The Thing Itself

TWENTY-SEVEN

Bob Watts ran his hands over his father’s mahogany bureau, pushing randomly at extrusions. A concealed drawer sprang out from one side.

He took out a large brown envelope marked for his attention. In the envelope were smaller envelopes marked ‘Will’, ‘House Deeds’, ‘Insurance Policies’, ‘Passport’, ‘Birth Certificate’ and ‘Bank Details’. He skimmed the will. There were no surprises. Everything split three ways, with small bequests for grandchildren. He shuffled the other envelopes and saw a second one also addressed to him.

He took it over to the wingback chair in the bay window. Slit the envelope with his father’s ivory-handled letter-knife. There was a single sheet of paper inside. A letter, dated only a few weeks earlier, addressed ‘Dear Robert’. He thought for a moment. He was pretty sure the date was the last time he’d seen his father, in a pub beside Kew railway station. He laid the letter on the chair-arm and got a whisky from his father’s old-fashioned drinks cabinet.

Settled again, he picked up the letter.

Dear Robert,

I know I don’t make things easy for you. Never have. I don’t really know why. Perhaps because I had you so late in life I didn’t know how to be a father. Perhaps it’s just my temperament.

Anyway, I’ve always loved you, in my way. For what that’s worth. I was sorry to see you come a cropper and proud of the determination you have shown to get through it.

I’ve been keeping a few things from you. I got caught up in things when I was young and stupid, and mistakes made early on have a habit of clinging to you down the years. Not that I didn’t make mistakes late in life too.

I’ve tried to be open in some jottings I’ve been writing for a while now. Not quite a diary, perhaps. Notes for an autobiography, if you will. Flakes of my life, to be published after my death, if anyone is interested. The notes aren’t complete — just different things that came into my mind.

You’ll find them on the top shelf in the study, piled up with all the manuscripts of my novels. A couple of Yank universities have been asking for those manuscripts, by the way. There will be a big cheque.

I don’t believe in regrets but I do regret the way I treated Elizabeth, your mother. She was a fine woman. I like to think that next time round I’d treat her better. But I fear that I’d treat her just the same.

Good luck, son,

Your father.

Watts dropped the letter into his lap and sipped his drink, looking down at the rushing Thames. The wind whipped a tree branch against the long window. The rain started again, sluicing down the glass. He put music on. Arvo Part’s Lamentate. Melodic for him, but suitably melancholic. He let the tears prick his eyes.