One Year Later

by Sanjida Kay

  I’m not the slightest bit interested in politics, to Dad’s disappointment. I pick up his journal and flick through it. I feel a bit guilty, but I justify it to myself: I’m checking he’s okay, not forgetting any appointments. It’s tragically empty. Once he was so busy, giving lectures, attending conferences, supervising students, plus all the extracurricular activities I’m trying to avoid thinking about. There’s hardly anything here: Tea with Tony, his neighbour who makes the apple cider brandy; a dentist’s appointment; a note about mending the fence; a reminder to book an electrician. I flick further back in time, to 1 September last year. It simply says, Funeral, and the time and the church: St Margaret and All the Angels. It took two weeks before the coroner would release Ruby-May’s body.

  But the week before, there’s another entry: The Castle. What the hell is that? I can’t think of any castles near our house in Somerset. There’s nothing about a Mini-Mental State Exam or a brain scan. I rifle through the whole of September, October, November. I skip back to 15 August. Nothing resembling a hospital appointment.

  I carefully replace Dad’s journal on top of his politics book and beneath the Sudoku. Either our father’s memory is so bad that he didn’t even remember to write down his appointment, or else my sisters are lying. But why would they lie about taking him to hospital?

  14 AUGUST, ITALY

  22

  AMY

  Matt grunts and rolls over. Once, he’d have begun the day by enveloping her in his arms, and they’d have eased into wakefulness together. He must have drunk the best part of a bottle of red last night and his snoring kept her awake. She grabs her dressing gown and staggers downstairs to make breakfast for Lotte and Theo. The curtains are still drawn and they’re huddled together on the sofa, watching a DVD.

  ‘Too loud,’ she yawns at them, as another dragon annihilates its opponent with an ultra-violet fireball. ‘You’ll wake everyone up.’

  She opens the kitchen door and feels vaguely surprised that it’s been left unlocked overnight. The air is fresh and smells of dewdamp oregano: a thin mist floats between the silver olive trunks and the sky is the colour of a split peach. She steps outside and inhales deeply. As she does, she catches a tiny movement out of the corner of her eye. She walks round the edge of the pool, the tiles cold against her bare feet. The shadow of a tree in the wind, she thinks. But the day is still. She stands on the edge of the terrace and looks through the cypresses to the shed; the interior is dark and she can’t see anyone or anything there. She tightens the sash of her gown around her waist. She must have imagined it. Or maybe it was a bird, or a cat.

  She turns slowly in the opposite direction, so that the green-black trees are behind her. The shutters are tightly sealed in Joe and Luca’s apartment, but in the wing of the house where Bethany, Chloe, Dad and Nick are sleeping, the downstairs windows are ajar, the curtains slightly open. Her stepdaughter is still in bed, the covers pushed down to her waist, one bare leg on top of the sheet, her hair spread across the pillow. Through the gap in Bethany’s curtains, Amy can see her moving around, pulling on a top, stepping out of the shorts she was sleeping in. Amy drops her gaze, feeling embarrassed, as if she’s been caught spying on her sister, and hurries back inside. She must remind them to keep their windows closed; but then she thinks, I’m being alarmist: there is no one around.

  They’re completely hidden, here in the midst of this olive grove.

  She makes a coffee and starts putting out the children’s cereal.

  ‘I’m going to take the kids into town. Do some shopping,’ she tells Matt later, over breakfast. The anniversary is tomorrow and we’ll need party food.

  Through the archway she sees Joe and Bethany. They’re at the front of the house, just back from their training session. Even though it’s early and the air is still cool, they’re both drenched in sweat. Bethany is bent over, sucking in air. She’s wearing a sports bra and Lycra leggings with a tropical print. Amy has seen the same pair in the window of Sweaty Betty’s on her way to work. She feels a sharp stab of jealousy. Of course Bethany has the latest design, even though a pair costs more than Amy earns in a day.

  When her sister’s got her breath back, she takes a picture of herself, with Joe behind her, as if he’s her own private gladiator: every muscle on his torso is defined, the veins running down his forearms stand out, a sea-breeze stirs his dark, curly hair. How much younger than her is he? A decade?

