by Erin Kinsley
The ghost of a smile touches Evan’s eyes and the corners of his mouth.
‘I shall make a good job of it, too,’ says Jack, mock-indignantly. ‘Sausages, chips and beans, and maybe an egg if you’re lucky. And I’m commandeering your dad to peel potatoes. Dora, my love, you’ll be ready for a cup of tea, and Evan, you’ll be wanting something cold. But you stay where you are and look after your grandma. I’ll get your dad to bring it through.’
Outside the open kitchen window, the perfume of the honeysuckle which clings to the old stone wall mingles with the smell of straw from the barn, and the sharp, familiar stink of sheep. The window looks on to the rose garden, where Dora planted the first bushes just after Matt was born. Over the years, she’s nurtured it to an immaculately cared-for Eden, and Matt’s troubled to see some of the blooms have browning petals, while others are dead and dried. On the path, the secateurs lying in a trug are spotted with the beginnings of rust.
Matt pops the cap off a bottle of Sam Smith’s.
‘You want one?’
He takes another from the fridge, and hands it to his father. A red kite is wheeling over Blackmire Ridge, in a sky that’s still bright as midday.
‘So,’ says Matt. ‘Tell me.’
Jack takes a drink of his beer.
‘It’s been a bad week,’ he says. ‘Here, start on these potatoes. I blame myself for letting it get this far.’
Matt hunts for a peeler in the drawer, which is a confusion of his mother’s lifetime collection of cooking implements: knives and graters, wooden spoons, spatulas and whisks.
‘What do you mean, “this far”? What’s the story?’
‘The signs were there, the lack of appetite, the weight loss. But we were wrapped up in other things, weren’t we? We were worrying about Evan.’ As Jack’s talking, he’s laying sausages in a pan, big, fat Cumbrian sausages from the village butcher. He turns on a hotplate on the old stove and puts the frying pan on the heat. ‘Then she was sick, and said it was nothing. She was sick again, and I caught her taking pills for the pain in her stomach. Turns out it’s been going on a while.’
‘How long is a while?’
‘A year. Maybe longer.’
Matt lays the peeler on the table. He looks distressed.
‘Bloody hell, Dad. A year? Why didn’t she say?’
‘She thought we all had enough on our plates. Which of course we did, but now it looks like we’ve got two plates instead of one. We got the scan results yesterday. That’s why I rang you. I didn’t want to burden you until we were sure.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’
Jack stares out of the window. He lowers his chin to his chest.
‘Don’t ask me that, son,’ he says. ‘Let’s take it one day at a time.’
Dora, Matt notices, eats very little – a few slices of sausage, a spoonful of baked beans, a piece of dry toast Jack has made her instead of chips.
Evan has cleared his plate, and instead of disappearing, has stayed to watch a DVD Jack has found.
‘Only Fools and Horses?’ asks Matt. ‘Bit retro, isn’t it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with retro,’ says Jack. ‘Some things stand the test of time.’
The comedy takes Matt back to boyhood, to the age where Evan is now. Evan’s holding Dora’s hand, and as he watches the screen, he begins to smile, a cautious, hesitant smile, as if he’s trying on something that used to be a comfortable fit, as if he’s rediscovered something precious but isn’t sure it’s meant for him. The gags come thick and fast, and Matt finds himself smiling too. Jack loads up another episode, a Christmas special. Matt has seen it several times and remembers it well, but it still entertains.
And at the high spot, in the famous moment when Del Boy, fancying his chances with a couple of girls, loses his cool falling through a gap in the bar, a miracle occurs.
Evan laughs.
‘Your grandma thought you should have your dad’s old room,’ says Jack, following Evan up the creaking stairs. ‘There’s a better view from there. Your dad’s seen it often enough, so she’s put him in the guest room.’ Upstairs the house shows its considerable age, low ceilings and bowed walls, black beams and latched doors. ‘You’re handy for the bathroom there, too. There’s plenty of hot water if you want a shower, but that’s it for the mod cons, I’m afraid. No telly up here. You know me and your grandma. We like to live in the Stone Age.’
