The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘It isn’t.’

  She leant in close to him. ‘Yes, it is. Leave me alone. You and I are finished.’

  ‘We haven’t even started.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing to finish, is there?’ she hissed.

  She stood up straight and glanced over towards Ian again. He was deep in conversation with one of his companions. She took a deep breath and then started to walk towards the door, her head angled away from his table, eyes on the floor. Her heart thumped as if it might break through her chest. Any moment he was going to spot her. Any moment he’d call her name across the restaurant.

  When she reached the door, she pushed out into the sunshine and walked as quickly as she could past the window. As soon as she was clear of the restaurant, safe from Ian’s view, relief washed over her. She glanced back towards the door, but thankfully there was no sign of Luke and she broke into a jog to put as much distance between them as possible.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E

  His aunt sat in the driver’s seat and clipped her seat belt in. He sat in the back seat and stared at the back of her head.

  ‘Your father,’ she said, as she turned the Morris Minor’s engine on, ‘is speechless.’

  Luke studied her hair, the way it clumped together in greasy, grey whorls. The rosy pink skin on the back of her neck was patched with some kind of flaky skin condition that left dandruff on the shoulders of her heavy black coat.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ She shook her greasy head and and then turned to look at him for a moment, her lips pursed together as if she’d tasted something nasty. ‘I asked him: “Simeon, do you have a message for your boy?” He said: “I do, Grace, tell him he has let us down. Tell the boy he has let us all down.”’ She shook her head again and he saw flakes of dandruff falling on her coat like snowflakes on a coal face. ‘Expelled!’ she shrieked so suddenly he jumped out of his skin. ‘Expelled from school. And I had to look that headmaster in the eye. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my days! I feel quite faint. I won’t be surprised if I have one of my turns. Oh, the shame … ’

  As she droned on, Luke rested his forehead against the cool of the window and watched the world pass as they drove down the long driveway, through the dappled shade of the lime trees, past the stupid lions on their stupid pillars, leaving Farringdon Hall behind. The injustice of what had happened overwhelmed him. He imagined his father in the stark whitewashed room he called Meeting Room, the African sun squeezing its way through the small high-set windows. He could see him sitting in his straight-backed mahogany chair, the cushionless seat curved with a polished dip where three generations of Crawfords, all of them men of the cloth, had sat and passed judgement on the sins of others. He imagined him shaking his head, his grey eyes ashamed and disappointed, his hands clasped and lying heavily on the Bible that rested on the empty desk in front of him. He heard him preaching on love – on God’s love, on human love. His father, the expert on love. But he knew nothing. The closest he and his mother got to love was taking hold of each other’s hands as they walked into the hut they called Church every Sunday morning to preach at the ‘black-skinned heathens’. His father knew nothing of true love, nothing of opening your heart so wide to another that you’d weep if you thought about it too carefully. He knew nothing of the impact that love could have. Or of betrayal. The antithesis of love.

  Luke stared at the scar on his palm, still red and angry even after so many months. But it was healing. It didn’t hurt or itch anymore. The skin was repairing, knitting itself together. He clenched his fist closed, his fingernails raking against the scar. He wouldn’t let them win. None of them. Not his father, not Drysdale, Aunt Grace, Will, Alastair Farrow, or any of them. They knew nothing. They were idiots. They knew nothing about anything. But he knew. He knew about love. Love was out there. Somewhere in this putrid, unjust world, love flourished.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T W O

  ‘Mum, it’s me,’ Will said, as she answered the phone.

  ‘William? Gosh, I wasn’t expecting a call from you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called for a while.’

  There was a silence from the other end of the line.

  ‘We haven’t seen you in ages, as well,’ he said then.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I was hoping we might come down today? Are you around?’

  ‘Oh, well, there’s a few things I was supposed to be doing, but I suppose I could cancel them. Are you sure you want to make the journey? It’s such a long way.’

  ‘It’s not that far, and I … ’ Will hesitated. ‘I’d really like to see you.’

  ‘Then that would be lovely. If you want to you could always stay the night? I could cook supper.’

  ‘Yes, okay, let me talk to Harmony first. I haven’t asked her yet. I’ll call and confirm when I have.’

  Harmony was dressing when he went back into their room.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Mum,’.

  ‘How is she?’ Harmony said, as she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her jeans on.

  ‘She sounds okay. We didn’t talk for long. I thought we might drive to Cambridge to see her? She suggested we stay the night. What do you think? The forecast is for hot weather. We could take her for lunch at The Horseshoes.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, there’s some work I need to finish. I’m behind already. I have to get it done.’

  ‘Really? But it’s the weekend. You’ve been working so hard recently. You could do with some time off.’

  ‘I’ve got Jacob on my back – he’s still not happy with my report. I’ll stay here and work today, then catch the train down.’

