New World in the Morning Read online

“For the moment, perhaps.”

  “No, no, for ever.”

  It gave me a warm feeling, being a good bloke for ever, even if he did conspicuously inspect his fingers to let us see that they were crossed.

  While his mother and I were having coffee I told him to run to a nearby shop to buy a couple of Aeros and two bags of crisps—for Junie had shaken her head with regard to herself—so that we’d then have something to nibble on as we laboured in his bedroom.

  “Can I get a Coke as well?”

  “May I?” I spun one of the coins I’d been about to hand him. “If it’s tails—yes.”

  It landed on the carpet with the Queen uppermost.

  Blithely disregarded.

  “Thanks, Dad.” He gave my cheek a hasty kiss. “We’ll have a sort of midnight feast.”

  “Just so long as it finishes at least three hours before midnight!”

  His bedroom was as untidy as ever but definitely appealing: his divan with its row of brightly coloured cushions, the walls covered with travel posters, postcards, magazine cutouts—mainly of sports stars—and with pictures of animals he’d drawn himself. Books and records filled not only his shelves but overflowed onto his desk; also onto the carpet where they mingled, much at risk, with cars and tennis balls and a seaplane in the process of construction. It was a junior, domesticated version of a treasure island, very father-friendly. I sat on the floor, my feet tucked under me, and Matt drew up his comfortable but battered armchair. In his lap a few sheets of loose-leaf rested on a boys’ adventure annual, circa 1970.

  It was one of my own, which I had relinquished to him some eighteen months before.

  “Now then,” I prompted. ‘The six people whom I’d most like to change places with.’ Six seems rather a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I suppose we’ve had a month to do it. Too long really. With only a week, I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

  “Mmm,” I said. “Well, maybe.”

  “In any case, I’ve done five.”

  “Who?”

  “Greg Rusedski, Alan Shearer, Darren Gough. David Duchovny and Noel Gallagher. But I couldn’t think of much to write about Noel Gallagher.”

  Alan Shearer reminded me of Moira Shearer. We’d hang onto Alan Shearer, even if we dispensed with all the rest.

  “It doesn’t seem very varied. Three sportsmen. Two bods out of show business.”

  “Yes, but different branches of sport and different branches of show business. And no one said it needed to be varied.”

  “But no politicians…doctors…women…”

  “What do I know about politicians—or doctors—Miss Martin said she wanted it to come from the heart. And the girls will probably write about the women: odds-on it’s Mariah Carey, Demi Moore or the Spice Girls. Yuk!” He gave an imitation of somebody being sick.

  “Yes, but if all of you are writing more or less about the same people, isn’t it going to be extremely boring for Miss Martin?”

  “That’s her problem.”

  “Yours, too, in a way—if you’re aiming to rise above the common herd.”

  “Listen, Dad. I’ve done those five. They’re fine. I don’t want to change them, I haven’t any time.”

  I looked at his face and saw how obdurate he was. I decided not to push. “Okay, then. So the sixth has got to be a real humdinger!”

  “Gosh! How you keep up with all the modern lingo!”

  “Quiet, you.” While we searched for candidates we opened our bags of crisps and munched companionably. He offered me his can of Coke; I shook my head. “Do these people have to be alive?”

  “Oh, Dad, I’m not going to write about Julius Caesar or Napoleon. Or William Shakespeare. Or Robert Louis Stevenson. Forget it.”

  “How about Ghandi?”

  “No thanks.”

  “But with all of history to choose from, can’t you see your list seems a little… Impoverished?”

  “She said from the heart.”

  I had a burst of inspiration.

  “How about Superman?”

  “What? Oh, for Pete’s sake, Dad! Get real!”

  “Well, wouldn’t you change places with Superman? I would. And I bet she didn’t exclude people out of the comic strips and fiction.”

  He looked at me pityingly. “I wouldn’t change places with Superman. Superman is creepy. He’s a pain.”

  “Christ! You’re difficult to please.”

  “Watch it,” he said more happily. “I’ll tell Mum!”

