Jemma had canceled Jamie’s last visit, a couple of weeks ago; something about The Gruffalo onstage and how he couldn’t miss it, everyone in his class was going. Joe hadn’t seen his son for two months. Jamie had been down to stay in late July, just after school holidays had started. It had been brilliant. They’d gone swimming in the river at Farleigh Hungerford. They’d camped out at Sheila’s—Joe’s rooms above the pub were tiny, and Sheila had a cottage with a long garden that stretched down to the woods, where you heard foxes fighting and owls hooting and the strange, rustling sound of unknown creatures nearby. They’d made a fire, Joe had cooked the Oak Tree’s own delicious herby sausages and put them in his own rosemary and walnut bread rolls, slathered with mustard, and there the two of them had sat, out under the stars, munching away together, and Joe couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy. He’d made Sheila some treacly, creamy truffles to say thanks for the garden loan. He and Jamie had made a box for them out of cardboard and decorated it—the felt-tip marks where they’d overshot the cardboard were still on his kitchen table—blue, orange, and green scribbles, made in a second; and now when Joe saw them every night, he felt the sharp pang of Jamie’s absence. Sheila had cooed with delight when he gave her the box, the night after he’d got back from taking Jamie home to York.
“You shouldn’t have, it was my pleasure, Joe. He’s lovely. You must be very proud of him.”
“I am,” he’d said, swallowing hard. “Nothing to do with me, though.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you? He’s the spitting image of you, my dear, it’s uncanny.” Then she’d seen his expression. “Oh, Joe. I promise you, he is. And he’s welcome anytime you want.”
He would always love Sheila for saying that, but being here was taking him away from his son, more and more. This restaurant, two hundred and fifty miles away from his son. Why had he thought he could do it? Why was he screwing everything up here? Why wasn’t he back in York, or even Leeds, or back with Mum in Pickering, helping her out?
Jemma and Ian were getting married next year, and though he honestly wished them well and was glad for Jemma that she could have all the manicures she wanted, Joe was the one left behind. He’d never been right for her. He’d never really understood why she’d come over to him in the first place. She’d been way out of his league. He’d only been in the club because one of the chefs was leaving. It was a footballer’s place, and she was the kind of girl you saw with footballers.
Joe’s sister, Michelle, had warned him off her. “She’s trouble, Joe. She’s after your money.”
Joe had said quietly, “She knows I don’t have any money.”
“You’re her cute bit of action on the side before she bags herself a millionaire, Joe,” she told him. Michelle was a realist. “You don’t understand women, okay? You’re not that fat spotty kid with the knee-high socks and Mam’s apron on making brownies anymore, right, love? You’re . . . ugh.” She’d closed her eyes and shuddered. “You’re a good-looking lad, and you’re nice, okay? All my friends are after you. So just use your head.”
They’d only been dating a few months when Jemma told him she was pregnant. Joe was over the moon, but she wasn’t. She was scared. He could see now that the game she was playing was to get herself some security, because she’d failed at school and her mum had nothing, and her dad, like his, was long gone. Jemma was like Michelle: she didn’t have any qualifications, anything to give. The only thing she had was her body and her looks, and she’d used them to get him, someone who wouldn’t hit her or cheat on her; but the moment she’d decided it’d be him, she’d realized she didn’t really love him anyway. She was nearly five months gone by that point.
If they’d been older and wiser, maybe it could have worked. If he’d been mature enough to see how young and scared she really was and how a lot of the crap she pulled was because she was frightened and wanted to test him, maybe he’d have kept her. But she started going out again when Jamie was only a few weeks old, and coming back at all hours, and he was working all hours too, and they were shouting when they were together, her yelling at him because he was never around and didn’t earn enough money, and the flat in Leeds was tiny and both of them were so tired all the time, they could only be vile to each other. She’d start shouting at him—completely wild, she’d get—and Joe would stare at his son, his tiny red wrinkled head, solemn mouth, beady black eyes that opened wide, the sudden smile when you picked him up. He’d wonder: Could Jamie hear the terrible things his mum and dad were saying to each other? Was it damaging him, making him believe the world was full of anger and sadness?
