by Rebecca Wait
ALSO BY
REBECCA WAIT
The Followers
The View on the Way Down
Europa Editions
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New York NY 10001
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © Rebecca Wait 2020
First publication 2020 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover photo by Victoria Borodinova/Pexels
ISBN 9781609455729
Rebecca Wait
OUR FATHERS
OUR FATHERS
Our fathers sinned, and are no more;
and we bear their iniquities.
—LAMENTATIONS 5:7
If she had survived, Katrina would have said what people always say: that it had been a day like any other. That everything was normal. She might have said, too, how strange it was that you only noticed normality after it ended, that by its nature it was invisible as long as you were in it.
It was March, and outside the sky was washed white like the bleached wood the tide left on the beach. She sent the boys to collect it so they could dry it out and use it as firewood, but some days it was hard to get warm. Spring came late to Litta. They had many days like this, of piercing cold and little colour. Sometimes the isolation of the place appalled her. Even on the clearest days, you could not see the mainland, thirty miles distant to the east. To their west, the Atlantic stretched out blankly, nothing but a lighthouse standing between them and Canada. When they’d first moved to the island, Katrina had found herself feeling as muted as the landscape during these endless winters. But John had said that she’d get used to it, and she supposed she had.
On this particular Tuesday in March, the sea had been rough all day, hurling itself against the rocks in an explosion of foam, then sliding back to gather force before it surged forward again. The wind was up already, laying the grasses flat across the machair and buffeting the sheep on the cliffs. It would grow in strength as the afternoon wore on, but on the island their houses had to be coming down around their ears before they were willing to call it a storm.
The boys had arrived home from school and were playing round the side of the house. Beth was in her playpen, occupied for the time being with Joe Bear and her cloth book, so Katrina could move around with relative freedom as she completed the housework. She had been dusting the skirting boards, because John’s brother and his wife were coming round the following evening, and although Katrina always kept a clean house, she never noticed the skirting boards until she tried to look at each room critically, as if through the eyes of somebody else. John minded if things weren’t perfect when Malcolm and Heather came, though you would think with family it would matter less.
John had been working from home that day. He had mostly remained in his study, emerging only to make a wordless cup of tea at eleven and to collect the sandwich she’d laid out for him at one. Katrina had known from the moment they woke that it would be better not to disturb him today. Impossible yet to say if it would be a bad one.
She completed the skirting boards in the living room, dusted the top of the piano and the windowsills with the same damp cloth and got her long-handled feather duster to do the corners of the ceiling. Then she laid down the duster, sneezed three times in quick succession, and went to crouch by Beth’s pen.
“All right, love?” she said, and Beth stared up at her with that mournful, contemplative look that babies sometimes have, as though they have come from another place. Then she put Joe Bear down and pushed out her fat little arm for her mother’s earrings. Katrina moved out of reach, took off her earrings—dangly silver ones she didn’t much like, but which John had bought her years before—and leaned in again to tickle Beth under her arms. The gappy, delighted smile appeared immediately, and Beth gave her full, surprisingly throaty chuckle that always made Katrina laugh too.
“Have you been having a nice time?” Katrina said, and Beth said, “Ba-rat,” which was a fairly new one that Katrina hadn’t worked out yet. Then Beth added, “Mama,” and gave a smile so wide it screwed her eyes shut, as if practising how far she could stretch all the muscles of her face.
“That’s right, my darling,” Katrina said, reaching into the pen to lift her out, sighing with bliss at the familiar, warm weight of her child.
Outside, Nicky and Tommy didn’t venture far from the house, taking refuge from the wind in the shelter of its walls. In an hour or so, the light would start to fade. Soon, they knew, their mum would come outside to ask them to watch Beth while she made tea, so they had to make the most of their freedom while they had it. Tommy had his hands pushed into his coat pockets and thought that he’d rather be playing inside today, but Nicky had ushered him out of the back door after their milk and snack, saying self-importantly, “We need to keep the noise down,” which annoyed Tommy, even though he knew Nicky was right. Nicky always thought he knew best because he was ten, and Tommy especially hated it when Nicky used words that weren’t his own, pretending to be a grown up.
