9
The lunch with Stella had unsettled Jack. He had wanted so badly to connect with her, to put all those childish moments of resentment during Eve’s childhood behind them – that really wasn’t who they were. But he just didn’t know how, especially in front of Lisa. And when he’d mentioned the anniversary of Jonny’s thirtieth birthday in July, she’d looked so stricken that he was sorry for bringing it up. He’d thought … What had he thought?
‘Stella wasn’t very friendly,’ Lisa said as they drove back to the cottage later that afternoon. ‘Do you think she’s jealous of me … of us?’
Despite Jack’s frustration with Stella, he found himself wanting to defend his first wife. He was pretty sure she wasn’t jealous of Lisa. Stella had a partner – that weirdo gardener bloke with the white hair he’d seen in photos Eve had shown him. It was possible she was quietly amused that he’d gone for someone like Lisa – young, buffed-pretty and so unlike Stella in every way – but she wouldn’t be feeling even the slightest pang of jealousy. They’d been separated for almost as long as Eve had been alive, for heaven’s sake.
As he sat beside Lisa, Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’ came on the radio. It instantly took him back to one of his and Stella’s music nights, sitting together on the sofa after Jonny was in bed, where they took it in turns to choose a piece of music. Stella was fonder of classical music, Jack preferring the likes of Annie Lennox and Jeff Buckley.
That night, she’d glanced at him from where she was crouched by the CD player, raising her eyebrows playfully before pressing the play button. But as soon as Lou began to sing in that soft, tentative way of his, her face broke into a huge grin. One that he’d instantly reciprocated. The song always tore at his heart, because it represented all of their dreams.
They sang along exuberantly – Stella had a good voice; Jack, he was the first to admit, was mostly off-key – and repeated the song at least twice more before it became his turn to choose another. They didn’t speak; they didn’t need to.
He realized that he had never found that sort of understanding with any woman since Stella. Not Lisa, and not Stella any more, he thought. Not for a long time. The only link he had with her these days was Eve and Arthur. And she seemed none too keen on making even that easy.
‘She wasn’t particularly matey with me, either, Lisi. Maybe she felt awkward,’ he said, shaking off his memories. ‘It’s an odd situation.’
‘Hmm.’ Lisa’s tone was hesitant. ‘I’m not sure women like Stella do “awkward”. She didn’t seem very keen to get to know me, that’s all.’
Jack thought his wife was probably right, Stella hadn’t paid much attention to Lisa. But maybe her mind was elsewhere. He had thought it would be a relief to be able to bring up the impending anniversary with the only person on the planet who would care as much as he did. But he’d just upset her.
As Lisa got out of the car, clearly still miffed about her encounter with his ex-wife, Jack just sat there, unable to move as he was suddenly overwhelmed by his past.
He put Lisa on a train on Sunday night, despite her protestations. Needing to be at work early on Monday morning, she’d had no choice but to agree.
‘Why aren’t you coming too?’ she’d asked, looking hurt. ‘You never stay down without me.’
Which was true, but he felt in need of what people these days rather preciously called ‘space’. And his time was his own since retirement, so he didn’t need to rush back for anything any more. But Lisa was put out.
‘Is it because you want to hang out with her?’ she’d asked him tentatively as she packed her wheelie bag to return to town.
‘ “Her”?’ He thought she meant Eve.
Lisa lifted a mocking eyebrow.
‘You mean Stella?’ Jack was incredulous that Lisa should be jealous of his very much ex-wife. Eve, yes, he got that. He was a bit obsessive these days about time with her and little Arthur. But Stella? ‘Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart,’ he said. And she must have heard the genuine surprise in his voice, because she relaxed a little and allowed him to embrace her, kiss her and take her to bed for a while before she had to catch the train.
He’d sat about reading all day Monday, his mood low, thoughts hovering like moths in his brain, which he tried hard to avoid. But now it was Tuesday and he felt a surge of vitality and resolve. It was cloudy for a change, but still muggy and hot, and he contemplated with relief the day stretching ahead of him. A day without having to think about anyone else.
Pulling on his jeans and the crumpled shirt he had worn the day before – not usually allowed – he loped up the hill, through the village to the shop. It was a cooperative run by volunteers, and it took the middle-aged woman at the till an age to process the queue, as she exchanged lengthy gossip with every customer. But Jack wasn’t in a hurry. Eventually, clutching a packet of back bacon, a thick-sliced white loaf and newspapers to his chest – he still read three papers every day – he hurried, almost furtively, back down the hill, as if he’d just scored coke from a city corner boy.
