‘Kate—’
‘Can you tell them that I have all the factors and aftersun we need; might have gone a bit overboard. Lydi always goes brown as a berry, lucky thing, but Dom tends to do the whole several shades of lobster thing before tanning. I’ve got enough lotions and potions to last a lifetime.’
‘Kate—’ Francesca’s voice was a little more insistent this time.
‘I know, I know. I’m rambling, Fran, I can’t help it! I am so excited! Did I give you flight times? I did, didn’t I? I want to see them before we fly, obviously. I think I’ll get a hotel room at Gatwick and they can either come down the night before or really, really early so we have a few hours to kind of get to know each other again before we take off—’
‘They. Are. Not. Coming.’
Francesca delivered each syllable as though she were talking to a foreigner: louder than normal and over-enunciated.
‘Oh, well, that’s okay. It was just a thought. I can meet them at the airport and actually, thinking about it, that might work better. It might be easier for them with lots of people around, lots of distractions. In fact it will give us all a chance to just “be” together and by the time we arrive, talking will be easier. I don’t mind, whichever is best.’
‘No. Listen to me, Kate. They are not coming at all, not to the airport and not on holiday. They are not coming at all. I’m sorry, lovey.’
Kate allowed her legs to slide down the wall. Her babbling ceased and she curled into a small ball on top of the duvet, wrapped around the telephone handset.
‘Is it the journey?’ she whispered. ‘I could easily come and pick them up. Or I could send money for the train fare, anything.’
‘It’s no good, Katie, they need more time.’
‘More time? How much more time? They’ve had five years!’ Kate squealed through a mouth contorted with sobs.
‘I know, honey, I know…’
‘You don’t know, Francesca! You really do not know! I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault, but please, please, please bring them to me, please. Fran, please…’
‘Honey, I have tried. I promise you, I have tried. I have sat with them both and discussed the options. Bear with them, Katie, they just need longer. Having you out is yet another adjustment and we have to tread carefully.’
In prison Kate had been able to fool herself with many reasons for their absence: the distance from York, their hectic schedules, the fear of seeing her in a prison setting. Now, however, she had to face the reality. Not visiting her had been their choice. Worse still, even now, when they could simply jump on a train and be with her in a matter of hours, they still didn’t want to see her. She could no longer conceal the unpalatable truth from herself.
‘Please, Francesca, please!’
‘It’s not my decision, Katie. I know this is tough.’
Too tough, it’s too tough. How do I get through this?
‘Let’s see how they feel when you get back. Don’t cry, sis, it will all be okay. Please don’t cry.’
My heart breaks every time. Every time.
* * *
The idea of a holiday hadn’t occurred to Kate until she’d blurted it out to the nosy lawyer. But it made perfect sense: a chance for her and the kids to get reacquainted in a neutral setting, a chance to have them all to herself, to try and catch up after their time apart. She hadn’t considered that they simply would not want to be with her.
This knowledge caused the tiny fracture in her heart to widen a little more.
Kate spent a long night torturing herself, imagining her and the kids walking barefoot on sand, talking openly as the sun sank on the horizon. It was not to be. In the morning she surveyed the floor, now strewn with tear-soaked tissues, and she decided to go away anyway.
For the first time in her life there was nowhere that she needed to be, no house, job or family eager for her return. She might as well stay in a hotel abroad as a hotel in London, where she could gather her thoughts in peace and sit in the sunshine. St Lucia – even the name was exotic on her lips.
At Gatwick, she found herself filled with dread; it was as if everyone but her in the departure lounge knew the drill. The eighteen years she had spent isolated under Mark’s control, then the time in prison, meant she was out of practice at being in a strange crowd. It was ridiculous really, that having lived with murderers and drug dealers for the last five years, she was now quite petrified of the backpack-wielding family whose haul of colouring books and wet wipes were spread on the bank of seats opposite her. Supposing they spoke to her? God only knew what she would have in common with the rather leggy mummy who sipped from her Styrofoam cup and occasionally stroked the muscular thigh of her husband.
