The Consequences of a Father and Son's Disagreement

The year was 1938. The setting was a luxury hotel in the south of France during a family holiday. For as long as I could remember, our father had insisted that the five members of our family take a two-week summer holiday together every year. To him, it meant everything; this annual gathering was comparable to a devout religious believer making a yearly pilgrimage.

It was on the fourth day of our holiday, at breakfast, that an incident occurred which shattered the very fabric of what had, until then, been a respectful and harmonious family. Father had just been handed The Times, dated two days prior. On the front page ran the headline: A Strong Possibility of War with Germany.

My father looked up at his family. “It looks as though we might be at war within a year. If so, boys, you will be called up. You are both officer material. No doubt I will put in a good word for you.”

My brother, Martin, looked directly at our father. “Dad, I don’t believe in war. I will never allow them to call me up. The whole concept of war is outdated human folly.”

This remark had an extraordinary effect on the breakfast table. For a few seconds, a devastating silence fell over us, leaving a cold shudder running down the spines of the other four family members.

Father speaks in a stern voice. “Martin, that was a flippant remark. You surely don’t mean what you said.”

“I do, and I will not participate in any discussion to persuade me otherwise.”

I looked at my brother. He had always been a wild, undisciplined child—the sort of boy who enjoyed pulling the legs off dragonflies and kicking dogs. He had a savage streak in him and was subject to violent attacks of anger where he lost complete control of his emotions. I had the opposite disposition: respectful, studious, and blessed with a calm nature. Martin always seemed to be fighting some internal struggle just to cope with life, but when he replied "I do" to my father, I knew he meant it.

The reason the table was so profoundly shocked by Martin's remark was that just the previous year, our father had taken early retirement from the British Army with the rank of Lieutenant General after thirty-five years of service. It was unimaginable to him that one of his sons, when called upon to do his duty in times of war, would hold such an attitude. Martin saw that he had deeply hurt his father, and he abruptly left the table.

The four of us sat there in silence, each buried in our own thoughts. My mind turned to my relationship with my brother. There was no deep bond of love between us. Martin was far too concentrated on looking after himself to have any regard for others. He also possessed a violent temper that frequently exposed itself when we played together as children. If Father was called to arbitrate a fight, he was always very strict with Martin, often handing out severe punishment.

The more I thought about Martin, the more difficult it became to discern his true character. On occasion, he could be charming—the absolute centre of attention at a party. Yet living alongside him was like living with a man who had a dormant volcano inside him, liable to explode at any moment. The closest relationship he had with any member of the family was with our younger sister, Emma. He had declared himself her guardian angel, though I think she was always a little scared of his volatile nature. His relationship with our father was, I believe, one of pure disdain. Father was a strict disciplinarian, but at the same time, a kind and generous man who had spent his life as a devout believer in protecting his fellow countryman.

Our mother, for some complicated reason, doted on Martin. In a macabre way, she almost seemed to enjoy his outbursts of temper. Perhaps, as a frustrated person herself, her son's explosions relieved the suffering of her own internal feelings in some bizarre way. Whenever we came together as a family, it was like navigating a fast-flowing river with dangerous undercurrents.

My thoughts were interrupted by my father getting up from the table. “If there is a war and Martin is not prepared to be called up, then he will no longer be called my son, and he will never be welcome in my household.” With that brief speech, he left the room.

By evening, the fast-flowing river had flooded its banks. Father remained so deeply upset by Martin’s remarks that he and Mother decided to catch a flight back to England that very night. They wished the three of us a continued happy holiday. After saying goodbye to our parents, the three of us met for dinner. Emma and I berated Martin for making a remark that had so deeply wounded our father, but he just looked at us and smiled. Throughout the meal, the conversation was strained, but years of living together had created a certain bond of understanding between our personalities. We agreed to stick to the holiday plan and meet each evening for dinner.

I spent most of the remaining holiday with Emma on the beach, swimming, reading, and occasionally taking trips into the countryside. On occasion, we saw Martin with his arms around some girl he had picked up. He was not always present at dinner. One evening, he arrived with a black eye, claiming there had been "some trouble on the beach." Another time, he brought a girl along, introducing her as his girlfriend; she was incredibly shy and obeyed Martin as though she were his servant. Later, we heard there was further trouble on the beach, and on that occasion, we didn't see Martin for three days. I think we were all relieved when the holiday finally ended. When I went to settle the hotel bill, I found it had already been prepaid by my father.

The following year, war was declared. Martin disappeared, and I signed up. My sister was enjoying her first year at university, while Father threw off the cloak of retirement to assist in the war effort. My mother offered her services to the Red Cross. Two months later, we received word that Martin was in South America.

The six years of war were a depressing and difficult time for the country. Perhaps it was through the influence of my father, but the day I signed up, I was sent straight to officer training. I participated in the Normandy landings as a captain and was awarded the Military Cross. I returned to England with a slight limp—the result of a wound in my left leg from fighting on the beaches. My sister passed the war years qualifying as a doctor and helping Mother with her Red Cross responsibilities. We saw little of our father, as he was given numerous vital wartime duties.

