young marriage. Another theory cited geography: wife was desperate to
return to England, husband was determined to advance through the US legal
system and refused to leave America. Will’s maternal grandmother, a
silver-haired Hampshire lady with a severe expression that frightened the young
boy the first time he saw her, and for years afterwards, once spoke darkly of ‘the
other great passion’ in his father’s life. When he was old enough
to inquire further, his grandmother shrugged it off.
To this day, he did not know if that ‘great passion’ was another
woman or the law.
Will’s own memories offered little help; he was barely seven years old
when his parents began to come apart. He remembered the atmosphere, the gloom
that would descend after his father had stormed out, slamming the door. Or the shock
of finding his mother, red-faced and hoarse after another fierce round of
shouting. He once woke up from sleep to hear his father pleading, ‘I just
want to do what’s right.’ Will had tiptoed out of bed to find a
place where he could watch his parents unseen. He could not understand the
words they were saying but he could feel their force. It was at that moment,
hearing his British mother and American father at full volume, that the seven
year old boy developed a theory: his mummy and daddy could not love each other
because they had different voices.
Once they were back in England, his mother gave few clues as to what had
brought them there. Even raising the topic carried the risk of turning her into
a bitter, ranting woman he hardly recognized and did not like. She would mutter
about how her husband became ‘a different man, utterly different’.
Will remembered one Christmas, his mother speaking in a way which frightened
him; he could not have been much older than thirteen. The detail had faded now,
but one word still leapt out. It was all ‘his’ fault, she kept saying;
‘he’ had changed everything. The intonation made clear that this ‘he’
was a third party, not his father, but Will could never figure out who it was.
His mother was coming off like a paranoid, raving in the streets. Will was
relieved when the storm passed and he was not brave enough to mention it again.
Friends, and his grandmother for that matter, were quick to analyse Will’s
return to the United States after Oxford as a response to all this. He was ‘choosing’
his father over his mother, said some. He was trying to reconcile the two, in
the manner of many children of divorce, with himself as the bridge; that was
another pet explanation. If he subscribed to any theory, which he did not, it
would have been the journalistic one: that Will Monroe Jr went to America to
get to the truth of the story that had shaped his early life.
But if that had been the purpose of his American journey, he had failed. He
knew little more now than he did when he first arrived, aged twenty-two. He
knew his father better, that was true. He respected him; he was a hugely
accomplished lawyer, now a judge, and seemed an essentially decent man. But as
to the big mystery, Will had gained no great insights. They had talked about
the divorce, of course, during a couple of moonlit evenings on the veranda of
his father’s summer house at Sag Harbor. But there had been no flash of
revelation.
‘Maybe that is the revelation,’ Beth had said one night when he
came back inside after one of these father-to-son chats. They were spending a
long Labor Day weekend with Will’s father and his ‘partner’,
Linda. Beth was lying on the bed, reading, waiting for Will to come back in.
‘What is?’
‘That there is no big mystery. That’s the revelation. They were
two people whose marriage didn’t work. It happens. It happens a lot. That’s
all there is.’
‘But what about all that stuff my mother says? And that grandma used
to say?’
‘Maybe they needed to have some grand explanation. Maybe it helped to
think that some other woman stole
return to England, husband was determined to advance through the US legal
system and refused to leave America. Will’s maternal grandmother, a
silver-haired Hampshire lady with a severe expression that frightened the young
boy the first time he saw her, and for years afterwards, once spoke darkly of ‘the
other great passion’ in his father’s life. When he was old enough
to inquire further, his grandmother shrugged it off.
To this day, he did not know if that ‘great passion’ was another
woman or the law.
Will’s own memories offered little help; he was barely seven years old
when his parents began to come apart. He remembered the atmosphere, the gloom
that would descend after his father had stormed out, slamming the door. Or the shock
of finding his mother, red-faced and hoarse after another fierce round of
shouting. He once woke up from sleep to hear his father pleading, ‘I just
want to do what’s right.’ Will had tiptoed out of bed to find a
place where he could watch his parents unseen. He could not understand the
words they were saying but he could feel their force. It was at that moment,
hearing his British mother and American father at full volume, that the seven
year old boy developed a theory: his mummy and daddy could not love each other
because they had different voices.
Once they were back in England, his mother gave few clues as to what had
brought them there. Even raising the topic carried the risk of turning her into
a bitter, ranting woman he hardly recognized and did not like. She would mutter
about how her husband became ‘a different man, utterly different’.
Will remembered one Christmas, his mother speaking in a way which frightened
him; he could not have been much older than thirteen. The detail had faded now,
but one word still leapt out. It was all ‘his’ fault, she kept saying;
‘he’ had changed everything. The intonation made clear that this ‘he’
was a third party, not his father, but Will could never figure out who it was.
His mother was coming off like a paranoid, raving in the streets. Will was
relieved when the storm passed and he was not brave enough to mention it again.
Friends, and his grandmother for that matter, were quick to analyse Will’s
return to the United States after Oxford as a response to all this. He was ‘choosing’
his father over his mother, said some. He was trying to reconcile the two, in
the manner of many children of divorce, with himself as the bridge; that was
another pet explanation. If he subscribed to any theory, which he did not, it
would have been the journalistic one: that Will Monroe Jr went to America to
get to the truth of the story that had shaped his early life.
But if that had been the purpose of his American journey, he had failed. He
knew little more now than he did when he first arrived, aged twenty-two. He
knew his father better, that was true. He respected him; he was a hugely
accomplished lawyer, now a judge, and seemed an essentially decent man. But as
to the big mystery, Will had gained no great insights. They had talked about
the divorce, of course, during a couple of moonlit evenings on the veranda of
his father’s summer house at Sag Harbor. But there had been no flash of
revelation.
‘Maybe that is the revelation,’ Beth had said one night when he
came back inside after one of these father-to-son chats. They were spending a
long Labor Day weekend with Will’s father and his ‘partner’,
Linda. Beth was lying on the bed, reading, waiting for Will to come back in.
‘What is?’
‘That there is no big mystery. That’s the revelation. They were
two people whose marriage didn’t work. It happens. It happens a lot. That’s
all there is.’
‘But what about all that stuff my mother says? And that grandma used
to say?’
‘Maybe they needed to have some grand explanation. Maybe it helped to
think that some other woman stole
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