Evan pushes open the door at the end of the landing. It’s a small room with a window looking out across the home field and the grazing sheep. In an apple tree whose branches almost touch the windowpanes, a blackbird is singing evensong, melodious and clear.
A single bed made with line-dried linen is pushed against the wall, a hand-knitted patchwork blanket in the crazily bright colours Dora loves folded at its foot. On the bedside table there’s a lamp and a stack of books: a tattered Beano annual, a collection of Spike Milligan’s poems, Barry Hines’s A Kestrel for a Knave, an outdated encyclopaedia of amazing facts, a new magazine of word-search puzzles with a pen. On the dressing table are three white roses in a vase.
Jack points to the roses.
‘I told your grandma young men don’t appreciate flowers, but she goes her own way, as you well know. Unpack your things if you like, make yourself at home. The top drawer of that chest is empty. The rest of it’s full of your dad’s stuff which I reckon should have gone in the bin years ago, but that’s your grandma again. So. I’ll leave you to it. Sweet dreams, son.’
In the distant past, he would have kissed Evan goodnight. Under normal circumstances, Evan would be beyond that now, well into those early teenage years of self-conscious separation. But Evan looks small, slightly bewildered and alone, and the urge to put an arm round him is strong.
Jack resists. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he hears the knock of wood on wood as Evan props a chair against the door, barricading himself in and sealing out the world.
Dora has gone to bed. Jack goes to the sideboard and takes a bottle of Glenfiddich and two of the best lead crystal glasses from the cupboard.
He holds up the bottle to Matt, who nods his head.
‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘Christmas come early?’
‘I’ve fallen out with Christmas.’ Jack pours a generous measure into each glass. ‘It never came last year, and it looks like it might not this year either. Cheers.’
They clink glasses, and Jack sinks into an armchair.
‘What do you think to Evan?’ asks Matt, and Jack shakes his head.
‘I don’t know, son, I really don’t know. Something inside him’s switched off.’
‘Hardly surprising, is it?’ There’s repressed rage in Matt’s voice. ‘What’s happened to him, what he’s been through . . . I have to stop myself thinking about it. If I think about it, it makes me so angry I could kill someone.’
Jack swills the whisky in his glass. ‘Maybe he feels the same.’
‘I worry that his life is slipping by. He’s missed so much already – school, of course, and friendships. All those things we wanted for him, gone. How will he ever catch up? Sometimes I think his life is ruined forever. Is he destined just to stay in that dark place where he is now? Will he ever come back from there? What happens if he doesn’t?’
‘Is he still seeing that counsellor?’
Matt sighs. They had kept all their appointments, ushering Evan into the waiting room of a converted Victorian gentleman’s residence, sitting on the hard chairs, flicking through back copies of dog-eared magazines while a mahogany-cased clock ticked in the hallway. The place was drab, dark, unappealing, but Evan submitted quietly, as he seems to submit to pretty much everything, these days. When she called him through to her office, Dr Mellor was soft-spoken and kind, the sort of woman you’d want for a favourite aunt, unsexy, unthreatening, the epitome of a human being you’d trust.
Matt had imagined with some unease the kind of things Evan and Dr Mellor might discuss, mentally squirming at the possible involvement of anatomically correct dolls and explicit diagrams. A part of him had been irrationally jealous, thinking his son was confiding in a stranger what he wouldn’t say to him, even though, God knew, the last thing on earth he wanted to hear was what Evan had to say. To know the facts would be unbearable; only to imagine them allowed a level of denial, an element of soft-focus which kept the pain in check. Certain knowledge of his son’s suffering would mean those responsible would have to die. Which wasn’t a problem, necessarily. If Matt spent the rest of his life in jail, honour would be satisfied, and it would be appropriate payback for his not having protected Evan in the first place.
But there had been no discussions, explicit or otherwise.
‘They canned it after three sessions,’ he says to Jack. ‘He wouldn’t speak to her any more than he’ll talk to us.’
