‘No,’ Ralph said, ‘no I haven’t seen or spoken with anyone for some weeks. What’s wrong with her?’
‘I just said. She’s in a coma.’
‘But how?’
Arthur shovelled a forkful of beef and potato into his mouth. ‘I don’t know the full details,’ he said at length, ‘but somewhat carelessly she managed to get herself hit by a car. She always did have her mind elsewhere. Probably so lost in thought, she never heard the car coming.’
Only his father could sound so cavalier about another person’s misfortune. ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ asked Ralph.
Arthur chomped on another forkful of beef. ‘Not my bailiwick, medicalknow-how,’ he said, not bothering to finish what was in his mouth before speaking.
Ralph put down his knife and fork and reached for his wineglass. He was surprisingly shocked by the news that Hope might die, and by the callous manner in which his father spoke of his sister. Did nothing penetrate that thick blubbery skin of his?
‘Was this the reason you invited me to join you for dinner this evening?’ Ralph asked.
‘Do I need a reason to see my eldest son?’
‘You usually do.’
‘As opposed to your only reason for ever wanting to see me: money.’
‘That’s not true,’ Ralph lied. ‘I enjoy our wranglingget-togethers. I think you do, too.’
Ignoring the comment, Arthur added more mustard to his plate. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how your search to become gainfully employed is progressing?’
‘I have a number of interesting avenues which I’m following,’ Ralph lied again. He still hadn’t given the matter much serious consideration; he’d been too busy enjoying himself.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Arthur said. ‘Anything remotely promising?’
‘Time will tell.’
‘Meanwhile, I suppose you’d like me to help you out some more until you’ve secured a position that befits your particular skills?’
Surprised that his father seemed in such a generous frame of mind, he said, ‘Well, if you could see your way to—’
‘How much help would you require?’ Arthur interrupted him.
Ralph resumed eating and weighed up his options. Ask for too much and his father would laugh at him. Ask for too little and he’d regret not asking for more. ‘A thousand would go a long way to easing my situation.’
‘And what situation would that be? Skid Row? Tight Spot Alley? Destitute Avenue? Beam End Road? Down on Your Uppers Street?’ The old man was smirking. ‘Or maybe Impoverished Cul de Sac?’
‘There’s no need to rub it in,’ Ralph said.
‘Why shouldn’t I? Since I’m the one expected to bail you out.’
‘Some of us haven’t been as lucky as you. After all, when you were not much older than I am your father died and left you a sizeable inheritance.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I can quite see how my demise would be of the utmost convenience to you. But I assure you, I have no intention of popping my clogs any time soon.’
Ralph willed himself not to snatch up the plate in front of him and grind it into his father’s insufferable gloating face. The old man couldn’t help himself, could he? He couldn’t just write out a cheque and be done with it. Oh no, he had to make Ralph squirm and reduce him to begging. But beg he would if he had to.
‘Look, Dad, I know you have my best interests at heart—’
‘You know, I’d have more respect for you if you showed some strength of character and told me to bugger off,’ his father interrupted him. ‘But there you sit, like a pitiful dog desperate to obey its master. Have you really noself-respect?’
At his father’s question, combined with the sneering contempt in his voice, something deep inside Ralph shifted. All at once he saw himself in his father’s face; it was as though he were looking in a mirror, and he didn’t like what he saw.
You truly are your father’s son, aren’t you?
