He nodded and looked down at the table. ‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t had me?’
‘Why on earth do you ask that?’ she said, shock in her voice.
‘I suppose I know I made things hard for you. I know my father fought with you about me and you had to intervene all the time.’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘I suppose looking back on it, having me must have been exhausting and difficult for you. I don’t remember making your life any fun.’
She leant forward and and patted his hand. He looked down at it – liver spotted, veiny, her thin gold wedding band dull with the years. ‘You were my life, William. You’re my child, the most important thing that has ever happened to me, the most wonderful gift. Life without you would have been unthinkable. And do you know what? Having said all I’ve just said about grasping opportunities and experiences, I would swap the rest of my life for just twenty-four hours with you as a baby in my arms, to smell you and kiss you and have you look up at me as if I was the most beautiful person in the world. That was quite simply the most magical time of my life.’
Will nodded. ‘I’m sorry I was such a shit to you.’
She laughed, a gentle peal of laughter that he realised he missed.
‘Gosh, you were at times. I’d look forward to you coming home from school so much, and then you’d shut yourself away in your room, your music so loud the walls shook. That ridiculous long hair of yours, too, that I know you only grew because it annoyed your father. And all those damn cigarette ends you threw into the guttering which I had to scoop out. But, you know, most of the time you were lovely.You were such a joyful child when you weren’t so full of angst. You made me laugh and I missed you so much when you were away at school.’
‘Why did you send me?’ he asked then. It sounded more like an accusation than he’d intended. ‘I mean, if you missed me, why did you send me away?’
‘It was hard with … ’ His mother stopped before finishing her sentence.
‘Go on.’
She hesitated as she tried to formulate her words. ‘It was hard with your father sometimes.’
‘He wasn’t a good man.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘I’m not.’
She sighed and looked at the ceiling as if trying to find the right words to use. ‘Your father,’ she began, then she hesitated. ‘Your father found it hard to show his emotions. He had a difficult time growing up. His father—’
‘I don’t care, Mum,’ Will said, interrupting her, as a wave of anger washed over him. ‘I don’t care what happened to him when he was a child. I don’t want to hear it. Lots of people have crap upbringings or have things happen to them as children and they don’t all turn out bad. You can’t make excuses for him.’
‘I can and I will,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘He was my husband and I loved him.’ She got up and took their cups to the sink. She turned the tap on and started to wash them. Then she turned the tap off and stared out of the window over the garden. ‘You broke his heart, you know.’
Will shook his head. That bastard didn’t have a heart to break, he thought.
‘You did. His heart and mine.’
‘How did I break your heart?’
She turned and looked at him. The fingers of one hand pulled at the sleeve of her sweater. She fixed her eyes on him, a diluted shade of blue, rheumy with age. ‘You should have made your peace with him before he died.’
‘What do you mean my peace with him?’
‘I mean exactly that.’
‘Is this why you’ve been angry with me?’
She didn’t answer him. Her face was steely, her eyes bore into his.
‘I just don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It was he who had the issues.
Why on earth was it up to me to try and make peace?’
‘Because he was dying. Because you needed to repair your relationship. Because it would have meant the world to him.’
Will laughed then, bitter laughter born from years of wishing that might be true, trying to get his father’s approval, desperate for his love. ‘That man never gave any signs that he cared about me in the slightest. He was cold and detached and went out of his way to crush any self-respect or confidence I might have had. You can’t mend that damage with a death-bed heart-to-heart or a meaningless final embrace. It doesn’t work that way. We had no relationship; there was nothing to repair.’
Will recalled the one or two trips that he and Harmony had made towards the end. His father lying in bed, frail with yellowed skin, the clinical paraphernalia that surrounded his bed making him even more remote than usual. Will had never told anyone, not even Harmony, how little he’d felt when he took the phone call from his mother saying he’d died. There wasn’t even an emotional release. Just nothingness.
The night of the funeral, a few hours after the last person had left the stuffy wake and the food and drink had been cleared away, the three of them sat in front of the fire, staring silently at the flames licking the pile of logs in the grate, eating beans on toast on their laps.
‘Why didn’t you tell him you loved him?’ his mother had said in a flat, monotone voice, the light of the flames dancing in the shadows on her face and reflecting in her grief-stricken eyes.
‘Because I didn’t.’
Will closed his eyes as he recalled the way she’d crumpled, the plate of beans on toast falling to the floor. Harmony had leapt to her side, her hand rubbing her back, his mother collapsed in frightening sobs that Will didn’t comprehend.
Will pushed thoughts of that night from his head and opened his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ he said. ‘It was nearly a year ago and there isn’t anything we can say to change what happened. He’s dead. I didn’t make my peace with him because whether you like it or not there was no peace to be made.’
‘He was your father.’
‘In blood maybe,’ Will said, doggedly clinging to the argument, ignoring the voice in his head that told him to tell her what she wanted to hear: that he regretted it, that he would have to live with his decision for the rest of his days, that he’d never forgive himself. Instead he ploughed on. ‘But in my book you have to earn the right to be a father. You need to earn respect, not demand it. You have to be a father.’
