Intrigued, Joe said, “Go on. It’s just what?”
Martha hesitated and looked over her shoulder toward the dining room, golden autumn light streaming in from the garden outside.
“It’s just—oh, Joe, it’s not the way you imagine they’ll turn out when they’re babies. When you hold them in your arms, that first time, and look at them. And you see what kind of person they are. Do you know what I mean?”
Joe nodded. He knew exactly. He could still remember the moment right after the birth, as Jemma lay back, exhausted, and the midwife turned round from the station by the bed and, like a magician performing a magic trick, handed him this bundle in a towel, which made a mewling sound, a bit like a persistent ring tone. Waah. Waah. Waah.
“Your son!” she’d said brightly. And he’d stared at his round, purple face, and the eyes had opened so briefly and fixed on something near Joe’s face, and what had crossed Joe’s mind was, I know you. I know who you are.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I knew what he was like the first time I held him. Right then just by looking at him. Like I could see his soul.”
“Exactly. That’s all. It’s not . . . it’s not what I wanted for her.” Martha paused and her green eyes filled with tears. She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Joe. I just miss her.”
“I’m sure you do.” Joe’s heart went out to her. He sipped his tea and finished the cake and, for a few moments, they sat in companionable silence. He felt once again that strangely familiar sense of contentment in her presence. As if he’d known her for a long time.
“So, then,” he said, putting down his mug. “I had a few ideas. Want to talk them over?”
“Sure,” Martha said, brushing something off her cheek. She gave a quick smile. “I’m so glad you’re doing this, Joe.”
“Well, I’m glad to be doing it.” He grinned almost shyly at her. “I thought for the family lunch on Saturday we’d do a big tapas selection, loads of dips and meats. Go up to the smokery on the Levels together and get some sausages, salmon, pâté, and the like. And then a suckling pig. Porchetta, fennel seeds, sage, a nice sort of event piece, and I can do loads of veg and all. Fruit salad and a big birthday cake for afters, and a huge cheese board, all as local as possible. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” she said. “I knew you’d get it.” She reached out and patted his good hand. “My mouth’s watering, just thinking about it. You can use herbs from our garden, that’d be a nice—” The door swung open behind them and she turned, half in irritation, half in amusement. “David, darling, it’s been ten minutes! Can’t you—oh, Lucy! Hello!”
“Hi, Gran!” A tall, curly-haired girl bounded into the room and threw her arms around Martha. “Oh, it’s nice to be back. Where’s Southpaw?”
“What are you doing here?” Martha stroked her hair.
“Sorry to surprise you, I only decided—oh, sorry again. Didn’t realize you were with someone.”
“I’m Joe,” said Joe, standing up. “Nice to meet you.”
“Lucy. Hi.” She held out her hand, staring up at him, and he shook it. She had big hazel eyes, a creamy complexion, and a wide, generous smile. There was a gap between her teeth, like her grandmother’s, and she blushed as she smiled at him, clamping one arm self-consciously over her chest.
“Oh, what a nice surprise,” said Martha. She hugged her granddaughter again, and kissed the top of her head. “Lucy, Joe’s the new chef at the Oak Tree. He’s going to do the food for the party.”
“How exciting!” Lucy said eagerly. “My stepmother can’t stop going on about you. Says you’re the best thing to happen to the village since she got there.” She took some cake and sat down. “Mm. Gran, it’s so great to be here.”
“Right. Who’s your stepmother?” Joe put another piece of gingerbread in his mouth.
“Well, I think she’s got a crush on you, so watch out.” Lucy was shoveling down cake with aplomb. “Karen Bromidge. D’you know who I mean? Thirties, small, looks like a kind of female Hitler in tight tops?”
“Lucy, don’t be rude,” said Martha. “Joe, are you all right?”
Joe was coughing, trying not to choke. “Bit . . .” He couldn’t speak. “I—”
“Get him some water,” Martha said.
Lucy jumped up, ran the tap, and handed him a glass and he tried to drink, breathing hard, feeling like an idiot. Nice one. She thumped him hard on the back and he spluttered, then sat down again.
