She’d seen him since, lunches in London, and when she was at university she’d even stayed with him in Kent, but it was that encounter she remembered most clearly and about which she often felt guilty; it occurred to her when she had Luke that it must have been quite a thing for Giles, leaving his (then very small) three children with his wife, a few days before Christmas, to drive from Kent to Somerset to take a cross little girl out for an expensive treat. She liked him for sending Christmas cards, for the fact that he’d always been clear about where he was (“Dear Catherine, This is to let you know we have moved, should you need to contact me. We are all well. Emma is . . .”).
She could contact Giles if she wanted, but she didn’t really want to. No, it was her mother who haunted her, who filled her dreams. All through the hot sweltering summer before Luke was born, Cat lay in her new little bedroom and thought about Daisy, tried to piece together what she knew about her. The only concrete evidence she had was the clothes her mother had left when she walked out, nearly thirty years ago. A dress for every year, every occasion, and she’d hung them all up in a row and just walked out of the house and kept on walking, and that had been that. “Not to be shared”—somehow Cat felt sorry for her mother, so desperate that Cat should have her own things. She didn’t understand that by leaving her like this she had ensured her daughter would have nothing but her own things. When Lucy came to stay, Cat was so keen to share her toys that often Lucy, bored, would wander off into the garden: “I don’t care about your Sindy house, Cat. I want to play with this stick.” It was what had led Cat to cut up her mother’s dresses for dolls’ clothes, that fateful day. It seemed such a waste, having them hanging there, unworn. She wasn’t ever going to wear them, no fear of that.
When she gave birth to Luke, at l’Hôpital Pitié-Salpêtrière, he was very small and they took him to the baby unit and kept him in an incubator. Cat was in a ward on the floor below. She couldn’t sleep, and so she walked the corridors at night slowly in her new bright yellow dressing gown, stomach still distended, very sore, feeling like a waddling duck. On the third day her hormones kicked in, and a male nurse found her sobbing brokenly into a wall, helpless with tiredness, with worry about this tiny baby who was so small she could hold him with one hand, about why she wasn’t producing enough milk to feed him, with how she would get him home from the hospital, about the horrible, dark, nasty world he had come into and how she couldn’t protect him from it.
The nurse sat her down on a plastic chair in the squeaky-clean corridor, the only sound the faint mewl of babies in the room next door. He patted her hand as she cried, tears dropping like rain on the shining floor.
“Take it day by day,” he told her, and she only realized afterward that he had spoken in English. “Just day by day. Do not worry about the future. Do not worry about the past. Think of the day and what you have to do to get through, and it will be okay.”
And that’s what she did. Every day. When she thought about the future, how Luke couldn’t possibly grow up in a tiny room with his mother, how she had no money, how she had to tell her grandparents one day, how she had let all of this happen and screwed it up . . . when the walls of her life started to crowd too closely in on her, Cat focused on the immediate present. Get to the bank. Buy more vermouth for Madame Poulain. Put aside twenty euros a week for Luke’s new shoes. Breathe. Just . . . breathe.
One day, she would like to try to pull herself out of this life. Start a gardening business, everything from window boxes for busy people to full-on self-sufficiency vegetable gardens. But how could she when she wasn’t self-sufficient herself ? Once, Cat had been a dynamic person, but that person was long gone and she did not know if she could find that Cat again, dust her down, put her on like a dress from Daisy’s wardrobe that she used to wear, before they were cut up.
• • •
When they got to Stonehenge, Cat woke Luke up, and they got out of the car. Luke was fascinated, standing as close as he could get to the stones behind the wire fence, staring intently around even as the drizzling rain misted everything in front of them.
“Where are they from, the stones?”
Cat screwed up her eyes. Being relatively close to her school, Stonehenge had cropped up frequently in day trips, but she could remember very little about it.
“That’s a good question. No idea.”
“They are very big.” Luke peered at one of the signs. “I can’t read.”
