Ultimate Prizes. Susan Howatch

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      Primrose, now sitting next to me in her privileged position as the Only Daughter, was approaching her fifth birthday and would one day, I thought, prove to be a brilliant conversationalist; already she was fascinated by language and never missed an opportunity to expand her vocabulary. Since for a woman intelligence is less important than looks I spent much time worrying that she might wind up a blue-stocking, and it was with relief that I noted she showed signs of turning into a delectable blue-eyed blonde. I foresaw a splendid career ahead of her as a wife and mother, a prospect which filled me with paternal pride. So much for Primrose.

      Sandy, now dozing against my chest, was going to be very clever, perhaps even as clever as Christian. When he was not indulging in his fondness for vulgar language he was capable of stringing together sentences of extraordinary quality for a child who was still little more than a baby. His latest masterpiece, delivered that day on the train, was: ‘Peter Rabbit has great sartorial elegance but I prefer the coat worn by Benjamin Bunny.’ Of course Christian had taught him the phrase ‘sartorial elegance’, but Sandy’s remarkable achievement lay not only in pronouncing the words but in using them correctly. I judged a Winchester scholarship inevitable and was already basking in delight. So much for Sandy.

      Norman, now upstairs as he battled with his malaise, was twelve years old and engaged in a nonstop contest to prove he was as clever as his older brother. If James was the son with whom I felt most relaxed, then Norman was the son with whom I could most obviously sympathize; I too had spent my childhood in a nonstop contest with my older brother. It was a contest which I had won but which I suspected Norman was destined to lose, although he remained far too clever to give me cause for anxiety. He never failed to receive glowing school reports which made me sigh with satisfaction. So much for Norman.

      Finally there was Christian, now sitting opposite me at the far end of the table. What can I say to convey the unique quality of this, the most extraordinary member of my family? I could never write ‘so much for Christian’ at the end of a brief description of him, because no brief description could convey more than the bare bones of his personality. Perhaps I can best capture the aura of glamour he exuded by stating that Christian was the idealized son which men so often dream of fathering but so rarely ever do. Christian was the self I would like to have been, a genetic miracle, my own self glorified. Exceptionally clever, blessed with the gift of reducing every classics master he encountered to a stunned admiration, talented at games, popular with his contemporaries, he was fifteen years old, still growing and evidently destined to be not only charming, witty and accomplished but tall, dark and handsome.

      I regarded him with a deep, fierce, utterly private devotion which I was quite unable to articulate. I could be demonstrative with Primrose because men were allowed to show affection towards their daughters, but with my sons I had a horror of indulging in any behaviour which might be judged sentimental. The kindly authority I exercised had never included barbarous physical punishment, but no matter how much I wanted to demonstrate my affection I was unable to do more than produce an air of mild good will. In Yorkshire we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves – and perhaps too I could never quite forget Uncle Willoughby declaring in 1909 that a sentimental father who slobbered over his male offspring was the kind of fool who inevitably wound up in an early grave.

      ‘Daddy …’

      I returned to 1942 with a jolt. ‘Yes, James?’

      ‘After the war ends, what will happen to the newspapers? There won’t be any more news, will there?’

      ‘There’ll be blank pages edged in black,’ said Christian, ‘to mark the utter cessation of journalism. But who says the war’s going to end? As far as I can see it’s all set to go on for ever.’

      ‘Nonsense!’ I said roundly. ‘Think of Napoleon! Once he attacked Russia he was finished – the British army merely had to mop him up at Waterloo.’

      ‘I wish the British army would start mopping up Rommel in the Desert.’

      ‘Daddy,’ said Primrose, ‘why aren’t you in the army?’

      ‘The Bishop said he couldn’t spare me from my work in Starbridge. Not all clergymen are called to serve God in the army, even in wartime.’

      Christian said suddenly: ‘Do you ever regret abandoning your pacifism after Munich?’

      ‘Sometimes. I still believe pacifism is intellectually consistent with Liberal Protestantism, but unfortunately Herr Hitler doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency.’

      ‘I’m beginning to think it’s Liberal Protestantism which doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency. How can you play down evil and maintain your optimistic view of the universe when you’re confronted with a catastrophe like Nazism? I mean, what do you do with someone like Adolf Hitler? You can’t simply pat him on the head, cite the compassion and forgiveness of Christ and say cosily: “Go thy way and sin no more!”’

      I was much taken aback. I had to remind myself that fifteen-year-old adolescents were notorious for questioning their parents’ views. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what you do with someone like Hitler,’ I said abruptly. ‘In practical terms you fight him. And in spiritual terms you pray for him and remember that there’s a divine spark in every human being.’

      ‘But isn’t that hopelessly idealistic? Isn’t that out of touch with the reality of the evil going on here? Try talking to the Jews about Hitler’s divine spark!’

      ‘Idealism is also a reality – the reality to which we must all continually aspire.’

      ‘Yes, but –’

      ‘Christian, I’ve had a long hard day, I’ve wound up in a hovel and quite frankly I’m not in the mood to discuss theology. Can we continue this debate later?’

      ‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to have a real conversation with you for once.’

      I stared at him. ‘But we always have real conversations!’

      ‘No, they’re usually about Latin and Greek and how well I’m doing at school.’

      ‘Well, what’s so unreal about all your splendid successes?’ I stood up with one arm encircling Sandy and held out my free hand to Primrose. ‘Bedtime, my love,’ I said to her, ‘and let’s hope that tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep we’ll find our holiday taking a turn for the better.’

      ‘It could hardly get much worse,’ said Christian.

      But he was wrong.

      VI

      Norman’s condition showed no improvement the next morning. Grace – perfect as always – had remembered to bring a thermometer, and when we discovered he had a high fever I trekked to the nearby village in search of a doctor. Influenza was diagnosed. Grace was obliged to spend most of her time caring for the invalid. The weather was not only wet but cold. The younger children quickly became fractious.

      It was on the fifth day after our arrival, just as Norman’s condition began to improve, that Grace fainted. Rushing upstairs in response to Norman’s frightened yell for help, I found she had collapsed on the bedroom floor.

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