But they were so good, both of them, at sensing the tiny currents in the air inside the house. They knew when to keep out of the way.
Tommy wanted them to be Vikings because that’s what they’d been studying at school, and he liked the Vikings a lot, how fierce they were and how far they’d travelled, though Nicky said the Vikings were their enemies. Tommy himself hardly ever left the island, and even then it was only to get the ferry to Oban once a month to go shopping with his mum. Apart from that, he’d only been to Loch Lomond on holiday, which didn’t count, and never even once to Glasgow or London or anywhere on a plane. Almost nobody he knew had been anywhere interesting. But Angus, who was the only other boy at school (though the Wilson twins were as good as boys), had been to Portugal with his grandparents from Dumfries the summer before and wouldn’t stop talking about how hot it was and how bright. When Nicky finally told him to shut up, Angus had just given them both a pitying look and said maybe they’d be able to go one day, and Tommy had been so enraged that anyone should talk to Nicky like this, especially someone who was two years younger, that he’d hit Angus on the arm. Angus had cried even though Tommy knew he wasn’t really hurt, and Mrs Brown had made Tommy apologize and miss out on playtime. But Tommy was pleased to have restored balance, because though he’d had to apologize, Angus had still cried. He’d thought Nicky would thank him after school, but all Nicky said was, “You shouldn’t hit people,” and Tommy was annoyed again because here was Nicky pretending to be a grown up, just like always.
When Tommy suggested, shyly, the Viking idea, Nicky said no. He said two wasn’t enough to play Vikings, which made no sense to Tommy because they always played with just two, unless Angus or the twins were round. You could do almost anything with two. You just had to imagine the other characters you needed in the game, or each take on more than one part. Occasionally they even made Beth stand in, but she was never much use. Either she sat on the ground chewing anything she could get her hands on, or she hauled herself to her feet and tried to toddle unsteadily away, so that they had to break the game and give chase.
“Well, what do you want to do then?” he said to Nicky, trying to sound sulky enough that Nicky would know he was annoyed, but not so sulky that Nicky would call him a baby.
“Star Wars,” Nicky said.
This was a game they played a lot, though Tommy wasn’t sure Nicky liked it that much either. They
both claimed to love Star Wars because their dad did. He had shown them all the films, which he had on video, even sitting between Tommy and Nicky on the sofa to watch with them, an arm round each of them. The films had bored and baffled Tommy, seeming old and clunky and silly, although he’d tried hard to believe in what was happening. But he knew he would never stop pretending; his dad was always in a good mood when they watched the films. “Star Wars changed my life,” he’d said to them once. “It showed me there was a whole world out there beyond my own small one on the island. I knew your mum was the one for me when she said she loved Star Wars too. Most women don’t get it.”
Young as he was back then, Tommy had had the disquieting thought that perhaps his mum was pretending too.
Now, Nicky said, “I’ll be Luke Skywalker and you can be Darth Vader.”
Tommy drew himself up for the familiar battle. “I don’t want to be Darth Vader. I’m always Darth Vader.”
“Well, you have to be or it doesn’t work.”
“I want to be Han Solo.”
Nicky shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t be Han Solo fighting Luke Skywalker. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, why don’t you be Darth Vader then?”
Nicky looked at him patiently. “That’s not how the game works, Tommy.”
Tommy had decided he disliked being called Tommy. He’d expended a lot of effort over the past couple of months trying to insist that everybody call him Tom, which sounded older. But in truth, he still thought of himself as Tommy. He had already realized in a vague way that you got your idea of yourself from other people. You didn’t choose it yourself.
“I want to be Luke Skywalker,” he told Nicky stolidly.
“You can’t.” Nicky gave the matter some thought. “If you really, really want to,” he conceded generously, “you can be a stormtrooper.”
“I don’t want to be a stormtrooper.”
