Almanack Jack is also good with Julie and Ray and Jake, because in the morning he wakes them up and gives them breakfast, then takes them down the road to the village school. At first the local children jeered at him, but now they like him because he gives them sweets and brings them on conducted tours of our railway station. At harvest time he used to do a few weeks’ labour with the local farmers, and because he worked well they gave him milk or eggs, and tried to persuade him to stay on longer, or even permanently, but he never would, liking his freedom above all else.
William came and went, and came back again. Although he still had money his dream of getting into a market garden somewhere in Nottinghamshire, with his mother as his bond-maiden, never came off. He found new strength from somewhere with which to face life, never having been the sort to let death touch him in the form of early retirement.
A year or two after the Lebanon setback he found himself once more in some shady trade or other, maybe even smuggling, because his obvious prosperity couldn’t have stemmed from honest work. We were out for a drink at the village pub, and I asked how he got such a big car and dressed so well, at which he lost his good humour and told me to mind my own business. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I shan’t ask you to get me some of the same work.’
He relaxed, and laughed: ‘Not like last time, eh?’
‘Never. I’m set up for life here.’
‘Better you than me.’
It was a warm summer’s evening, and the pub was still empty. ‘I know when I’m well off,’ I said, taking a good drink of my pint.
‘Still,’ he said, ‘if ever you do find yourself in need of a bit of employment, let me know. You’re cool. You’ve got nerve, and that’s always a marketable commodity.’
‘I’ve not got so much as I once had.’
He jeered: ‘Just because of a bit of bird?’
‘Keep your voice down. I’m known as a respectable house-owner around here.’
‘That’s just another part you’re playing,’ he said, ‘and like all the others you play it very well. It’s lasted a long time, this one, but that doesn’t mean it’s permanent.’
‘It is as far as I’m concerned.’
He winked, and lifted his double brandy: ‘You’ve had a good long rest, that’s all. You’ll get back to work soon. Cheers, mate.’
‘Cheers,’ I said, smiling.
My mother and Gilbert Blaskin seemed reasonably happy for a few years. She went to America with him on a lecture tour, and this was a wild time because they played at making each other jealous, and by the time they got back they were in emotional rags and tatters. I don’t know how it came about, because my mother was well over forty, but she produced a baby daughter, and Gilbert thought this the best thing that had ever happened to him — after he got over the shock. They came down in his new Jaguar to see us, staying two nights at the hotel in Huntingborough.
I’d never got used to the idea that Blaskin was my father, and never would. I’d pumped myself so long with the fabrication that the only shadowy father I’d had was killed in the war that all my pipes and connexions of filial piety had atrophied and finally snapped. And yet here was my real father, coming towards me from his Jaguar and leaving my mother behind to struggle out with her newborn baby. He was tall, his face lined, his eyes slackening down from the fire they used to have. Blaskin dominated the small living-room, until he sat down. We set them a good winter’s meal for that evening, and sitting at the table were me, Bridgitte, Smog, Gilbert, and my mother, five of us surrounding a dumpling soup, and a side of beef, with egg-custard and apple fritters to follow. Gilbert was in a bad frame of mind, as if he’d just been unsuccessfully poisoned and was slowly getting over the illness of it.
After the meal he rolled a cigar at me across the table. I’d bought a bottle of brandy for the occasion, and poured everyone a shot after the blow-out dinner. The baby was asleep in Julie’s room, but we could make all the noise we liked because my mother said that once Lucy was asleep nothing could wake her — just like I had been in fact, when I was a baby. Gilbert was getting restless under this particular dome of conversation, so he asked whether I ever felt like getting down to any sort of work.
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
‘He does a lot,’ my mother said, ‘and I get bloody bored at times.’
I watched him looking at her, and he knew I was watching, which encouraged him to think of something rotten to say because of it. ‘You weren’t bored in New York. You just vanished for twelve hours at a time.’
‘I couldn’t hang around with your friends, that’s all. They weren’t interested in me, and I wasn’t interested in them. They were all poofs and drug fiends.’
Bridgitte and I laughed at this, and Smog, who was eight at the time, smiled, which didn’t help to calm things down.
‘So you went off to find a real man,’ he sneered.
‘No, love,’ she said. ‘I’d got you, so I didn’t need one.’
She was being sincere (at least I thought she was) but he took it as a slash of sarcasm: ‘And that little Lucy upstairs came out of it, I know.’
I stood up, ready for a fight. ‘Lay off my mother will you? I thought we were all here to have a good time.’ This stopped him, but it was a very uneasy peace that came out of it.
They left next morning. A year later they were divorced. My mother wasn’t too upset about it, because she still had a daughter to spend the next twenty years of her life on — unless another unexpected adventure stopped her dead in her tracks. A neighbour’s wife looked after Lucy while my mother went to work again at the factory. Blaskin made her some allowance, thinking perhaps of all the years he hadn’t provided for me, so that she didn’t absolutely need to work. But she used the money to get a flat, take driving lessons, and buy a Mini on the never-never, which means that every month or two she drives down with Lucy to see our mob at Upper Mayhem. Smog is very partial to Lucy, despite the difference in their ages, which pleases me very much.
The last thing heard of Gilbert Blaskin was that he lived at his Sloane Square flat with Pearl Harby. She’d tried to gas herself while he was married to my mother, but a girlfriend had pulled her head from the oven in time. This attempted suicide so impressed Blaskin that when he heard of it, just after leaving my mother, he went straight back to her, probably in the hope that sooner or later she will do it again, preferably while he is around to watch, so that he can write about it in a novel.
I wear a waistcoast now, and never go out unless there’s a golden sovereign in one of the pockets. While we till our garden, I love Bridgitte and the children more and more, being linked to them for ever. Smog is a tall, thin, dark boy who’ll need a shave in the next six weeks. He never says much, though we talk now and again about various things. He plays chess at his grammar school in Huntingborough, and collects botanical specimens. For his last birthday I bought him an expensive microscope, and for his twenty-first I’ve promised him ten of the golden sovereigns my grandmother passed on to me. My mother had given me back the twenty-five I’d offered her, since she had never needed them for her honeymoon with Albert in Paris.