One day he’d got back from the restaurant at four in the morning, and they were gone. Just a note, and it said, Sorry, Joe. I can’t do this anymore. You can see Jamie whenever. J. x PS You were lovely.
• • •
It was fine to start with. He saw Jamie every weekend, some weekdays, took him out and about, to the park, to the playgroup at the church hall. He loved kids, and the mums were always friendly; Joe loved it. Then Jemma moved to York and it got a bit harder to see Jamie, but it was still okay. Joe kept on working, head down, not living much, going on the occasional date, the odd pint with an old mate. Really, just waiting for his weekends with Jamie, time he could make into bricks, a substantial bulk of memory.
Then, at Jamie’s third birthday party, there was Ian Sinclair, a lawyer. Jemma had cut his hair and he’d asked her out, and now he was here in her living room, snapping away with a massive expensive Nikon camera and his own present, a bright red sit-on truck for Jamie. Joe had turned up late with a Victoria sponge made by his mother, which Liddy had laboriously decorated all over with Smarties. It had got squashed on the bus. He’d stood at the back chatting to Jemma’s neighbor Lisa, then tried to pick up Jamie but he’d wailed and screamed. Then he’d given him a bow and arrow set, and Jemma had practically stabbed him with it: “What the hell is he going to do with that, Joe? Walk down Museum Gardens and shoot something? Are you serious?”
Ian Sinclair had handed round a train-shaped cake and given the grown-ups each a fondant fancy, both of which he’d ordered in from Bettys. Joe’s present was rolled up in its plastic bag, put down beside the sofa on the floor. On the way back from the bathroom Joe caught sight of his mum’s squashed cake, abandoned untouched in the sterile, brand-new kitchen, buttery grease blotting the now-bent paper plates Liddy had carefully sandwiched it between. Joe ended up drinking too much with Lisa, the neighbor, then going back to her flat, where they had sex, he was sure—he couldn’t ever remember and that made it worse somehow.
It got worse: the next day, as he was leaving, Jemma appeared on the pavement, shaking with rage.
“Things are changing, Joe. Okay?” She jabbed her finger on the window of Ian’s jeep, which she used to drive Jamie to the child-minder’s. “I’m sick of you hanging round like a dog that’s lost its owner. He’ll always be your son, don’t you understand that?”
Joe could see Jamie, strapped into his car seat, watching his father, thumb in mouth, a little confused. His thick curls were stuck to his head; he still looked half-asleep. He reached forward and jabbed at the window with one small finger. “Dad?”
“Go and get your own life,” Jemma hissed at Joe. “Seriously.”
She was right, of course. But Joe didn’t know what his own life looked like. His dad had left when he was five and Michelle was eight, and he’d come back lots at the start, then not at all. Derek Thorne was a liar and a gambler who took money off their mother, and once hit her when he was drunk. The worst thing was, Joe remembered him pretty well. He’d always thought he was a brilliant dad, till the moment he’d upped and left. Joe didn’t know where he’d gone; his mum never wanted to talk about it, his sister hated him, and that was it. . . . It wasn’t even dramatic. He’d just sort of faded away.
Now Joe saw that it could happen very easily. How careful he had to be, to maintain his amicab
le relationship with Jemma and Ian. Because the memories of his times with Jamie were growing more and more precious. He was Jamie’s dad, not Ian, and nothing could change that. And he didn’t want to be a dick about it; he wasn’t some Fathers4Justice idiot. He didn’t ever want to get in the way of Ian. Ian was the one who’d be there at night when he woke up, who’d hug Jamie when he was scared of monsters under the bed. He would do all that. . . .
Joe stopped halfway up the hill, breathing in the scent of fallen leaves, wood smoke, rain, and blinked back the sharp tears in his eyes. The memory of his son’s wriggly, sturdy body against his when they hugged was exquisite pleasure mixed with aching pain in his heart. The smell of wood smoke in his hair, his head next to his father’s in the tent at night that summer. His low, dry voice, the way he slept with his fists scrunched up tight—he’d always done that, ever since he was a baby. His gummy teeth, his babbling chatter about children at school, and how his best friend was a girl called Esme.