  ‘I can look after Lotte and Theo,’ her dad says. He looks eager, even hopeful.

  ‘No,’ she says, before she can help herself. ‘I’m going to take them with me and buy them an ice cream as a treat.’

  He can’t be trusted with the children, she thinks, not when he’s so forgetful. And she still hasn’t forgiven him. It’ll take time, she reminds herself.

  ‘Oh. Well, they’ll like that.’

  ‘Is there anything you would like me to get you?’ she asks more gently. She doesn’t want to invite him to come with them, but she feels guilty for leaving him here.

  ‘If you see an English newspaper. Or a magazine like The New Statesman or The Economist,’ he says, but he looks crestfallen.

  ‘Do you want any help?’ asks Matt, pausing momentarily from stacking their cereal bowls in the dishwasher.

  She’s immediately irritated. Why has he assumed he’s not coming with them? They’re still a family, aren’t they?

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she says with some coolness.

  ‘I don’t think Chloe would be up for it. And she’s still in bed.’

  ‘You don’t need to babysit her,’ Amy says. ‘She’ll be fine here, if you do want to keep us company.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, but he sounds reluctant.

  ‘I’m not up for what?’ asks Chloe, walking in.

  She’s wearing an extremely short nightshirt and her feet are bare. Her hair is tangled and falls over her face. She tosses it back and flops into a chair at the table, her eyes half-closed, as if she’s just returned from working a night-shift. Amy frowns. Chloe looks so like Bethany: the same beautiful, thick chestnut hair, the pale gold of her skin. No wonder Joe is attracted to her sister.

  ‘Do you want to come shopping with us and go to a cafe in town, sweetheart?’ asks Matt.

  ‘Nope,’ says Chloe, shaking Cheerios into her bowl.

  Luca strolls in at the same time as Bethany and Joe.

  ‘We’re thinking of going for a long old run,’ says Joe. ‘Into the hills and far away. Anyone up for it?’

  ‘Thought you’d just done your workout?’ Nick says. He’s just come downstairs and he yawns and stretches.

  ‘That was a baby one,’ Joe tells him. ‘Come on, before it gets too hot. You know you want to.’

  ‘Can we have the breakfast first?’ asks Luca.

  ‘Espresso and a banana. That’ll turn you into a fat-burning machine.’

  ‘Okay, I will have that, and then I come with you,’ says Luca and he grins at Joe.

  ‘Amy.’ Matt clears his throat. ‘Would you mind if I—’ he nods his head towards Joe – ‘go for a run with the guys?’

  She frowns again. ‘If that’s what you want. Come on – teeth, faces, clothes on,’ she says to Lotte and Theo, who are still in their pyjamas and are playing Minecraft on Chloe’s rhinestone-encrusted neon-pink iPad. Chloe notices and snatches it out of their hands. Matt doesn’t say anything. He’s so lenient with her.

  ‘Nick. You up for it, mate? Get you Fit in Five,’ says Joe.

  Her brother hesitates. ‘I’m pretty tired. Didn’t sleep that well.’

  ‘Should have had a sleeping pill,’ says Bethany. ‘I have no trouble getting a good night’s kip, in spite of the snoring going on around here. Stopped Dad wandering around at night too,’ she says, looking smug.

  ‘Go on,’ says Matt.

  Her brother still seems reluctant. He’s so out of shape, she can’t imagine him being able to keep up with the others.

  ‘Who’ll look after Chloe?’ Nick asks
.

  Chloe speaks through a mouthful of cereal. ‘I don’t need a bloody babysitter!’

  ‘I shall be here,’ David says, shaking his three-day-old paper and looking at his step-granddaughter over the top of it. ‘Not that you need looking after, my darling. Shall we go for our usual stroll up to the farmhouse and buy some bread from that young man?’

  Amy’s taken aback. She hadn’t noticed that Chloe has been walking up to the farmhouse with her father. Perhaps she hasn’t taken sides against him, like the adults have. After all, she’s still a child – one who misses her grandfather. Chloe, her cheeks bulging with Cheerios, gives her granddad a thumbs up. Amy glances at Matt to see how he’s going to react, but he’s joking with Joe and doesn’t notice.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ Amy says, although she feels uneasy.

