It seemed to happen in slow motion. The green hatchback skidded. Charlotte held her head in her hands. Angus disappeared beneath the car. She screamed, rooted to the spot. The car screeched to a halt a few yards on. The crumpled heap of Angus lay in the middle of the road. Passers-by stopped and gasped.
The car door flung open; the driver jumped out. ‘I didn’t see him; he just ran out!’ But Charlotte didn’t hear him; she couldn’t stop herself from screaming.
Chapter 12: The Photograph
That Sunday evening, after their successful trip to St Omer, Maria cooked Tom coq-au-vin, accompanied by a fine bottle of Bordeaux, one that Bernard had been saving for an occasion such as this. Their daughter, Odette, had gone out again, promising to be back before eleven. The meal was cooked to perfection and Tom heaped lavish praise on Maria, who responded with modest protestations on how easy it’d been to prepare and cook. Bernard turned on the television with the volume down, and kept an eye on the football game. Tom had never been particularly interested in football but was still pleased to see England was winning.
Meanwhile, conversation flowed easily, from childhood memories to the trials of parenthood and the genius of French painting, Italian opera and English pop. Bernard asked them about their day and, having listened, gave Tom a potted history of the cemetery. In the few hours since the visit to the gravestones, Tom realised that while his present life was falling apart, his past, paradoxically, was fast gaining substance. Something that, hitherto, although he hadn’t realised it, had been lacking. Through seeing Jack’s gravestone and having Guy’s diary and medals, he had acquired a firm foothold in his own history, and with it came the realisation that the name Searight was not just an accident of birth, but something which had some meaning. Until now, his father had been the full length and breadth of the Searight past, simply because his father had had a childhood best forgotten, thereby denying Tom knowledge of his own past and his place in the Searight story. And knowing something about where he came from gave him a great sense of fulfilment. All that was needed now was a better understanding of where he was going, which for a man not known for taking risks, had, until recently, been fairly assured, at least as much as one can be sure of the future. But now he was adrift in a sea of unwanted possibilities and he doubted whether he would again feel the luxury of complacency. And here he was, with the person who had stepped unexpectedly into his life and had given him a sense of his past, and for that he was grateful.
The game was entering its last couple of minutes. Bernard had turned the volume up. He looked despondent with France losing 1-0. But then, in the final seconds, France’s star player, Zinedine Zidane, scored. Two minutes later, deep in injury time, France were awarded a penalty. Bernard sat on the edge of his seat. Zidane stepped up and scored again. Bernard leapt out of his seat, cheering.
Bernard, who was obviously more into the football than he let on, looked relieved and, regaining his composure, heaped praise on Zidane, while Maria sat silently with an affectionate, fixed half-smile, sipping her wine.
Before retiring for the night, Maria had one more surprise for Tom. It was a photograph – a photograph of Mary, his grandmother. Written in ink on the back was the date May 1916, taken on her eighteenth birthday. There she was, eighteen years old, proudly wearing a nurse’s uniform, her image filling the picture. She was sitting down, her hands neatly on her lap, her dark hair tied back, disappearing into the cap that sat awkwardly in position. There was something in her hands, a slim shaft of silver. Tom held the photograph closer and peered at the object protruding from her fingers. It seemed to be a crucifix, its silver chain wrapped around her delicate hands. Her nose was long and thin, her lips clasped tightly shut but hinting at a smile as if trying to suppress a fit of earlier giggles. Even through the black and white lens of the camera, Tom could see the glint in her eye tinged with a hint of impatience; the confidence of a young woman on the threshold of life and in a hurry to set forth, tolerating the formality of the occasion.
That night, Tom read about Mary in the pages of Guy’s diary...
