I had half-known it for years. My true father, it seemed, if the letters were to be believed, was Donald Verulam.… I rubbed my face. This needed further confirmation. It was too much to handle at this juncture.

Faye returned.

“Sorry I stayed away; I wanted you to have a chance to read them on your own.”

She glanced at me, clear-eyed and, I thought, interrogatively.

“I’m very grateful,” I said slowly. “I know they’re private … but I had to find out about her. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Not at all. I don’t really have the right to keep them from you. Even if …”

She did not know what to say. Now she would not meet my eyes.

“It’s all right,” I said, still with some caution. “I always half-suspected, funnily enough. Just from talking to Donald.”

She visibly relaxed, then blushed. “I’m glad,” she said.

“But I completely understand. Now. And I don’t think anything was wrong,” I said boldly. It was my turn to touch her arm. “Thank you. It was very important for me to read them.”

She looked me in the eye, seized my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek.

“You’re a special boy, John James Todd. Donald told me. Very special. I’m glad you read them. I … I telephoned Donald this morning. He’s coming down this weekend.”

* * *

I was not sure quite how to take this. I saw what she was trying to do, but it was both good and bad news. I knew at once that the weekend would hold a necessary confrontation and possible recognition, but it also meant the end of my brief sojourn with Faye. After the tense conversation about the letters, a relaxed amiability settled upon us again. But as the week passed I became more agitated at the thought of Donald’s arrival because I knew from the way Faye spoke about him that she and Donald were now more than friends. And this bothered me. Can you understand it? I felt proprietorial. Foolishly (I knew this), I was still fascinated by her. The letters had brought us even closer. I regarded her as my legitimate interest. Donald belonged to another area of my life, with which I also had to come to terms. Having the two overlap was most unwelcome.

Perhaps, perhaps I might have got through everything — Donald, Faye, my future — if I had not let myself down once again. Another crass error of judgment.

I was looking forward to my last day alone with Faye. The weather was still warm and we had planned a picnic the night before (we would have to take the little girls, but I did not regard them, properly speaking, as people). The intention was to motor to Oxford, hire a punt and punt up the Cherwell to find an isolated stretch of riverbank. We were sitting at breakfast contemplating the pleasures of the day ahead when through the door came Peter Hobhouse, a day early.

My cousin was a year or so older than I, but he looked considerably more in his uniform — khaki jacket, jodhpurs, high-laced boots, peaked cap. Peter was a big bland fair-headed fellow, with round unformed features and permanently rosy cheeks. We made a strong contrast side by side — almost two different ethnic types: prototypical Celt and pink and ruddy Anglo-Saxon. He was perfectly friendly but I instinctively disliked him, despite all the help he later gave me. I have no idea why; it was an honest — or rather, a simple — prejudice. Perhaps it was just his soft burliness, his unwarranted easy manner, as if to say, “Life holds no surprises for me.” However, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Faye told him I wanted to join a public school battalion and, to my vague embarrassment, he energetically shook my hand again and said, “Congratulations.”

Thank God, he declined to come on the picnic, despite his mother’s entreaties. But I should have recognized that his arrival altered everything. Here was her son; my role as “nephew” was firmly reestablished, just as her’s was as “aunt” and “mother.” All this was lost on me: that is the kind of person I am.

We hired our punts at the boathouse at the bottom of Bardwell Lane. The sky was cloudy but the air was sweet and cool. There was a faint breeze. Thrushes and blackbirds sang in the horse chestnuts, great green continents of leaves.

It took me about ten minutes and about the same number of collisions with both banks of the river to gain some sort of insight into the dynamics of punting. Eventually we made our way cautiously but not too erratically upstream. My clumsiness had afforded Faye and the girls much amusement and our mood as we set off was, I thought, ideally merry. They laughed again, but more circumspectly, when we were overtaken by a punt energetically and skillfully propelled by a one-armed soldier (Oxford was one large convalescent home).

We punted for half an hour up the placid Cherwell as it wound through the fields and water meadows of Kidlington. Presently, we found a suitable spot and moored the punt. We spread two traveling rugs on the bank and unpacked the wicker picnic basket. We ate cold chicken and game pie, Stilton and apples. The girls drank fizzy lemonade, Faye and I a cider cup. The weather improved, grew milder; we got some sun. The day seemed summery but there was a latent spring coolness that made it invigorating and kept away the flies and wasps. I drank too much cider cup deliberately.

After lunch I played a furious game of tag with Alceste and Gilda while Faye read a book. I ran and shouted, twisted and turned, tiring myself and them. Soon I felt flushed and sticky with sweat. I persuaded the girls to wander some way down the bank to feed a family of ducks that were swimming there. I went back to Faye. She had erected a small ivory-colored parasol with a long fringe and sat beneath it, her back resting against a pollarded willow. She was wearing a flared sand-colored golfing skirt and a coral blouse with a scalloped collar. A wide straw hat lay on the rug beside her. She looked cool and serene. I looked at her. The dark shadows beneath her eyes. I gulped cider cup. A mild fire of alcohol flared in my body. Now or never.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “It’s ages since I’ve done this. I’m so glad we came.”