Lucy wiped the crumbs off her face and turned to Martha. “So, Gran, what’s the big idea?” she said. “With this party, I mean. I got the invite. You sent it to my old address, by the way.”
“Darling, you keep moving. I don’t have your new address. What was wrong with the old flat?”
“Domestic issues,” Lucy said succinctly. “It was time.”
“You were only there three months.”
“This pigeon kept raping another pigeon on the roof outside.”
“What?”
Lucy swallowed the last of the cake. “Every morning. This pigeon with a big fluffed-up neck would chase these other pigeons and they’d try to fly away and he’d fly after them. And I’d be lying in bed and there’d be this screaming cooing noise and I’d look out and feel really bad for the girl pigeons.”
“It’s the circle of life,” Martha said. “Draw the curtains.”
“There weren’t any curtains.” Martha buried her face in her hands and laughed. Lucy ignored her. “I’m living with Irene now. It’s all right.”
“Who’s Irene?”
“Irene Huang? Irene from Alperton? Gran, you met her when we had lunch in Liberty. She’s a fashion blogger. Allegedly. She’s actually pretty annoying. She leaves these notes on the fridge about her cat and his distressed bowels and how I must not, repeat not, feed him anything myself.”
“Lucy!” said Martha, as though she were eight. “No bowels talk, please.”
Lucy shot her a look. “It’s germane.”
“It’s not bloody germane to talk about some cat’s guts.”
“The cat’s called Chairman Miaow. Now, that is germane. It’s actually quite a great name. I was sucked in by the greatness of her cat’s name and now it’s too late.”
“Why did you want to live with her? Apart from the cat?” Joe asked, trying to breathe steadily, though he could still feel exactly where the gingerbread had become stuck in his throat.
“She lives in Dalston. Dalston’s the center of everything these days.”
“Never heard of it,” said Martha.
“It’s East London,” Joe told her. “Very trendy.”
“Imagine the Greenwich Village of the fifties, today,” Lucy said.
“Oh. Right. How’s the job? Lucy works on the Daily News,” Martha explained to Joe.
“The job?” Lucy said brightly. “It’s great. Really great. Listen—I wanted to ask you something about it, in fact. Do you think—” There were footsteps in the hall; Joe saw how quickly Lucy flushed, and shrugged, saying quickly, “Actually, never mind,” as the kitchen door banged open and David Winter stood on the threshold, holding the door back with his stick.
“Any chance of some tea, Em?”
“Of course.” Joe saw Martha look at him. “What’s up?”
“I’m having some trouble with Wilbur. Can you come and pretend to be chasing your tail?” He caught sight of Lucy and his face lit up. “Lucy, darling, hello! This is much better. Come into the study, I need you to run around in a circle.” Lucy gave a throaty, delighted chuckle. “And Joe, wonderful! Hello there, sir. Are you here to talk about the plans for the party?”
“Hello, David.” Joe stood up and shook his hand. He felt faint. “Yes. I think we’ve agreed on the menu.”
David leaned against the table. “Well, that’s marvelous. Now I shall take this piece of gingerbrea
d and go back to my study. Lucy . . . ?”
“I need to ask Gran something.” Lucy looked at her grandmother. “Can Joe do it?”
“Joe, please come and run around in a circle pretending to be a dog, won’t you?” David said, smiling, and Joe thought again that you’d do anything to please a man with a smile like that.
“Of course.”
• • •
“You know, it’s easier to just show you on YouTube,” he said, when they were in David’s study.
“On YouTube?” David sat heavily back in his chair, breathing hard. Joe glanced at him. There were dark gray circles under his brown eyes. “That hadn’t occurred to me. It’s a terrific idea.” He lay back a little and closed his eyes.
“You all right?”
“Bit tired, that’s all. I don’t sleep that well. I used to take sleeping pills. Can’t anymore.” He tapped his chest. “Dodgy ticker.”