  We settled back into ruminative crunching. I said: “I hate to feel restricted, though.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Want to find the really perfect example.”

  He seemed gratified by the degree of importance I was attaching to it. Held out the Coke again. I accepted. I think we both felt very close.

  “Hey, I’ve got it! A fellow, Matt, that no one else will think of. Do him justice and you’re guaranteed to shine.”

  “Who is it, then? You?”

  “Well, that hadn’t actually occurred to me.”

  This time Matt was puzzled by my suggestion rather than outright dismissive.

  “Theseus? You mean, the bloke that killed the Minotaur? What makes you think I’d want to be like him?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons.”

  My son looked sceptical.

  “Firstly, young Matthias, he rid the world of the greatest evil then hanging over it. He saved hundreds of lives. Thousands. Maybe millions if you bring it up to date…the cumulative effect of unborn children…”

  “Dad, it’s a myth! Theseus is a myth! But you certainly do believe in things, don’t you—I mean, once you get going?”

  He sounded half admiring, half uneasy. I ignored it. I gave him a moment to relate this myth to modern times: to think in terms of nuclear warheads and the like, of tyrants such as Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein. I hoped he would make his own connections.

  “Secondly, he delivered people from other kinds of oppression.”

  I thought Nelson Mandela might come into his mind. Or Martin Luther King. Mother Theresa. Albert Schweitzer. He probably hadn’t heard of Dag Hammarskjold or Pope John XXIII.

  “You make him sound like Jesus.”

  I decided to ignore this, too. It was no part of my aim to encourage irony on such a subject.

  “Thirdly, he had a marvellously romantic love affair. When he set off to kill the Minotaur, Ariadne held the thread which would later guide him out of the labyrinth, even though by doing so she was betraying her own family.”

  I paused again, endeavouring to remember all the great twentieth-century love stories in which a woman provided similarly heroic assistance. Surely there had to be a plethora.

  But I could come up only with Spellbound. Pandora and the Flying Dutchman. And Jean Kent throwing herself in the path of a bullet intended for Stewart Granger.

  “Fourthly, it seems to me that right from the moment he started getting ready to go off in search of his father he led an absolutely golden existence. Full of adventure and achievement and a steady sense of purpose!”

  “Imagine going off in search of your father!”

  “But what do you think of it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Just Superman in shorts and sandals…tunic and sandals.”

  My incipient impatience began to increase. “Matt, I simply don’t believe you’d choose not to be like him! And why the heck should he be creepy? Oh, forget the movies, can’t you?”

  Yet he remained indecisive.

  “Here,” I said, “pass over the paper and the biro!”

  That made up his mind. He surrendered them at once. He also handed me the annual.

  Then thoughtfully unwrapped his Aero and with a mouth full of chocolate began to cut out the shot-putter from an empty packet of Scott’s Porridge Oats—to the detriment, no doubt, of his mum’s sharpest pair of scissors.

  4

  There was still enough light to permit a pleasurable wander in the garden—Junie a
nd I strolled hand in hand across the grass. The air felt gentle and a blackbird singing in the branches of one of our apple trees was answered, counterpointed, by a thrush. We made a tour of the estate: admired the goldfish in the fishpond and the splendour of a clump of daffodils upon a bank; the tiny buds of blossom that were now appearing overhead: we had pear and cherry trees as well as apple. It was a beautiful half-acre, bounded by a high wall of weathered brick. We sat on a wooden bench in a small natural arbour, stretched out our legs, looked back in the declining light at the soft red brick of the house itself.

  “You know, I never take this place for granted,” said Junie. “Do you? That’s one of the things I was thinking about today. How fortunate we are.”

  “Especially when you consider what’s going on in other parts of the world. Genocide, oppression, torture… Earthquakes, floods.”

  I should have been a moralist.

  Clearly, already was!