After the last session, while Claire led a sad, silent Evan out to the car, Matt had taken the opportunity to talk to Dr Mellor and express his most pressing concerns.
‘He seems younger than when he left us,’ he said. ‘Like some kind of Peter Pan.’
Dr Mellor had nodded wisely, as if what Matt was saying made sense to her. ‘That’s hardly surprising. Subconsciously, he’s retreated into childhood, to a time where he felt safe.’
‘So what can we do about it?’
Dr Mellor shook her head. ‘At the moment, your only option is to wait.’
How long the wait would be – weeks, months or years – she wasn’t prepared to guess. The day before Evan’s next scheduled appointment, she rang and said she thought it better to put the counselling on hold, postpone it until Evan was further down the road to recovery.
‘Claire was pretty pissed off, considering the shrink was supposed to be the road to recovery,’ says Matt. ‘She thinks they’ve abandoned us.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think he’s better left alone for a while, to let him try and get his head in some sort of order.’
‘So he still hasn’t given a statement?’
‘Not a chance. What gets me is, if the police had got anyone in their sights, or were close to arresting anybody or even had the slightest idea where to look, they’d have him down there every day, asking him questions. My worry is, the longer he stays silent, the harder it’ll be to break the habit.’ He takes a drink of the warming whisky. ‘I don’t know, Dad. I just want our old Evan. Do you ever wish you could turn the clock back?’
‘Just lately, all the time,’ says Jack. ‘But if wishes were horses . . .’
‘. . . Beggars would ride. It’s a stupid saying.’
‘And how’s Claire?’
‘As you saw her. Drinking too much, but that’s rich, coming from me.’
‘You want another?’
‘Best not. I don’t want a thick head in the morning.’
‘Have a small one with me,’ says Jack, getting up to fetch the bottle. ‘You wouldn’t want to leave your old dad drinking alone.’
TWENTY-ONE
13 August
It’s been a busy week. On Saturday, glad of a lie-in, Naylor stays in bed till after eleven, until her usually placid ginger cat decides it’s waited too long to be fed and wakes her by jumping on the bed. She’s hungry too and would love a proper breakfast. As usual, though, there’s very little in the fridge.
After a long, hot shower, she puts on jeans and a T-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses, and heads out. At Waitrose, the car park’s busy, and she has a long walk to the store. Passing one of the trolley return stations, she catches sight of a familiar face, unloading bags into the back of a car.
He’s looking good in casual clothes. Sensing he’s being watched, he looks across and smiles, and she’s smiling back, until she sees there’s someone else in the picture: a pretty blonde climbing into the front seat of Dallabrida’s white Audi.
He gives her a wave, and Naylor does the same. As she sees him drive away, there’s something in her heart which might be disappointment.
Evan is outside in the barn, sitting high up on the straw bales, from where the view’s down the farm track to the stream. He likes it there: the clean, country smell of it, the prickle of the dry corn stalks on the back of his legs, the tickle of the breeze blowing through the door. In the garden, he can see his dad dead-heading roses, cutting clumsily at the bushes, not taking dainty care like Grandma. Grandma’s sitting in a director’s chair keeping an eye on Dad, but she’s not saying anything, which Evan thinks must be hard. Though he can’t see it, he can hear a bird calling overhead, a harsh cry Grandpa’s told him is a bird of prey, a red kite. And having a sudden wish to see it, Evan climbs down from his eyrie, and wanders out from the barn’s shadows, into the sunshine on the home field.
‘You’ve got sheep-muck on your shoes,’ says Jack, as Evan enters the kitchen a while later. ‘Don’t be traipsing it through the house. Take them off on the mat, or your grandma’ll be having a fit and blaming me. Haven’t you brought your wellies?’
Evan looks at him, but doesn’t speak.
‘I don’t see how you can be on the farm without proper footwear,’ says Jack. ‘Your dad’s having a run to the shops in a while for a few bits and bobs. Shall we ask him to pop into Hooper’s and see what they’ve got that might fit you?’
