The Many Lives of John Stone

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  Spark scans the rows of earnest gentlemen, keeping track with difficulty of where she has already looked. The name of Ludo’s app, which she has been trying to remember, suddenly pops into her head. A couple of searches on her phone throw up the desired result: LOOKING FOR THE NEEDLE: Perform visual searches on multiple images using facial recognition software. When Spark clicks on the link, hoping to find a clue, an error message appears. It seems that Ludo’s website is no longer accessible.

  Frustrated, she looks back up at the painting, and it is at that instant that John Stone’s kind, dark eyes meet hers from behind the shoulder of a plump, elderly man. Spark shoots up and approaches the varnished canvas, leaning forward over the low wire barrier, close enough to see every brushstroke. There is the broad forehead, the square, prominent cheekbones, the set of his jaw. The resemblance is so remarkable, she cannot believe, just as Ludo had insisted, that her employer and this Victorian gentleman are not related. Unsure if it is permitted to take photographs, she waits until room twenty’s guard is preoccupied talking to someone in the corridor, focuses her lens on the canvas, and zooms in on the face in a two-dimensional crowd. Spark wonders how many generations separate this supporter of the abolition of slavery and his descendant. Could he be John Stone’s great-great-grandfather? Or great-great-great-grandfather? The shape of his face, the eyes, the nose seem not just similar, but identical. Spark’s train of thought is abruptly halted by a single idea and although her stomach muscles ache from leaning forward, she freezes. High cheekbones, hair color, skull shape—all of these are inheritable traits.

  But no one inherits a broken nose.

  Like John Stone, this Victorian gentleman has the look of a rugby player about him: His long nose is crooked, and twists to the right. Spark stares into the tiny face so long that the colored shapes start to lose their meaning. And then she notices the tiny flick of white paint, at the front of the dark head of hair. She sits awhile, deep in thought, before slowly gathering up her possessions and retracing her steps out of the gallery and into the street.

  * * *

  Spark leaves Trafalgar Square preoccupied and unsettled, no longer in the mood for sightseeing and at a loss to explain what she has just seen. Later, on the train back to Nottingham, Spark stakes her claim to one corner of the half-empty compartment, and places her backpack on the spare seat next to her. She balances her camera on her lap, flicking endlessly between the video she secretly took of John Stone at Stowney House and her photograph of the painting. Her head starts to throb and she closes her eyes. Maybe his nose wasn’t broken: Maybe it was just naturally crooked. And as for the flick of white—it was so tiny, she could have imagined it. The air-conditioning is making her chilly, and Spark covers herself with her sweater. Soon, warm and comfortable, she drifts between sleep and waking, sifting through evidence that swirls about her mind. If nothing else, she can understand why Ludo’s curiosity was aroused. But since it’s doubtful she’ll ever see John Stone or Ludo again, what does it matter?

  A squeal of brakes causes her to awake. The train has pulled into Nottingham station. She has to leap up and grab her belongings, and dives through the closing doors onto the platform. It is a rude awakening, and all thoughts of John Stone vanish as she makes her way across town to the Victoria bus station. There she catches the number sixty-three to Mansfield and sits in her favorite seat on the top deck, looking out at the world and taking everything in.

  John Stone’s Decision

  The day following his encounter with Mrs. Park, John Stone experiences three severe and prolonged attacks—a taste, no doubt, of what awaits him as this illness takes its course. He does not dare leave his hotel room but lies on top of the bed, listening to the hiss of the air-conditioning, frightened, exhausted, while he relives, over and over again, the agony of that meeting. He pictures his letter to Spark nestling among the postcards above the gas fire. She must have read it by now. What will Mrs. Park have said to her about him? Edward would have called if she had contacted him. Nevertheless, John Stone is half expecting to learn that Spark, like her adoptive mother—though for very different reasons—will prefer to have nothing further to do with him. He fails to see how to move forward in this heartbreaking game. The bond between daughter and adoptive mother is strong. How can he proceed without causing further damage? And to what end? So that the girl can watch her newly discovered father lose all dignity and die before her eyes? So that she, a sane, affectionate, capable girl who has her whole life ahead of her, can move into Stowney House with two damaged sempervivens who prefer to spurn the world? At one point John Stone vents his frustration by banging his head on a partition wall. Unlike Mrs. Park, however, he cannot count on a friendly soul to shout through the bricks and plaster to ask if he is all right.

  By morning, John Stone senses that something has shifted in him. The warring impulses in his heart and head have reached some kind of resolution. The relief that sweeps over him takes him by surprise. And he remembers how, newly arrived in England, he stood on the shingle of Dover Beach, holding Isabelle d’Alembert’s pearl necklace in his clenched fist. He had treasured it since her death. But now he took it and hurled it, with a great groan of a release, as far as he could into the pounding surf. It was an act neither of anger nor of despair; it was simply that he had reached that moment, like a crossroads in time, when it was right to do so. Only a life lived can teach the sense of an ending. John Stone has reached a crossroads: He does not have to go on; he has witnessed enough. It is permitted to lay down his burden. If Spark does not respond to his invitation to read the notebooks, he will act on his decision and begin preparing for his departure.