As the rashers sizzled invitingly in the pan, Jack slathered butter on the bread slices and made himself an ink-brown cup of builders’ tea. Lisa railed against him eating bacon and processed white bread, caffeinated coffee, too much wine, red meat, more than a miserly sliver of cheese … She was probably only trying to keep him alive. But Jack had given up smoking twenty-odd years ago, he walked everywhere in London, wasn’t overweight, went to the gym occasionally – although less often than he claimed to Lisa – and was only on pills for very minor atrial fibrillation. Not bad, he thought, compared to many of his renegade journalist friends, who already had bad teeth and paunches, blood pressure through the roof and impending COPD.
When the bacon was beginning to crisp round the edges, he turned the heat off and dropped the hot, fatty rashers on to the waiting buttered slice with a fork, gently pressing the sandwich together – no brown sauce, ketchup or even black pepper, Jack was a purist – and carried it over to the table by the window overlooking the garden. Sinking his teeth into the spongy bread, the salty, buttery bacon, he savoured the moment and let out a long sigh of satisfaction.
Jack knew what he was going to do this morning. He had wanted to do it for years, but never had the courage. It was seeing Stella that decided him, her painful reticence about Jonny only highlighting his own, recent, burning need to move forward. After another strong tea, he rebelliously slung his plate and cup into the sink, unwashed, and gathered his stuff together.
Pulling out of the cottage’s narrow parking bay, he ramped up the volume of David Bowie’s final album as he drove through the lanes. He was distracting himself, pretending he wasn’t going where he was going. It wasn’t far; the satnav said he would be there in eleven minutes.
At first, entering from the east, he was confused and thought the satnav had got it wrong. He’d been sure it was on the right, with the wood on the left as you drove towards the village. But it was decades since he’d been here. He panicked, broke out in a sweat, heat surging through his body. What if the house has gone? he asked himself, knowing even as he thought it that the idea was absurd. It had stood there for nearly two hundred years, why would anyone pull it down? He stopped the Peugeot for a minute to collect himself, then decided to believe the instructions on the screen and, after a couple of minutes, there it was: first the hulking shadow of the neighbours’ converted barn, then the white-painted, Regency cottages.
Jack slowed the car, stopped. The lane was empty; there were no cars outside either house, nothing behind him. His heart was ricocheting against his ribcage, Bowie a cacophony in his ears. The ghosts were out in force. It was as though it were that very June Sunday again. He could even smell the jasmine that had covered the trellis leading to the back garden.
For a second his brain returned to the moment they had arrived that day: the yellow dress Giovanna had worn, the taste of the cold wine she’d handed him, the boisterous figure of Gareth Lowden – an eminent theatre critic who could always be relied upon for some scurrilous gossip – Stella, looking so beautiful, holding Jonny in her arms, bending to kiss his hot little head. It had been his last flash of unshadowed happiness.
A horn blared behind him and he jumped, saw a white van in the mirror, a man gesticulating impatiently. But he was paralysed, unable to do the necessary to move the car forward. Clutching the steering wheel, he tried to breathe. A moment later the driver of the van was at the open window, peering in.
‘Got a problem?’
Jack shook his head.
The man was in his early fifties with a weather-beaten face and a very clean white T-shirt. He bent over, leaning both hands on the roof as he eyed him intently. It was a kind voice that spoke, ‘You don’t look so good, mate. Want me to park up for you, get some help?’
Jack made a supreme effort. ‘No … No, thanks. Sorry. Don’t know what happened. It’s very hot, isn’t it?’
The van driver didn’t seem to think so, because he shrugged. ‘You don’t look as if you should be driving. Can I give you a ride somewhere?’
‘I’m OK … Sorry,’ Jack said again. ‘I’ll move.’
Clearly not convinced, the man hovered for a moment longer, then gave the roof of Jack’s car a double rap and turned away, ambling back to his van. Jack managed to start the car, shaking as he accelerated away from his past. Further down the lane was a five-bar gate by a patch of dried mud. He pulled in and turned the engine off as van-man overtook him with a wave, and then slumped across the wheel. The glimpse of that other time had been so overwhelming that he literally did not know what to do with himself.
He had no idea how long he sat there in the silence of the Kent countryside, but after a while his pulse began to return to normal, his breath stopped rasping in his chest, his gut unclenched. Still feeling discombobulated, he reached for his mobile, suddenly desperate for the comfort of a human voice.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Eve sounded as if she’d been laughing. ‘What’s up?’
Now she was on the phone, Jack didn’t know what to say. And when he tried to speak, the words came out as a hoarse squeak.
‘Dad? Are you OK?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Bit of hay fever, I expect.’
‘Yeah, it’s bad today. I’ve been sneezing all morning.’
She sounded so normal, so cheerful. It seemed almost impossible that anyone could.
‘Umm, just calling to say I didn’t go back to London.’
‘Oh. I thought Lisa had to work.’
‘Right. So are you staying down?’
‘Don’t know.’
There was a pause. ‘Come over, Dad. Mum’s weeding and I’m watching. The perfect arrangement.’ She chuckled. ‘You can help. We’ll go to the pub for lunch when Arthur wakes up.’