‘Did, did you love my mum?’
‘Good Lord! Did I love your mother, where on earth has that come from?’ Hugh asked with a confused expression. The Stokes-Rattigans didn’t do emotion. Never had. ‘I suppose so. But you know what they say, Benjamin, all good things come to an end.’
‘They also say, all good things come to those who wait. Maybe if you’d waited until she was better, finished her treatment, you might have been given the biggest reward of all, you might even have been happy.’
He knew he would never have found the confidence to speak so plainly if his father were not dead and this were not a once in a lifetime opportunity. His father spoke plainly.
‘Possibly, but I think happiness is overrated.’
‘You do?’ there was nothing left his father could say that would shock him, but this came close.
‘Yes. People think it’s everything, but happiness is only one emotion. Why are we all so obsessed with it?’
‘B… because it feels nice?’
‘Poppycock! So does a warm bath, a cold G & T, hitting a hole in one in front of the club chairman, and getting a seat on the train, yet they can’t become the driving force of life! It’s a ridiculous notion! Power feels nice. Winning feels nice. Success feels nice!’
‘And they make you happy?’ he pushed.
‘Not always. For me it’s about getting right on to the next thing, facing the next challenge, that makes me feel good. Keeping busy!’
‘Maybe, contentment is the answer?’ Benjamin spoke softly.
‘Good lord! Contentment is for goldfish and simpletons! You see them, don’t you? Average Joes walking around in tracksuits, hand in hand in revolting displays of sentimentality, only worrying about what beige thing to have for supper and looking forward to watching something on the telly! Give me strength! Such small, small lives.’
‘It must be exhausting, Dad, always getting right on to the next thing. Don’t you ever want to rest?’
‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’ His father winked. ‘I have responsibilities, need to keep the ship steady.’
‘I’ve never really known what that means,’ he levelled.
His father let out a nasal snort of irritation, ‘It means I have to have a hand on the tiller at all times! Means I need to keep an eye on all aspects of our business interests to make sure they don’t all go tits up and we lose the bloody lot!’ He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘It means that every little thing needs my approval, from the colour of the walls in this study to where to invest next, or the brand of bloody fabric softener we use on the towels in the gym. Standards, Benjamin!’
‘Jesus!’ it was a scary insight into just how tightly his dad gripped that tiller.
‘Not sure what he’s got to do with it, but can you try and be a bit less flippant, what’s got into you? You sound like your mother!’
‘I think if, if I sound like Mum it’s a good thing.’ he pictured his lovely mum.
His father stared, a slight twitch below his left eye.
‘I sometimes wonder if you’re made of the right stuff, Benjamin.’
‘Do you know, Dad.’ He stood, aware that, if he left the room, he’d lose any remaining time and in that moment caring less. ‘I sometimes wonder that too.’
‘And now what, are you flouncing off to lick your wounds?’
He stared at his dad, seeing the glint of cruelty in his eye, the thin-lipped disapproval that dripped from his mouth.
‘Do you… do you loveme, Dad? Because you’ve never made it clear, never said it.’ He gripped the back of the chair.
‘What in Christ’s name has got into you? You must be nearly thirty, bit late for wanting a cuddle from daddy!’
‘I am thirty,’ he corrected.
Hugh continued unabashed.
‘Do you think my father ever told me he loved me, do you think he hugged me and brought me warm milk and cookies, read me a bedtime bloody story?’