His mother crossed her arms and stared at him, her eyes prickling with angry tears. ‘You are a selfish, selfish boy,’ she said then.
Will opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted him.
‘Did you ever stop to think about how much it would have meant to me? I know how difficult he was – good God, I put up with enough of his rubbish myself. But he was dying.’ She reached for a roll of kitchen paper from the window ledge behind the sink and tore a piece off then pressed it against her eyes. ‘Did you ever think how I might be feeling? I wanted him to pass away having had some sort of reconciliation with my son. With you.’ She paused. ‘You’re right, it was difficult being in between you both, listening to your constant fighting, seeing so much hatred for him grow in your eyes. I hated it. It was exhausting. We don’t get to choose our parents. But we don’t get to choose our children either.’ She paused and balled the piece of kitchen roll and closed her fist around it. ‘Do you know what I used to wish for?’
Will looked at the floor and stayed silent.
‘I used to wish the three of us could just sit down in front of the fire and play a game of gin rummy like a normal family. That was it. Not much to ask, was it?’ She shook her head. ‘But you’re right. He’s dead and gone now. It’s done.’
His mother straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. Will saw her battling with the regret and sadness that haunted her, trying desperately to conceal it. He stood and went over to her and then he put his arms around her and held her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. You’re right. I didn’t think of you. I didn’t think of you at all.’
When they separated she looked up at him and nodded. ‘You know, it’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you. I let my disappointment get in the way o
f what matters.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It did matter to you. I’m sorry I didn’t work that out on my own.’ She smiled at him and at that moment he’d never felt closer to her. A rush of warmth spread through him that made him feel short of breath.
‘Hey,’ he said, jumping away from her and moving back towards the hallway. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
‘Oh yes?’ she said, pressing the balled kitchen roll against each eye for a final time then putting it in the bin beneath the sink.
Will picked his bag up off the hall floor and then came back into the kitchen and got his camera out. ‘You might need your specs.’
‘What is it, then?’ she said, as she reached for her glasses from the kitchen work top.
Will found the pictures he’d taken of the garden. He stood close to her so he could scroll through them. ‘I’ve started gardening,’ he said.
She looked up at him and smiled, then put her glasses on and looked back at the camera screen. ‘Well, I never,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it look beautiful? I knew it would.’ She touched her finger to the small screen. ‘That right-hand wall looks so much better now the ghastly hawthorn’s gone.’ She handed him back the camera. ‘It looks lovely.’
‘I should have done it ages ago.’
‘Well, better late than never.’
As he put the camera on the table something caught his eye at the door. He turned to look and saw a grey tabby cat slinking its way into the room.
‘There’s a cat in the house,’ he said unnecessarily, as his mother bent to stroke the animal’s back. The cat jumped up on the table and began to purr.
‘She’s called Penny,’ his mother said, as she tickled the cat beneath its chin. ‘When she came to me she was called Sylvia, but I didn’t think it suited her, so I call her Penny. You like that better, don’t you, poppet?’ The cat lifted herself off her front feet and pushed her cheek against his mother’s hand. ‘She was abandoned by some awful person.’ She shook her head. ‘He’d just disappeared on holiday and left six cats locked in a top-floor flat in Ipswich. The RSPCA officer who found them told me the place was full of faeces and stank to high heaven.’ She looked at Will and raised her eyebrows. ‘The poor creatures had been left for ten days and only survived by drinking water out of the loo.’
Will reached out to stroke the cat. ‘When did you get her?’
‘A couple of months after your father passed,’ she said. ‘I was terribly lonely and needed something to look after. She’s been a godsend. Haven’t you, darling?’
Will had a flash of his father kicking his kitten against the wall and closed his eyes as as he felt a familiar surge of hostility. ‘How did you live with him?’
She took her hand away from the cat and gently pushed her off the table. The cat started to curl herself around his mother’s ankles.
‘He was my husband and I loved him and, whatever you think, we were happy. Nobody knows what makes a good marriage. People have these ideas of marrying the ideal person, the love of their life, but in reality it rarely happens. Marriage requires care and attention and hard work, like anything worthwhile. There’s no such thing as the perfect marriage but if you love someone enough to marry them then the very least that’s expected is your loyalty and your support.’
That night he slept in what his mother called the spare room, which was essentially a small storage room, stacked high with boxes of things she and his father couldn’t bear to throw away when they moved to the smaller house. He closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. There were piles of his father’s clothes, laid carefully on their hangers over the boxes. There was a tweed jacket on the top that his father had worn for as long as Will could remember. He placed his hand on it and pictured his father standing in their old living room, one hand on the mantelpiece, the other on his hip, as if posing for a Victorian photograph.
