Maggie Gee - The White Family

‘I had no idea —’ A few memories came back of Alfred being crotchety when I went round. Exploding when we didn’t put back the lid on the dubbin tin, after doing our football boots. We were eleven or twelve. He had told us off. Then later on he walked me home. ‘Always finish a job,’ he said. ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.’ My father, of course, never finished a job. He would start the lawn, which was postage-stamp-size, shave a small strip of green, then collapse in a deckchair, sighing, despondent, a beer in his hand. ‘Maybe I idealize your dad.’

‘Everyone thinks he’s wonderful. It makes me puke.’

His coffee came. He swigged it down in one. It was boiling hot. As he registered the pain he started blowing like a whale, then spreading his lips in a tragic mask. Very white teeth; I had neglected mine. ‘Aach! Ounnnhhh! Bloody burnt myself!’

‘I like your dad,’ I said, feebly. ‘I like your dad, I liked your wife.’

‘I feel like shit,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I am a shit. Life is shit.’

Part of me wanted him to crawl a bit more, but another part needed him back on his feet. ‘Come on, Darren. You’re not a shit. Your dad being ill — it’s very upsetting. But I mean, you’re — great. You’re basically fine.’

‘I’m not bloody fine!’

‘You’ve made it, Darren. You’ve got money and fame and wives and kids and all the other things we should have by our age —’

‘Wives? Ex-wives. That isn’t such a triumph. I’ll probably soon have another ex-wife.’

I tried to suppress a twinge of pleasure. ‘You only just got married, didn’t you? I did like Susie. The little bit we talked. She’s … attractive, obviously.’ (But less so than Melissa.) ‘She seemed, you know, well, very — direct.’

‘Oh she’s that all right. She’s fucking direct.’

‘Well that’s something, isn’t it. My wife was a liar. And she left me .’

He looked at me astonished. (I saw the boy. A flash of his face when he was a boy.) ‘What do you mean? Rose and Katy both walked out.’

‘I thought — I assumed —’ And I had assumed. ‘I always thought it was you trading up.’

He shook his head, three times, over-vehement. ‘No, I would never have left my kids. It hurts like hell. It’s a fucking disaster.’

I avoided his eyes. His tie was expensive, but bore a trail of tomato seeds, drying. ‘Might you — will you — have kids with Susie?’

‘That bitch.’ A pause; he seemed to hear himself. ‘She’s not really a bitch. I’ve had too much to drink. But she says we’re not ready for them yet, as a couple. Whatever that’s fucking supposed to mean.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘We fight a lot. She thinks it wouldn’t be good for the child …’ There was a long pause. He stared at his nails, or the bare fingertips where his nails should have been. He had bitten the flesh, little blackened pink wounds. ‘She’s right in a way. It was hell for my kids … Do you know what it means to feel you’ve fucked up?’

‘Well can’t you stop?’

‘Look, it’s all handed down. They dole it out, we pass it on. The bloody therapists are right about that much. My fucking father’s got a lot to answer for —’ He broke off with a gesture of despair. ‘You don’t believe me. I can see it in your face. You’re so bloody English. Can’t you handle anger?’

It was so American, ‘handling anger’. ‘Look, you’re my mate. My old mate. It’s just, I was sitting here, half-asleep — It’s a shock to see you. I’m just — catching up. And I am quite fond of your old man.’

‘He’s a cunt,’ he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. I think his energy was wearing down. He’d eaten the bacon, fat and all; so much for his elaborate diets.

‘But he and your mum are happy. Aren’t they?’

‘She was always blind to Dad’s weak points. And he’s fond of her, I can’t deny it. Though he could be bloody rude to her as well. If the food was wrong. And she was not a great cook … I’ve never expected my wives to cook. I take them out, or we get food in, so I’ve managed to escape that part of the pattern.’ He seemed to sit up a bit straighter, briefly. ‘Look, as a father — Dad was, well, hell. Expected too much. Nothing was good enough. Why do you think I went halfway round the world? I still hear his voice, in the back of my head.’

‘But can’t you forget him, now you’re so far away?’

He looked at me with a kind of desperation. ‘Will you listen to me? I have to tell someone. I hate my life. I hate my life . Never at home, no time at home. Which is partly why it took me so long to realize the problem with my father. My last wife tried to tell me, and I thought she was mad. Then Susie said it and it started to make sense.’

Aha, I thought. So it was all still new. Darren is embracing hate like a convert.

‘My life might look good from the outside. But my wives walk out. Because of my temper. I can’t control it. Any more than Dad could.’

‘You’ve got a beautiful wife. You’re rich —’

Darren reached across the table and took me by the shoulder, and when he spoke he was almost choking, he’d gone red in the face, and the words burst out — ‘Can you please stop telling me how lucky I am?’ Slowly his hand loosed its grip on my shoulder, and his colour faded back towards normal. ‘We had breakfast in Covent Garden today. We started going over the same old ground. It drives me crazy. Susie can’t leave things alone. She keeps on saying I should tell my father that he made us suffer. Then I’ll be less angry … Apparently. I don’t see why. He could never say sorry. Never. Never .’

I myself had never managed to tell my father about the million ways he failed us. But one day, when he was getting weak but before they started on the morphine, he said to me, out of the blue, ‘I should have given you a wedding present. You and Jeanie. I’m sorry, Thomas. I’ve never been able to keep hold of money.’

He’d made his speech absurdly late; Jean had left me a few months earlier. Maybe he wanted to say sorry for something more than the missing present. I muttered, stupidly, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

It mattered, though, that he tried to say sorry.

‘I lost my temper in the restaurant,’ said Darren. ‘Shouted my head off. Which Susie hates. Everyone stared. I came over here … I don’t know why. I wanted to see you.’

‘I’m glad you did. I’m very glad —’ I cast around for something to say. ‘Look Susie might be right, you know. You could give your dad a chance to say sorry.’

‘ Dad ? You’re joking! He’s always right. And he is, about some things. He sticks to his guns. His opinions are shit, but he’s brave, by his lights. Maybe I’m afraid he’s a better man than me. I mean, I’m soft. I like the good —’

‘I knew there was a reason why you left Hillesden.’ We smiled at each other. The mood lightened.

He boasted a bit. I encouraged him. The Ritz, the Plaza, trips to Tibet, regular slots for the Washington Post , Susie’s income, his children’s brilliance … Just when I was starting to flag a bit, he looked at me, with his reddened blue eyes.

‘But you know I always wanted to write a book. And a book is the one thing I have not written … I hate being tethered up with my thoughts.’

‘It’s hard,’ I said, though I like my own thoughts. Which were, in that instant, I’m happier than you. Less successful, but less unhappy.

After a refill of coffee, he stood up to go. I wondered if he would pay his bill.

‘I’ll have to go back to the hotel and find Susie … I talked too much —’