Kate scrutinised the woman’s face, watched her mouth, analysed her actions. She knew that you could never really trust first impressions. Was the woman scared? Restrained? Coerced? Kate had to admit she didn’t look scared, restrained or coerced. In fact she looked relaxed, comfortable and happy. Lucky girl.
Kate was saddened by her mistrust of people. Her confidence in being able to exchange small talk had vanished; perhaps with practice it would return. She allowed herself to imagine for a second what it might be like to choose a good man and live a lovely life. How had she got it so wrong?
She immersed herself in her book of Derek Walcott’s poetry and tried to remain invisible. She was absorbed by one line that seemed impossibly apt, repeating it and revelling in the possibilities that it presented:
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
She liked the idea of that very much.
The hubbub of a throng of boys jolted her from her musing. They ambled along in groups of four and five; a pack. Smart and polished, yet with the nonchalance and labels of boys she had once been familiar with, boys like Dominic. They were dressed alike, in tracksuit bottoms and hooded tops, with layered, long fringes and leather satchel bags slung over shoulders. She guessed they were aged between twelve and fourteen. They were polite but awkward in their as yet unblemished skin.
Much to her discomfort, the boys targeted the three empty seats next to her. They dumped their holdalls and clustered round, seemingly oblivious to the lady with her nose in a book. They exchanged banter about the rugby tour they were about to embark on, gate opening times and the fact that ‘George’ had been late, nearly missing the school bus. For this George was chastised and tagged with several politically incorrect names, although what his sexuality and a faulty alarm clock had in common was beyond her. Their tone was plummy and that they were comfortable in a large airport heading off without parents to the other side of the world spoke volumes.
It was almost simultaneous. As Kate lowered her book, one of the boys turned to face away from her, bringing the school crest on his back sharply into focus. Her breath caught in her throat, her skin was instantly covered in a thin film of cold sweat and her legs shook. It still had the power to do that to her, the gold emblem with eagle wings spreading behind, the Latin motto beneath: Veritas Liberabit Vos. Truth Shall Set You Free. It meant Mark, it meant torture, it meant prison. It meant that Lydia and Dominic were gone.
Kate reached for her bag and attempted to shove her book and bottle of water inside it. Her heart thudded loudly in her ribcage, her vision blurred. In her haste she dropped the book. A pair of young hands swooped to the floor and retrieved it.
The dark-haired teenager handed her the paperback.
‘Excuse me, I think this is yours.’
‘Th… thank you, yes it is.’
‘He was a Nobel Prize winner, wasn’t he? Any good?’
Kate looked up and into the eyes of Guido Petronatti. He had been nine the last time she had seen him. It didn’t surprise her that he recognised a Nobel Prize winner when he saw one, smart boy.
She took a deep breath and decided she had nothing to lose.
‘I’ve only just started it, Guido, but it’s certainly showing promise. He writes some beautiful poetry. Do you still read a lo
t?’
Kate recalled the bespectacled young bookworm who had liked nothing more than to disappear into a quiet corner of the library with the latest Harry Potter. That was a lifetime ago.
The boy’s eyebrows shot up in a confused upward slant.
‘Yes, I do. Do I…? How did you…? Oh shit! Sorry, Mrs Brooker, I didn’t mean shit, I mean…’
‘It’s okay, Guido. I understand.’
‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting to see you again, ever. Are you, like…? Did you…? Shit. Sorry.’
‘How’s Luca?’
She tried her best to calm the boy, who was clearly flustered, coming face to face with the infamous Mrs Bedmaker. Kate had always been fond of Guido’s older brother, a friend of Dom’s.
‘He’s studying medicine at King’s. Mind you, I feel sorry for the person that ends up with him as their doctor, he’s still a dickhead. I know Dom and he go out in London a lot; my dad’s got Luca a flat, lucky thing.’
‘Oh.’
Kate sat back down, winded by the mention of her son. London was close to her; he would travel that distance for Luca, but not her. It was fresh information, a new picture for her to mentally draw and colour in over the coming days. Dominic, her grown-up son, out in London with Luca, who always did have the makings of a playboy. The thought of the two of them made her smile. She was happy – cut by the latest revelation, but also happy. Good for you, Dom, my beautiful boy.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Brooker? Can I do anything?’
