Free Nine Lives by Bernice Rubens Page B

word that was strangling us all.
    â€˜Your father,’ I said. And stopped. They were staring at me.
    â€˜What about him?’ Martin’s tone was cold.
    â€˜He’s innocent,’ I said.
    A glance of pity passed between them, as if their mother was out of her mind.
    â€˜We don’t want to talk about it,’ Matthew said.
    â€˜But I do.’ My voice was raised. I didn’t care that the diners at the neighbouring tables pretended not to eavesdrop. ‘I visit him as often as I’m allowed. In prison,’ I added. I wanted to put the other diners fully in the picture.
    â€˜Shush, Mother,’ Matthew said. He was blushing with shame.
    But I didn’t care about that. It was the ‘Mother’ appellation that stopped me in my tracks. Where had that refined word come from? I had always been ‘Mum’ to them and ‘Mummy’ in their infant years. But never ‘Mother’. That word belonged to another class, a class that didn’t harbour a prisoner in its midst, a class of virtue, wealth and propriety, and no doubt the class which my apostate children had joined. I was sickened by the word, and angry, and that anger fuelled the words that were to follow. No more gratitude. I was going to give them what for.
    â€˜Each time I visit him,’ I went on, ‘he asks after you. He asks
for
you. He wonders why you don’t visit him.’
    Then out came the words that they had not meant to utter. Words that they had tried to muzzle in the hope that they would not be called for.
    â€˜We don’t want anything to do with him,’ Matthew said.
    â€˜That’s right,’ came from Martin. ‘We don’t want to be known as his children. Ever again.’
    I felt a lump in my throat and I took a gulp of wine to swallow it. Then another. And another. I considered that my only escape from the pain was in alcohol and I stretched out my glass for a refill. Matthew looked at Martin who nodded, then he called over the wine waiter and orderedanother bottle. Both hoped that the drink would soothe me, but feared too that I would shame them.
    â€˜He was a good father to you,’ I persisted. ‘Do you remember how he used to play with you on the sands? The castles he made for you? The moats? The turrets? And how every weekend, he played cricket or football with you? How could you forget all that?’
    â€˜All that was before it happened,’ Martin said. ‘Please Mother,’ he added, ‘finish your steak.’
    â€˜Stop calling me that,’ I said. I would have yelled at him, but the alcohol served as a mute and my gentle voice offended me. ‘If you must address me, Mum will do. As it always has done.’
    â€˜Then finish your steak, Mum,’ Martin said, and he managed a smile. But my appetite had ebbed, and I placed my knife and fork together on my plate.
    â€˜What would you like to do this afternoon?’ Matthew asked. ‘We could go to the zoo, if you like. You always enjoyed that.’
    They were desperate to change the subject but I would not let them get away so easily.
    â€˜He wants you to visit him,’ I insisted. ‘You owe him at least that.’
    They were silent.
    â€˜I’m begging you,’ I said.
    â€˜Stop it, Mum.’ Martin put his hand on mine. ‘We know that he did those things. We don’t know why. Nobody ever will. But we know that he is guilty. He almost said so himself. And we can’t live with it, Matthew and I. It happened in another place and in another time. We want nothing to do with it.’
    â€˜But we want to keep in touch with you,’ Matthew said.
    â€˜You mean once a year? On my birthday? That kind of keeping in touch?’
    â€˜We’ll make it more often,’ Martin said.
    It sounded as if they were doing me a favour, and I was moved to assert myself. If they refused to see Donald, then out of loyalty I had to refuse to see them as