“I think they put them on rollers and pulled them along.” He looked unconvinced. “And I have a feeling they’re from Wales. Somewhere like that. They weigh about two tons each.” So she did remember. They stared up at the huge monoliths—she’d forgotten quite how big they actually were. “Good, isn’t it?” She turned to him eagerly, smiling as he nodded and grinned.
They drove across vast, empty Salisbury Plain. She pointed out the mysterious hillocks and mounds, graves of buried kings, the empty tanks used for army training that hugged the narrow lay-bys, the sheep huddled on the hillsides, and Luke stared out of the window, his nose and one finger pressed cold-cream white against the glass.
As they started the slow but steady climb toward Winter Stoke, Cat felt sick, dizzy, tired, adrenaline swamping her body so that she thought she might simply pass out at the wheel. She had been trying to downplay it in her mind, as though this wasn’t the most important moment of her life since Luke was born. Coming back. Maybe even to see her mother again, for ever since her phone conversation with Lucy she felt sure this was about Daisy in some strange way. Whatever this was, there was no hiding anymore. She had to keep reminding herself it was a good thing. Yet she was terrified.
Her thirteenth birthday! How could she have forgotten it? Yet there it suddenly was, then the highlight of her—as she saw it—dreary life. December 1995. They went to Pizza Hut in Bath—Gran, Southpaw, five of her best friends, Lucy too—then to the cinema to see Goldeneye. Lucy wasn’t allowed to, being too young. She went back early to Winterfold with Gran in a right grump. Cat, Liza, Rachel, Victoria, and—who else was there? How awful that she couldn’t remember—they all came home to Winterfold for a sleepover, and Martha let them have half a glass of champagne each. Gran had the right idea about birthdays. They were giggly and emotional with excitement, and they stayed up late listening to Take That and crying about Robbie leaving, and as they were going to sleep Rachel, who was the really cool one, said, “Wow, Cat, I’m really jealous of you, living here. Your gran is amazing.” Only she sort of muttered it into the bedclothes so Cat was never sure if the others heard; but she had heard it, and she smiled in the darkness. She could still remember how it made her feel, the idea that this random girl—God knows what had happened to her—the idea that anyone would be jealous of her; it was a childishly lovely feeling.
The rain was still falling, soft yet heavy outside. Luke turned away from the window, sucking his thumb noisily, occasionally whispering to himself in French. At one point he called out, “Mum! Maman! Le grand cheval blanc! Le cheval! ”
“Shh,” she said, because he often had nightmares about lions and very big zebras, and she thought this was another one. “It’s okay, there’s no white horse, darling.”
“Yes, yes, there is, Maman! Look! ”
She turned swiftly and saw him pointing out the passenger seat window, and she corrected her steering and looked to one side, remembering at the same time that, of course, there were white horses everywhere round here. On the hillside, a tiny horse, prancing in the distance, bone white stamped into the green.
“Of course, I’m sorry. I’m stupid. They have them round here.”
“Why, though, Mummy? Maman?” Luke demanded.
“No idea. I’m sorry. I should have—we’ll get a book while we’re here. A book of British history. It’ll explain about Stonehenge too. You’ll be able to show everyone at school we’ve seen it. And the Westbury white horse.” Westbury—of course—wher
e had that come from?
Memory led her further back as they drew closer to Winterfold. The hedgerows would be full of sloes now, the river Frome, below the house, swollen with autumn rains. The lichen silvery gray, the last of the autumn leaves on the roads, acid yellow and deep red. “It’s close. We’re very near, Luke.” They drove along the vertiginous lane leading up to Winterfold. “Mummy hasn’t been here for ages,” she said, preparing to turn into the drive, a hard ball in her throat. “You’re going to meet—”
There was a loud smash and a huge force, like a great weight pushing on her chest, thrusting her back. Her neck tore with pain, and she cried out. The car spun round so fast she didn’t know what was happening. She remembered only the door flying open, glass everywhere, Luke screaming, and the deep, harsh bell of the blaring horn. She climbed out of the car, dazed, fingers fumbling at Luke’s car seat, clicking, while he screamed, and blood was pouring down his forehead, ribbons of red. Was this Winterfold, had she come home? Why was this house so different, the windows so big?
