One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  85

  The house was deathly quiet. After the din of the evening’s celebrations, the silence that had descended like a blanket once everyone had gone to bed was unnerving. Diana lay stiffly awake beside Harvey, unable to sleep. She’d hardly touched a drop of alcohol all evening, unlike everyone else. She’d been too nervous. The evening had dragged on and on; all she could remember was the longing for it to be over, for Rufus to leave, for things to return to normal. She gave a small, stifled groan. Normal? There was nothing normal about her situation; nothing normal about anything any more. Next to her, Harvey snored softly. For him, at least, the evening had been a great success. If he’d noticed the fact that she was quieter than usual, he’d made no comment. Every now and then, during the course of the dinner party, he’d touched her lightly on the shoulder or her arm – small, thoughtful gestures that kept him in touch with her, as he liked to say. Harvey was good at that sort of thing. Rufus was not. For almost fifty years she’d pondered the question – why?

  She turned carefully on to her side, not wanting to disturb Harvey. She tried to relax, to breathe deeply and evenly in the hope of drifting off to sleep, but it was no use. The sleep she so desperately craved simply wouldn’t come. She turned back the covers and slid quietly from the bed. The floorboards made a single squeaking sound as she walked across the room in her bare feet, but Harvey didn’t wake. She pulled her silk dressing gown from its hook and opened the door carefully. All down the corridor, doors were closed; behind them, her entire family was asleep. She walked downstairs, wrapping her dressing gown around her more tightly. She went into the kitchen; all was quiet except for the refrigerator humming reassuringly in the corner. She walked over to the sink and opened the window; the sweet night air rushed in, bathing her in its familiar fragrance, a combination of pine and lavender, the smell of Mougins. She looked out over the driveway, now bathed in silvery moonlight. Everything was still and perfectly calm. She turned on the tap and slowly poured herself a glass of water. She drank it standing, her gaze resting on the spot where she’d stood thirty years ago, waiting. There was a creak behind her; the kitchen door opened and closed again with a soft thud. She could just make out footsteps coming up behind her. She knew without turning round just who it would be.

  ‘Do you ever think about it, Rufus?’ she asked in a low voice, holding the cold glass of water to her burning face. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’ He caught hold of her shoulder and turned her round to face him. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Never? Not even—’ She stopped, unable to complete the sentence. In the dark, she couldn’t make out his features; was he frowning?

  ‘Your son is asleep upstairs with his wife. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘But Rufus—’

  ‘Stop it, Diana. There’s no point. It’s over and done with. The whole thing’s buried—’

  ‘Buried?’ Diana gave a short laugh. ‘Yes, you could say that. In fact—’

  ‘Stop it.’ His grip on her shoulders tightened. ‘This isn’t like you, Diana. What’s the matter?’

  There was silence for a few seconds as she struggled to bring her voice under control. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered finally. ‘I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. About him.’

  ‘Don’t. Josh is safe. He’s alive. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stop it.’ His hand slid from her shoulder down the small of her back. He pressed her close to him.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘not here. Please.’ He held her loosely for a second, his hand sliding further down to hold her buttocks. She felt the surge of customary desire and it took all her strength to push him away. ‘No,’ she repeated, hoping her voice was steady.

  He sighed and held his hands up in mock defeat. ‘OK. I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, Diana.’ His tone held a touch of mock regret. ‘You win.’ He touched her very lightly on the chin and moved off into the darkness. She heard the kitchen door shut quietly behind him. She could breathe again. She turned back to the window, staring out into the night. This time there was no stopping the memories as they flooded out, one after the other, a waterfall of pain.