“Tell you what,” Nicky said, “I’ll be Luke Skywalker for a bit, then we’ll switch and you can be Han Solo and I’ll be a stormtrooper. That’s fair.”
Tommy considered. It sounded fair, like most things Nicky suggested, but he had a suspicion it would be almost teatime before Nicky allowed them to switch, and then he’d hardly get a turn at being Han Solo. He could see, though, that there was no point arguing any longer; he never won. “O.K.”
They spent a while looking for the sticks they used as lightsabers, and found them at last about ten metres from the house, where they must have thrown them down a few days before.
Tommy lifted his own lightsaber up, held it poised above his shoulder for a few moments, and then took several exploratory swings. He loved the feel of the weapon in his hands, the sense of power and purpose it gave him. One day he would do something brave and daring like the Vikings or like Han Solo. He decided to pretend secretly that he was Han Solo now and that Nicky was Darth Vader, and felt very pleased once this idea had come to him.
Fiona McKenzie, who had turned forty the previous day and was feeling unexpectedly wretched about it, caught sight of Tommy and Nicky playing with a couple of sticks outside the house as she walked past on her way to the bins, a little further up the lane. She wondered what game they were playing—pirates, perhaps? She raised her arm to wave and the boys waved back, Tommy not noticing her at first, until his brother pushed his arm and made him wave too. They were nice children, Fiona thought. You had to give Katrina that. Island boys through and through. As Tommy and Nicky turned to resume their game, Fiona saw Katrina herself coming out of the back door with Beth in her arms. This time, Fiona didn’t wave. Katrina wouldn’t have seen her; she was intent on handing Beth to Nicky. Katrina’s hair was loose this evening and hung down her back—all that lovely red hair. But it would start to go grey soon enough, Fiona thought, shifting the rubbish bag to her other hand as her arm started to ache. It came to us all, and Katrina wasn’t so very much younger than Fiona herself. That is, unless Katrina decided to dye it when the time came. But surely not, Fiona thought, as she walked on.
Forty was no great age really. She wondered if she should buy herself one of those expensive face creams she’d seen advertised—anti-wrinkle, firming and so on—though as soon as the idea came to her she felt it would be unbearable if Gavin made a joke of it. But she could keep it quiet: get one in Oban next week, smuggle it upstairs and never mention it. Not that they really worked, probably, but it might make her feel better.
Rounding the bend in the lane, Fiona wondered what the Bairds were having for tea. It was the sort of little thing she liked to know. She and Gavin would finish the chicken casserole she had made the day before, when Kathy and Ed came round. Fiona had been worried it was too watery, but everyone seemed to enjoy it. Gavin had two helpings, and the second had left a bright smear of orange on his chin that remained there all through dessert. Try as she might, Fiona had not been able to catch his eye.
After their mum had disappeared back into the house, Nicky and Tommy sat Beth, carefully wrapped up in a coat and hat, on her blanket next to the wall of the house.
“Well, that’s just great,” Tommy said, delivering a line he’d heard on TV and had liked the sound of. “That’s just fan-tastic.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nicky said. “We can still play.”
And they did carry on for a few more minutes, but with their baby sister watching from the sidelines and making her silly laugh-gurgle sounds, the illusion was broken and however fiercely they fought, it could not be restored.
Nicky stopped and leaned on his lightsaber. “Maybe we could make her part of it?” he suggested.
“How?”
“We could pretend she’s Yoda,” Nicky said, and they both found this so funny that they shrieked with laughter for several minutes, Tommy looking at Nicky from time to time to check he was still going, and then making himself continue laughing as long as his brother did so the moment wouldn’t be over. At last, Nicky stopped and said, “We’d better keep the noise down,” and Tommy agreed, saying sensibly before Nicky could, “We don’t want to disturb Dad.”
While they’d been laughing, Beth had hauled herself to her feet and was waddling along next to the wall, stopping to pat the rough brickwork purposefully as she went, as though it were a dog or a pony. Then she turned suddenly towards her brothers and came at them with open arms and her open-mouthed grin.
