22. River
22
It was a long time since he’d been alone with his father. River tried to remember the last time the two of them had talked in private as he approached Geoffrey, who was sitting on a bench in his beloved garden.
It must be three years ago, when his father had made a brief stop in Sydney while chasing some business deal in New Zealand. They’d met in a hotel bar near the airport and had talked for a couple of awkward hours about nothing in particular – Geoffrey’s flight, the weather, the increasing cost of maintaining Brellasham Manor.
River remembered asking after Clara and Mrs N and being told that they were keeping well. That was all, ‘keeping well’, and his father could elaborate no further. People’s emotional lives were lost on Geoffrey, including his own.
Tonight, he was sitting still as a statue, staring at the beds of bright begonias and delicate campanula that were edged with ornamental trees which had been expertly pruned. Everything in this garden was ordered and symmetrical, which was completely unlike real life, thought River. The ensuing conversation would be proof enough of that.
He swallowed and sat down on the bench. Geoffrey, staring into the distance, glanced round and frowned at his unexpected visitor.
‘Oh, it’s you. I thought you were Bartie, coming back. Is something wrong? Has his developer contact got cold feet at the thought of taking on such a huge project?’
‘Probably not, but I have no idea. I’m not here on Bartie’s behalf. I just thought it would be nice to have a chat.’
Surprise – or was it panic? – flickered across his father’s face. ‘If you like.’
‘So, how are you feeling?’ River asked, before mentally kicking himself.
What sort of inane opening enquiry was that to a man who never discussed his emotions? Clara would have rolled her eyes. And he felt sure that Bartie had initiated a much more appropriate conversation when he’d been sitting here.
‘I’m feeling the same as I was this morning,’ said Geoffrey, patently not intending to make this conversation any easier.
‘The garden’s beautiful,’ said River, trying a more neutral opening and already regretting giving his father another chance to be a halfway decent parent.
‘It’s always a riot of colour at this time of year, and very peaceful.’
‘Is that why you like to sit here? Because of the peace?’
Geoffrey sniffed. ‘Probably.’
He seemed irritated by his son, just as he had been when River was growing up. He hadn’t made a great deal of effort to stay in touch over the years, but then neither had River, whose own lack of contact had played its part in their estrangement. It had been hard for both of them, being a world apart.
River took a deep breath. ‘The house must get lonely sometimes.’
He was venturing into emotional territory again but he wanted to know more about his father. The two of them had almost nothing in common but, much to his surprise, he still cared about the old man. That was why he’d travelled across the globe after finding out that he was in trouble.
Geoffrey gave him a sideways glance. ‘There are often people around – Mrs Netherway, Clara, various people working on the house and gardens – and I keep myself busy. One of the benefits of living in a falling-down house is that there’s always a lot to keep one engaged. Though it appears that won’t be the case for much longer.’
‘Unless we can think of a way for you to keep the house, rather than sell it.’
‘Even if we could, what’s the use, really?’ Geoffrey stared at River, his eyes pale in his lined face. ‘You don’t want this house. You don’t care about it. So what would happen to it once I’ve died?’
River sat silently for a moment. Coming back here had shown him that he did care about this house, which was the biggest surprise of all. He’d thought the manor cold and forbidding as a child, with echoing spaces and rooms never entered. Yet now, seeing it through adult eyes, he could appreciate the grandeur of the place, and his family history that was imprinted on every brick.
It was far too large for one man, whether that be him or his father. But he would be sad to see it converted into flats and Geoffrey turned out.
‘It’s not that I don’t want it,’ he tried to explain. ‘It’s simply not been a part of my life for a long time.’ River swallowed, feeling that he was floundering. ‘But I know how important the house is to you. It must be full of memories.’
‘I’ve lived in this house my whole life so, yes, it holds a plethora of memories. Some happy, some not so.’ Geoffrey paused. ‘I remember the day that you and your mother left.’
‘Me too,’ said River quietly, imagining the silence that must have descended as the sound of their car tyres on gravel had faded into the distance.