...I see her standing before me on board the ship, a girl too young to be burdened with the responsibilities of a uniform, one side of her face bathed in semi-darkness. She turns her head for a fraction as if thinking of leaving, of walking away from me. ‘Wait,’ I say, my hand outstretched. She stands still but doesn’t look at me, her eyes scanning the faraway horizon. I step towards her, careful of not moving too quickly for fear of frightening her, as if approaching a stray horse. Unable to move any further yet unwilling to break the spell, I know too well I will replay these few seconds a thousand times in my mind. I whisper her name and finally she looks me in the eye. I step forward, my shadow encroaching on her. Slowly, I lift my hand and place my palm against her face. She tilts her head into my palm. Her skin feels cold to the touch and she shivers slightly as if adjusting to the warmth of my hand. Trusting that my presence won’t offend, I move forward and she seems to lean towards me. I run my hand gently down her hair and she closes her eyes. I kiss her gently on the cheek, on her nose, on her forehead. Lavender and iodine, how I shall always remember the incongruous mixture of smells, each fighting for dominance. Peace and war. Her lips part slightly, an inkling of a smile. She looks up at me, her eyes searching my face. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispers, barely audible. Her words echo in my mind again and again. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. I kiss her, my arm wrapped around her waist. I feel her fingers run down the side of my face, the smoothness of her fingertips against the coarse textures of my clean-shaven jaw. I feel whole again, I am complete. I am a man. My past is no longer part of me, no longer affects my present, the war is already history, my future irrelevant. Eighty years from now, when I am no more, this moment will still exist between us. I will die with this moment lodged in my mind where it will remain forever more.
Tom put the diary down. But Mary... she was married to Lawrence, his father’s father, not Guy, his father’s uncle. Did they have a thing together? Did his father know? Should he tell him? No, he wouldn’t want to know. Not now.
*
Mark had just left. Julie closed the front door and turned to face the empty house. She leant against the door and slowly slid down until she was crouching on her haunches. Clenching her fist and thumping herself on the knee, the cancer of seething anger crept through her until it clouded her mind and stripped away the ability of reasoned thought. The anger was all the more unbearable for being directed against herself. She’d been unbelievably stupid; she’d known it before, but not with such alarming clarity as it now presented itself to her. Did she really think she’d get away with it? No, because she hadn’t thought at all. She’d subconsciously blocked out the possible consequences as if they weren’t things that she needed to bother about. She’d driven Tom away and now Charlotte had walked out. Even the bloody dog had gone. And for what, what had she to show for it? She felt disgusted with herself; disgusted by her own selfish pursuit of satisfaction and annoyed by her needless carelessness, but, most of all, disgusted by her own sense of shame. Ashamed that she’d taken the trust of those she loved most and had tossed it aside, assuming that somehow it would come bouncing back. And soon, the shame would become public. Tom’s parents probably knew already. She daren’t telephone any of her old friends for fear they’d hear the tone of guilt in her voice. Her colleagues at school often asked, idly, after Tom. They weren’t particularly interested in the answer, but how long could she keep up the pretence. Soon, she’d be forced out into the open: she, who had abused her husband and daughter’s trust, for the sake of a casual affair. She’d have to wear it like a label – ‘shameless woman’, tattooed on her forehead – and made to wear her guilt like a hair shirt, never to take it off, even at night-time. Especially at night-time, as she lay on her side of her bed, with the acres of cold, empty space next to her, a constant reminder of her wrongful ways.
Julie pulled herself up and staggered back into the sitting room. No doubt, Charlotte w
ould be back soon, but the prospect of living with a resentful daughter filled Julie with dread. Charlotte was already adept at turning the screws whenever she felt the need, but now Julie had given her more thread than even Charlotte would know what to do with. It could go on for weeks, like a trump card to be used at will. The power relationship between mother and daughter was totally turned on its head. Julie would be made to pay – both emotionally and financially. But no amount of pocket money, new CDs and mock designer labels could alleviate this amount of guilt. The only thing Julie could think of that would help turn Charlotte’s attention would be a boyfriend, her first boyfriend. She felt tired, tired of everything.
The telephone rang. Julie hoped she’d left the answerphone on, but after six rings, it was obvious she hadn’t. Reluctantly, she picked it up. Her tiredness vanished in an instant as Charlotte’s panicky voice screeched down the line to her. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Angus has been run over. I think he’s dead, I don’t know.’ Her voice could barely cope with her breathlessness and urgency. ‘I don’t know what to do; you’ve gotta come.’
‘Hang on, sweetheart, I’m coming.’ Julie felt seized by the waves of panic clouding her mind. ‘Where are you?’
‘Richmond Road, at the entrance to the park. Hurry, Mummy, please.’