  ‘Come on, mate, let’s turn you into a lean, mean fighting machine,’ says Joe, throwing a mock punch at Nick, who pushes him off. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen you take your top off this whole holiday,’ he adds. ‘How are you going to get a proper tan?’

  Amy exchanges a glance with Bethany, but she doesn’t say anything.

  ‘No one should have to see this,’ Nick says, patting his stomach.

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Matt replies. ‘I’m sure you worked hard to get it. All those ciders and burgers down the Grain Barn.’

  She doesn’t know if Matt has seen Nick without a T-shirt. It’s not like they’ve been on a beach holiday as adults before. ‘Lotte! Theo! Upstairs! I haven’t got all day.’ She wants the kids out of the way in case Nick does give in and takes off his top.

  ‘Come on! Slap a bit of suntan lotion on and you’re good to go. The ladies love a killer tan – and I can get you a six-pack in four weeks, I guarantee it.’

  She looks at Bethany again, hoping she’ll tell Joe to leave Nick alone, but her sister crosses her arms and stares resolutely out of the window at the sea.

  ‘Go on! Go for it, mate!’

  ‘Nick,’ she says, at last, ‘you don’t have to.’

  Nick stands up and grabs the edge of his T-shirt.

  ‘Nick, really, you don’t—’

  ‘That’s my lad,’ says Joe, giving a whoop and clapping him on the back.

  Nick pulls his T-shirt over his head. Amy can’t bring herself to look. There’s a moment of silence.

  ‘Holy cow,’ Joe says, under his breath.

  ‘Are those real, Uncle Nick?’ asks Theo in a hushed voice.

  ‘Bona fide. I didn’t tattoo them on, Scouts’ honour,’ Nick says.

  ‘What’s a Scout? We say “pinkie promise”,’ says Lotte.

  ‘Theo, if you don’t go and get dressed right now, I’m not buying you an ice cream,’ Amy says.

  Theo ignores her. ‘Did a pirate slash you with his cutlass?’

  ‘I got in a fight with an alien,’ Nick says. ‘In fact, it was a pirate alien.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Lotte, ‘that’s awesome!’

  Joe claps his hands together. ‘The ladies will go wild when they see those scars. You look like one tough mother. Grab your kickers and let’s hit that hill.’

  Matt hasn’t stopped staring at her brother. ‘Is that from—’

  ‘Yep,’ says Nick.

  Bethany still has her back to them.

  ‘They don’t look quite as bad now, Son,’ their father says.

  Nick shrugs on his T-shirt and grins at Amy. ‘Don’t want to scare the natives,’ he says, studiously avoiding looking at Bethany.

  Amy doesn’t respond; she can’t bear him smiling at her when he still doesn’t know the truth.

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO, SOMERSET

  23

  NICK

  I must have been about Lotte’s age. It was probably late May, because it was coming up to my birthday. I can’t remember if it was the end of term or a weekend – there was no school, but in other respects it was a usual day for us – Dad was at work and our mother was painting and didn’t want to be disturbed. Bethany was supposed to be looking after me. To be in Bethany’s charge meant that she would tell me what game we were playing and what I had to do, but there was nothing actually comforting or caring about it. We’d stolen some stale Jacobs crackers and the tail end of a packet of mixed dry fruit from one of the kitchen cupboards. I was picking all the bits of orange peel out of my share and moaning about the burnt taste of the raisins. I left a trail of crumbs and rind on the lawn and was followed by a robin, as if I was a juvenile Pied Piper.

  It was definitely Bethany’s idea to play in the ruin at the bottom of the garden. I would never have dared, because it was strictly forbidden by our father. Once the valley where we lived was well populated: there was some kind of industry here and there’d been a railway. Now all that was left was a flat length of track that had been turned into a cycle path for hobby bikers, and the tumbledown ruins of cottages, hovels, pigsties and kilns. We had one of the better-preserved cottages in our garden: two walls remained, one had a chimney and the remnants of a bread oven. The outline of the house was marked out in crumbling brick and the whole thing was festooned with ivy. Buddleia and brambles sprouted from cracks in the masonry, and sycamore saplings had invaded the living room.

  ‘I bet you can’t climb to the top!’ Bethany said.

