The Beaufort Sisters. Jon Cleary

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      Michael Lucas Davoren was born on Labor Day, 1946 – an appropriate day, as his mother remarked, since his birth was not easy. He came into the world reluctantly and for the first minute of his life was as poor as he would ever be. Then the two doctors and the nurse and all the trappings took over; his swaddling clothes might have been a coronation robe. Lucas and Edith made sure that their first grandchild, even if his name was not Beaufort, should begin life in proper Beaufort style. The nursery was re-decorated and re-furnished, a night- and a day-time nurse were engaged. Toys that would not be used for months or even years swamped the nursery and Edith even ordered a bookshelf of children’s books.

      ‘He has the best library of any illiterate in America,’ said Tim.

      ‘Don’t be churlish, darling,’ said Nina. ‘All grandparents get carried away like that.’

      ‘But Christ Almighty – what are they leaving us to buy him? I’d like to bring him home something, but there’s nothing he hasn’t got!’

      ‘You’re bringing home the smell of the stockyards.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He softened, stroked her golden hair as it lay on the pillow beside his own dark head. ‘By the time our next one comes along I’ll be taking it all for granted again.’

      But there were to be no more children for Tim and Nina. Her gynaecologist, Dr Voss, was a man who delivered babies and punches with the same precision. ‘Your uterus is useless from now on. Forget about any more children. Consider yourself lucky young Michael came out okay.’

      Tim got over the disappointment soon enough, but it remained with Nina not only for the next few months but for years to come. She reacted by slipping into the attitude of her parents and spoiling Michael unrestrainedly. He was not allowed to utter a yelp without being picked up and soothed; breezes, draughts and heavy breathing were kept from him as if they were gusts from the plague. Tim was the only one who didn’t spoil him, breathing anthrax, foot-and-mouth and a dozen other animal diseases all over his only son. Michael survived both treatments.

      In February 1947 the Davorens moved into their new house.

      ‘I love it,’ said Tim and Nina knew that he meant it. ‘It’s – comfortable. What a home should be.’

      They were walking round the paths, a habit each of them looked forward to, knowing it was a way of being together for a while before going back to the main house and dinner with the family. Now they had moved into their own house Nina decided she liked the routine and they would keep it up.

      ‘I’m keeping the staff to a minimum. I don’t want us overrun.’

      ‘Good idea. For starters, could we fire the nurse? I think it’s time Michael stood on his own two feet.’

      ‘He’s less than six months old. Don’t you think he’s a bit young for that?’

      ‘Not if his mum and dad stand on either side of him.’

      His tone was easy, almost flippant, but she knew he was serious. She was too happy to argue; besides, the idea appealed to her. It would be another way of showing him that she could be independent when she tried. She had begun to fuss less and less over the baby, who was now allowed to cry sometimes for two minutes before being picked up.

      ‘All right, the nurse goes. I’m so happy, darling.’ She squeezed his arm and he returned the pressure but said nothing. After a moment she said, ‘But you’re not. What’s the matter?’

      He was silent for a few steps, the gravel crunching beneath his feet like the sound of his thoughts being sorted out. ‘I think I made a mistake going to work at the stockyards. The chaps I work with in the yards are all right, but the fellows in the office, the manager and two or three others, think I’m after their jobs. My future down there has about as much promise as a steer’s.’

      ‘Well, we’d better speak to Daddy – ’

      ‘We shan’t speak to him. This is between you and me.’

      ‘I didn’t mean that he should put any pressure on those men. I meant he can find a position for you with one of the other companies. Something where you don’t come home smelling like Buffalo Bill.’

      They had reached the house. He said nothing until they were inside and upstairs in their bedroom. Then he took her by the shoulders and pressed her down on the bed.

      ‘Are we going to make love? Before dinner?’

      ‘Sit up. You talk about me being sex mad. Sit up.’ She raised herself and he sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Now listen to me. From now on you don’t go near your father regarding anything about me. If I want him to do something, I’ll go to him myself. Understand?’

      She stared at him, then slowly nodded. ‘You’re not taking things for granted, are you? Not even now.’

      ‘Certain things, yes. But I’m not going to become your father’s puppet. Hold it – ’ He held up a hand as she started to protest. ‘He doesn’t think of himself as a puppet-master, but that’s what he is. With you, your sisters, me, everyone who works for him. The only one who escapes is your mother.’

      She was about to argue with him, but only out of her loyalty to her father. Then she realized she had no argument: what he had said was true. At least in regard to herself and her sisters; she had no idea how much power her father wielded over those who worked for him. She had been brought up in a private world: even the years at Vassar and the six months in Germany had been only half-opened windows on the world at large. She knew that money, in a money society, was power; there had been a teacher at Vassar who had taunted his students with that lesson. She was all at once conscious of the fact that she was ignorant of what everyone outside the family thought of Lucas Beaufort. The kidnappers in Germany had taught her nothing except that the family wealth could make her father vulnerable from certain angles. But at the same time she wondered how many children in other families, rich or poor, were in the dark as to what the rest of the world thought of their fathers. Public opinion was a prism she had never examined.

      ‘All right,’ she conceded, tasting disloyalty for the first time and not liking it. ‘What are you going to do? Go into business on your own?’

      ‘Doing what? I told your father once that I thought of being a teacher, but I know now I’d be no good at it. I don’t have enough patience to care whether someone would learn anything from me. As for going into business, what could I do? Take off your dress.’

      ‘Making love is no answer. We have a problem – ’

      He took his hands from her, rolled over on his back and looked up at the bed canopy. It was a copy of a French tapestry: Diana stood with her hunting dogs, like a greyhound trainer who had lost her shirt at the races. Her blue silk eyes looked straight down at the bed, a voyeur who amused him. But not this evening: he was beyond amusement. None of the goddesses, especially Diana, could help him. Except, perhaps, one of the bitch-goddesses and he had never trusted any of them.

      ‘We’ll work it out,’ he said listlessly.

      A long time later she wondered if that was the moment when his defeat began. But right then, the telephone rang. She leaned across him and picked it up.

      ‘Darling,’ СКАЧАТЬ