‘I’ll be there as quick as I can. Put something over him to keep him warm. Be brave, darling, your Mummy’s coming.’ She slammed the phone down and tried to think – if he was still alive, where would she take him? She’d never been to the vets; on the few occasions it had been necessary, it was something Tom always did. Her hands were shaking; she doubted if she’d be able to drive, not after the whisky. Mark – she’d call Mark; he wouldn’t have got far. She rang his mobile and prayed he’d answer, because Mark was one of these types who believed in not answering mobiles when driving. He answered within two rings; thank God for that, she thought.
‘Mark, it’s Julie, I need you to come back.’
‘Why, what’s the matter? You sound awful.’
‘Angus has been run over. Are you far; can you take us to the vets?’
‘Give me two minutes.’
Julie grabbed Tom’s phonebook. Yes, it was there – under ‘V’ for vets, and she knew the road. She reckoned from Richmond Road, they could probably get to it within ten minutes – if they were lucky. She found her handbag, made sure her purse was inside, snatched the house keys and waited outside. Oh God, she thought, don’t let the blasted dog die; Charlotte would be distraught. Suddenly, the real reason for her panic hit her like a shameful thunderbolt. Her main concern for the dog’s welfare was purely self-motivated, and the thought of it shamed her – again. If it lived, she’d forever have her daughter’s gratitude, but if it died, Charlotte would hold her to blame. She couldn’t take that as well, not on top of everything else.
Mark pulled up in his battered old Ford Fiesta. Julie jumped inside and, slamming the passenger door shut, directed Mark towards Richmond Road. It was only a couple of streets away and Mark knew the way anyway. She urged him to hurry and not slow down for the numerous speed humps that appeared with annoying regularity. At the end of her road, they needed to turn right, but a mother and pushchair had already started crossing the road. ‘Oh hurry, please hurry,’ said Julie. Finally, able to move on, Mark pulled out quickly, forcing an oncoming car to brake suddenly and eliciting an angry response of car hooting and mouthed profanities.
‘Turn left here,’ said Julie quickly. ‘This is Richmond Road. She’s at the other end, next to the park.’
‘I do know,’ said Mark, speeding around the corner and hoping nothing was coming the other way. As they came out of the bend, they could see a green hatchback ahead, parked awkwardly at an angle. Mark slowed down as they approached. Julie could see the figure of Charlotte sitting in its passenger seat, rocking back and forth. An England flag fluttered on the bonnet. A short, balding man paced beside the car, glancing nervously at Charlotte. Next to him, stood a red-headed boy, about Charlotte’s age but equal in height to what was presumably his father. Julie knew immediately that this was the man who’d run the dog over. Why hadn’t he taken the initiative and taken Charlotte and Angus to the vet himself? The man and his son looked up at the sight of Mark’s Ford coming to a halt. Julie swung open the car door and charged out. From inside the man’s car, Julie could hear the pitiful sound of her daughter crying, almost wailing.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the man, ‘I’m afraid he’s, erm...’
Julie clenched her eyes shut. ‘Shit,’ she muttered. Taking a deep breath, she approached the hatchback. Charlotte hadn’t seen her yet. Julie opened the car door and there, on Charlotte’s lap, half-wrapped in her daughter’s jacket, lay the limp body of Angus, his white fur congealed with blood. Charlotte looked at her, her eyes red with tears and anger, her cheeks sodden, traces of blood on her hands.
‘He’s dead, Mummy; Angus is dead.’
Julie had to hide a sigh of relief; she’d expected an immediate accusation of responsibility, but equally, felt pained at seeing her daughter so visibly distressed. ‘Oh, Charlotte, I’m sorry.’ She wanted to put an arm around her but she realised how wary she’d become of her own daughter. She hovered nervously next to the car trying to think of the appropriate words. ‘My poor darling; I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Julie turned towards the solemn-looking, bald-headed man who was explaining to Mark how it’d all happened. ‘Why didn’t you look where you were going?’ she said to him vehemently.
The man looked genuinely taken aback by Julie’s assumption. ‘I – I couldn’t help it, I had no chance... really.’
‘You were going too fast, weren’t you?’
‘No, honestly, he just ran out...’
The red-headed boy interrupted, ‘It’s true. Dad wasn’t going fast at all. Angus just appeared from nowhere.’
Julie was surprised by the boy’s familiar use of the dog’s name.
