ficlet : Breakfast at the Grand. (references "Love is Blind")
Title: Breakfast at the Grand
Author: Waylandsmithy
Characters: Thomas, Blythe
Rating: PG
Comment: Thomas wants to know why.
“So, why didn’t you tell me?” Thomas cast aside USA Today in favour of another bagel as he said this and looked expectantly at his wife.
“Tell you?”
Thomas sighed. Last night’s mutual irritation following dinner with all its revelations had subsided as far as he was concerned. Now was the time to talk.
“Tell me that he was my child.”
“You are transparent. He’d have guessed if you knew; there’s no way you’d have been able to keep up the pretence and the only way I could convince him that it was his baby was to convince myself. So that’s what I did.”
“And kept it up for fifty three years. You’re a wonder! Would it have been so bad if he found out?”
“How can you ask? John would have first killed you if he knew and then divorced me. Having married to disoblige my family as the saying goes, with all the rows that caused, and you know how I hate that, there’s no way I was going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that I’d made a terrible mistake and that they’d been right all along. And even they would have strongly disapproved my cuckolding him.”
“A Pacifist tailor making a living supplying uniforms to the army and ripping them off in the process! I remember your father’s expression all through the wedding ceremony. He looked as though he was sucking on a lemon.”
“Greg should not have said that, about my father, to Dominika, or whatever she calls herself. Sometimes that boy oversteps the line.”
Thomas was not quite sure whether this last remark related to Greg’s grandfather or his fraudulent marriage. Blythe condoned much of his extreme behaviour to an extraordinary degree, it seemed to him, while getting in a pet over trifles, like last night. He decided to hold his tongue.
“And I need you to apologise to Greg. Calling him a sociopath! How could you speak to your son like that?”
“Mebbe because I was a wee bit flummoxed to suddenly learn after all these years that this genius ex-jailbird of yours was mine!” Thomas’s far off Glaswegian roots re-emerged strongly in his indignation.
“You can get to know him a little better, as well” she continued, as though he’d not spoken “and do check up on young Dr Park. Dear James; absolutely clueless. He must have had a dull youth.”
“You’re insisting on this?”
“You heard what I said last night. You may be his father, but I’m his mother. If there is any criticising to be done, it’s for me to do it. I’m going to shower.” Blythe gave him one of what he thought of as her Mona Lisa smiles, as she sauntered away, hands thrust deep in the pockets of her towelling robe. He looked consideringly at her retreating rear. Still shapely for an old biddy, he thought. He was a lucky man; ‘apologies’ came cheap. He wouldn’t mind another look around his new son’s territory either.
As he finished his breakfast he cast his mind back to the summer of ‘59. He remembered John’s deployment in Japan, Blythe’s reassurance when the baby came that he was premature and neither man, either in innocence or wilful ignorance, queried the matter. Through his old man’s eyes, Thomas felt an easy contempt for them both. They underestimated Blythe; John never learned in all the years and she ran rings around him while outwardly playing the part of the compliant spouse. He stayed ignorant of her anti-war activities while he was on active deployment, and not once caught her smoking pot.
She was adept at deflecting attention from herself and her dislike of angry scenes was such that at times she appeared positively submissive. It was all a front, he’d long since realised. She was as cool as a cucumber, and as unshockable. Blythe had taken the news of her son’s incarceration as calmly as she had taken all the other bad news that reached her about him. Only her refusal to visit him in prison, “He feels badly enough already, without my piling it on” and the fierce way in which she had come to his defence over dinner, gave any clue to her feelings.
Thomas got to his feet and putting his head around the shower room door, announced that he was going out. “To see my son, maybe”, he twinkled.
“I hope so”, said Blythe.
“Your son, maybe”, she murmured after the door closed on him. She hoped so, she really did. The dual birthmarks had always convinced her and in those days of course, there was no such thing as DNA testing. Blythe was not surprised that Greg had worked it out to his own satisfaction; he was as clear-sighted as she, and nearly as cynical.