  “Yes, but I wasn’t meaning that. I meant—without comparison.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Remember how we so much liked this house that we used to make detours on our way home from school, simply to look at it? It wasn’t grand or anything but I just knew any family must be happy here. At peace with themselves. I imagined flagstones on the kitchen floor, rows of jams and pickles in the larder, breakfast in the garden, flowers on a polished table in the hall. Sunlight filling every room.” She paused, in wonderment. “And in some ways it’s been even better than that. For instance I hadn’t reckoned on that bright red Aga: practically the hub of the whole house…”

  “You hadn’t reckoned on the house at all. Whoever would have thought we’d end up in a rectory?” I smiled, wryly. “And without my having to take holy orders?”

  Indeed, the whole thing had seemed extraordinary. (Miraculous, said Junie.) Suddenly we’d heard that a new rectory was being built actually in the church grounds, some half a mile away; this present one would soon be up for sale. We’d known instantly that it was meant for us. Yet our utter conviction hadn’t saved us from anxiety, nor obsession. We’d likened it to being in love. It was in fact more stressful. I’d never experienced such fear of ultimate frustration: there could exist no other house so wholly right for us. It was ridiculous how childish we had been. Well, no—not me. Junie. Now she had grown placid but that was only because of years of trust in my protection. Then she had seemed as mercurial as I myself had been stoical and strong.

  Stoical, strong and resourceful. We went to Junie’s parents; asked for help. I was in the mood to barter: an unacknowledged pact. They’d known me for three years, had all but adopted me. Groomed me, tagged me. They themselves had married young and—they said—been happy as lovebirds. Likewise they’d always claimed I had no need of university. ‘Gilding the golden boy,’ was what they’d called it. (Golden Boy: my epithet at school.) More honestly they could have called it, ‘Risking his faithfulness.’ No, they said. Better to settle down in a good job, get married, raise children, stay in Deal. The Fletcher clan was nothing if not familial.

  Staunchly so.

  The house belonged to the Church Commissioners, who knew there were other parties interested and had therefore decided, finally, on a sealed bid auction.

  We had no idea, of course, what our competitors were offering. We became reckless. Didn’t care if we went too high. Didn’t care how long it might take to pay back Junie’s parents.

  Pay them back, that is, the difference between the sum we’d offered and the far smaller sum which a building society had offered us. In order to be eligible I had hurriedly applied for a position at Lloyds Bank in the town.

  The day we learnt we’d got the house should have been, as Junie said, one of the most exciting of our lives. It was only a pity I suffered from a toothache during most of it—and perhaps, too, a small bit, from reaction.

  “But yes,” I agreed now, “we have been very fortunate.”

  For a while we appreciated in silence what we had.

  Then I prodded the grass with the tip of one shoe. “It’ll soon need mowing.” I hadn’t cut it yet this year. “Isn’t it amazing how those daffodils keep hanging on? A week ago—ten days ago—I really thought their time had come. You’ve got to admire their tenacity.”

  “Resilient,” said Junie.

  I laughed. “Are they resilient? All right, you’ve got to admire that, too.”

  After a further few minutes I yawned. I withdrew my hand from hers and sensuously stretched out my arms. It was an evening that induced contentment and gave a pleasant preview of approaching summer.

  “You wouldn’t feel like walking Susie with me?” I asked.

  “Oh, that would be nice, darling, but I can’t. For one thing I’ve got some pies in the oven: pies to take tomorrow. And for another it would mean leaving Matt on his own. I know he’s quite a big boy now and that we shouldn’t be away for long but all the same…”

  “He is quite a big boy now. Do you realize it’s his birthday in under a fortnight?”

  “How can I forget? He gives us plenty of reminders.”

  “If we were Jewish he would then be fully adult.” I was aware my feelings were confused.

  “It’s my birthday in about six weeks. I think I’ll be fully adult, too. Oh, I’m not so sure. Maybe.”

  “As you know, he wants some dumbbells. If you like I’ll order you the same.”

  “Why not take him on your walk?”

  “He’s just got in a bath. To celebrate completion of his project. He’s been lent a Stephen King and means to have a wallow.”

  I called the dog and went out on my own.