“Luke—”
He darted away from her as she set him on the ground, and then her legs buckled with shock and she fell to her knees. She stood up, shaking, and ran down the lane, as though in her dreams once more. She yelled his name, and when she reached the house she saw a little figure running ahead of her. Was that Luke? Who was it, was it her? There was blood on the gravel, she remembered the gravel; there was a tall man, covered in blood, holding him. It was Luke. Her grandparents were there. A woman was screaming, and the tall man turning to her and asking her something. But she couldn’t hear him, and that’s why she thought it must be a dream, because everything else went black.
Martha
THEY WERE LUCKY, the emergency switchboard operator said. An ambulance was just passing, on its way back from a non-urgent drop-off. Martha moved them inside, out of the rain, to wait. They gathered in the middle of the sitting room, Florence throwing a blanket and cushions haphazardly on the floor. Luke cried and cried, his mother too, nestling his dark head in her arms, her blue sweater covered in blood. Occasionally he would stare up at this room of adults, then close his eyes and cry again.
Martha watched, her jaw working with anxiety. Her mind wasn’t functioning properly; she felt as though she had slammed into something herself. It was by now clear that Luke—this little person was called Luke, wasn’t he? Hadn’t Cat also had a dog named Luke?—was going to be all right. It was a scalp wound, but it was a nasty cut, and a nasty shock. It was all a shock. She peered at her granddaughter’s face, so thin, grimy with mud, blood, and tears. This was Cat. Cat was a mother. Martha, who knew what she would be eating for supper two days ahead, who could grasp any idea, had not planned for this.
“What the hell were you doing?” Cat shielded her son’s head and glared behind Martha at the doorway.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Joe said, as he fell to his knees next to Luke. He rubbed his eyes, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how it happened. I just didn’t see you as I was driving out and—”
“You’re a bloody lunatic, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel.” Her voice throbbed. She kneeled and scooped Luke round so he was facing away from Joe, over her shoulder. Her cheeks each had a pink spot, bleeding out on her too-white skin. Martha remembered, when Cat was little, how passion used to take over her thin body, whether with anger or happiness. “I mean, what the hell were you thinking? Don’t you say: ‘Hmm, before I just reverse at twenty miles an hour down this drive and round a corner, I might actually turn my head and look?’ ”
Joe said quietly, “I wasn’t concentrating. My mind wasn’t there. It’s no excuse.”
Cat shot him a look of pity tinged with disgust. Joe squatted beside her, twisting his fingers around and around. He squeezed Luke’s shoulder gently and said quietly, “Hey, little mate. I’m so sorry. You’re going to be all right.”
Cat stared up at him, her gray eyes icy with fury. “Get away from him. Leave us alone.”
Luke wriggled in her arms and turned round. “What did you do with the car dat was so bad, because you hurt my head when you did it.” He hiccuped, with a little sob. “It hurt my head and . . . Maman, je ne comprends pas pourquoi nous sommes ici.”
His mother squeezed him even more tightly against her. “It’s okay, sweet boy. The ambulance is on its way, they’re going to—” As she spoke, a siren sounded and flashing lights bounced off the walls of the sitting room. Luke stiffened in alarm.
“It’s all right, Luke,” Joe said. “Promise. Some nice people are here and they’re going to look at your head, and I’ll give you a cake afterward.”
“Stop talking to him,” Cat said, standing up, lifting Luke with her and wincing slightly. “Just fuck off, why don’t you?”
“Cat,” Martha said.
“Sorry, Gran.” Cat’s hair flew into her eyes as she turned to her grandmother. She pushed it away with one hand, tangling it into a cloud. “But he nearly killed us. He shouldn’t be—”
“Cat, I can’t say enough how sorry I am.” Joe backed up against the French windows as she passed by him, and they heard the ambulance sirens coming up the hill. Martha paused as she saw a police car turning into the drive.