  Will tried to hide his disappointment. He’d hoped they’d be able to travel down together. The way she’d hugged him when he spoke to her about school had given him hope. He was convinced their marriage was salvageable. Though Harmony seemed a thousand miles away, lost in another world and unable to meet his eye, he was desperate to keep her near him. The thought of them spending the night apart made him nervous, as if he needed to keep her in sight at all times in case she disappeared into thin air like a magician’s dove.

  ‘Jacob should give you a break, you know.’ He paused to let her speak, but she said nothing. ‘Look, I’ll take the train today and leave you the car, save you mucking about with tubes and taxis.’

  He walked through the kitchen and unlocked the back door and breathed in the fresh, early morning air. There was a dewy dampness to it that made everything smell more vibrant. He went out into the garden and turned the hosepipe on and began to water the plants, transfixed by the rainbow sheen in the sunlit spray.

  ‘You’re enjoying the garden, aren’t you?’ said Harmony, from behind him. He looked back towards the house and saw her leaning against the doorframe, barefoot in her dressing gown.

  He smiled at her. ‘Yes, I am. Who’d’ve thought it, eh?’ She smiled back at him and his heart leapt. He put the hosepipe down so the water ran into the flower bed and walked over to her.

  ‘Harmony, I know there’s lots wrong and I—’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m able to talk now,’ she said, drawing her dressing gown tighter across her body.

  ‘I don’t want to talk. I’ve said it all. You know where I stand. Everything I’ve said, how sorry I am, how determined I am to change, it’s all still true. But I can see you’re unhappy.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘No, let me finish. I don’t want you here just in body, us living in the same space but not really together. It won’t work like that. If we’re going to stay together I want you back properly – body, mind and soul. I’m terrified of life without you, but stepping around each other on eggshells is unbearable.’ His voice began to crack as he spoke. ‘Being with you but suspecting you don’t want to be here isn’t how I want to live my life.’

  Harmony nodded. ‘I want to be here. I want to be with you.’ She stopped there, but Will could see there was so much more she wasn’t able or willing t
o say.

  He ended up spending longer in the garden than he’d intended. He found gardening restful, a chance to let his mind drift, and before he knew it, it was nearly lunchtime. He went inside and packed his bag, then opened the door to her study to tell her he was going. She was staring at her phone. She looked up at him, her face pale and pinched, and turned her phone face down on her desk.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Are you off?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just phoned Mum and said I’d be there by three.’ Harmony chewed on her lip and he saw her eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked.

  ‘No.You must see Gill. It’s been far too long.You need to spend some time with her.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Her phone began to vibrate on her desk. He saw her tense. She glanced at it but didn’t pick up.

  ‘Are you going to answer it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll call whoever it is back when you’ve gone.’

  As he left the flat he wondered if she would make it down to Cambridge the following day, and if she didn’t, whether she’d be there at the flat when he got home.

  At Kings Cross Will bought his ticket, then went to the newsagent to buy a can of Coke and a newspaper. He waited on the platform for the train and realised how long it had been since his father’s funeral, which was the last time he’d been to their house. That was back in May of the previous year. He’d last seen his mother when she came to stay with them at Christmas. Six months was a long time not to see her and he felt a rush of guilt. When she’d stayed with them at Christmas, she’d still been lost without his father, wandering from room to room, unsure where to put herself, offering to help but not knowing what to do. Harmony had been kind to her, given her jobs to try and occupy her. She’d asked her to peel the potatoes then quietly removed any bits of skin she’d missed without comment. She’d made her cups of tea and talked to her, sat and stroked her hand when she cried. Will had observed his mother’s grief with mild irritation. He couldn’t understand, Christmas or not, how she could still be so upset seven months after the man’s death. He’d bitten his tongue on numerous occasions to stop himself telling her she was better off without him, that after years of living with his overbearing, authoritarian nonsense, she was finally free to enjoy her twilight years. But he was good and said nothing. He watched her cry, watched her stare silently into the middle distance, watched her trudge about the place. It hadn’t been a good Christmas. Sophie and Roger were in Scotland with his family, so it was just the three of them in their flat for four days. It had rained and sleeted continuously, and his mother hadn’t wanted to do anything or go anywhere, so they’d sat in the living room, watching television in numb silence. On Christmas Day, Harmony’s morning sickness had meant she’d barely eaten anything, and when he lit the brandy on the pudding and the blue flames had leapt up to dance their graceful dance around it she fled the table with her hand over her mouth, leaving him and his mother waiting at the table listening to the sounds of her throwing up in the bathroom. She returned to the table, her skin tinged green, and as she sat down he passed her a portion of pudding.

  ‘Half that size,’ she said weakly.

  So there they were, three silent people with paper hats gamely balanced on their heads, sitting in front of untouched Christmas pudding with foetus-friendly brandy-free butter slowly melting its sugary innocence over their best china plates. Harmony had tried to smile as he stood to clear the plates.

  ‘It will be a lot noisier next year, won’t it?’ she said to him and his mother. ‘I mean, with this little one.’ She patted her tummy. ‘And we’ll be with Soph’s lot too.’ She looked at him, her face falling for a second. ‘Maybe we should stay here if we’ve got the baby. We might prefer to be at home rather than at Sophie’s. God, how on earth will we all fit in?’