  DIANA

  London/Mougins, June 1969

  She woke up feeling as though she’d only just shut her eyes. She struggled upright in the narrow hospital bed and looked around, as if forgetting for a second why she was there. The room was empty. Harvey couldn’t stay, he’d told her so the night before – he had a long list scheduled for that morning but he’d promised to pop in whenever he could. In the small cot next to the bed lay her newborn son, her third. Josh. Joshua Alexander Keeler. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed and leaned over to look at him again. He was sleeping. His tiny, delicately painted features were relaxed; she felt the same surge of emotion that she’d had after the births of both her older children. So perfectly made, so perfectly formed. She couldn’t stop staring at him. The other two had both come out resolutely blonde, like Harvey. Josh was barely a few days old, but already his hair was darker, and darkening by the day. She resisted the temptation to insert a finger in one of his tiny little hands; she didn’t want to wake him. He was a screamer, it seemed. ‘Right pair of lungs on him,’ one of the nurses had commented the night before. ‘Once he gets started …’ She’d smiled good-naturedly at Diana, who was too exhausted to reply.

  She swung her legs out of bed and carefully stood up. Her lower body was still heavy from the epidural; it would take her a while to get back on her feet. She was still shocked by how difficult the birth had been. The first two had been easy by comparison. With Rafe she’d been in labour for only a few hours before he made his rushed appearance into the world; he’d almost been born in the back of the car on the way over. Aaron too … an easy delivery … she’d gone home the very same morning. But Josh was different. Almost twenty-four hours’ worth of contractions followed by another four of pushing against the most excruciating pain she’d ever known … until she thought she couldn’t possibly stand another second … and then he’d arrived, kicking and screaming, and he hadn’t stopped since. She’d stared at him, too drained to even see properly but she’d known, right there and then, that this one would be special.

  She’d had to have an episiotomy and several tiny stitches; it took a few days for it all to heal, and although Harvey brought the boys in every day to see their new brother, it felt strange returning to the house after almost a week. For some reason, she couldn’t settle into the routine she’d so carefully built up with Rafe and Aaron. Josh’s cries kept the rest of the house awake, day and night. As soon as she put him down, he would begin again. Nothing seemed to placate him. Rafe and Aaron were resentful; who wouldn’t be? Rafe was five and Aaron was a year younger – for four years they’d shared Diana equally. They were as close as it was possible for two boys to be, everyone remarked fondly. They gave her no trouble at all. Rafe was fiercely protective of Aaron and Aaron absolutely worshipped his older brother. The arrival of a screaming new baby in the house turned everything upside down. ‘Why’s he always crying?’ Rafe asked Diana, only a hundred times a day. Diana was tired and irritable – she ought to have been more patient with him, with them all … but she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Harvey did his best, of course, but he was a junior surgeon in one of London’s busiest hospitals … he couldn’t afford to be kept up, night after night.

  It was his suggestion. She’d moved with Josh to the attic at first, hoping to give everyone else a break from the noise. But it seemed to make little difference. Josh’s screams penetrated the walls; on the third morning Harvey had come down to breakfast with bloodshot eyes and a temper to match. ‘Why don’t you take him down to Mougins for a couple of weeks?’ he’d asked, lifting his shoulders helplessly. ‘Maybe a bit of time alone together? Mrs Pitcher and I can manage the boys. I’m not sure I can go on like this, Diana.’

  Diana looked at him, her brows knitted together in worry, and nodded. She wouldn’t dare
admit it, but the thought of spending some time alone with Josh thrilled her. She hesitated, for fear of appearing too eager. ‘No, I couldn’t do that,’ she said slowly, the idea beginning to take root.

  ‘Why not? Rufus is down there already. It’s summer, the weather’ll be lovely and hot. He’ll meet you at the airport, give you a hand for a couple of days. Actually, darling, I must confess, it was his suggestion. He’s in between assignments at the moment, said it would be no trouble at all.’

  Diana felt the flush start in the pit of her stomach and travel slowly up her body. At the same time, two floors above them, Josh began to wail again. In seconds, his screams had intensified.

  ‘That settles it,’ Harvey said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’re going down, even if I have to take you there myself.’

  ‘No, no … it’s fine. You’re right. I’ll take Josh. Just for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Just for a couple of weeks,’ Harvey repeated, already looking relieved. ‘I’ll phone Rufus in the morning. He’ll be pleased. He’s been on his own with only Mohammed and Khadija for company for almost a fortnight.’

  Diana said nothing. She nodded slowly and then turned and hurried back upstairs. Relief, guilt, joy, fear … the familiar treadmill of her emotions began again.

