The Would-Begetter

  THE WOULD-BEGETTER

  Maggie Makepeace

  Contents

  Book One 1983

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Book Two Seven Years On…

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Book Three After Another Seven Years…

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Book One

  1983

  Chapter 1

  ‘But what if your wife’s here?’ Jess asked anxiously as she and her colleague turned in at the gate and drove up towards the house. It was an imposing drive which led to a preposterous mansion with turrets.

  ‘My soon to be ex-wife,’ Hector corrected, ‘and she won’t be. She’s a workaholic, always has been. I always assumed it was a form of displacement activity. You know what I mean? I thought she was unable to do what she really wanted, i.e. have babies, so she was busying herself with her job with a kind of manic energy as a distraction from her inner conflict. I saw a nice example of that kind of thing last night, as a matter of fact, on one of those Survival programmes. These two big fat herring-gulls were facing each other and yanking up great beakfuls of grass, when what they were bursting to do (but daren’t) was peck each other senseless.’

  ‘I’ve never found Megan particularly aggressive?’

  ‘You should try living with her!’ Hector raised both eyebrows expressively. ‘No, what I’m trying to say is that it just never occurred to me that she might not have normal maternal instincts.’

  ‘But you both married quite late on?’

  ‘Well she was thirty, but that’s common enough these days.’

  ‘So you thought she was just waiting for the right moment to marry and start a family?’

  ‘The right moment and the right man.’ Hector frowned. ‘I suppose I just took it for granted that we’d have kids. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Not really,’ Jess said, letting out a small sigh.

  Hector didn’t appear to notice it. ‘I mean, I thought we’d been trying for a baby and Megan was just failing to conceive. I was really supportive to the bloody female. I even went to the length of getting myself tested for God’s sake! And all the time… I’ll never understand the woman. How could she do it to me? She was taking the pill all along, you know, secretly. She never even discussed it with me; a major issue like that! Then on my birthday, my fortieth birthday no less, when a chap needs something positive to counteract the horrors of middle-age-made-manifest, what does she do, but calmly tell me that not only has she never wanted children, but now she’s worried about the long-term effects of the pill, so she’s decided to go the whole hog and get herself sterilized!’

  ‘It must have been awful for you,’ Jess said. She glanced at him as he drove and was surprised to see the tension in him. His handsome face was flushed and he was gripping the steering wheel with two clenched fists.

  It had been a standing joke for some time amongst the other employees of the Westcountry Chronicle, that Hector Mudgeley, after seven unproductive years of marriage, must surely be several sperm short of a dynasty. It was no secret that he wanted an heir to keep the Mudgeley name alive, so they had been keeping a book, and the odds got longer as each year passed.

  Jess had often wondered why someone like Hector would want to stay in an undistinguished small town like Woodspring-on-Sea, but concluded that he must enjoy being a big noise in a confined space. He seemed to be involved in every important decision that was ever taken locally. He was a Councillor, a School Governor, and a member of several committees concerned with planning and the conservation of wildlife and landscape, yet he still found time to work on the Chronicle. Jess was unfailingly impressed by his vigour and enthusiasm. She wondered if he had ambitions to be Editor. There was no obvious line of succession, the present one being about his age, and Hector’s immediate boss, the News Editor, several years younger than him. Perhaps he would be content to go on being Senior Reporter until he retired? Jess hoped that she too would continue in her post as Photographer for many more years. She got on well with most of her fellows, and she had no hankerings for the uncertainty of the freelance life.

  Poor Hector, she thought, glancing round and seeing his expression, I shouldn’t have encouraged him to talk about children. I must try to take his mind off the subject.

  ‘Well then of course I had no option,’ Hector continued, braking hard and stalling the car outside the front door, ‘I just had to start divorce proceedings.’

  ‘Better than chopping her head off,’ Jess said, thinking of Henry VIII.

  Hector got out of the car and, bending his long back, looked at her through the open door. ‘Sometimes, Jess Hazelrigg, I really worry about you.’

  Why do men always say things like that to me? Jess thought crossly. I don’t want to be worried about. I want passion. Inside the porch she looked about her with some trepidation. What if Megan were to be lurking somewhere? She felt uncomfortable but vaguely excited at the thought.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ she asked. ‘I thought we were going straight to do the interview with Caroline Moffat. I’ve got to be at the garage to collect the Jeep by lunchtime (if they’ve managed to fix it) and then I’m supposed to be up on the Mendips at one thirty, with a chap who says he’s seen a puma.’

  ‘I want you to take some pics of the house,’ Hector said. ‘Relax. It won’t take a moment. I’ve brought a colour film with me. Here…’

  ‘For the paper?’ Jess asked, taking it.

  ‘No, strictly unofficial. I just want some photos, especially of the interiors. It’s morally just as much mine as Megan’s, you know. I put a lot of time and money into this house.’

  ‘So why is she living here now, and not you?’

  Hector sighed. ‘It’s been in her family for a long time,’ he said. ‘It’s her home. Then seven years ago her parents gave it to us as a wedding present and moved to Wales. So I can hardly throw her out now, can I?’