  Will had walked away from the table with a disparaging snort. ‘For God’s sake, Harmony, the child isn’t born yet. Can’t we just enjoy this joyous Christmas without worrying about the next one?’

  No wonder she couldn’t look at him.

  The train pulled into Cambridge and he stood and took his holdall off the luggage rack. He loved Cambridge; it was full of glorious memories of him and Harmony in their youth. His mother and father had moved from their rectory outside Ely to the terraced house on the outskirts of town as soon as his father was diagnosed with colon cancer. His mother was heartbroken leaving the house and garden but his father showed no emotion whatsoever, though in fairness he had more pressing things on his mind. He had lived another two years, battling his illness with a stoic bravery that Will had begrudgingly admired. He’d been in and out of the oncology unit at Addenbrooke’s on what seemed to be a weekly basis. Chemo, radiotherapy, surgery – he’d had it all. Each time his mother would call to say it looked like the latest treatment had worked and the cancer was beaten, and each time Will had to muster the enthusiasm she needed to hear. It wasn’t that he’d wanted his father to die, more that he had an indifference to the inevitable.

  Will got out of the taxi, paid, then walked up to his mother’s front door and rang the bell.

  ‘Hello, Will,’ she said, when she opened the door. She kissed both his cheeks and then peered behind him. ‘No Harmony?’

  ‘She’s up to her eyes with work at the moment, I’m hoping she’ll make it tomorrow. You look well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I feel well.’ She lifted a hand to her greyed hair, cut as it always was in a neat bob with a blunt fringe. She seemed to have put some weight on, which suited her, he thought, and her face was less taut, less racked. She was dressed in a shirt, a pair of black trousers and a dusky pink sweater. ‘You look tired, though,’ she said.

  He smiled at her honesty. As long as he could remember there’d never been any unnecessary bolstering; a spade was a spade and if you didn’t like spades then tough.

  He followed her through to the kitchen and they sat at her small, cheap table with its white plastic top. Their old oak one had been too big to fit anywhere and been sold to a neighbour for £50 and four bottles of homemade quince wine. She passed Will a cup of tea in a commemorative mug that celebrated the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana, their young, hopeful faces worn with time. He played his fingers over the smooth surface, fighting the urge to let go of the mug and watch it smash on the floor.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘That’s good. What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve got a job.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s surprising.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose because you’ve never worked before and most people your age are retiring, not starting a career.’

  She gave him a fleeting smile. ‘It’s hardly a career. I help out at a local café, tend their window boxes and a small patio garden they have at the back. You know, pick up leaves and weed, dead-head the roses. They give me a couple of pounds every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and I potter about for three or four hours.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘It’s better than sitting around the house.’

  ‘If you enjoy it, that’s great,’ he said.

  ‘I do. One thing I’ve learned is that life is what you make of it. If you’re happy then you’ll make those around you happy. Too many people sit in the dark waiting for life to find them when they ought to be out finding life.’

  ‘That’s very wise,’ he said. ‘You’ve turned into a philosopher too.’

  ‘I’m old. It’s easy to see sense when you’re old. Harder when you’re young.’

  ‘I need a bit of wisdom. I’m making so many mistakes.’ He paused then reached for her hand. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called you much.’

  ‘It’s not just you,’ she said, matter-of-factly, withdrawing her hand and patting him. ‘I haven’t called either. I should have done. Especially since you
and Harmony lost the baby.’ She paused. ‘How is she coping?’

  ‘We’re not having an easy time at the moment.’

  ‘Most marriages go through a rough patch or two at some stage. You just have to work through them. If you love each other most problems have solutions. Do you want to talk about it? Not that my advice would help. Advice is one of those gifts that should be given in moderation and generally ignored.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Unless given in retrospect, when it always seems sensible.’

  She nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Are you still missing Dad?’ He avoided her eyes as he asked the question.

  ‘Yes, very much. It’s miserable living alone and some days I wonder why the bloody hell I have to. But I try to fill my days so I’m not thinking about it too much. I’ve got this job, and I’ve started playing bridge again on Monday and Tuesday evenings. Then there’s the WI on Thursdays. They’re a very peculiar group of ladies but kind, and it keeps me off the streets, so to speak. There’s a horticultural society I’ve joined which meets once a month, and I’ve even been to a few of the lectures that the university runs, some of which have been extremely interesting.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Like I said, life won’t find you. I spent months sitting alone in this house, which I don’t really like, in one room, staring at the television and moping, then one day I just thought: how ridiculous to be wasting my time. That’s another thing you start to value as you get older, the time you have left.’ She smiled. ‘So in answer to your question, I’m feeling better about losing your father’s companionship, though I will always miss him.’

  Will nodded. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you wish you had a grandchild?’

  ‘Goodness, I can’t answer that. I wouldn’t presume to have an opinion on something like that. That’s between you and Harmony and has nothing to do with me.’