Evan shrugs, but his expression is on the pleased side of neutral.
‘What size do you think you are?’ Jack makes a performance of studying Evan’s feet. ‘An eight or nine, I’d say. We’ll ask him to get nines, then you’ve something to grow into. Now go and use the outside tap, and get those shoes cleaned up.’
Dora appears to be dozing, but she’s not asleep, she’s listening to the bees amongst the roses. She knows someone’s approaching from the rattle of a cup on its saucer and the light chink of a teaspoon on china.
Matt touches her shoulder very lightly, and she opens her eyes.
‘Mum? I brought you a cup of tea.’
She smiles.
‘That’s very nice, dear. Come and sit down.’
Matt puts the tea down on the cast-iron table, and fetches another canvas chair from the shed where Dora keeps her gardening clutter, rakes, hoes, trowels and shears.
As he sits he says, ‘I should have brought you a biscuit. I bought Jaffa Cakes. Evan likes those.’
‘Me too,’ says Dora, ‘but I don’t want one just now.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Matt’s attention, like Dora’s, seems focused on a stem of red roses, where the bees are crawling in the innermost petals.
‘I’m all right,’ she says.
‘Dad says they’ve put you on painkillers.’
‘They’re a double-edged sword. They do a good job, but they make me so sleepy. And I don’t want to be sleeping. Not the way things are.’
Matt takes a deep breath before he speaks.
‘Why won’t you have the op, Mum? You’re breaking Dad’s heart. And mine.’
The tears he’s wanted to avoid are suddenly there, and he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘Oh, sweetheart. Please don’t.’
‘How can I not?’ he asks. ‘You wouldn’t be very pleased if I didn’t give a damn.’
‘I suppose I wouldn’t.’
‘So why? If there’s a good chance . . . You know.’
‘If there’s a good chance of what? The truth is I’m just an old coward, and I can’t bear the thought of all that cutting and stitching and all that uncomfortableness, and then they want me to take all those drugs. And there’s no guarantee any of it will work. Shall I tell you a little story? You won’t remember Josie Makepeace, but I’ve known her for years. Stalwart of the WI, involved in everything, that was Josie. Heart and soul of any party. Well, last year she was
diagnosed with something nasty. I don’t know where it was exactly – ovaries maybe, somewhere in the down-below. You wouldn’t have known it to look at her. She didn’t look ill. Only in her fifties, and she looked the picture of health. But she signed up for all the treatment, the surgery, the chemo, radiotherapy, everything they’d got. Within a fortnight, she looked a different woman, so ill and grey. And you know what? After her second lot of chemo, she had a stroke. Three days in a coma and she was gone, like that! So if a young woman like her couldn’t stand the treatment, what chance for an old bird like me? I’ve thought about it long and hard – and it’s been harder than you could ever imagine – and I’ve decided I would far, far rather let nature take its course, and spend what time I’ve got here, with your father and you and everyone, than in some hospital being sick and losing my hair. The choice is between quality of life and quantity, and I think I’d prefer quality. Can you understand?’ She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it hard. ‘You are so, so precious to me, Matty. I haven’t said it enough. We’re a bit stick-in-the-mud about our emotions, aren’t we? I’ve loved you in the fiercest way since the moment you were born. But none of us live forever. I hope I shall see Christmas, in fact I’m determined I shall. Last year was so miserable for everyone, and I want us all to have a happy Christmas this year. And I shall rest easier, if I see Evan on the road to recovery. I think he seems a little better.’
‘Do you?’
‘A little. Maybe he’s caught the sun. He looked so pale when we first saw him.’
‘He hates to go outdoors at home. He seems to like it well enough here, though.’
‘No people. No threats.’
‘I suppose so. I think he had a settled night, no nightmares. I didn’t hear him, anyway, but then I slept like a log. Probably the influence of Dad’s Glenfiddich.’
‘He’d be glad to have someone to share it. I’m not much for drinking, at the moment. You know, Evan could stay with us for a few days if you like, see how he gets on. It might take the pressure off you and Claire.’