Tommy knew she was going to fall before it happened. She’d launched herself off with too much momentum and her small staggering steps were out of control from the start. Neither he nor Nicky reached her in time to stop her sprawling on the gravel, sending little pebbles flying up around her. There was a brief shocked pause, then Nicky went quickly to her, picking her up and putting her on her feet, perhaps in the hope of distracting her before she realized she was hurt and started wailing. But it was no good. Beth’s puzzled face gave way to screwed-up misery and snot, and she sent out that long yowling sound both boys were familiar with.
“It’s O.K., Lizzy-Lizard,” Nicky said, dusting her down. “You’re not really hurt.” He made a show of rubbing and kissing her knees. “There. All better.”
“I think she banged her elbow,” Tommy said.
“I’ll kiss that better too, Lizard,” Nicky said. “See? All better now.”
Beth kept crying, her face getting red. She looked a bit like an alien when she cried like this, Tommy thought.
“We’d better take her in to Mum,” he said.
“She’s fine,” Nicky said, lifting her up into his arms and jiggling her about in a way Tommy didn’t think was very helpful.
“We should take her in,” he repeated. He wasn’t sure if he was really concerned for Beth, or just wanted to get rid of her.
“No. She’s making too much noise,” Nicky said. “Wait till she stops crying. Dad’s still working.”
“You want Joe Bear, Lizard?” Tommy said, s
o that it wasn’t just Nicky taking charge, but Beth carried on wailing.
Nicky swung Beth about in his arms, so quickly that she stopped crying for a few moments, then began again, but more half-heartedly.
Nicky swung Beth again. “You like that?”
Beth had stopped crying now, and was clinging on to the collar of Nicky’s coat, the fabric bunched up in her hands. Tommy watched as she kneaded it uncertainly, a frown on her face. Experience told him she was deciding whether to start crying again. He went up and opened her coat and tickled her solid little body in the way she loved so that she started doing that weird deep laugh of hers.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl, Bethy.”
Nicky put Beth down again and knelt in front of her to wipe her face with the bottom of his T-shirt. “You’ll get better at walking,” he told her kindly. “More slowly you need to go,” he added in Yoda’s voice, which set Tommy off giggling again, and that made Beth chuckle because she could see that both her brothers were laughing.
The light was going fast by the time Fiona passed the Bairds’ house on her way back from the bins. As the house came into view, she saw Katrina coming out again to pick up Beth and usher the boys inside. The family was illuminated by the light above their back door, but Fiona knew she herself would be invisible on the track in the gathering darkness.
She paused to search through her jacket pocket for the little torch she was sure she’d remembered to put in before she set out earlier. Nice children, she thought again. Those polite, likeable boys. Fiona remembered Nicky offering her a cup of tea when she’d dropped round once while Katrina was having a nap upstairs with Beth, for all the world as if he were an adult, and then little Tommy appearing with biscuits he’d arranged in a perfect circle on the plate. The tea had been so weak it was like drinking hot water and milk, Fiona recalled. But they’d been so eager to please, and so determined to entertain her without disturbing their mother. Fiona thought of her own son Stuart, who seemed to become more uncommunicative and disdainful of his parents every day. He was now at Oban High and stayed on the mainland during the week. Sometimes Fiona felt guiltily grateful for his absence. She had thought he might have left something for her birthday—a card or a present, even—but, though she allowed herself a discreet check of the house yesterday, feeling very foolish, she found nothing, and when she’d called him up in the evening as usual, Stuart had made no mention of her birthday until she brought it up herself. Then he wished her many happy returns, and asked politely, as you might address a distant, elderly relative, if she’d had a nice day. Fiona found herself in a rage after she’d hung up the phone, not with her son but with her husband, who, she felt, should not have allowed this to happen. When it was Gavin’s birthday, she always ensured Stuart had a card for him at the very least. Men were not considerate like women. She wondered how Katrina’s sons would turn out, if they too would grow hulking and hostile overnight. Stuart used to pick wild flowers for her on his way home from school.