He reached across and turned the light off. The room was lit by the street lamps outside. He thought of his mother next door. She’d taken Penny upstairs with her and Will had smiled as he caught sight of them when he passed her door, the animal curled up on his father’s side of the bed, nestled beside her, contentedly cleaning itself. He imagined how angry his father would be if he was able to see it, and how happy his mum was, lying in her button-up nightie, covers neatly tucked in around her, her fingers idly stroking the cat’s soft fur as she read.
Will was woken from a heavy, dreamless sleep by his phone buzzing the arrival of a text. He grabbed for it sleepily and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-thirty, earlier than it felt. He blinked in the light of his phone and saw the message was from Harmony.
I’m parked outside. Are you awake?
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E
As soon as she heard Will leave the flat, Harmony came out of her study and went into the kitchen to get a drink. She felt weak with worry. What had she got herself into? Luke hadn’t stopped calling or texting since she’d walked out of the restaurant. She didn’t answer any of the calls any more. He didn’t listen to her when she did – he just kept telling her life was too short, that they had to be together, that he could make her happier than Will ever could.
The night before, she’d sat on the floor of her study, knees pulled into her chest, back against the door in case Will tried to come in, and stared at her phone as it buzzed calls and texts throughout the night, hoping that each one she ignored would be the last, that eventually he’d get the message. Then, at around four in the morning, as dawn crept up on the dark and her mind had become bleary with exhaustion and panic, she answered.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You know why.’
‘Please, Luke. Don’t do this to me.’
‘I need to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave now and be with you in half an hour.’
‘Christ, don’t come here,’ she whispered desperately. She took the phone away from her face and looked up at the ceiling. Then exhaled slowly, before returning to the phone. ‘Please, don’t come here.’
‘I have to see you. I need to make you understand. You’re not thinking straight.’
This had to stop. Harmony squeezed her eyes shut as she thought about what she should do.
‘Harmony? Are you there?’
‘Fine,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘We’ll meet. But not now. I’m tired and need some sleep. I’ll text you when I wake and we can arrange it.’
In the morning, as Will watered the plants, she sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea she was too nervous to drink, and picked up her phone.
What time shall we meet and where?
Within a moment her phone beeped his reply.
I’m free all afternoon. We could meet in a pub and then get some supper?
No, she thought. I don’t want to be seen out with you.
Let’s meet at 3 p.m. But not in a pub. Come to mine.
She hesitated, her chest tightening. She remembered how she’d panicked when she saw Ian in the restaurant, how not being seen had taken precedence over making sure Luke knew it was over. She needed to focus on finishing this cleanly, on making him promise not to call, on convincing him to leave her alone so she could give her marriage a fighting chance.
Fine. I have to leave by four.
She decided to get off the tube two stops early at Westminster so she could calm herself with a walk along the river. She crossed Westminster Bridge and turned onto the South Bank, which heaved with weekend crowds. People poured in and out of the Aquarium and the galleries, and hung around on the Embankment eating chips and taking photographs. Harmony weaved through the crowds. Ordinarily, she’d have walked with a spring in her step; she loved this part of London. It was unique, with historic buildings and famous landmarks nestling comfortably beside utilitarian pieces of modernist architecture. It was even more beautiful at night. She and Will used to come here to eat fish and chips and look at the lights strung like pearls beside the river, their reflections rippling silently in
the oily night-time blackness of the water. Those were happy times, she thought. When nothing mattered but the two of them. When love was straightforward.
His flat was in a huge concrete and glass building beside Blackfriars Bridge that loomed over the river. When she walked into the reception area the dark grey of the exterior was replaced with a shiny chequerboard floor and wall-to-wall mirrors. There were two lifts, and she pressed the button and waited, tapping her foot as she did so in an attempt to ease her nerves. His flat was on the top floor, and by the time the lift got there she worried she might throw up. She wondered if she’d made an error agreeing to meet at his place, and that perhaps thay should have arranged to meet in a pub or cafe after all.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she whispered aloud. ‘He’s a lawyer, a friend of Ian’s, not a bloody axe-murderer.’
When he answered the door he smiled at her as if nothing was untoward. He leant forward to kiss her mouth but she turned her head, deflecting his kiss so it landed on her cheek. His smell filled her and she had a sudden flashback to the afternoon they’d spent together, the clash of their bodies, the frenzy and desire, the way he’d clung to her, buried his face in her neck. But any attraction she’d felt had vanished and the recollection made her shudder.
She walked past him and into the flat. ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said.
He closed the door and she heard the click of the Yale lock. She pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
‘You look lovely. I’ve not seen you without make-up before.’
‘There are lots of things about me you haven’t seen.’ He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose there must be.’
She followed him into the main room, which was twice the size of her and Will’s flat alone. There were two full-height windows that overlooked London as far as the eye could see and glazed double doors that opened onto an empty concrete roof terrace. Harmony walked up to the central window and took in the panorama: the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye to the left, the glinting towers at the hub of the City, the majesty of St Paul’s.
‘That’s an incredible view,’ she said.
The Judas Scar Page 22