  Lost ancestral homes were another touchy subject for Hector, Jess remembered just in time, so she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Why do you need the photos then?’

  ‘Inquisitive little madam, aren’t you? Simply because if I’m never to be allowed to live here again, I want a record of what a lovely house I once had.’ He stood aside politely to let her go through the door first, and then added, ‘But also, if I’m honest, because I like to make hay whilst the cat’s away!’

  Jess snorted at this. ‘But you can see the house any time, presumably, since you’ve got a key?’

  ‘Not a lot escapes those fine brown eyes, does it?’ Hector said. ‘Those specs of yours must be bionic.’ He patted her arm. ‘Just call it forethought,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later the stupid woman is bound to wake up to reality and get the locks changed. But when that happens, I’ll still have my pics. Why don’t you come up here? It’s a great vantage point.’ He led her upstairs into one of the round turret rooms, which was papered with blue elephants and an alphabet frieze.

  They stood side by side at the arc of windows and looked down the long view to a distant river. ‘This was to have been Morgan’s room,’ Hector said. ‘Megan let me go ahead and get it decorated specially; never said a word!’


  ‘Morgan who?’

  ‘My future son. Morgan Caradoc, named after my grandfather. Goes well doesn’t it, Morgan Caradoc Mudgeley?’

  ‘But you can’t name someone before they’re even born, can you?’ Jess asked. ‘I mean, what if you called a daughter Melanie and her hair turned out to be blonde, instead of black? Don’t you have to wait and see? A baby might not look like a Morgan, after all.’

  ‘Mine will,’ Hector said, staring at the horizon.

  ‘But…?’

  ‘Oh this won’t be his room now,’ Hector said, turning to face her. ‘I’m quite aware of that, but there’ll be other rooms.’ He nodded as if to convince himself further. ‘I’ve no choice, you see. Ifor, my elder brother, has a gaggle of sweet girls, but he and his wife have just announced that they reckon they’ve bred enough, and to hell with posterity. So if he’s not going to beget a son to carry on the name, it falls to me. I’m duty bound to produce the heir myself.’

  ‘With a little help from a friend?’

  ‘That’s the only inconvenient bit,’ Hector said, breaking into an unexpectedly warm grin. ‘But there’s still time. I’m sure it can be arranged.’

  Jess thought, he’s so good-looking, and his face really softens when he smiles.

  ‘I don’t know how it is that you’ve managed to snare me into this full and frank discussion,’ Hector said, now looking rather embarrassed, ‘but you will keep it to yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jess said happily. ‘I’m the very soul of discretion.’

  Hector hadn’t meant to discuss his personal problems with Jess. He had temporarily overlooked the fact that she was a woman, and therefore predisposed to gossip. He had got so used to working with her that to him she had become virtually sexless; just a good mate. In any event, he consoled himself, he hadn’t confided in her too recklessly. He hadn’t told her his latest plan of campaign. It would probably be politic not to divulge that to anyone, yet. He regarded her with an avuncular smile. How old was she, mid-twenties? She was far too young and much too feminist; she wouldn’t understand.

  He wondered how many people would. It wasn’t fashionable, in these days of equal opportunity, to be so determined to produce a son to keep the bloodline going, but then most people were carelessly unaware of their own distant ancestry. Hector could trace his family back seven generations to Sir John Mudgeley, the third Baronet, who had built himself an elegant country house in 1765 and named it Zoyland Park… Hector sighed, and stared out of the window trying to think of something else.

  He supposed it must be a recent piece he’d done for the paper that had been responsible for getting him into this imperative frame of mind… It had been about a man of his own age, about to marry, but dying from a sudden heart attack on his stag night… The story had affected Hector more than usual; given him intimations of mortality? Yes, he thought, that must be it. After all, my father and his father and his father all died in their sixties. It could happen to me. Maybe I’ve got less than twenty years left? If only bloody Megan hadn’t put me on hold for seven years, I might have had three or four sons by now. And then of course I could be killed in a road accident tomorrow. Who knows? There’s no time to waste. But I might only get one shot at it, so it’s got to be right first time. I can’t afford another empty marriage…

  He had decided upon a plan, and he had structured it in such a way that he would feel bound to stick to it and not be distracted, as he had been so often in the past, by mere dalliance and sexual adventure. This idea of his was designed to concentrate his mind on the job in hand (even if it might appear a trifle artificial and cold-blooded); the serious business of getting an heir.

  ‘Right,’ Jess said, aiming her loaded camera, and making him jump. ‘Do you want to be in these ones, or are you too busy day-dreaming?’

  ‘Oh… why not?’ Hector moved round the room as she popped off several shots, putting himself in the foreground of each one so as to direct her towards what he considered to be the best composition. ‘Wide-angled lens?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jess said. ‘Teach your grandmother!’

  ‘Sorry.’ He went on smiling at her until she dropped her eyes from his. She was a sweetie. He was sure she wouldn’t rat on him at the office. The last thing he wanted was to be an object of pity, or worse still a laughing stock. He thought he might have mentioned wanting a son to the odd person here and there, in passing, but he doubted whether they’d really registered it.

  ‘One more?’ Jess asked.

