Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

The wine had brought an agreeable, warm blur to his brain and dulled the aches better than the hospital analgesics. But as Nina cleared the table and there was a knock at the front door, the fear made his heart thud as though he’d been running. Christ, he thought, how will I face my daughter now? My lovely little granddaughter? Even terminal illness cannot absolve the sins of which he was accused. He was trapped on all sides. Remaining in the kitchen, stalling, while Nina went to greet their girls, he heard the familiar sounds of female voices – three generations of them. Nina and Lucia spoke in Greek, and Bee complained she didn’t understand, bags were dropped, coats removed. He winced at the thought that Bee must not remain alone in a room with him. The sensation of unjust accusation was overwhelming; he would never, ever do anything that would harm his daughter or granddaughter. It was outrageous even to think of it.

‘Hi, Dad.’ Lucia came into the kitchen with a diffident expression, as though wondering whether they would greet each other in the normal way, and her eyes glittered slightly as if fighting tears. He stood up and pulled her into a hug. ‘My darling girl.’ She was wearing a voluminous dress made from what looked like green potato sacks, rough under his hands, and, below that, blue tights and red ankle boots. Spotting little Bee in the doorway, he released his daughter and called, ‘And how’s my sweetest honey bee?’ The girl came over and, as he kissed her on both cheeks, a surge of shame heated his face. Nina and Lucia were watching him. Judging, wondering, recalibrating the family structure. Through the open window, a blackbird was trilling its beautiful song in the garden and, hoping to please Bee, he whistled and warbled a decent reply. A delicate duet ensued, back and forth. Nobody spoke, but Nina looked so sad, he wondered whether she might cry. Instead, she laughed drily. ‘You can still lure the birds from the tree, Ralph.’

‘So, Bee, come with me upstairs, I have something to show you.’ Nina held out a hand and Bee grasped it, trotting out of the kitchen with her. This had evidently been prearranged.

‘Dad…’ Lucia began, then stopped. ‘I need to know. I need you to tell me the truth. What happened, what’s going on.’ He recognised her fear and the desperate need for reassurance. It was vital to convince her he was not a criminal, not a paedophile rapist, but the adoring father he’d always been.

‘I’m innocent,’ he began. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with Daphne, but it must be a sort of breakdown – another one. She’s had lots, I believe. And it’s true that she had a tricky childhood. Bohemian family – you know the sort of thing, with feral children left to their own devices.’ He glanced at Lucia, but she stared blankly, waiting for him to continue. ‘You probably don’t really remember Ed – he’s still a good friend, but lives abroad. A marvellous man, a writer. I don’t know about his fathering skills.’ Ralph hardly felt the icicle of disloyalty. ‘Your mother and I were very good friends with him and Ellie, his wife. But after Ellie was killed in a car crash, I suppose Daphne went pretty bonkers. She got into all sorts of drugs and stuff. A grotesque marriage to a billionaire Greek – private jets and priceless jewels and things. Then penniless for ages. Now she’s a single mother. And, all of a sudden, after all these years, she’s making things up about me. I don’t have a clue.’

‘Really?’ said Lucia, trying to understand. ‘But why would she do that? Why now?’

‘I just don’t know,’ he said, believing his own story, caught up in self-righteousness. ‘It’s appalling. I’ve never experienced something like this. Maybe it’s that thing, what’s it called, false memory syndrome or whatever.’

‘That’s terrible.’ Lucia’s face softened with pity and Ralph risked stretching his hand across the kitchen table and placing it on hers.

‘I’d never harm a child. I hope you know that.’

‘That’s what I’d like to believe, Dad. But I needed to hear it from you. They’re such awful accusations.’

‘Jeb thinks it’ll probably all just go away when they realise what –’ he almost said ‘that woman’ ‘– what she’s like.’

They sat in silence for a moment and when Lucia asked him about his health, he sensed she was bringing the other topic of conversation to a conclusion.

‘Oh, not too bad, you know, just trying to get on with it all.’ He couldn’t face dragging her into that mess as well. The relief of his daughter appearing to believe him gave him strength and he almost forgot Goodlove’s death sentence.

They didn’t stay long. There was a train to catch. Bee’s bedtime, obligations he didn’t take in. But their departure was far better than the arrival.

‘It’ll all be fine,’ whispered Ralph as he embraced Lucia in the hall. ‘Believe me.’ He stooped, hoping to squat down to kiss Bee, but a stabbing pain prevented him. He straightened, took a deep breath and, instead, ruffled her hair, took her hands and sang, ‘“Every honey bee…”’

After they’d left, he said, ‘I think I’ll go to my workroom for a bit.’ When Nina turned her back, he poured another glass from the bottle and scurried out with it before she noticed. This second glass of wine made him angry. He pictured Ed’s party, presumably getting under way: the yeasty tingle of champagne, flickering candlelight, the rumble of conversation in counterpoint with shrieks of laughter and exclamations of joy. Why should he be barred from his old friend’s celebrations? At this stage in the life cycle, just before the deluge, it was more important that they all call it quits and have a final embrace. Surely they would understand that it had become irrelevant for Daphne to continue with her spiteful scheming? When death is dancing outside your door, you must do what the hell you want.

He told Nina he wasn’t hungry for supper and lied that he was going to meet Jeb.

‘So late? It’s almost nine.’ He saw her notice the jacket he had just put on and was glad he’d placed the tie in his pocket.

‘Just a friendly drink in a pub. Won’t be long.’ Funny how often lies were so much easier than the truth.

By the time he stepped out of the taxi in front of the Garrick Club, he was tempted to abort the mission and go home. He knew it was folly. Merely breaking the conditions of his bail and coming into contact with his accuser was risking arrest and worse. They’d warned him. Shooting pains were knifing his back and he felt shrivelled and malevolent, an inebriated Rumpelstiltskin. As he shuffled inside he was met by the familiar hit of lavish air – distant creamy sauces, expensive perfumes, polished wood. The porter was all obliging smiles and showed him upstairs. They both ignored the noticeable if muffled ripple of reaction when a small group of members recognised him on the way. This muted excitement was something Ralph associated with celebrations, like the polite audiences at his concerts or lectures. He knew it was for a different reason now but chose to pay no attention. They had not yet locked him in the stocks or pelted him with rotten fruit.

The porter motioned to Ralph to stand aside as two waitresses hurried up behind them with a large chocolate cake covered in raspberries and blazing with candles. They opened a door on to a private room and the party guests began a dirge-like rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. What a dismal, droning, little song, he thought, watching phantom-like through the open door to where about twenty-five people were sitting around a long, white-clothed table laden with flowers and twinkling tealights. They were all turned away from him towards Edmund and the cake. Edmund had the dignified charisma of a medieval king with his towering height and his extravagant but elegant gestures, which threatened to spill a glass of red wine held precariously in one hand. However, there was also a frail list to his lanky frame – an old, white-haired king dressed in a burgundy velvet jacket. The guests were like courtiers, murmuring encouragement, laughing easily. They were at the point in a dinner where a good deal of drinking has happened and their faces looked pink and happy. When Edmund blew out the candles (could there really be eighty? Ralph wondered) everyone applauded excessively, as though he’d done something much more remarkable.