  * * *

  Over the following days he busies himself calling on those few people, other than Edward de Souza, in whose company he still finds pleasure. These last twenty years the number of close acquaintances he has cultivated has dwindled, for John Stone has had his fill of funerals. One afternoon he suffers a particularly serious attack as he walks past a public library. He manages to get inside, and finds a chair in the reference section between two book stacks. Although a librarian and several readers glance at his juddering limbs, they all walk on and leave him to tremble in peace. After a quarter of an hour he is recovered enough to go on his way. He decides that the time has come to confide his problem to his driver, and John Stone instructs him to cover him with a blanket on the backseat of the car if he happens to be taken ill on their travels. Henceforth he will learn to cope with the indignities that this affliction imposes on him.

  The following morning John Stone breaks a rule and permits himself to be nostalgic. He stands in a street near Saint Paul’s, where he perfected his English in a coffeehouse demolished nearly two centuries ago. It was here that he met a man of the cloth who inspired him with his views on slavery and on the rights and freedoms of men. Later, he took him to meetings and conventions, and taught him to argue. Afterward John Stone asks to be driven to the Thames, to Petersham Meadows, close to Ham House, where Thérèse once pushed him into the water for being insufficiently attentive. As they return to the city through Richmond Park, he asks his driver to pull over at a particular spot from which he observed German planes bombard London one December night during the Blitz. John Stone strides through the bracken looking out at the far-reaching views and startles a herd of fallow deer. Today a warm wind ruffles his hair, but on a crisp, cold night over seventy years ago, there was a bomber’s moon, and the blackout meant that every star hung brightly in the sky. There was the dull beat of exploding bombs traveling across inky distances, and a sickening ribbon of red that crept across the horizon as London burned.

  John Stone’s last port of call is Rotten Row in Hyde Park: He wishes to be reminded of a very recent event, and one that ranks with the most precious moments of his life. He wants to celebrate the day he learned he had a daughter. His line may not end with him. There still being no word from Spark, John Stone takes out his phone and calls Edward de Souza. The time has come
for him to be open with his dear friend—and to enlist his help for a final time.

  Dan’s Inheritance

  The afternoon sun streams through the vertical blinds, highlighting silver strands in the consultant’s dark, bobbed hair. Dan has heard all this already. This is a repeat performance for the family. Spark holds Mum’s hand. The consultant’s tone is upbeat and sympathetic, her words curiously like she’s reading from a script. Arrhythmia: a disorder of the heart’s electrical system. It can cause the heart to beat too fast, too slow, or—as in Dan’s case—with an irregular rhythm. Mum fixes the consultant with an unblinking, laser-like stare; Spark prefers to look at her shoes, which are beautiful: navy suede with surprisingly high heels and patent-leather trimming. There’s something surreal about the situation that is preventing her from taking this as seriously as she knows she should. How can it be Dan the doctor is talking about? The consultant confirms what Dan’s doctor in New York suggested might be the case, that in all probability he inherited the condition from Dad. There’s a new treatment she is going to recommend he undergoes. With luck, it might entirely cure the problem. There is a waiting list, but she will see what she can do.

  Spark glances over at her big brother, who seems fine, but you can’t always tell with Dan. They’ve been here for hours. Spark longs to get out of this bare consulting room with its shiny orange floor and its stupid potted plant that should be put out of its misery. Suddenly, having zoned out of what the consultant was saying, she hears the doctor asking if it is okay to call her Stella. Spark sits up straight as if she’s been caught daydreaming in class. “Oh, yes—”

  The consultant smiles. “Well, Stella, I think it would be prudent for you to come in for some routine tests yourself.” Spark feels Mum’s hand tighten around hers. “We need to find out if your father passed on this particular gene to you, too. I could arrange for you to come in next week, if you like. Get it over and done with, so you know where you stand. What do you think?”

  The consultant’s tone is pleasant, as if she’s inviting her to come for afternoon tea. Mum disengages her hand and shifts in her seat. “Yes, that will be fine,” she hears herself saying. “I’m on holiday at the moment.”

  Mum does a strange thing as the three of them wait by the lift on their way home. Without warning, she shoves her bag at Spark and tells them to wait for her downstairs. They watch her sprint up the long corridor and call out the consultant’s name, who spins around and walks back to have a word. Mum speaks for only a couple of minutes and the consultant nods and listens, then throws a look back in their direction.

  “What’s going on?” says Dan.

  “I have no idea,” says Spark.

  * * *

  Mum is not forthcoming on the bus going home. Spark volunteers to do the shopping and gets off a couple of stops early to go to the supermarket. When she arrives home and heaves her carrier bags onto the kitchen table, she is surprised to find Andy there.

  “Your Mum practically ordered me to take Dan to the pub,” he says.

  “What!” says Spark, laughing. “Are you sure you heard right?”

  There’s a clatter of feet on the stairs and Dan appears, followed by Mum, who is nagging him about keeping Andy waiting. Dan asks Spark if she is going with them.

