A Man of Parts Read Online Free PDF

himself again,’ Marjorie says to Gip when he calls at Hanover Terrace one afternoon, as he often does on his way home from University College. Quietly she leads him to the door of the small sitting room, which is ajar, and he stands in the passage for some minutes, listening. He cannot catch more than a few words and phrases, but the dialogic rhythm of the old man’s voice reminds him of something his brother Frank used to do in early childhood.
    ‘He had an imaginary friend he used to talk to,’ Gip says to Marjorie when they are back in the room that serves as her office. ‘I used to eavesdrop on him, because if he thought he was observed he would immediately clam up. If there was anything on his mind – if he’d done something naughty, for instance, and was wondering whether he would be found out or whether he should own up – he would discuss it with this other boy, putting the arguments on both sides of the question. I was fascinated. It was like listening to a radio play – though of course there was no radio in those days. Maybe H.G. is doing something similar, but in second childhood.’
    ‘Well it’s an interesting theory,’ says Marjorie. ‘We must ask Frank what he thinks next time he comes.’ Gip’s younger brother, a documentary film maker currently employed as a civil servant, allocating accommodation to bombed-out families, spends much of his time commuting in and out of London from his home in the country, and is able to visit Hanover Terrace only occasionally. The main responsibility of looking after H.G.’s welfare has fallen on Gip and Marjorie, but they do not complain. They are both devoted to him.
    A few days later Rebecca comes to see H.G. again, deploring Anthony’s irresponsible behaviour. H.G. tells her he has done his best to dissuade their son from breaking up his family, but without success.
    ‘Why for heaven’s sake can’t he be content with an affair, like anybody else?’ Rebecca complains. ‘Kitty wouldn’t have minded if he’d been discreet – she more or less told me as much on the phone.’
    ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ H.G. says. ‘But Anthony is silly, theatrical and childish. Whether that’s some innate weakness of character, or the fault of his upbringing, it’s hard to say.’
    ‘I hope you aren’t blaming me,’ says Rebecca.
    ‘I blame myself for his existence.’
    They are both silent for a moment, remembering the circumstances of Anthony’s conception: a passionate embrace in the drawing room of his flat at St James Court, his hands under her clothes, her eager response … but there had been a servant in the apartment whose presence inhibited him from leading her to his bedroom where he kept contraceptive sheaths, so he pressed on, intending to rely on withdrawal, but lost control at the crucial moment. The same thought is in both their minds. What misery, what years of anger and frustration and recrimination had flowed from that brief spasm of pleasure! And still persist …
    ‘If Anthony insists on going through with this stupid divorce,’ Rebecca says, ‘I think you should emend your will and leave some money to Kitty.’
    ‘I’ve been thinking along the same lines,’ says H.G. ‘Enough to provide comfortably for the children.’
    ‘It won’t, of course, provide them with a father,’ says Rebecca.
    H.G. shrugs. ‘It’s all I can do.’
    Travelling home from Marylebone to High Wycombe in a stuffy first-class railway compartment, in the company of three elderly businessmen with bowler hats, peeping at her from time to time over their evening newspapers, Rebecca is overwhelmed by dread, the sense of a curse working itself out in delinquent fathers over several generations. Her father deserted his family when she was eight, going off to South Africa on some vague business venture and disappearing without trace, leaving his wife to bring up Rebecca and her two sisters on barely adequate means. Then she herself had to bring up Anthony on