He had been heartbroken to drive away from this house back then. Scared to abandon his father, sad to leave behind Clara, who hadn’t bothered to turn up and wish him well.
Then, a new life on the other side of the world had unfolded, one that was busy, chaotic, terrifying, exciting. And his life before that, his years in England, had, with encouragement from his mother, faded away until it all seemed like a dream.
‘I haven’t been the best of fathers,’ said Geoffrey suddenly, staring straight ahead at the plants moving in the cool breeze coming off the sea.
River opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what to say. He suddenly longed for Clara to be sitting here with him, saying the right things.
‘I’m well aware of it,’ Geoffrey continued, still not meeting River’s eye.
River swallowed. ‘I haven’t always been the best son, and Mum can be a little…’ He hesitated, searching for the right word. He felt great loyalty to his mother but recognised that she, too, had her faults. ‘She can be a little unforgiving,’ he said at last.
Geoffrey gave a snort of laughter. ‘You’re not wrong there. Your mother has many admirable qualities, as I remember, but forgiveness is not one of them.’
River felt his mouth twitch. ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said, feeling his muscles relax. He hadn’t realised how tightly he was holding himself. ‘What were your parents like?’ he asked tentatively. He was treading in uncharted waters here because his father rarely spoke about his past.
‘My parents? I hardly remember my mother, who was dead before my fourth birthday. Then, my father married Audrey when I was seven and she was gone before I was ten.’
River felt his cheeks burn as he remembered snooping around Audrey’s bedroom earlier that day.
‘That must have been difficult for you and your father. What was he like?’
‘He fed and clothed me and he sent me to the best schools. He did his best for me.’
‘But what was he like as a man?’
‘Why are you so interested in a man you never knew?’ snapped Geoffrey, his brow creasing.
‘I’m interested to know what kind of man my grandfather was.’
Geoffrey paused for so long, River began to think he wasn’t going to continue the conversation. But then he said in a rush: ‘Edwin Brellasham was an accomplished man. A scholar who excelled at business and had little time for those who didn’t match his talents or intellect. I believe he cared about me, but he wasn’t an easy man to live with.’
‘Was he ever unkind to you or to his wives?’
Geoffrey swung around on the bench until he was facing his son. ‘What exactly are you getting at?’
River almost ended the conversation right there. But he summoned up his courage and said: ‘I suppose I’m wondering what prompted your stepmother to walk into the sea.’
Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you been speaking to Clara about Audrey?’
‘A little. We were looking at her portrait on the second floor.’
What would his father say if he knew that he and Clara had been exploring Audrey’s bedroom that afternoon?
A shadow crossed the older man’s face. ‘Audrey suffered with her nerves and was troubled. My father did his best but he wasn’t enough. We weren’t enough.’ When River put a comforting hand on his father’s arm, Geoffrey pulled his arm away. ‘Anyway, it was all a long time ago and best left in the past. Perhaps you could inform Clara of that if she raises the subject with you again. She has become rather obsessed with the whole thing. I’ve learned that it’s far better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
The wind had changed direction and a sharp tang of the sea was swirling around them.
‘It’s getting late and the effects of jet lag can linger,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You really should have an early night.’
Feeling dismissed, River got to his feet. ‘You’re probably right. Well, I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your garden, shall I?’ When his father said nothing, he added: ‘Goodnight.’
River had walked only a few steps when he remembered another reason why he had wanted to speak to his father.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, turning back, ‘if it might be possible for Mrs N and Clara to remain in their cottage after the manor is sold. Perhaps you could stipulate that their cottage remains as it is and that they can stay, paying rent to the new owner, of course. Bartie might have already mentioned it.’
‘He hasn’t,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but I don’t see why that can’t be arranged. It’s a good idea that might stop Clara from chastising me in my own home.’
He turned back towards his beloved garden and River walked away, glancing back only once. His father was still as a statue, looking fragile and alone, his back slumped with age and his grey hair thinning.
He was a disappointed man, thought River. Disappointed that he was facing losing his family home. And disappointed that his only child was not the son he wanted.