  Mum answers for her. “No,” she says. “She’s only just got in.”

  Spark catches Mum giving Dan a meaningful look as she slips a fiver into his hand. Dan looks quizzically from Mum to Spark and back again while Andy drags him out of the back door.

  “What’s going on, Mum?” says Spark as brightly as she can manage.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ve got to fetch something from upstairs.”

  “Fetch what?”

  Spark wants Dan. Has someone died? Her hand comes to her mouth. Mum couldn’t be sick, could she? Spark sits listening to the kitchen tap drip. When Mum reappears at the kitchen door, a large brown envelope in her hand, it is as if she does not want to come in. She stands at the threshold, silhouetted by the hall light. Spark stares at the envelope with fear in her heart, understanding without being told that once its contents are divulged her life will be bisected into the time before she knew and the time afterward. Mum places the envelope on one side of the table then sits down opposite her. She leans over and takes Spark’s two hands in hers. There is pain in her eyes. “There’s no easy way of saying this.” Mum pushes the envelope toward her. Her voice cracks. “If your Dad were here he’d have the right words—”

  “What is it, Mum?” Spark’s heart thumps wildly in her chest and it occurs to her that she really could have arrhythmia too.

  “I think it’s best if you read it by yourself. It’s a legal document, but you’re a clever girl—you’ll understand. It explains everything. I’ll be in the sitting room. Just know that I love you. Always have and always will. And the same went for your dad.”

  Mum leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Spark eyes the envelope as if it were alive. Finally she reaches for it and pulls out the document it contains. It’s printed on thick parchment and there are three signatures on the last page; she recognizes two of them: They are Mum’s and Dad’s. She stares at letters formed by Dad’s hand.

  Spark reads the words several times to be certain that she understands what the document is saying. Her hands begin to tremble uncontrollably as she reads. This must be a mistake. It can’t be true! She scrapes back her chair and walks across the chasm of the hall. Her thoughts are slow and halting as if she’s taken a punch. Now Spark stands silhouetted at the sitting room door, holding the document in front of her. Now it is Spark who doesn’t want to cross a threshold.

  “This can’t be right! I am yours, aren’t I? Mum, tell me! It’s not true, is it?”

  Mum, who is sitting on the edge of the armchair, knees and ankles squeezed together, stares at her lap. Spark shakes the document at her to get a reaction. “Is it?”

  Mum nods. “Yes.”

  Spark drops the pages. They lie on the worn beige carpet between them, fluttering a little in the draft. Spark wants to be comforted, but not by Mum. And so she runs upstairs to her bedroom and hides under the duvet. She can’t even cry.

  Notebook 7

  XXIV

  Louis was nothing if not prompt. As the sun dipped below the horizon the following evening, he appeared in the gardens with his dogs. It was still light enough to see, although the torches that lined the paths at Marly had already been lit. The King came straight to the point, informing me of the “honor” he had bestowed on the Spaniard. I feigned surprise, just as Monsieur Bontemps had told me to do, and remarked that, although I should miss him greatly, I could see that it was a privilege for a Spanish-born subject to represent France in this way.

  My reply impressed the King. In fact, he nodded several times. And it was only right that he approved. Under his tutelage, this innocent was learning the art of diplomacy—which is a kinder term than the art of lying, if less accurate, and, believe me, I know whereof I speak. Only the very young and the foolish say exactly what they think in all circumstances. The trick is never to lie to oneself.

  When Louis informed me that I was to attend a dinner at Versailles at which members of the Royal Council for Finances would be present, and that I was to report back to him what was said, I did not need to feign surprise. Could I have refused? Although the question troubles me, I doubt that I could have, or not for long. In any case, my response was: “If you wish it, Sire.”

  “You will remember who said what and to whom. And you will report only to me. Not to Bontemps, not to Liselotte, not to Monsieur. Only ever to me. Be concise. A few lines will suffice. Use your ring to seal it.”

  For a sempervivens to chronicle the reign of the Sun King was one thing—this was quite another. Louis would have me eavesdrop on conversations, betray confidences, tell tales. Was this what Monsieur Bontemps had meant by learning to be robust, and to endure? I looked up at the King’s shrewd, dark features, and when I
saw how coolly he observed me struggling to contain my distaste, I felt diminished.

  “Do you understand what I am asking of you, Jean-Pierre?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  I had glimpsed the future. What horse—or unicorn—does not object to that first taste of the cold, metallic bit between its teeth? But I reined in my emotions and the encroaching darkness helped conceal my dismay. Monsieur Bontemps, no doubt, would have applauded me. The Spaniard would not.

  We continued to walk around the ornamental lake. When we reached the far side we stopped and sat on a stone bench. It was the King’s habit to let his dogs leap into the water at this spot, and he tossed in a stick for them to fetch. A cacophony of barking and splashing echoed over the lake, although the dogs immediately lost sight of the stick. The guest pavilions that edged the water on either side were in darkness. Opposite, at the head of the lake, stood the Château of Marly. From this distance it looked like a plaything, a doll’s house, its rows of windows twinkling with golden light.