Maggie Gee - The White Family

Alfred had started it. Not meaning to! By saying that Darren’s writing was changing. True, in his view. But he should have said nothing –

I’m just an old fool. I don’t understand .

What a day it had been. With the terrible news that Alfred had had to cope with already –

Darren didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have done.

But Alfred knew his son had meant it.

At first Alfred had been overjoyed to see him. Darren came back, when everyone had gone, just when Alfred was starting to feel a bit down. Then suddenly, as if in a dream, Darren marched back in, on his own. It was nearly nine o’clock, so he only just made it.

‘You’ve come back to see me. What about your dinner?’

‘We cancelled it.’

‘What about your plane?’

‘We’re not going.’

Joy turned to worry. ‘But you’ve got to go back. You’ll be late for work.’

‘My work’s not like that.’

But Alfred still fretted. ‘This bother of mine — it’s messing you about. You’ve got your life in America. I hope you’re not letting anyone down.’ It was one of his rules: never let people down .

‘You’re more important. We’ve decided to stay. I mean, I’ve hardly talked to you.’

Alfred hoped Darren wouldn’t talk about the cancer, which he’d put aside, mentally, for the day. It was one of his knacks. He’d learned to be strong. If things upset you, put them out of your mind.

‘I’ve been meaning to say, I’ve been enjoying your clippings. I read every one of them. Every word. I’m proud of you, lad. Very proud of you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I sit down and read them, one by one —’

‘I appreciate it, Dad. I really do.’

(He was smiling too much. That was television. They always ended up smiling too much.) ‘— But recently, they seem a bit different. Not all of them. Some of them.’

‘Different good?’

‘Well I don’t know. You’re top of the tree, goes without saying. But it’s like, you’re being more — sarcastic. Not saying what you think. Making jokes of things, like. I liked the pieces where you gave them hell. Laid down the law about right and wrong.’

Alfred saw at once that Darren wasn’t happy. He wished he hadn’t said a word, because he wasn’t an expert, he knew he wasn’t.

‘Journalists don’t lay down the law,’ said Darren. He looked as though he could smell a bad smell.

‘You used to, though. You gave them what for.’

There was a funny pause. Darren was biting his nails. Childish habit, biting your nails.

‘You don’t want to bite your nails, Darren.’

‘ I’m forty years old! ’ He exploded at his father. ‘ How dare you tell me not to bite my nails! ’

It gave Alfred a shock. A horrible shock. His son had never shouted at him. Not since Darren was a little boy. Or quite a big boy. Alfred sorted him out. Kept him in his place, as fathers must. Alfred tried to laugh. Make a joke of it. ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ Alfred said. ‘Just thinking of your television shows. You have to look your best. Don’t you, son?’

Something funny was happening. Darren’s face was very red. ‘How dare you tell me about my writing? Who the hell cares what you think, anyway? What business is it of yours, what I write?’

‘Darren, boy — Darren, lad —’ Alfred made an attempt to pat his arm, but Darren was waving both arms about. His voice was rising. And a nurse was looking, paused in mid-step, you could see she was worried.

‘It’s you who always laid down the law. You were the one who thought you were God. If I did write like that, it was your bloody fault —’

‘But I liked your writing! I’m praising it! I always said, “Darren’ll be a writer!” — Mind you, I thought it would be books.’ At the mention of books Darren clenched his fists, it was like the paddies he had when he was little, and Alfred added, hurriedly, ‘But newspapers are very good as well.’

He was doing his best to calm things down. But Darren had forgotten where they were, it was as if he’d forgotten how old he was and slipped back in time to his teenage days (which weren’t very easy, now Alfred thought about it. He was a difficult boy. Too full of himself. Had to dress him down for his own good.)

‘Nothing I did was ever good enough. You always criticized. You never let up — If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly . I hear those bloody words in my sleep —’

‘No need to swear. In front of ladies.’ For Pamela was listening. And the nurse. Alfred never saw the need for bad language. ‘It’s done you no harm. You’re rich — you’re famous —’ Alfred tried to find something kind to say. ‘George Millington came round after you lot left. He was saying how everyone’s heard of you. Not as my son. As … a household name . That was the actual phrase he used. Me and your mother are proud of you.’

‘ Who the hell cares about George Fucking Millington ?’

It wasn’t working. Darren was getting worse. His voice was going up, he was practically squeaking, it sounded as if his voice hadn’t broken, and Alfred suddenly remembered Darren’s temper, how he couldn’t control it, and Alfred had to hit him –

Had to. Had to. What was I to do? He was a big lad. How can you control them? And Alfred had a temper of his own, as well.

‘I don’t write for the Millingtons. I don’t write for you. You tried to run everything. You wrecked my life.’

It came bursting out. Was he almost crying? It gave Alfred a shock, to see him like that. He felt his whole insides turning over. And he’d had enough shocks already that day. I wrecked his life … What on earth does he mean? It was cruel, saying that. Alfred loved his son.

(How can he attack me, when I’m so ill?)

‘I’m not very well,’ Alfred reminded him. ‘I shouldn’t have upset you. I spoke out of turn. I don’t really know a great deal about writing.’

‘Never mind upset me. You terrorized me. You terrorized all of us. Have you forgotten?’

Why couldn’t he leave it? Dragging things up. Raking over things that were best forgotten — Does he think I enjoyed it, being a father, being the one who had to keep them in order?

‘Do you know that Dirk is practically a fascist? And do you know where he got it from?’

‘That’s bloomin’ stupid. Are you calling me a fascist? I lived through a bloomin’ war against the fascists —’

Then Alfred remembered losing control. He remembered hitting Darren as he lay on the ground, he had just called his father a ‘little Hitler’, he didn’t know what he was saying, of course, but Alfred couldn’t listen to something like that, we spent so many years hating Hitler, and then my own son –

My own dear son . For he was crying, now Alfred saw it clearly, dreadful to see the tears running down, what would they think, the watching women — he hauled himself up, using all his strength, stretched out his hand and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Darren, my duck. Darren, Darren —’

So all his efforts had led to this.

He’d got things wrong, then. Done it wrong. He’d done his best, but got it wrong –

I never meant to. Does anyone ?

‘Everything all right, Mr White?’ It was Staff Nurse Akalawu. Very pleasant. Though coloured. She seemed to be keeping a weather eye.

‘Darren here is a bit upset. If you could leave us alone for a minute …’

‘Just one minute, then I’m afraid he’ll have to go.’

Darren pulled himself together. He had snot on his nose. He looked like he used to when he was a boy.

So I wasn’t a good father. Perhaps it was true. Of course Dirk’s a bit odd, and Shirley’s had her problems, but Darren — I thought we’d got that part right.