Father of the Man by Stephen Benatar Read Free Book Online Page B

pleasant on the telephone, advising him assiduously on which bus to take, or rather which combination of buses, and where to change from one onto the other, and yet, scarcely ninety minutes after that, had just refused to open the front door, although he’d rung and knocked viciously for a full half-hour—well, at any rate knocked viciously, you couldn’t be all that vicious with chimes which merely informed you repeatedly that there was no place like home—refused to open, pretending she wasn’t in, although a young male neighbour, drily sympathetic, had assured Ephraim that they were there all right, her and her hubby, you could tell it for certain by the two flash cars parked in the driveway—and when Ephraim had seen those how his hopes had risen!—but not to take any of it too personal, mate: it happens all the time; in some way it must give ’em both a buzz.
    So, then…Nothing from Wendy and nothing from Shane. But he almost didn’t care. Despite these letdowns he was returning to his house feeling a lot more cheerful than when he had walked out of it some nine hours earlier.
    Jean, however, didn’t come to greet him and when they did say hello her voice lacked any suggestion of warmth. Before he could tell her he was sorry for his behaviour, he was discovering that perhaps he wasn’t so sorry for it after all—and indeed was already starting to behave that way again.
    At first he struggled against this. He could accept that Jean’s spirits should have been affected by his own; depression was contagious. What he couldn’t accept was that, when one of the children’s friends rang up, she should sound as lively and as ready to laugh as ever. People always marvelled at how wonderful Jean was: what a wife for any man to have; nothing ever seemed to get her down. And when towards nine o’clock Roger returned home you should have heard her wanting to learn about his day. Had there been any interesting customers, good sales, gossipy conversations, where had he strolled at lunchtime, where had he eaten his sandwiches, had it been sunny enough to sit out? In other words, virtually every last detail except for the changeless monotony of his two railway journeys—at least they were spared that.
    But you wouldn’t have recognized her as the same person. Ephraim felt excluded.

6
    Jean had gone to see the Harrison Ford film on her own, mainly to demonstrate that she wasn’t, nor ever would be, dependent upon anyone else. She didn’t enjoy it much. She would have done better opting for the costume museum, or the display of china at the castle. She and Ephraim had lived in Nottingham for two years now but still they hadn’t been to either of these things. It was useless waiting for other people. If only she’d had some close woman friend, someone she could wander round the Lace Hall with, or the inside of an old church, without having to worry lest the experience might have been undertaken only out of kindness or a sense of obligation. With Ephraim, it was even difficult to get him to sit down in front of the foreign films she occasionally taped, and then most keenly looked forward to, without her suspecting that in all likelihood he’d very soon be dozing (“No, I swear I’m enjoying it, I’ve missed hardly anything, it’s been a busy day!”), when he always managed to stay alert throughout the most escapist rubbish, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Alice Faye, their films were sacrosanct. Oh, sometimes it was fun to watch rubbish—she admitted that, willingly—but if your whole diet was composed of nothing else…Nor would Roger have been the right person with whom to watch these more serious films, even if, most mornings, he hadn’t had to get up so very early. Abby was the only one who genuinely shared an enthusiasm for Satyajit Ray or Kurosawa or even—heaven help us—Ingmar Bergman. And it would have been wrong somehow to watch a video in daytime, would certainly have lessened her enjoyment in