One Year Later

by Sanjida Kay

  ‘That happens quite often too,’ says Theo, matter-of-factly. ‘Can we play Minecraft, Uncle Nick?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I have an uneasy feeling. ‘I’ll just go and see if your mum needs any help.’

  The pool of tea, so stewed it’s almost black, slides across the tiles.

  19

  AMY

  ‘No, I do it,’ he says and holds up his hands. ‘You, back. No shoes.’ Carlo points to their bare feet. She’s surrounded by a slick of tea and smashed china; Nick is hovering ineffectually behind her. The boy knows where everything is, naturally. He sweeps up the bits of broken cup with one of those long-handled dustpans and brushes, and then mops up the spill.

  ‘I’ll pay for the mug,’ Amy says.

  ‘No. My fault.’ He points one finger at his chest. ‘I make you…’ He mimes jumping.

  ‘I saw,’ says Nick. ‘What were you doing?’

  Lotte and Theo sneak in quietly behind them and get out the iPad.

  ‘I come to see if you are okay. Need anything. I knock.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,’ she says.

  He smiles at her, his teeth white in his tanned face. He’s handsome, but with an arrogant air that she thinks a particular type of young, good-looking man can have. He’s in a muscle vest and his shoulders are broad, his biceps defined; no doubt from working on the farm and renovating this house.

  ‘We don’t. Need anything,’ Nick says. He’s looking aggressively at Carlo, but she doesn’t know why.

  ‘A cup of tea,’ Amy says, trying for a feeble joke.

  ‘I’ll make it.’ Nick doesn’t offer one to Carlo. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asks, his brow furrowing, as he fills the kettle.

  ‘Luca is in his room writing his dissertation. Dad went for a short walk by himself. Everyone else is at the beach. They didn’t want to wake you. I was going to try and encourage Lotte and Theo to go in the pool again, without the whole family standing around watching them.’

  Amy falters. That’s what she had intended to do, but instead they’re inside playing a computer game and she hasn’t even managed to make a cup of tea. She’s not quite sure how this has happened.

  ‘It is a nice pool,’ says Carlo.

  Nick glowers at him.

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely. Thanks, Carlo. We’re fine. We’ll come to the house and find you, if we need anything,’ she says.

  Carlo picks up a glass vase that’s sitting on the worktop. She’d put a spray of the blood-red geraniums in it. He turns it in his hands and nods. She can’t tell if he’s being proprietorial – it’s his vase, and he’s making sure they know it – or if he approves of her picking the flowers. He smiles at Nick and then carefully replaces the vase.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he says formally.

  Nick hands her the tea. ‘I couldn’t find Dad’s picture frame.’

  ‘I doubt he brought it.’ She sighs and wipes her eyes. ‘I guess Bethany’s right. It must be the beginning of dementia. All that stuff he said to you yesterday about not drinking. I thought he was lying, but he must genuinely not remember.’

  Nick glances at the children. They’re still absorbed in the iPad.

  ‘What the hell was that kid doing?’

  She shrugs. ‘Seeing if we’re okay.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, keeping his voice low.

  She wants to say, Are you insane? I will never be okay, not for the rest of my life. I wake up in the morning and, for a few seconds, I feel vaguely like the woman I used to be and then I remember, and it’s as if every one of my vital organs has been cut from my chest using a kitchen knife without an anaesthetic.

  ‘I was thinking about Ruby-May’s anniversary. What we should do.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nick looks unhappy. He puts his hands in the pockets of his shorts and says, ‘It would have been her birthday, so why don’t we have a sort of party tea and cake – the kind she would have liked?’

  ‘What, and pass-the-parcel? Musical chairs?’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ he says. His hair flops in his eyes and he brushes it away. ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Shall I do some for Luca?’

  ‘He never says no to coffee,’ she says, sorry that she snapped at him. ‘No speeches then? Poetry on the beach? A eulogy at dusk.’

  ‘Amy,’ he says, setting the cafetière back down, ‘I wanted us all to get together. That’s why I suggested we all go on holiday in the first place. It’s kind of now or never for our family. And it’s a minor miracle: everyone is in one house, and some of us are speaking to each other. We’re all here for you. Even Dad, no matter what you think. We’ll do whatever you want us to.’

