Alibi

So he smiled, and with a rare gesture leaned across the table and pressed his son’s hand.

“Things were very much the same between the two wars,” he remarked. “Before I met your mother and joined the police I was very tempted to go overseas. I think I would have chosen Canada or the United States.” He pressed Martin’s hand again, and went on, “In every generation there are those who are driven by some inner compulsion to emigrate. It’s a form of pioneering, and it’s very deep in the British, in fact in most Europeans. I would say there is only one thing that should stop you.”

Martin stiffened.

“What’s that?”

“If you feel you are running away or deserting your country. If you yourself felt like that you would probably always have it on your mind and it would reduce your chances of settling down, being contented, and doing well. Do you ever feel even remotely like that?”

Martin’s gaze was very steady, and he took his time replying. At last he answered.

“No, father, I don’t. I don’t think I’ve anything to offer here. I really don’t. If I think anything I feel—oh, gosh, it sounds so corny, but I feel a responsibility to people, not to places, not even to my own people. Just people. And I can fulfil that wherever I am.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” agreed Roger. “Answer me one question.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Has anything driven you away from home? From your mother and me?”

“Good God, no!” Martin was aghast. “Absolutely no.” He hesitated for a while before going on in a different tone, “I feel in a way I’ve failed you. I simply can’t stay here and sponge on you. I just have to make my own way independently. It’s something in me, nothing to do with you or mother or Fish. I just have to go.”

Roger pushed his chair back, rounded the table, and put his arm about his son’s shoulder. He felt the strength of muscle, the solidity, very much like his own. He stood like that, searching for the exact words to convey his feelings; it had never been so important that he should say exactly the right thing.

At last, he said, “When you’re gone, Scoop, I shall miss you; miss you terribly. But I shall envy you, too, and admire you because you had the courage I lacked when I was your age.”

He stopped.

He wondered: was that the right note? Was it right?

He felt his son’s shoulders shaking a little; heard a convulsive sigh; a gulp, as for breath. Then he realised that Martin was crying. Not much, he would never cry much, but—crying. Tears actually fell. Roger withdrew his arm and then went to the sink and put more water in the kettle. His back to his son, he asked, “Worried about your mother’s reaction?”

There was a sniff. “I—yes. Yes, I am.”

“You needn’t be.”

After a pause Martin said in an almost incredulous voice, “What?”

“You needn’t be. Oh, she’ll be hurt, you’re quite right about that. But she won’t fight it and she won’t think you’ve let her down in any way. She won’t reproach you. And in a way she’ll be glad. As parents we can’t be happy at the fact that you haven’t found the right niche in England, can’t be happy that you’re obviously torn up inside.”

Martin was getting up and turning round, cheeks tear- stained, eyes opened wide in disbelief mingled with hope.

“Are you—are you sure?”

“We’ll find out when she comes home,” Roger said. “She won’t be long. If you prefer me to tell her I will.”

“No,” said Martin in a strangled voice. “I’ll tell her.”

•     •     •

Roger had never been more proud of his wife, or more pleased, or more affectionate towards her, than as he watched while Scoop told her very simply what he wanted: what he meant to do. They were still in the kitchen, and the kettle was on for tea, while he, Roger, put biscuits and cheese and fruit cake out for Janet and for Richard when he came in from seeing Lindy to her house, near by. Janet, tall and attractive, with her dark hair touched with grey, a fresh complexion and green- grey eyes, sat in an old saddle-back chair while Martin perched on a corner of the kitchen table.

And then he finished, saying, “I just have to go. I hate hurting you but I just have to go.”

Janet leaned forward, both hands outstretched in reassurance.

“Of course you have to,” she said. “I’ve known for a long time that you’ve been restless and unhappy. And—” she drew him towards her “—and as for hurting, darling, I’d be much more hurt if you stayed home and were miserable because you didn’t think I could take it.”

“Oh, Mum!” Martin cried. “Oh, Mum!”

Suddenly, he was on her lap, his head buried on her shoulder. Roger saw her glistening tears as she soothed him. The next moment there was the sound of a key turning in the front door, and a few seconds later Richard came along the passage, whistling until he breezed into the kitchen. Catching sight of Scoop and his mother, he exclaimed sol to voce, “Gosh!”

Then he looked across at his father. He was tall and dark, well-dressed in an up-to-the-minute Carnaby Street style, and looking exactly what he was: a highly successful young man in his chosen occupation. He was in fact one of the most promising younger men in television production and directing. A year younger than Martin, he now looked about thirteen as he shot an almost agonised questioning look at Roger.