“They always send the police if it’s a road accident,” David said, reassuring, in her ear. “He’s going to be fine, Em. Don’t worry.”
She wanted to pivot around then and take him in her arms, kiss his worn cheek, stroke his hot, thick hands. He was always behind her.
“She’s really back,” she said, “isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” David said, watching Joe going up to the young policeman who climbed out of the car. He pointed at his bumper, shaking his head, jabbing his finger to his chest. “Poor Joe. That poor lad.”
• • •
Later, when Jan and Toby, the paramedics, had gone, bearing biscuits and a thermos of tea, leaving Luke with a little line of neat stitches below his hairline, and the police had taken cursory statements from everyone and walked around Joe’s car several times, then left too, Joe came up to Martha in the hallway, aimlessly brushing fluffy dust off a painting frame.
“I’ve given them a statement. I’ve told them Cat’s insurance mustn’t be affected. I’ve put the samosas in the larder and the little cakes. What else can I do Martha?”
“Just go, Joe,” Martha said, looking at him. “Unless you want another cup of tea?” He shook his head, and she knew he wanted to be anywhere but here. “Go and get some rest. Leave the car here and walk home, the fresh air’ll do you good.” Cat appeared in the hallway, arms folded. Martha patted Joe’s shoulder. “You look done in, my dear. I’ll call you if they need you. I’m sure they won’t.”
“I need to do the rest of the pastry cases. I’ll bake them at home.” He didn’t look at Cat. “Mrs. Winter, once again—”
“It was an accident, Joe, please. Of course it was. You look absolutely done in, you know.”
“Thanks.” He gave a faint glimmer of a smile. “Not sleeping that well at the moment. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I blame myself for what happened. I’ve had some news that has been a bit of a shock—but it’s no excuse.”
Martha looked at him with concern. There was something about Joe that reminded her of a small boy. Those sad eyes, that jaw that was so firm, clamped shut for most of the time. The awkward, shy way he had of explaining things, the way his smile, when it came, was like a bear hug—it wrapped you in its warmth. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” He pulled the keys off the dresser and Cat stood up, darting out of his way as though he’d hit her. “I’d best be off. Leave you to it. I’ll bring up the . . . should I come back tomorrow?”
Martha gave a sharp laugh. “You’d bloody better, Joe! Come on, it was an accident. Wasn’t it, Cat?”
Cat stared at the floor. “Sure.”
Martha opened the door and watched
him wandering down the lane, almost like a robot.
“Bye,” she called, but he didn’t hear her. “He’s gone now.”
“Good riddance,” Cat muttered. Martha shut the door and turned, her hand on the latch, looking thoughtful.
“Who was dat?” said Luke, appearing from the living room.
“Yeah,” Cat said. “Who was that idiot?”
“The chef. He’s doing the catering for this weekend. You poor thing. You’d have liked him, if you’d met him in different circumstances.”
“I doubt it.” Cat kissed Luke on the head. “Darling Gran. I’m so—this isn’t how I wanted to come back. It was supposed to be a lovely surprise.” She gave a small, tentative smile. “I’m sorry. About all of this.”
Martha reached forward and touched her granddaughter’s cheek. Her smooth, rose-pale cheek. Then she stroked Luke’s head, feeling the thick hair, the shape of his skull. Her great-grandchild, his head in her hands. She closed her eyes briefly as the enormity of the moment threatened to overwhelm her, then steeled herself.
“Don’t ever, ever be sorry, my darling. Let’s get a cup of tea for ourselves. Florence? Can you put the kettle on? And get the cake tin. It’s in the larder by the tea bags.”
“You painted it!” Cat exclaimed, following her grandmother into the kitchen. Her face was pale, but she was smiling. She gave Luke a big hug and pulled him onto her knee. “Oh, the blue chair’s still there. And the bowl of limes . . . Oh, goodness. Luke, this is where Mummy used to live.”
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