Author: Waylandsmithy
Characters: Thomas, Blythe
Rating: PG
Comment: Thomas wants to know why.
“So, why didn’t you tell me?” Thomas cast aside USA Today in favour of another bagel as he said this and looked expectantly at his wife.
“Tell you?”
Thomas sighed. Last night’s mutual irritation following dinner with all its revelations had subsided as far as he was concerned. Now was the time to talk.
“Tell me that he was my child.”
“You are transparent. He’d have guessed if you knew; there’s no way you’d have been able to keep up the pretence and the only way I could convince him that it was his baby was to convince myself. So that’s what I did.”
“And kept it up for fifty three years. You’re a wonder! Would it have been so bad if he found out?”
“How can you ask? John would have first killed you if he knew and then divorced me. Having married to disoblige my family as the saying goes, with all the rows that caused, and you know how I hate that, there’s no way I was going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that I’d made a terrible mistake and that they’d been right all along. And even they would have strongly disapproved my cuckolding him.”
“A Pacifist tailor making a living supplying uniforms to the army and ripping them off in the process! I remember your father’s expression all through the wedding ceremony. He looked as though he was sucking on a lemon.”
“Greg should not have said that, about my father, to Dominika, or whatever she calls herself. Sometimes that boy oversteps the line.”
Thomas was not quite sure whether this last remark related to Greg’s grandfather or his fraudulent marriage. Blythe condoned much of his extreme behaviour to an extraordinary degree, it seemed to him, while getting in a pet over trifles, like last night. He decided to hold his tongue.
“And I need you to apologise to Greg. Calling him a sociopath! How could you speak to your son like that?”
“Mebbe because I was a wee bit flummoxed to suddenly learn after all these years that this genius ex-jailbird of yours was mine!” Thomas’s far off Glaswegian roots re-emerged strongly in his indignation.
“You can get to know him a little better, as well” she continued, as though he’d not spoken “and do check up on young Dr Park. Dear James; absolutely clueless. He must have had a dull youth.”
“You’re insisting on this?”
“You heard what I said last night. You may be his father, but I’m his mother. If there is any criticising to be done, it’s for me to do it. I’m going to shower.” Blythe gave him one of what he thought of as her Mona Lisa smiles, as she sauntered away, hands thrust deep in the pockets of her towelling robe. He looked consideringly at her retreating rear. Still shapely for an old biddy, he thought. He was a lucky man; ‘apologies’ came cheap. He wouldn’t mind another look around his new son’s territory either.
As he finished his breakfast he cast his mind back to the summer of ‘59. He remembered John’s deployment in Japan, Blythe’s reassurance when the baby came that he was premature and neither man, either in innocence or wilful ignorance, queried the matter. Through his old man’s eyes, Thomas felt an easy contempt for them both. They underestimated Blythe; John never learned in all the years and she ran rings around him while outwardly playing the part of the compliant spouse. He stayed ignorant of her anti-war activities while he was on active deployment, and not once caught her smoking pot.
She was adept at deflecting attention from herself and her dislike of angry scenes was such that at times she appeared positively submissive. It was all a front, he’d long since realised. She was as cool as a cucumber, and as unshockable. Blythe had taken the news of her son’s incarceration as calmly as she had taken all the other bad news that reached her about him. Only her refusal to visit him in prison, “He feels badly enough already, without my piling it on” and the fierce way in which she had come to his defence over dinner, gave any clue to her feelings.
Thomas got to his feet and putting his head around the shower room door, announced that he was going out. “To see my son, maybe”, he twinkled.
“I hope so”, said Blythe.
“Your son, maybe”, she murmured after the door closed on him. She hoped so, she really did. The dual birthmarks had always convinced her and in those days of course, there was no such thing as DNA testing. Blythe was not surprised that Greg had worked it out to his own satisfaction; he was as clear-sighted as she, and nearly as cynical.