Joe knew he had to keep going, now he was in this situation. But he was already screwing it up, he felt. It was already maybe too late.
• • •
It was a ten-minute walk out to Winterfold. The lane grew steeper, winding up through the trees past the ruins of the old priory and then ending with a wooden gate, and there was the name of the house, carved into the low wall behind. Winterfold. Joe hesitated before unhooking the latch. Though he didn’t care much about money or privilege, he found he was nervous, walking up the gravel drive, as though he were entering another world.
The trees were dry, the dark olive-green leaves burnished with bright yellow. The branches rustled softly as Joe looked up to see Winterfold in front of him. The front door was right at the center of an L, so the house seemed to hug you. The bottom half was golden-gray local Bath stone, sprinkled with white lichen, and it was topped by four great gables in wooden clapboard, two on either side, each with a dormer window, like eyes peering down. Wisteria twisted and turned along the edge of the lowest beam. Joe peered into one of the low leaded windows by the door, then jumped. Someone was moving around inside.
Joe went up to the great blackened oak door on which were carved intricate repeating patterns of berries and leaves. The knocker was in the shape of an owl. It stared at him, unblinking. He knocked firmly and stepped back, feeling like Jack coming to see the giant in his home.
He waited for what seemed like ages, then reached forward to knock again, and as the door opened he fell forward, almost lurching into Martha Winter’s arms.
“Well. Hello, Joe. It’s lovely to see you. How’s your hand?”
“It’s much better.” He fumbled for the parcel under his arm. “I brought you something, actually. To thank you. They said if Dr. Winter hadn’t acted so fast, I’d have lost the finger.”
“Come inside.” Martha unwrapped the bread, her fingertips running over the cracked, crusty surface. “Tiger bread—it’s my favorite, did you know that? No? Well, it’s very clever of you. Joe, I didn’t want anything. Anyone would have done the same. It’s my son you should be thanking.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“You haven’t been here before, have you? It’s lovely in the afternoons, when the sun starts to come over the hill.”
Somehow she’d taken his coat off and it was hanging on the old carved row of hooks. He glanced left as they passed through the hall: a huge, light sitting room, lined with dark wooden cupboards, whitewashed walls slit by black beams. The French windows were open and beyond them was the garden, a green mist splashed with reds, blues, and pinks.
“It’s been a great summer for gardeners. All the rain. The tree house is practically pulp, but we don’t have any children running around these days, sadly, so no use for it.” Martha pushed open the kitchen door and he followed her. “I’m shutting the door behind us because David’s in his study and he’ll try to join us.”
“Oh. Would that be so bad?”
“He’s got a deadline. He loves being distracted and he’ll hear you and come in.” She ruffled her bob with her fingers. “Do sit down, Joe. Would you like some tea? I was going to make a pot. Have a piece of gingerbread.”
Martha pulled out a large, carved wooden armchair and slid a blue-and-white plate across the table toward him. Joe took a piece gratefully—he was hungry all the time since the accident, and wondered if it might be some kind of delayed shock. He watched as she moved around the roomy kitchen. Behind her a large pair of wooden doors was folded back, leading through to the wood-paneled dining room. A jam jar of hot pink and violet-blue sweet peas stood on the sideboard. Liddy grew sweet peas back at home, obsessively trailing them through the trellis on the wall outside their little cottage. Joe breathed in, smelling their rich, heady scent. He looked around the room as she made the tea, thinking he ought to say something. Show he was engaged, keen, up for this job.
“Is that Florence?” he said, pointing to a watercolor on the wall.
Martha looked up in delight. “Yes. We did it on our honeymoon. Both of us together.”
“It’s beautiful. I studied in Italy. My catering course—we were there for a term.”
“My daughter lives in Florence,” she said. “How wonderful. Where were you?”
“In a village, middle of nowhere in Tuscany. It was great. What’s she doing there then?”