  She nods and feels tears fill her eyes. What does she want? Ruby-May. Ruby-May, alive and well. Nothing else. She can see why someone could be tempted to make a pact with the devil – why you would sell your soul, if that is what it would take to bring your child back to life.

  ‘Ah, my timing is perfect, no?’ says Luca, stepping into the kitchen. ‘I smell the coffee from over the swimming pool.’ He pats Nick on the shoulder and crosses to the sofa, where Lotte and Theo are curled up together. ‘Look!’ He opens a slim black box.

  Nick watches curiously as he measures out the ground coffee. She knows what’s inside already. Luca carries it everywhere with him. It’s a travelling chess set. She imagines when he’s struggling with a thorny problem in his dissertation, he takes it out: the tiny pieces, the rigid rules, the endless combinations of moves and the infinite possibilities must ease him and jolt the other problem into his subconscious, so that he can crack it later.

  Nick goes to a set of tall shelves at the back of the room filled with tatty paperbacks. The bottom of the bookcase is stacked with games. He pulls out a full-size chess set and hands it to Luca.

  ‘Ah, your clever uncle,’ he says, pocketing the minuscule set. ‘Much better for the small fingers and the clumsy big ones,’ Luca murmurs, as he starts to lay out the pieces.

  20

  NICK

  It’s early evening and, thankfully, slightly cooler. With my pastywhite skin, I’m not cut out for this weather and I’m beginning to get a prickly-heat rash. Since our morning at the rocky beach, Bethany and Matt have retreated into a stony silence – with me, at any rate – and Amy is practically monosyllabic. She passes me things to set on the table: beers dripping with condensation, a carafe of Primitivo, a jug of water, baguettes and a bottle of bright-green olive oil, fist-sized tomatoes and spiky cucumbers, all from Carlo’s farm. There’s cheese, bizarre white peaches and prosciutto. It’s an odd mixture, not quite a meal, but apparently Joe is doing his special roast chicken later. I’ll need to fill up on bread. Lotte and Theo are sitting by the edge of the pool, dangling their toes in, but not venturing any further, and Chloe is hunched over her iPad, watching something; in the dusk, the colours of the screen flicker across her face. A bat swoops over the terrace, dipping into the water, and the children shriek. Luca is reading The Divine Comedy, absent-mindedly dunking chunks of bread into a puddle of balsamic vinegar.

  The rest of my family drift over to the table.

  ‘Chicken’s marinating and the veggies are roasting,’ Joe says, clinking his protein-shake against Bethany’s wine glass and smiling at Amy.

  ‘This is the life,’ Matt says, turning a Peroni in his hand, as if he’s trying out cheerfulness like it’s an old coat he’s rediscovered.

  Dad isn’t here, and no one has thought to tell him it’s time to eat. Or maybe they’ve deliberately not said anything. I sigh and go inside to look for him. When I find him in his room, he’s reading some thesis about British politics. He carefully slides his bookmark in, to hold his place.

  ‘I still can’t find that photo of your mother,’ he says.

  ‘It’ll turn up,’ I tell him, taking his elbow and helping him up out of the armchair. I don’t bother reminding him that he’s left it at home.

  ‘Wait a moment, Son.’ He turns back at the door and retrieves his jacket from t
he arm of the chair. I suppose he feels the cold more than the rest of us, and even a balmy evening might seem a touch chilly to him.

  Everyone falls silent as we walk out onto the terrace. The scrape of Dad’s chair against the tiles is loud.

  ‘A veritable feast,’ Dad says. ‘Thank you, Amy.’ He raises his glass of water.

  ‘Joe’s cooking tonight.’

  ‘Ah. No end to your young man’s skills,’ Dad says, and Bethany splutters.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Joe says. ‘Cooking and running about like a nutter. Didn’t make it to university, Prof.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Bethany says, nodding at Nick.

