Instant Father

very hard to talk about, aren’t there?”

“That’s enough,” he snapped. “If you think you can-”

He got no further. His speech was drowned out by a mad squawking, and the next moment a large white goose came half flying, half hopping toward them. He snapped at Gavin’s legs, forcing him to back away hurriedly. The feeling of looking ridiculous increased his temper. “You’ll get into trouble if you go around setting that vicious bird on people,” he told her grimly.

“Osbert isn’t a vicious bird,” she protested.

He could hardly believe his ears. “Osbert?” he echoed outraged. “You call a goose Osbert? What are you running here? Disneyland?”

“You have a name, don’t you?” she asked defensively.

“I’m not a goose,” he snapped. “I’m a man. And my son is going to be a man. He’s going to grow up in a man’s world, seeing himself as a man-not Tarzan or Saint Francis, but a man. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. And now I’m going to make myself clear. I don’t care about you or your half-baked prejudices, but I do care about Peter’s feelings. He mustn’t see us fighting. It upsets him too much, and I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow-?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Norah asked dangerously.

“I have a problem with you and everything about you, and I intend to resolve it my way. In the meantime, the best way for us to avoid quarreling is to avoid talking.”

“That isn’t practical. There are arrangements to be made. I’ll consult you when I have to, but you can be sure it’ll be as little as possible.”

His gratitude for her intervention with the social worker had vanished without a trace. Now all he felt was the gall of being allowed to stay here by her consent, and the power she exercised over everything that should by rights be his-including his son. But she would just have to be endured while he bided his time. The important thing was to become a part of Peter’s life again.

As he turned away from her he saw his son coming out of the house. He hurried toward him, but at a certain point Peter swerved suddenly sideways, so that his path and Gavin’s didn’t cross. Gavin stared, trying to believe it was an accident. There was still some distance between them, and Peter might simply not have seen him.

But in his heart he didn’t believe it. Peter had turned aside to avoid him, and the pain was indescribable. After a moment he walked back to the house, taking care not to go in Peter’s direction, and once inside he shut himself in his room.

Chapter Four

As the days passed and Peter still did not speak to him, Gavin faced the fact that his son had withdrawn into a silent world of his own. He eyed his father watchfully, suspiciously. If Gavin spoke to him he grew nervous and he would escape at the first possible moment. He seemed easier with Norah, but even with her he was silent. In fact the only creature with whom he now seemed at ease was Flick, the young fox who followed him around like a pet dog. Gavin had a terrible feeling of confronting a door that was bolted and barred against him. Somewhere-somewhere-there must be a key to his son’s heart.

In desperation he called Mrs. James, the headmistress of Peter’s school. She invited him to visit her and when he arrived she ushered him into her study with a friendly smile, but Gavin was morbidly conscious of the caution behind it. “How is Peter coping?” she asked as they sat down.

“It’s hard to say,” Gavin admitted. “He’s become very withdrawn since his mother’s death. I decided it would be best for him to stay at home for a while, especially since term is nearly over.”

“Of course. In fact Norah had already informed me he wouldn’t be returning this term,” Mrs. James said, unaware that she was turning a knife in the wound. Norah had done this without consulting him. “But you told me on the phone that you wanted to know about your son’s school progress.”

“I haven’t seen as much of him recently as I would have liked. Now I’m seeking any handle I can get.”

“An excellent idea. I’ve got his marks out to show you. As you can see he’s always in the top half of his class.”

“How large is the class?” Gavin asked, glancing through the pages.

“Twenty.”

He frowned. “Eighth or ninth. That’s not very impressive.”

“Does he have to impress you, Mr. Hunter?”

“I’d like to feel he was doing his best.”

Mrs. Haynes hesitated a fraction before saying, “His overall marks may give a misleading impression. The fact is that there are times when he scores very high indeed. Then suddenly his work will plummet, and that pulls the average down.”

Studying the pages again, he saw that she was right. Peter’s marks went in peaks and troughs and he discovered, with a sinking feeling, that the troughs coincided with the times he’d visited his son. He made his face impassive. He didn’t want this stranger to see the turmoil the thought caused him.

“Of course, marks only tell a small part of the story,” she added. “Perhaps you’d like to look at his essays.”

“Thank you.” He began to look through the papers she offered him, hoping that there he could find some comfort. Mrs. Haynes went on talking kindly, trying to reassure him.

“As you can see, his grammar and spelling are excellent, and he can put his thoughts into words in a way that’s quite impressive for a child of his age. You needn’t worry about your son, Mr. Hunter. He’s extremely bright.”

He saw that, but he saw something else as well. All the ideas Peter couldn’t express with his father he’d expressed on paper, and they were Tony Ackroyd’s ideas. He emerged from his essays as a gentle, uncompetitive child, whose chosen companions were the animals amongst which he lived. One essay, called “My Favourite Kind of Day,” described in detail how he was trying to train Flick. It was a charming piece of work, full of affection and cheeky humor.

Flick is a naughty fox who likes to do the opposite of what I say. So I tell her to do the opposite of what I really want. Sometimes it works, but sometimes she sees through it. She’s very clever, so I have to be even cleverer. But when she does what I want, it’s not because either of us is clever, but because we’re friends. And friends are nice to each other.

But Gavin wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the charm or the humor. All he could discern were the values of Tony Ackroyd and his daughter. In this and other essays, those values shone through every line. Bitterness possessed his heart as he realized this was yet more evidence that his son had been stolen from him.

“Thank you,” he said, putting away the pages abruptly. “I’ve seen all I need to.”

He made no further attempt to prevent Peter attending the funeral, and it became an accepted thing that the little boy was to go. For the next few days Gavin didn’t seek out his son or try to be alone with him. He told himself that he was simply biding his time until the funeral was over, but the fact was he was afraid. He dreaded to see Peter running away from him, and dreaded even more the look of self-contained endurance that settled over the child’s face when he encountered his father. He despised himself for his fear. It was a weakness. When faced with opposition, his way was to assert himself. But through his painful confusion he could just perceive that his best weapon was useless now. Assertion would only drive Peter farther away. So Gavin avoided it, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He dreaded the funeral. His hostility toward both Liz and Tony, but mostly Liz, was mounting so intensely that he feared he might reveal it at an inappropriate moment. Norah’s idea that he still loved Liz was outrageous, and her suggestion that he might show his feelings was typical of the unreality that, he felt, pervaded her whole life.

When the day arrived, he went through the first few hours as if in a dream. He’d done what was expected of him. A wreath, compiled of carefully anonymous flowers (no red roses: he’d made sure of that) had been delivered to the funeral parlor, with a card attached bearing the single name, Gavin. Now he was waiting, sober suited, for