Arthur chomped on another forkful of beef. ‘Not my bailiwick, medical know-how,’ he said, not bothering to finish what was in his mouth before speaking.
Ralph put down his knife and fork and reached for his wineglass. He was surprisingly shocked by the news that Hope might die, and by the callous manner in which his father spoke of his sister. Did nothing penetrate that thick blubbery skin of his?
‘Was this the reason you invited me to join you for dinner this evening?’ Ralph asked.
‘Do I need a reason to see my eldest son?’
‘You usually do.’
‘As opposed to your only reason for ever wanting to see me: money.’
‘That’s not true,’ Ralph lied. ‘I enjoy our wrangling get-togethers. I think you do, too.’
Ignoring the comment, Arthur added more mustard to his plate. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how your search to become gainfully employed is progressing?’
‘I have a number of interesting avenues which I’m following,’ Ralph lied again. He still hadn’t given the matter much serious consideration; he’d been too busy enjoying himself.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Arthur said. ‘Anything remotely promising?’
‘Time will tell.’
‘Meanwhile, I suppose you’d like me to help you out some more until you’ve secured a position that befits your particular skills?’
Surprised that his father seemed in such a generous frame of mind, he said, ‘Well, if you could see your way to—’
‘How much help would you require?’ Arthur interrupted him.
Ralph resumed eating and weighed up his options. Ask for too much and his father would laugh at him. Ask for too little and he’d regret not asking for more. ‘A thousand would go a long way to easing my situation.’
‘And what situation would that be? Skid Row? Tight Spot Alley? Destitute Avenue? Beam End Road? Down on Your Uppers Street?’ The old man was smirking. ‘Or maybe Impoverished Cul de Sac?’
‘There’s no need to rub it in,’ Ralph said.
‘Why shouldn’t I? Since I’m the one expected to bail you out.’
‘Some of us haven’t been as lucky as you. After all, when you were not much older than I am your father died and left you a sizeable inheritance.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I can quite see how my demise would be of the utmost convenience to you. But I assure you, I have no intention of popping my clogs any time soon.’
Ralph willed himself not to snatch up the plate in front of him and grind it into his father’s insufferable gloating face. The old man couldn’t help himself, could he? He couldn’t just write out a cheque and be done with it. Oh no, he had to make Ralph squirm and reduce him to begging. But beg he would if he had to.
‘Look, Dad, I know you have my best interests at heart—’
‘You know, I’d have more respect for you if you showed some strength of character and told me to bugger off,’ his father interrupted him. ‘But there you sit, like a pitiful dog desperate to obey its master. Have you really no self-respect?’
At his father’s question, combined with the sneering contempt in his voice, something deep inside Ralph shifted. All at once he saw himself in his father’s face; it was as though he were looking in a mirror, and he didn’t like what he saw.
You truly are your father’s son, aren’t you?
That was what Isabella had said to him that night at Rules when things had become so heated between them. The thought that he could ever be as abhorrent as Arthur Devereux filled him with disgust. It’s not too late, he found himself thinking. Not too late to change, to be a better man. Because God forbid he would end up a carbon copy of the man sitting opposite him.
Very slowly, Ralph put down his knife and fork, then just as slowly, he rose to his feet.
‘Sit down, Ralph,’ warned Arthur. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’
It was all he could do not to grab hold of his father by the lapels of his jacket and shake him hard. But with the greatest of restraint, he said, ‘I’m about to prove to you that not only do I have some strength of character, but I still have a modicum of self-respect. I’ll bid you goodnight.’
He collected his coat together with his scarf and gloves from the cloakroom and seconds later he was back on the street in the dark, groping his way through the choking smog.
Yet however bad it was, it was better than staying a moment longer in his father’s poisonous presence.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Charing Cross Mansions, London
December 1962
Isabella
Isabella was feeling immensely sorry for herself.
She had never missed a performance or rehearsal before. Nor had she ever turned up late for filming. She counted herself as a pro. But there was no way she could work, not unless the role called for a lingering death scene. That she could manage with considerable ease, and a great deal of conviction.
Never before had she felt so ill. She had started coughing a few days before the smog had descended, but once London was fully enveloped in the freezing cold fog that was a dirty grey-brown colour, she had succumbed to a debilitating chest infection. She shouldn’t have gone out in the smog, the doctor had scolded her when she’d queued for more than an hour at the surgery yesterday morning. The cramped waiting room had been full of people coughing, their chests heaving, just like hers, with the effort to breathe.
The girl with whom she shared her flat had packed a case yesterday afternoon and fled to the country. Why hadn’t Isabella thought to do the same and escape to Suffolk? Especially as Romily had telephoned to suggest the very same thing. But no, she had made light of how ill she was and cast herself in the role of trooper – the show must go on!
Her throat as parched as the Sahara, she ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried to swallow. Drink plenty of fluids, the doctor had told her, and seeing that the water jug by the side of her bed was empty, she tried to summon the energy to go and fill it. She had one foot on the floor when she was seized by a violent coughing fit. Reaching for a handkerchief, she covered her mouth in an attempt to contain the worst of the cough that racked through her body. When it eventually subsided, and she removed the hanky, she saw it was spotted with blood. Not good, she thought. Not good at all.
Drained of all energy, her body bathed in a disgustingly feverish sweat, she sank back against the pillows and headboard. She closed her eyes and a soothing image of Island House washed over her; it was of the garden in late spring when the lilac trees were in full bloom and the cherry blossom was at its best. It was an image that inevitably led her to think of her father, Elijah, who, as Romily’s gardener, had worked so tirelessly to make the garden one of the finest in the area.