“I’m sorry.” Joe moved round next to him behind the large oak desk and began typing on the old computer balanced precariously on the corner, next to sheets of paper, a large mug filled with pencils, and a pile of thrillers in a large, wobbling tower. David stared into space, his hands sitting idly on his lap. “This desk is a health and safety liability, David,” Joe said, for want of something else to say. David’s fame made him nervous. He wasn’t like the footballers or Big Brother rejects who came into the restaurant back in Leeds and ordered Cristal and then sat there fiddling with their phones. He was someone Joe really admired, had done all his life, and it was weird . . . and strange. “You’d never be allowed to work in my kitchen.”
“Ha,” David said. “My life’s work is in here. All our paperwork too. It’s a mess, and one day someone will have to sort it all out. Hopefully not me.” He sat up as Joe clicked on a video. “Look at that, eh. Marvelous. How did you know what kind of dog Wilbur was? That’s the exact spit of him.”
“I owned all your books, David,” Joe said, embarrassed. “My uncle used to buy me the new one every Christmas. I knew Daisy and Wilbur better than I knew most of my family.”
“Really?” David looked absolutely delighted. “That’s wonderful! What was your uncle called?” He picked up a pencil, his thick red hands curling uselessly around it, until it slipped out of his grasp. “Damn it. My hands are bad today. Having terrible trouble doing anything.”
“Alfred, and he’s dead, so don’t worry.” Joe put his hand on the older man’s trembling fingers, immensely touched. “David, everyone in my school had something from Wilbur.”
“Oh, well. Isn’t that terrific, though?”
“Yes.” Joe grinned. “Now, I’ll leave you to get on.”
“No—oh, do stay and chat,” David said sadly. “I hate being in here all on my own. Especially days like this.”
“I’d best get back. Mrs. Winter wants you to do some work.” Besides, Joe was already feeling he’d spent enough time in this house, getting into all their business. The way they pulled you in, all of them, without stopping to ask you if you wanted to—it was crazy, charming, discombobulating. His head was throbbing. “I’ve got to head back to the pub for evening service.”
“Well, this is awful news,” David said. “Absolutely ruddy awful.” He plucked the gingerbread out of his jacket pocket. “I might eat this, then have a nap. Don’t tell Martha. Deadline’s later.”
Joe left, shutting the door softly on David picking up his pencil again. He walked back toward the kitchen, and as he did he heard Martha’s raised voice.
“No, Lucy. Absolutely not. I can’t believe it. How dare they even ask you? How much has Southpaw done for them over the years?” There was a clank of something, a crack of china clashing. “Oh, damn it. I’ve a mind to ring them up, give them hell.”
Joe hovered, not sure whether to go in; but he didn’t want to eavesdrop.
“Please don’t, Gran. It wasn’t their idea, it was mine. Forget it.”
“Your idea!” Martha laughed. “Lucy, after everything—absolutely not.”
Lucy’s voice was thick. “I wouldn’t put anything in you didn’t want, Gran. If it’s a terrible idea, of course I’ll leave it. I just wondered why I can’t simply e-mail Daisy and ask her why she’s—”
Martha’s hissed reply was so soft Joe barely heard her. “It’d be a pretty bad idea, that’s all.” Then she added, as if she knew someone was outside, “Is that Joe, then?” Her voice was sharp. “What are you doing, hanging around listening to us bicker?”
“Sorry.” Joe came in, scratching his head. Lucy was flushed. Martha put her hand on her soft hair, and stroked it.
“Forgive me, darling. I shouldn’t have lost my rag. Joe, do you want some more tea? Or maybe a glass of wine? I could do with a glass of wine.”
Joe looked at the clock. “I’d best be off soon. Let’s just nail down the rest of the menu and then I’ll go.”
Lucy pushed her chair out. “I’ll pop back to Dad’s, dump my stuff. I’ll see you back here for supper then, Gran? I’m sorry.” Her eyes were still bright, feverish almost. She swallowed, then turned to Joe. “Someone rang you. Oh, and your phone kept buzzing, someone’s texting you.”
“Oh, that’ll be my mum . . .” Joe began. Liddy texted him all the time. And then he looked down, saw the most recent text gleaming up at him before it faded away into black glass, and his mouth turned dry.