  ‘Thanks for the reminder, Bee,’ I say. Dad went on about it for ages when I dropped out of my journalism course. Not that Bee went to uni, either. The two of us: an endless disappointment to our highbrow father.

  ‘Ah, well, there’s still time.’

  Bethany rolls her eyes.

  I feel slightly bad that my sister has lured Joe here under false pretences. She told him I’d take photos of the two of them for the book proposal he’s putting together, and what with all the drama going on – Dad not being welcome – I haven’t managed to shoot any.

  ‘Hey, you know what, Joe, you could have a social-media campaign with a hashtag: #FitInFive.’

  ‘#FitInFive?’

  ‘Yeah, and then you could do loads of tips that only take five minutes – five-minute workouts, five-minute stretches, a fiveminute meal plan.’

  ‘That is genius, mate. Thank you. You are the man. I owe you one.’ He high-fives me.

  I grin and feel slightly better about myself.

  Dad mutters something about it being chilly in the evenings. He pauses for a moment with his jacket half on, crumpled across his shoulders.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’ I ask.

  He pulls something out of his pocket and places it on the table with a tiny chink. It’s a heart-shaped silver frame, with a photo of my mother and father. It was taken nearly twenty years ago: my father is handsome, his hair thick and brown; my mother’s is long and blonde with a slight wave. They’re both smiling. I get a lump in my throat as I remember they’re smiling at my ten-year-old self. The photo is at a rakish angle because I’d cropped it badly, so part of Dad’s head is missing and there’s a big green space next to Mum. I’d taken it in the garden with Bethany’s camera. At ten, I still thought everything would work out.

  ‘Where was it?’ Bethany asks.

  ‘In my pocket.’

  As if she’s speaking to a child, she says, ‘Do you think it was there all along?’

  ‘I could have sworn… I looked everywhere.’

  ‘So did I,’ I say, puzzled. I’m sure I checked his pockets, but maybe I hadn’t looked in that jacket.

  Matt, who has been studiously ignoring my father, now pours a large measure of red wine and pushes the glass over to him.

  ‘Maybe this will jog your memory.’

  Amy inhales sharply, and I bang my beer down, nearly choking on a mouthful. I’ve never thought of Matt as a cruel man, but I guess grief can warp a person. Joe and Luca look stunned. They both leave the table at the same time: Luca heads over to the children, who are playing with the chess pieces on the other side of the pool, and Joe goes into the kitchen. Presumably he’s going to pretend to look at the chicken.

  No one says anything, and then Dad starts to sob. I can’t remember ever seeing my father cry before; not even when Ruby-May died, not even when our mother left. It’s horrible, as if each tear has to be forcefully and painfully dredged up from some deep recess in his body. Amy reaches across me and takes my father’s hand. He holds hers tightly, enclosing it in both of his, just as he did when she was a child. He lets go and fumbles for a handkerchief, which is where he always keeps one: in his breast pocket. He rubs his eyes and blows his nose.

  ‘My mind… No one likes to think they’re losing their mind.’ He bows his head and his whole body shakes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Matt wipes a tear away with the back of his hand and sniffs. ‘Nothing will ever bring her back, but it’s all we wanted you to say.’ He strokes Amy’s shoulder. ‘Any help you need – medication, lift to the clinic – we’re here for you.’

  A whisper of the old Matt, I think. My sister nods and reaches for her husband. They cling to each other.

  I move the wine glass away from my father, and Bethany, her eyes swimming with tears, takes it from me and tips the contents onto the parched earth.

  Maybe, I think, looking round at my siblings, we can start to heal; maybe our family is going to be okay.

  21

  NICK

  That night I dream I’m falling, dark shapes crush me and I can’t breathe. I wake, wet with sweat, the sheets tangled round my knees, clutching at the empty air. I lie still for a moment, waiting for my heart to stop racing, telling myself it was only the dream – the recurring one I’ve had ever since the day Bethany nearly killed me.