  ‘If you like.’ At least, Hector thought, at least I’ll have something to show the boy – something along the lines of Pictures of your father in the elegant house in which you were conceived.

  When they got outside again it was raining, but Hector wanted a few exterior shots. Jess watched him with a half-smile as he posed beside the high lion knocker on the heavy oak front door.

  These are going to come out just like my Uncle Fred’s holiday snaps, Jess thought – Aunty Kath in Egypt, with the pyramids somewhere under her left elbow; Aunty Kath in Sicily, with Mount Etna smoking from the back of her neck; Aunty Kath headless in Gaza, and so on. I wonder why Hector wants to be in all of them? I always run a mile if anyone points a camera at me. I suppose if you look as good as he does, it’s easy.

  ‘Excellent,’ Hector said. ‘That should do it. Thanks Jess. Now we’d better get going prestissimo.’

  Jess got back into the passenger seat of the car. It was a novel experience to be driven by Hector, and one she was not in a hurry to repeat. She hoped her official Photographer’s Jeep would indeed be repaired by lunchtime. This unfortunate vehicle was the smallest of the half-dozen company cars available, and the one which Hector most despised. He had already bumped it into several hard objects in the hope of ending its natural life, so far to no avail. Jess looked back at the house as they drove rather jerkily away.

  ‘It’s very large,’ she said, ‘especially for one person.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hector agreed bitterly. ‘It’s crying out to be a family home, isn’t it? What makes it even worse is that Megan is hardly ever in it. Most weekends she buggers off to Wales to see to her geriatric father, so the place stands empty. It’s a wicked waste and, what’s more, an open invitation to any passing yob who fancies helping himself to the television and the video and God knows what else.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve tried to make her see sense, but it just makes her more bloody-minded. Women!’

  ‘Some of us are quite pleasant,’ Jess suggested.

  ‘Some of you are little gems,’ Hector agreed, taking his eyes off the road for rather too long. ‘It’ll be a lucky young bloke who turns your head.’

  ‘It’s odd, but I’ve always been attracted to the older man,’ Jess ventured.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Hector said, taking a bend too fast, but recovering with panache. ‘Oh God, what am I going to say to this Moffat woman? As far as I can see she’s some pushy superwoman who’s been brought in as new MD to our biggest local employers hereabouts, at the unripe old age of thirty, no doubt over the backs of legions of hard-pressed married men with babies to support. Not the ideal person with whom to spend half an hour, but I suppose it’s better than being in the Newsroom glued to the bloody phone, which seems to be mostly where I find myself these days. You photographer bods don’t know you’re born, you know, gadding about all day, special transport, mobile phone…’

  ‘Long hours’ Jess put in.

  ‘I used to work long hours too, but I didn’t mind that. I was out and about all the time in the old days, with my ear to the ground, getting contacts, being given tip-offs. I was a proper reporter then, but nowadays it’s all cuts; less money, fewer staff… boring, boring, boring.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ Jess said. ‘You don’t know it but you’ve got a treat in store. I actually know your so-called superwoman and she’s not pushy at all. In fact I’m really looking forward to seeing her again. She was my role model years ago, when we were at school together. In f
act I had quite a crush on her, would you believe, when I was in the third form. Haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘All-girls’ school, eh?’ Hector smiled knowingly. ‘Ah… That explains a lot. Hothouses of repression and misandry. No wonder she’s a bra-burner.’

  ‘I suppose you do realise that you’re an appalling chauvinist?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hector said cheerfully. ‘You wouldn’t have me any different.’ Jess raised two sceptical eyebrows. ‘I do it on purpose,’ Hector assured her. ‘Works a charm every time. You rise to the bait just like a sheep.’

  ‘Right,’ the surprisingly suave reporter said to Caroline, with biro poised above his notepad. ‘Shall we get started then? I’m Hector Mudgeley, and I believe you already know Jessamy Hazelrigg our photographer.’

  ‘Hello. Jess! How lovely to see you again. It’s years since we last met! I didn’t realise you worked for the Chronicle!

  ‘Yes. It’s twelve years actually and you look just the same.’

  ‘You don’t! We must talk later.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Hector waited with studied patience for a moment or two, until Caroline had rewarded him with her full attention. Then he continued, ‘And you are Caroline Moffat; two f’s, one t? Now, may I reveal your age?’

  ‘Why not?’ Caroline said, ‘Since it’s pertinent to the whole thrust of the article.’

  ‘Quite. And are you… ah… married at all?’

  ‘Not even slightly.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked up and caught her eye with a humorous glance. ‘Right, and how long were you with your previous company?’

  As the interview progressed, Caroline thought, why is it that I always have to play games; see if I can disconcert them? This one is different though; a cut above your average Press reptile. Could it be because he’s from a wholesome and straightforward provincial weekly? No, I think there’s more to it than that. Mmmm… But how odd to see Jess grown up! I remember her so clearly at thirteen, very shy, rather plain, the vulnerable sort.

  When the questions were finished, and Hector had shut up his notepad with a satisfied snap, Caroline asked him, ‘Are you any relation to Ifor Mudgeley of Mudgeley Goggles Ltd?’