It took us and the country four years to find some semblance of normality after peace was declared. I finished my studies and qualified as a barrister. Both my sister and I found separate apartments close to our parents' place. Father retired for the second time. Around this time, we celebrated the announcement of my pending marriage; the date of the wedding caused great discussion, as Emma was also close to announcing hers.

It was a warm spring morning when the four of us gathered for Sunday lunch. My mother showed us a letter from Martin:

Hi family,

Within the next month, I will be in London. My time in South America is up, as there has been some trouble. A year ago, I bought a furnished apartment in central London, so upon arrival, I will go straight there. I hope you are all well and did not suffer too greatly from the war. It will be good to see you all.

Martin.

My immediate reaction was, “Father, we thought we had lost him! Surely this is a very pleasant surprise?”

“No,” Father replied. “He is not welcome in this house. Let us talk about something more pleasant. Emma, when do you think you will announce your engagement? Both your mother and I think your young man is a perfect partner for you.”

“Dad, probably next week,” Emma said. “He went to his parents' house this weekend to contemplate and find the courage to ask me to marry him.”

We all laughed, but hanging over the table was the dark cloud of Martin’s imminent appearance. This arrival threatened to reopen the enormous emotional upheaval and suffering embedded in our family years ago in France.

Two weeks later, my mother phoned to tell me that Martin had come round to the house. His father had shut the door in his face and told him he was not welcome. However, Martin had left his phone number in our letterbox. A day later, I telephoned him and asked him to have dinner with me. I chose a quiet restaurant with low lighting and no music. I turned up with my fiancée, thinking her presence might calm tempers should they raise their ugly heads. We arrived early.

Martin arrived smiling, looking fit and in good health. He seemed extremely pleased to see me and enveloped me in a huge hug. When I introduced him to my fiancée, however, he immediately began flirting with her. I could see it annoyed her as much as it angered me. Over dinner, we learned that Martin had made a considerable amount of money in South America, having been based primarily in Argentina. He did not disclose how he had made his wealth, and we did not ask, suspecting shady dealings. He also mentioned that he had been married, but after two years, his wife had left him. He was certain she was pregnant when she departed. After many devious attempts to locate her, he had failed.

Then, he brought up the subject of our parents. I could see and feel the volcano stirring by the sudden anger in his face. I quickly changed the subject and told him Emma was getting married soon. The mention of Emma's name completely shifted his focus, locking onto the memory of his old declaration that he was her guardian angel.

“I would love to see her. Have you got her number? Maybe I will be welcome there.”

It was the ideal time to pay the bill and leave. As we walked away, my fiancée said, “There goes a deeply disturbed and unhappy man. He needs serious psychoanalytic treatment. He could become a danger to the public.”

Two days later, at midnight, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find my dear sister covered in blood. In a distraught voice, she sobbed, “I was at Martin's flat for the evening. We had a pleasant time talking about old times, but then the conversation turned to our parents. We got into a violent argument. Martin flew into an uncontrollable rage—he completely lost his mind.”

Emma broke into fresh tears. “He raped me.”

“It’s unthinkable,” I whispered, taking her into my arms. “Quickly, how many hours ago?”

Through her tears, she replied, “Not even an hour ago.”

“Good. I am taking you straight to the hospital.”

After a thorough examination, it was agreed that Emma should stay the night under a nurse’s supervision.

I looked at my watch; it was two in the morning. Without giving it a second thought, I drove to Martin’s apartment. After ringing the bell and knocking loudly enough to disturb the neighbours, he finally opened the door. I did not wait to be invited in; I barged past him, shouting, “Martin, do you realize what you have done?”

In a drunken voice, he replied, “Not really... It was only when I saw her face, and she was screaming and sobbing, saying no, no... that I realized what I was doing. I lost complete control of myself during a heated argument about our parents. I have spent the last two hours drinking and thinking about my behaviour and my life.”

He kept ranting. “I am a complete failure. I am not wanted anywhere. South America, persona non grata... at my parents' home, the door was shut in my face. I cannot, and probably never will, control my emotions and my temper. In fact, you have come at a critical time, as I am in the process of preparing to commit suicide. My future looks blank and dismal. I have no desire to live. Humans need love and contact with their own kind. My dear brother, you will do me a great favour and silence any unwanted rumours about our family. Come with me into the bedroom.”

Beside his bed lay three letters. On top of them rested a loaded syringe. Martin picked up the syringe; I picked up the letters. They were addressed to his parents, to his brother and sister, and to the police.

“My dear brother, I am going to inject myself. Please... I feel that I need a little human warmth. Hold my hand.”

Within a minute, my brother Martin lay dead, while I was still holding his hand.

Only after my parents' deaths did I finally learn what was written in the letter Martin had left for them in the final moments of his life.