  As my heart rate returns to normal, I remember what has been troubling me all evening: Matt and Bethany said Dad had drunk most of a bottle of red wine; Amy insisted it was cider brandy. I suppose they would tell me not to get hung up on details – the point is, they’d say, if I asked them, that he was drunk when he was meant to be looking after their child. And if I pressed her, Amy would tell me to stop going on about it, because Dad has admitted he was in the wrong and that he has dementia, and that’s why he couldn’t remember he wasn’t meant to be drinking. Old habits are hard to break. I sit up and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  Something has woken me or, rather, someone.

  There is someone here.

  I stare into the darkness. The room resolves into shades of shale and slate. I let my breath out slowly. I can’t see anyone here, hiding in the shadows.

  I left the window open, and a shallow breeze stirs the curtains. I’m not sure, but I think the sound I heard is coming from outside. It’s faint and then it’s gone. I lean on the windowsill to look down at the swimming pool, and something sharp digs into my palm. I wince; embedded in the heel of my hand is a human tooth. It’s so tiny it can’t be an adult’s: sharply pointed, it’s a dull ivory, with a hollow where it once grew in a child’s jaw. A canine. I shudder. Whose is it and why is it on my bedroom windowsill? It must be Lotte’s or Theo’s – but even I know how much a tooth is worth to a child. Neither of them would have left it here.

  I look out again. I can only see the dark expanse of water below me; the outline of the hill and the roof of the farmhouse where Carlo and his family live. I quietly pull on my jeans and T-shirt, slide my feet into flip-flops. I put the tooth in my pocket; it seems wrong to throw it in the bin. I listen at my father’s door, but he’s snoring. Bethany probably dosed him up with sleeping pills again. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I walk along the landing and squeak down the stairs.

  The living room is empty. I open the back door – somebody has left it unlocked – and step outside. There’s the dull thrum of insects from the brush, but I can’t hear anything else and I wonder if I imagined it. Although the moon isn’t visible, there are so many stars it’s possible to make out the shape of the sun-loungers and the tables grouped around the pool; the water lapping at the stone sides, the Milky Way refracted on its surface. It’s beautiful. The faint stir of the wind is refreshing. I walk a couple of paces towards the pool. I’m wide awake now, all my senses tingling and alive, adrenaline fizzing through my veins. I don’t think there is anyone here, and I imagine the feel of that cool water against my skin. I’m about to peel off my jeans and dive into the inky depths when I notice something floating on the surface, gently bumping against the edge. I reach down and grab it. The water is colder than I expected. As I lift the object out, I realize it’s one of Lotte’s floats. In the starlight I can just about read the writing on the front. It says: Warning: will not protect against drowning. I shudder and drop it on
a sun-lounger. I’m just about to go inside when I hear the noise again.

  I start, my heart contracting. I bunch my hands into fists. I’m painfully aware that I’m in flip-flops, there’s a fifteen-year-old girl, a couple of kids, two women and my elderly father inside – and I’m the only man who’s awake.

  I swing towards the sound. It’s coming from the stand of cypresses at the far end of the property, before the land tails off into scrub. I walk slowly towards it. There’s a half-open shed with cleaning products for the pool on the other side of the trees, and I’m certain whoever it is, they’re inside. I pause, wondering whether it would be wiser to go back and wake Joe or Matt.

  Or call the police.

  It’s grown harsher, more guttural.

  I pat my pocket. I’ve left my mobile in the house. I only have a child’s tooth with me.

  It’s louder, faster, nearer. I freeze.

  And then I realize what it is.

  It’s a man’s breathing, his breath coming quicker now, accompanied by a rhythmic creak, and someone else is with him, another person who is breathing heavily as well. They’re having sex. Bethany has finally got what she wanted: Joe. I almost laugh out loud with relief.

  As quietly as I can, I go back inside. When I was a kid and I couldn’t get to sleep, my mother would recommend hot milk with a teaspoon of honey. Occasionally she’d even make it for me, if she was having a break from her painting. I heat a cup of milk in the microwave, swirl some honey in. I notice a small pile of Dad’s things on the corner of the dining-room table: the book on politics that he’s reading, his Sudoku collection, a pen, his glasses and his journal. He must have forgotten to take them up to his room: he usually reads before he goes to sleep.