‘Mum, Adam’s right,’ said Charlotte quietly from inside the car. ‘It was no one’s fault.’
Julie looked at the boy. ‘Adam?’
The boy nodded. ‘Me and Charlotte are in the same year at school.’
Charlotte’s crying took a turn for the worse, reminding Julie where her attention should be. She placed her hand on Charlotte’s head and stroked her hair, all dishevelled and damp from sweat. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’ Julie reached down to take the dog off her daughter’s lap, but Charlotte swivelled her shoulder to prevent her mother’s interference.
‘No, leave him,’ she said. ‘I’ll take him, he’s mine, I’ll carry him home.’
Julie put her arm around Charlotte’s fragile shoulders as she steadied her daughter out of the hatchback. Charlotte was shaking with shock and cold, clutching the little dog’s body close to her chest. Mark raised his eyebrows at Adam’s father in resigned acknowledgement of the man’s misfortune, and went to open the back door of his car. Julie helped Charlotte in and then gently closed the door on her. She leant back against the car and closed her eyes. She wanted to scream and she wanted and needed Tom to come back, to be by her side – for Charlotte’s sake, as well as her own. She opened her eyes and realised there were three pairs of sympathetic eyes watching her. But she didn’t want their sympathy; she just wanted Tom. If ever she needed Tom, it was now. Where in the bloody hell was he?
‘Take us home please, Mark,’ she said quietly.
Chapter 13: The Return
The Eurostar was fast approaching Waterloo. On the seat next to him was a copy of The Times with a picture of Tony Blair and George W Bush shaking hands on its cover.
Tom felt immersed in a warm glow of contentment but tainted with a sense of dread. With each mile the train took him further from France, the glow evaporated slightly, and with each mile closer to London, his anxiety increased. He tried to focus his mind on the weekend he had just left behind: the day trip to St Omer, the diary, the medals, the name Searight on the headstone. He had never seen his family’
s name inscribed on a headstone before and the vision of it made him shudder. It was now early Monday afternoon. Tom and Maria had spent the Sunday sightseeing. She took him to the St Omer museum, and later, Bernard joined them for a walk in the local forest. In return for their hospitality, Tom took Maria and Bernard out for an expensive meal in a pleasant restaurant in the town. They staggered in late, giggling. It felt as though he’d known them all his life. It was like rediscovering long-lost friends, an echo of a past life. But delightful as it was, he knew it was no more than a distraction, a means to escape. They got up late on the Monday and Maria accompanied Tom to the train station at St Omer. They kissed goodbye, and promised each other to keep in touch by email.
But now with Waterloo only twenty minutes away, Tom’s reality hit him square between the eyes. First, there was the little matter with Claudette. He tried to tell himself, it’d been to his advantage, but Claudette was Claudette, and he couldn’t shake off a sense of foreboding about the whole affair. And then there was Rachel. For a while he experienced that old desire for her but her ham-fisted attempts to interfere in his life reminded him how unpredictable she could be. But the more he thought about the women at the peripheral of his life, the more his mind went back to the woman at the centre of it. If Maria was a distraction, Claudette a threat, and Rachel an intrusion, then what was Julie? Julie was his wife and the woman he loved. It was still less than a week since he’d left with a vague promise to be back by the weekend, but during that week, he’d realised that perhaps more than ever, he still wanted Julie. Yet, the thought of her with Moyes made him screw his eyes shut with pain. His old life, which seemed so ordinary, so pedestrian, now faded into the distant past like a bygone idyll. And his heart drowned at the thought that at the centre of it, laid one enormous lie, one huge deceit. She’d said it’d been going on for a year or so. He cast his mind back over the previous year and a half, and tried to compare it to the time before. He expected to find a time, a dividing line between black and white but found nothing but continuity, a constant grey. Just the life of an ordinary couple. He remembered their Spanish holiday; the photograph of Julie and Charlotte he kept on his desk at work. The smiling sunburnt faces, the splatter of dried sand on Charlotte’s cheeks, the hint of white lines around Julie’s eyes where the sun hadn’t permeated. Their heads touching, a fusion of blonde hair, bleached further by the Spanish sun. It was a year ago, just one year. It was already going on, already happening. He imagined her writing secret postcards to him, sneaking away to post them, thinking about him as she lay in the sun.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 14
