Free A Period of Adjustment by Dirk Bogarde

then, quite suddenly, he collapsed into my arms. Saggingagainst me like an empty sack, sobbing hopelessly, his strength ebbed away as suddenly as it had arrived.
    For a moment he lay in my arms jerking in little spasms, whining like a wounded dog. There was no time now for theology, for parent counselling, for sophisticated reason. This was a devastating display of grief which had taken me utterly by surprise and it demanded instant smothering. Unquestioning love and strength.
    I gathered him in my arms and crushed him tightly to me. He sought breath in sudden gulps, but I held him firmly until all violence had quite abated, the sobbing eased, giving way to anguished hiccoughs and, finally, his energy drained away and he lay still. I relaxed my grip, but still held him.
    I was shattered that my (I had thought) fairly reasonable approach to a difficult problem should have provoked such a fearful outburst. Clearly all kinds of distresses had been building up behind an almost casual façade. I now understood that he had built his trust on me and that, unintentionally, I had kicked away the key brick holding up the scaffolding. I had never held anyone in such desperate distress before. I had never held my son before. This crushed creature cradled in my arms, eyes closed, nose running with snot and tears, lips wet, sagging open like a split fruit, was mine. I was now wholly responsible. I had betrayed his trust and must now regain it. I knew that whatever might happen to us, together or apart, that our lives would now be indelibly coloured by this moment of real grief played out in the shade of a giant cypress and a tilting calvary. In some strange way it was a Calvary for us both.
    Slowly I released my hold on him, slowly he eased himself away, slid untidily back into his seat, head against the leather, eyes still shut, lay still.
    â€˜Better?’
    â€˜No. You promised. You
promised
me.’
    â€˜What? What did I promise?’
    â€˜The first time. First time you ever took me to Arthur and Dottie. That time. When you left, I asked you if you would come back …’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜You said, “Always.” You said that. You said that. “Always.”’
    â€˜So?’ I took a handkerchief from my pocket and started to wipe his face.
    â€˜Now you’re going to leave me.’
    â€˜I’m not. Hold still. You’re covered in nose-snot. Open your eyes. Come on.’
    â€˜I won’t go with Mum. I want to stay with you. You promised me.’
    â€˜Look, Giles. This is something your mother and I have to talk about together for your good, and for Annie’s.’
    â€˜You said all that. If you go, if I have to live with Mum and … him, Eric, I won’t. And you’ll be sorry.’ He eased himself up to a sitting position, pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ll just kill myself.’
    â€˜Don’t be so silly.’ I stuffed the soiled handkerchief into a pocket.
    â€˜I will. I know how to. With a belt.’
    For a moment we sat in silence. So still I could hear birdsong somewhere.
    â€˜Look. I’ve got to see this business through. Today, I mean. With Mum. We’ll have to talk about everything. I’ll tell her what you’ve told me. I’ll tell her why.’
    He suddenly looked at me with hopeless, bleary, eyes. ‘About the bathroom?’
    â€˜No.
Not
about that. Yet. I won’t say anything about that. I’ll just say that you want to stay with me when we do separate and that you want me to look after you. Right?’
    â€˜Right. I do. But, I mean …’ He started to pleat a fold on the knee of his jeans very slowly, sniffing from time to time, but otherwise apparently calm again.
    â€˜What were you going to say, Giles? “
I mean”
what?’
    â€˜If you’re fed up with me? About the no soap when there was some, and all my shirts dirty, and Arthur and my French. If you