This is it, he thought. I’ve been found out.
See you later? I can get away.
But Lucy was staring fretfully at her grandmother, and he couldn’t be sure if she’d read it or not. His finger throbbed as though darts of toxic poison were gushing into his body, and he braced himself, but all Lucy said was, “So, um. Maybe I’ll see you at the pub sometime, I hope?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Come down whenever. Tell someone at the newspaper to come and review it. We need all the help we can get.”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “Maybe I will. Thanks, Joe.”
Lucy shrugged and picked up her bag. “I’d better get back to Dad,” she said, and as she left, she threw a swift, secretive smile at Joe. He genuinely didn’t know what it meant.
Florence
“PRONTO! ”
“Professor Lovell. You wanted to see me?”
George Lovell laid down his pen and gently placed the pads of his fingers together. He closed his eyes and inclined his head very slightly. “Yes. Adesso, Signora.”
Florence shut the door and sat down on one of the high-backed mahogany chairs which, common rumor had it, Professor Lovell had “liberated” from an abandoned palazzo near Fiesole. “In any case,” she said, “I wanted to ask you if I may take some time off in November. Three days, I think.”
“I take it this is not part of your work for the Courtauld?”
“No, holiday. I’m visiting my parents.” Florence plunged her hands into the pockets of her skirt and smiled as engagingly as she could at him.
Professor Lovell sighed. His eyes rolled upward until he was staring at the tufty overhang of his brow. She watched him and wondered how he held that position, totally motionless, like an owl.
“George?” Florence said after a few moments. “Ah—George?”
“Florence. This, again. Again.”
She was taken aback. “What again?”
“Going off in the middle of term.”
“What?” Florence cast her mind around. “That? But that was two years ago, and it was an operation,” she said. “I had a mole removed and it turned septic. You must remember.”
“Yes, the famous mole on your back,” said Professor Lovell, in a tone of voice that suggested he doubted the whole story.
“I got blood poisoning afterwards,” Florence said in what she felt was a mild tone. “I nearly died.”
“I think that’s exaggerating it somewhat, isn’t it?”
F
lorence crossed her hands in her lap. She knew Professor Lovell of old and there was no point in contradicting him. She could still see the nuns in the hospital round her bed as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She could hear them anxiously wondering in Italian about the signora and whether she was Catholic and would she like prayers said over her body, for surely she was not long for this world. “Again, I’m sorry about that.” There was no arguing with George when he was like this. “It’s my mother’s eightieth birthday. I am owed the holiday, you know.”
“Hmm.” Professor Lovell nodded. “That’s as may be. But, Professor Winter, Professor Connolly and I have been wondering.” At Peter’s name, Florence smiled privately, for merely hearing his name spoken in public felt like a luxury. “This was his idea, and perhaps it is appropriate to ask you now whether you would like to take some time off ?”
Florence began to wonder whether George was losing his mind. “Well—that’s what I was asking for. Yes. Three days in November.”
“No, Florence.” The professor’s hand came down on the old desk. “I meant—a term or two. Give you some time to assess your options.” He wouldn’t meet her eye. “You’re a busy woman, now you have this Courtauld job.” He said the word “Courtauld” in the same way one might say “tumor” or “Nazi.”
Florence stared at him, bewildered. “But, George—there’s the paper on ‘Benozzo and Identity’ to finish for the conference in December, you can’t have forgotten. And my book—I have a lot of reading to do on it. A lot.”
Professor Lovell gave a sardonic laugh. “Your book? Of course.”
“It’s not the same level as Peter’s, of course . . .” Florence began, and George smirked. Of course not. “But it’s important nonetheless. And the spring lecture series—I really only want three days away next month, not two terms.”
“Right.” George Lovell sat back in his chair, hands on the armrests. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his smooth, yellowing pate. “Florence . . . how do I explain this clearly? We think it’s time for you to take a step back. This is not a demotion, nor is it age-related. But we need lecturers with a more diverse approach to complement our syllabus, and to that end—”
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