Kate was unaware that she was now crying without restraint and that most of the group were staring at her. How she missed her kids, how she wished they were by her side. Their plane tickets nestled in her bag, just in case they had a last-minute change of heart.
‘Oh, Guido, yes. I’m so sorry. I am fine. It’s just that I haven’t seen Dom for quite a while and I rather miss him and Lydia.’
The boy scuffed his trainer toe on the highly polished linoleum and stared at his feet.
‘It was never the same after you, y’know…’
He squirmed, unsure if this was appropriate, but decided to continue anyway.
‘That night… when Mr Brooker… Mountbriers became tougher, a bit meaner. I think it’s because you weren’t there any more. I used to think you were like a spare mum; mine was always so far away, although come to think of it when she is with me, she’s pretty rubbish. You used to sort my hair out before chapel and no one else ever did, like they didn’t care. I cared that my hair was such a mess, but didn’t know how to fix it myself.’
Kate’s tears fell even harder.
‘Right, boys! Quick huddle – don’t want to leave anyone behind, do we?’
The young PE master’s voice boomed across the space. Thankfully Kate had never seen him before; she couldn’t have coped with the interaction. The group of lads jumped at his command.
Kate watched Guido saunter over to his friends. She whispered under her breath, ‘Thank you, Guido. Thank you so very much.’
The globe seemed to have shrunk since Kate had last travelled. One long sleep, a meal and two movies later and she was in another world.
With her luggage carefully ensconced in the cubby-hole, the little red-and-yellow bus jumped and jolted along the grandly named Millennium Highway. It was a name that conjured images of multi-lane motorways with traffic whizzing in an orderly fashion between neon signs and flashing lights. Kate imagined the travelator on The Jetsons, but right there on earth. In reality the road was quite different, littered with gigantic potholes, some the size of a bath tub, and the odd obstacle. In England it would have been a B road at best.
Kate glimpsed a maroon velour sofa that had been dumped on a grass verge. Three scrawny dogs were curled asleep on its plump cushions, one of them with an eye half cocked and a leg dangling, as if waiting for the man of the house to come along and shush him onto the floor. A herd of goats, tethered together, had decided to take up residence in the middle of a bend. This was not a problem for the odd motorcycle and tiny Suzuki that darted past, but a much harder job for the unwieldy bus. The skilful, whistling driver did his best to navigate the small gap, as the right-hand wheels threatened to skitter on the gravel and plummet down the unguarded hill. Kate distracted herself by looking out of the opposite window until the danger had passed.
She marvelled at the multi-coloured housing, much of it built on stilts. It was clearly the only way to construct cheaply and safely into the slopes of the steep hills. From a distance the little wooden squares of soft purple, bright turquoise and sugar pink looked like marshmallow and gingerbread housing from a fairy tale. Close up, the faded paint on clapboard, the busy window boxes and fancy net curtains billowing in the breeze was even more enchanting.
Toothless old men in vests, whose lined faces told a million stories, and high-bottomed, mahogany-skinned women in curlers lolled on the rickety terraces. Huts selling Coca-Cola, rice and peas, and the local Piton beer were dotted along the route, all well patronised despite appearing to be in the middle of nowhere. Chickens and dogs meandered in small groups; they reminded Kate of characters from Chicken Licken out for a stroll or off to buy groceries. She did a double-take to check if any were carrying little baskets or brollies and wearing headscarves.
The heat was a warm blanket, soothing her joints and easing the knots from her muscles. In her stomach she felt a swell of excitement and anticipation at what her trip might hold. Banana trees and coconut palms fought for space in the dense roadside jungle. Each turn in the winding road revealed another stunning vista of mountains or tropical forest. This was exactly what Kate had hoped St Lucia would be like. She felt happy.
The thrill of the journey from the airport was not to last. One hour after hurling her bag into the bus’s cubby-hole, Kate stepped into the huge, marble-floored reception of the Landings Hotel and instantly wanted to go home. But she didn’t have a home to go to.