  The BOAC flight to Nice was a nightmare. Josh screamed practically the entire way. She disembarked into the brilliant blue late afternoon sunshine almost weeping with relief. Rufus was there to meet them; she saw his dark head rising head and shoulders above the waiting crowds of mothers, fathers, lovers and grandparents who were there to welcome their loved ones. ‘Rufus,’ she murmured weakly, allowing herself to be folded into his embrace. Miraculously, Josh was silent.

  ‘So this is the little tyke who’s been causing all the problems,’ was Rufus’s only comment as he led them away from the arrivals hall towards the car park. Children were not his strong suit, as he liked to put it. She stowed the sleeping Josh in the back seat, praying that he wouldn’t wake up. They drove out of the airport and joined the traffic on the E80 heading west towards Cannes. She was too tired to talk; she tucked her feet underneath her and gave herself up to watching the hot summer landscape slide silently by.

  It was just past six in the evening when Rufus turned the car down the track towards the farmhouse. She woke with a start; she’d dozed off somewhere along the journey and her face was stiff with fatigue.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Rufus pulled the handbrake up and opened the door. He unlatched the gate and got back in. ‘Mohammed’s gone home for the afternoon. Khadija’s just had a baby. Boy, like Josh.’

  ‘Khadija? Little Khadija?’ Diana was momentarily shocked into wakefulness. Khadija was Mohammed’s only daughter. His wife, Doha, had died when Khadija was very young. She was the absolute centre of his universe. ‘How old is she?’

  Rufus shrugged. ‘Sixteen, seventeen … something like that.’

  ‘She can’t be, Rufus. She’s only just started high school. She can’t be more than fifteen.’

  Rufus shrugged again. He brought the car to a halt in front of the farmhouse and Diana fell silent. The sight of it never failed to soothe her. She got out of the car and stood for a second in the driveway, her eyes roaming over the yellowed brickwork, the stain of ivy spreading itself up the wall, the roses still in bloom, despite the lateness of the year … it was beautiful still. She turned and opened the back door, taking care not to wake Josh. She carried him into the house; there was the warm, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread and coffee, two scents she would always associate with Mougins. ‘I’ll just pop him in the living room,’ she mouthed to Rufus, who was carrying her bags. ‘He’ll wake up soon, I should imagine. He’ll be hungry.’ Rufus didn’t reply. He took their bags upstairs, the floorboards creaking overhead as he walked.

  She was feeding Josh when he came back downstairs half an hour later. She was sitting in the easy chair over by the window. The evening sunlight was streaming in through the French doors; in the misty light created by the shaft, tiny dust particles were suspended, floating dreamily around them. Josh was quiet; he’d fallen off the breast and was snoring gently. For the first time in the ten days since the birth, he seemed peaceful, almost content. She was tired but it was a different kind of tiredness this time. She watched the light dappling and brimming against the walls and ceiling, not even bothering to cover herself up again, enjoying the feeling of air and sunlight on her bare skin. The summer sun could be fierce and relentless in Mougins, but here in the valley, halfway down the hill, it was always cool inside the house. She turned to Rufus as he walked in and put a finger to her lips. ‘He likes it here,’ she whispered.

  Rufus looked at her but said nothing. There was a bottle of wine standing on the sideboard. He poured two glasses; a small one for Diana and a more generous one for himself. He walked over and handed it to her, brushing aside her protests. ‘It’s good for them,’ he said brusquely. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

  Diana laid the sleeping Josh down in the wicker bassinet, tucking the blanket carefully under his chin. He slept on, undisturbed. She was about to rearrange her clothing when Rufus’s hand stopped hers. He reached for her nipple, still wet and engorged, rubbing it lightly between his fingers. Diana nearly spilled her wine. The electric shock of desire was so strong she had to close her eyes. It had always been that way – the merest touch of his hand on her skin and her head would begin to swim. She shook her head in protest. ‘I can’t, Rufus … not now. Not yet.’