  5

  We walked down to the sea. I found a stick for Susie to chase along the shingle and, during intervals of hurling it, tried to skim flat stones across the waves. Moonlight set a path upon the water and the sky was packed with stars. For a full minute I stood there with my head thrown back. I imagined I was Captain Kirk, commander of the starship Enterprise, now speeding boldly through the galaxies. It was fun to think of him unshakably protecting us.

  “Good evening, Mr Groves.”

  It was Moira Sheffield. I’d been so caught up in space I gave a start.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel we interrupted some important metaphysical reverie.”

  “Yes, I was whizzing through the stars with Captain Kirk.”

  “Oh, in that case it was important. It’s just that seeing you I didn’t stop to think.” She added: “But it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “Not when you’re looking up at the stars,” smiled her companion. “Good evening,” she said to me.

  “Mr Groves…Mrs Dawlish…though I believe you two already know each other.”

  “No, no,” said Mrs Dawlish, who was fortyish and pleasant-looking but, in this half-light at any rate, wholly unfamiliar. “It’s only that I’ve been into the shop once or twice; no reason why you should remember. I’m surprised I don’t come in daily—it’s by far the most enthralling shop in town.”

  “Thank you. Yes, of course I remember you.” We shook hands. It occurred to me as somewhat strange that I should be shaking hands with her when I had never done so with her friend.

  “And by the way,” she said, “I love the fruit bowl.”

  Then Susie came bounding back from wherever she’d been and jumped up at all three of us. I called her off sharply—and much to my satisfaction she obeyed.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Miss Sheffield, bending to stroke the chastened animal. “But why Susie? I’d have thought you’d call her Patch.”

  “Susie’s short for Black-Eyed Susan.”

  “Ah.”

  I was pleased to be discovered not totally predictable.

  “Isn’t it a heavenly evening!” said Mrs Dawlish. “I feel we hardly had need of our coats.”

  “Mr Groves is evidently a hardier type.”

  “Or just more reckless,” I said.

  “Doesn’t your wife,” asked Miss Sheffield, “tell you that y
ou ought to wear a coat?”

  “How do you know I’ve got one? A wife, that is. Or come to that—a coat?”

  She laughed. “Oh, don’t be difficult! I may as well reveal it: you were the subject of a spot of speculation. I said you didn’t look as if you could be married. Liz said she was certain that you were.”

  I had wondered whether they would have spoken of me. And clearly Miss Sheffield’s impression had been favourable: D’you suppose he might be single? I felt so gratified that—ludicrously—I began to get an erection.

  “First…why did you think I could be single? Did I come across as queer?”

  “Good heavens, no,” she smiled. “Not at all. You looked too…”

  “Young?” I interpolated.

  “Let’s just say, too unbowed by care and the responsibilities of family life.” She, also, was sounding slightly less than serious. “Too boyish—no, that isn’t right. Too happy, maybe? I’m not sure what it was; merely a feeling.”

  “And you, Mrs Dawlish? I must have impressed you as appearing to carry the world upon my shoulders?”

  “He’s playing with us,” said Miss Sheffield. “Now that isn’t nice. It’s not the hallmark of a gentleman. We made ourselves vulnerable and he betrayed our trust.”

  “Perhaps I’m simply not as cynical as Moira,” said Mrs Dawlish.

  “Yes, she is cynical, isn’t she?” I was aware that I was flirting; almost as blatantly as the woman in question.

  “Also I think to myself,” went on Mrs Dawlish, “that if a man is in his thirties and interested in women and—well, I may as well say it—as attractive as you are…then certainly he’s married. There rests my case.”

  “And I suppose,” said Miss Sheffield, “that if into the bargain he has a dog… None of it conclusive, mind, but yes I admit that gradually I might be coming round to your way of thinking. I’m going to lose my 20p.”

  “You had 20p riding on this?”

  “And finally—most damning of all, the bit that really clinches it—he won’t tell us! Now why should he be cagey?”

  “Okay, I’ll come clean, then.”

  “Well?”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Not?” exclaimed Miss Sheffield.