The place was beautiful. Marble pillars and floors shone. The great cathedral-like ceiling of arched wood reminded her of a tall ship. It was graceful, cool and expensive. These were only three of the reasons why she felt like a fish out of water. The women, mainly American, who congregated on the over-stuffed sofas appeared to be waiting for nothing in particular. They all had with them the one accessory that instantly alienated Kate. A man.
As a group they were elegantly dressed, clutching Louis Vuitton bags and with sparkling diamonds around their wrists and twinkling from their lobes. Collectively they seemed to have decided that the appropriate attire for this green island was sheer, hot pinks, heeled sandals that clicked and clacked on the hard floors and a face full of filler. Sadly for Kate, no one had notified her of the dress code. She smoothed her palms against her thighs in an effort to remove the creases from her ditsy print frock and re-hitched her Sainsbury’s raffia beach bag up onto her shoulder. She felt more school fete than Caribbean chic. West Indian men in navy Bermudas and pristine white polo shirts hovered with hands clasped behind their backs, waiting for a hand to beckon them, either to refresh their drink or offer advice on where to dine.
Kate quickly decided the best means of survival was to hide. She couldn’t bear the thought of idling at one of the bars, bumping into these women or having to converse across a sun lounger:
‘I’m Debbie. We’re from New York, upstate. My husband? Oh he’s in banking. Yes, two boys – one at military academy, he wants to fly, and the other a business major at Harvard. Our first time? No, our sixteenth. We just love the islands. You?’
‘I’m Kate. From the UK. My first trip; I usually favour Padstow. My husband – he’s deceased. Oh no, please don’t be sorry, it was me that killed him. In fact I’ve only just got out of prison. My kids? Oh, not speaking to me because of the whole murdering their dad thing… Ooh, I love your bikini!’
She could see that this exchange would not result in the swapping of addresses and the issuing of Christmas cards. Instead, Kate sought out places other tourists shunned. Most wanted to be within
a short, leg-stretching stroll of a paper-umbrella-adorned pina colada or an air-conditioned restaurant, but not her.
Kate spent the first two days venturing down to the beach, wandering the shoreline and then returning to the solace of her room. She lay on her vast bed and marvelled at the luxury that surrounded her. At night the chirp and peep of wildlife would serenade her to sleep. On day three she struck gold when she discovered Pigeon Island. It was the haven she had dreamed of: a quiet oasis with the ancient ruins of a British hill fort set among the junglescape.
The winding trail to the fort meandered upwards, allowing Kate to gaze in wonder at varieties of trees she had never seen before, trees with names like ‘flamboyant’ and ‘lady’s tongue’. She continued on to Signal Point without difficulty; the steep incline was a welcome workout after a couple of days of inactivity. Alone on a fortuitously placed section of wall in the midday heat, she watched the white boats bob on the ocean, pulling tiny water-skiers that bumped over the water like model railway dolls. She ran her fingers over the warm hunk of granite on which she perched. Sitting in its shallow, bottom-shaped well, she wondered at the many hands that had touched it during the two hundred years since it had been placed there.
Kate reflected on the super-human effort that must have gone into hoisting this gigantic boulder from the deck of a ship all the way to the top of the outcrop, some three hundred feet high. She pictured the tanned muscles slick with sweat, hauling and grunting under the relentless alien sun, maybe thinking as they toiled of ports and loved ones on the glistening, damp cobbles of their English home. It saddened her a little that their efforts were now diminished as this chunk of watchtower was reduced to providing a seat for weary bums.
It felt surreal that only weeks ago she was staring at shiny, white-painted walls, prison bars and bright blue carpet tiles whilst listening to the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the guards patrolled the hallways after dark. It was difficult to imagine Marlham and its inmates going about their same daily routines, but without her there. She had felt similarly about Mountbriers after the huge cataclysm that had occurred there, finding it hard to envisage the mechanics of the school continuing to grind. She decided that the sudden absence of a person or dramatic change in a situation was not dissimilar to a wound: the loss would be painful at first, but would eventually heal, closing over and growing anew, like skin.
What Have I Done? Page 8