“She’s an art history professor. Mostly at the British College, but she teaches over here too. She’s very clever. Nothing like me. I studied art, but I’m no good at talking about it.”
“You’re an artist too?”
Martha folded her arms and looked down at her wedding ring. “Once, I suppose. David and I both had scholarships to the Slade. ‘Those poor East Enders,’ they used to call us. Terribly posh children from the Home Counties, and us. The girl I shared a bedsit with was called Felicity and her father was a brigadier. Golly, she did go on about him.” She smiled, and her lips parted, enough to show the gap between her teeth. “Now you’d just look it up on your phone, I suppose, but then, I had no idea what a brigadier was. After about a month, I asked David what it meant. He was the one person I could ask.”
“Did you know him from home?”
Martha suddenly snapped shut the recipe book next to her, and stood up. “No. Different parts of London. But I’d met him before. Once.” Her voice changed. “Anyway, I don’t paint anymore. Not really. When we moved here . . . everything else took over.” She smiled, a little mechanically. “Here’s your tea.”
She doesn’t like talking about herself either. “When you were doing it though . . . what kind of stuff did you paint?” He corrected himself. “Not stuff, sorry. Works.”
Martha laughed at that. “ ‘Works’ sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Oh, everything. I started off doing pastiches, watercolors, copying famous paintings. Used to sell them in Hyde Park on a Sunday. But latterly it was more . . . woodcuts. Prints. Nature and nurture.” Sun flickered into the room, reflected off a plane high, high above, and her green eyes flashed hazel-gold. “But it was a long time ago. And having children isn’t conducive to being the next Picasso, you know.”
“So, you’ve two children then?”
“Three.” She went over to the sink. “There’s Daisy too. She’s the middle one. She lives in India. Works for a charity—literacy and schools in Kerala.”
Joe didn’t say, Wilbur and Daisy, I know all about her. He somehow hadn’t thought that little girl in the cartoons he’d devoured as a child was real. “India. That’s exotic.”
“Don’t think it is, much, not with the work she does. But she’s had some wonderful results out there.” Martha washed an apple, splashing water everywhere. “Right. Do you want one of these?” He shook his head. “Then shall we draw up a list? I had a few ideas, just a couple of suggestions.”
“Will she be there for your birthday?”
She stared at him b
lankly and sat down again. “Who?”
“Daisy? Your daughter?” Joe said nervously.
Martha started peeling the apple with a knife. “This is a tense moment.” There was a silence as the silver cut through the shining green skin. “I like doing this in one perfect ribbon, and lately my skills are starting to slip.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Daisy won’t be there, no.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Joe fumbled to take his notepad out of his pocket, embarrassed.
“No, it’s fine. There’s no big drama with Daisy. She’s always been a bit—difficult. She had a baby very young, an affair with a boy she met in Africa, building wells, I think it was. Nice young boy.” Martha screwed up her face as if trying to picture him. “Giles something. Isn’t it terrible? Nice boy. Very Home Counties . . .”
She stopped as though recalling something. “Anyway. She’s out in India now and she really has made a difference. The area where she helped build the school in Cherthala has equal attendance rates for girls and boys now, and last year we—she, I should say, she did it all—raised enough money to ensure that every school in the area is on the mains system for water. It’ll save about five thousand lives a year. It’s things like that—she’s very driven, when she gets the idea in her head, you see.”
“You know a lot about it.” He was impressed.
“Well, we just—miss her. I’m interested in what interests her. And Cat—that’s her daughter—it’s sad, like I say.” Her eyes were shining.
“She’s never seen her baby? Not once?”
The spiral of skin fell on the table. Martha sliced the creamy naked apple. “Oh, a few times over the years. We raised Cat ourselves. Daisy’s always seen her when . . . you know, when she comes back. She loves being here.”
“When was the last time she came back?”
Martha looked thoughtful. “Oh . . . I’m not sure. Bill’s wedding to Karen? That was four years ago. She was a little difficult. Daisy has the zeal of the convert, do you know anyone like that? It annoys some people. Her brother . . . her sister too, come to mention it. It’s just . . .” She stopped. “Oh, nothing.”
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