  ‘Shhh.’ He set his own glass on the floor and knelt down in front of her. He pushed aside her blouse and unfastened the ungainly brassiere. Her breasts, almost twice their usual size, spilled forward. He took first one nipple in his mouth, then the other, his tongue sliding expertly around the nubs of hardened flesh. She had to clench her fists to stop herself from crying out loud. Her newborn son slept beside them whilst her husband’s brother skilfully drew the silken, guilty threads of pleasure from her, one after the other, as only he could.

  Over the next couple of days, an easy rhythm developed between the three of them. Rufus always slept late; Diana rose early and took Josh down to the pool every morning to sit on the sun-warmed flagstones, watching the light dance across the surface of the water, listening to the sounds of the garden and the valley beyond. She was right; the very air seemed to calm Josh down. It was wonderfully warm and sunny in the mornings. At lunchtime, she would pick up the bassinet and walk back up the path to the farmhouse to prepare lunch. Occasionally she would stroll with Josh up to the village to the open-air market, wandering slowly amongst the stalls, taking in the weak, sweet perfume of flowers and fruits, the sharp odour of cheeses and the smell of still slippery fish. She showed off Josh to the market women; they pulled back the white shawl protecting his face from the sun and made the appropriate coos and sounds of delight. She sometimes sat with him at the tiny espresso bar just by the place, eating a piece of spinach tart or a slice of tarte aux pommes.

  One morning, about three days after their arrival, she was lying on the sunlounger by the pool, soaking up the sun. She turned her head lazily to look at Josh lying next to her in his little bassinet. He was looking up at her with an expression of such intense concentration that she had to laugh out loud. ‘Ça va?’ she cooed at him in French. ‘Ça va?’ She bent down and slipped her forefinger into his palm; he clutched it tightly. A thought moved across his face – he was still too young to smile, but he looked so contented just lying there in the sun that she couldn’t stop smiling herself. She let the book she was holding in one hand drop to the ground. With Josh still holding tightly on to the other, she turned her face towards the sun. She was suddenly drowsy; within minutes, she slipped into sleep.

  A sudden shift in temperature woke her. A passing cloud had obscured the sun and sent a momentary chill across her skin. She sat up with a start. Someone had come down the garden path with a wheelbarrow of tools. It was Mohammed. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mohammed,’ she called out, shading her eyes
. ‘Ça va? Tout va bien?’ There was someone with him, half hidden by the wheelbarrow. It was his daughter. ‘Khadija? C’est toi?’ Diana smiled at her.

  ‘Oui, madame.’ Khadija smiled back shyly. She was holding something – a bundle wrapped in white. Her baby! Of course … Rufus had mentioned it the day they’d arrived.

  ‘Ah, c’est ton bébé, Khadija. Félicitations!’ Was it the right thing to say? She didn’t know. Khadija was barely out of her teens. She stood up, holding out her arms to take the little bundle from her. Beside her, Mohammed looked on. It was hard to tell from the expression on his face what he thought of it all. Should she ask after the father? Khadija gingerly passed the baby to her, reluctant to let go of him, even for a second. Diana peeled back the shawl and took a peep at the sleeping infant. There was a sudden shock of recognition – a physical shudder that ran through her as she registered the baby’s features. He was the spitting image of Rufus, of Harvey … and even more bizarrely, of Josh. She looked up; the knowledge of what she’d recognised was there in Khadija’s face. And in Mohammed’s. She looked from one to the other. There was a moment of stunned silence as they all took in what could not be said.

  ‘How could you?’ Diana’s voice was a muffled shriek. ‘She’s a child, Rufus! A fucking child!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s no more a child than you are.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Will you just shut up?’

  They stood there in the bedroom, glaring at one another, Rufus’s face dark with anger. Diana couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t the fact that Rufus had slept with someone else – Jesus Christ … if that were the issue, she’d never have a moment’s peace of mind. No, it was the fact that he’d done it with Mohammed’s daughter, Khadija. She was the apple of his eye, the daughter he’d been so proud of. She was a good student; she’d had dreams of going to university … What the hell had Rufus gone and done? ‘She’s a child,’ Diana repeated, her breaths turning to sobs. ‘Now you’ve gone and got her pregnant … what the hell is she supposed to do?’