  I was pretty sure I couldn’t, but I didn’t want her to know that. I felt the sparrow flutter of my heart; I knew she was going to call me a coward.

  ‘Course I can,’ I said.

  ‘Go on, then. Prove it!’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ I said, scuffing the toe of my trainer against the lintel and wishing we’d found some cooking chocolate, or even leftover dates rolled in sugar. But then our mother didn’t bake, so it wasn’t likely.

  ‘You can’t do it,’ Bethany said.

  I found myself climbing on top of the hearth, searching for handholds in the powdery cement and wrapping my fingers between the thick stems of ivy. Bethany stood below me and, now that she’d got her way, switched to cheering me on enthusiastically. I don’t suppose I got very far, but it seemed as if I was really high up. I was level with the top of the sapling, looking down at Bethany’s upturned face, the sun hot on my own, once I was no longer sheltered by the trees. I was too frightened to go any further. And that was when it happened.

  I remember realizing that something was terribly wrong; I was no longer upright. I was falling backwards, still clinging to the ivy, the bright blue of the sky disappearing. There was a whoomp and my lungs were emptied of air. Something hot and wet against my face. Someone was screaming. The sky fell in on me like I was Chicken Little.

  Amy told me afterwards that the ivy had come loose and the wall I was climbing had collapsed. In the ambulance the paramedics said I’d hit my head, splitting my skull open; I’d broken my forearm, smashed several ribs and fractured my collarbone. I’d have a few scars when I was all patched up, they said, like that would please me. One of them described how they’d dug me free from the fallen stones, as if the story would entertain me on the way to the hospital. I was lucky, the doctor said later, that I hadn’t been buried alive. I was lucky, he added, that I hadn’t died.

  Since then, but only to myself, I’ve always rephrased his statement: I’m lucky my sister didn’t kill me.

  24

  AMY

  When she and the children reach the piazza below the fort, she’s surprised to see it’s bustling with activity. There’s a marquee; men are setting up small fairground rides, and others are unfolding tables and weighing down awnings and buntings with sandbags.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asks the young woman in the cafe, as she orders ice cream and a coffee for herself.

  ‘It is Ferragosto,’ she says. ‘Happen every year, a special holiday. Tomorrow evening everyone will be here. There is some food – all the specialities of the region, a festival to celebrate. Fireworks.’ She looks bored by the prospect.

  Amy drops a couple of euros in the ashtray for tips next to the cash register. She wo
nders how she feels about this strange coincidence, the summer fete and Ruby-May’s anniversary occurring on the same day.

  She’s about to take the ice cream to the children, when she turns back to the waitress and, on impulse, orders a shot of Frangelico. She tips it into her coffee and hands the girl the glass.

  The waitress grins at her and fills it up again.

  ‘Offerte della casa,’ she says, and then adds, ‘Everything is closed tomorrow. Is a holiday. Nothing open, even the stazione di polizia is closed. I say you, in case no one remember to tell to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Amy says, grateful for her kindness.

  ‘Look! Can we go on that?’ asks Lotte, pointing towards a carousel with chairs dangling from it on long chains.

  ‘It’s not open until tomorrow evening, sweetheart,’ she says.

  ‘So can we come back? Please, please?’ Lotte is bouncing up and down on her chair with excitement.

  She takes a breath, wondering how best to explain about the anniversary party, when she notices the writing in large letters above the carousel: Lasciate ogni speranza o voi che entrate. There’s a cartoonish skull and crossbones on either side of the phrase. She says it out loud, no doubt messing up the Italian pronunciation.

  Amy bribes Lotte to be quiet with the promise of playing a game on her phone in a minute, and puts the phrase into Google translate. It comes up almost immediately. It’s from Dante’s The Divine Comedy: Abandon all hope, you who enter here.

  ‘Can I play a game now?’ asks Lotte, as soon as Amy puts her mobile down.

  ‘Yes – when you’ve finished your ice cream and wiped your sticky fingers.’

  How am I going to tell them about the anniversary? She tousles Theo’s hair. Will they understand? Will they be upset? Perhaps she should leave it until tomorrow morning, so that they don’t have time to worry or think too much about their little sister.