Luke slides off the bench and lifts her into his seat, where she clambers up next to Simon while Luke fetches a glass from the cupboard and fills it at the tap. As he turns to take Kitty her drink, his breath catches in his chest. Mum and Dad sit on one side, their clasped hands a tangle on the table top. Kitty stands on the bench beside Simon, leaning into him, her arms draped around his neck, her sleepy head resting on his. The shades of their hair are so remarkably alike, it’s impossible to tell where Simon’s hair stops and Kitty’s starts.
A drop of water slops up over the edge of the glass, plopping to the floor at Luke’s feet, the silence of the room now roaring in his ears. Slowly, his eyes turn to Mum’s. ‘You and Simon?’ he whispers.
Mum picks up her glass and drains it, placing it down carefully as she refuses to return his gaze.
‘You and Simon?’ Luke asks again.
‘No!’ she whispers angrily, finally turning to face him. She lowers her voice, inclining her head towards Kitty, like a warning. ‘No. It wasn’t like that.’
In a fog of confusion, Luke walks across the kitchen, and holds out the glass to his sister. She drinks thirstily, and returns the glass to him before climbing down off the bench and wrapping her arms around his waist. Luke stands at the head of the table, cradling Kitty’s head and trying to suppress the trembling of his legs as he waits for someone to speak.
‘Why don’t I put Kitty back to bed?’ says Simon. He slides out from behind the table, gently squeezing past Luke to pick up Kitty and leave the room.
Luke stares at the empty doorway.
‘Sit down, son,’ Dad says, his voice solid. He scans the table.
All the colour has drained from Mum’s face, and she can barely look at Luke as he lowers himself into the seat opposite. The cuckoo clock ticks loudly in the quiet pause, as the rain trickles down the window pane, pooling on the outside ledge. Mum studies the table top; Simon returns to the room and tops up the glasses.
‘It’s hard to know where to begin…’ Dad starts, dipping his forefinger in a tiny bright spill of red wine.
Luke rolls his head back in exasperation, feeling the knots crunch along his neck. ‘Bloody hell, Dad! Just spit it out, will you? You’re killing me here!’
He raises his palms in surrender. ‘OK, OK. It’s these parties – well, I’m sure you’ve worked out a fair amount for yourself, son. You’ve heard the gossip – seen the photographs.’
‘It’s not how it sounds…’ Mum says quietly.
‘I know, Mum,’ Luke replies, and he sighs deeply, wondering if he even has the energy to go on with this. ‘I know. But, right now, I couldn’t give a toss about your stupid parties. It’s him –’ he flicks his head towards Simon ‘– and Kitty I want to know about. What the hell is going on here? Is Simon – is he Kitty’s dad?’
There’s a brief exchange between Mum and Dad, one set of eyes flickering up to meet the other. They both nod. Luke lets a long, slow breath slip out between his lips as the enormity of the revelation sinks in. He scans the kitchen, weighing up his next move. Luke the boy would flounce from the room now, slam his bedroom door, wallop up the volume and shut out the world. But he doesn’t want to be that boy any more.
‘I don’t know if I can listen to any more of this. It just goes on and on. I can’t take much more of it.’ He breathes deeply, and for a few moments no one speaks.
‘Luke, old pal,’ Simon finally says, shunting round to face him. ‘You really need to hear this. Hear them out, will you?’
Mum rests her hands in her lap and opens her mouth to talk. ‘It was just the once,’ she says, after what seems like an age. ‘Five and a half years ago. That was the first party we went to, and that was the only time either of us ever, ever went with anyone else.’
Luke eyes her coldly, waiting for her to continue.
‘When you were born, we loved you so much, Luke. All we ever wanted was just one more child – a brother or sister for you, to complete our family.’
She looks to Dad.
‘After we’d had you, we tried for another baby for years, son. Years and years. And nothing happened.’
Mum runs a thumbnail around a knot in the wood. ‘Eventually, we went to the doctor’s and found out the problem was with your dad, not me. He said that my chances of getting pregnant again by Dad were virtually nil.’
‘Lazy sperm,’ Dad says.
‘Bloody hell,’ Luke says, shaking his head. He can’t believe they all look so composed.
‘Simon had met Laura by then,’ Mum carries on, ‘and they’d told us about these parties, always trying to get us to go along and try it out. Of course, we laughed it off – thought it was just a phase they were going through.’
Simon expels an involuntary chuckle, immediately shaking his head remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. Totally inappropriate. It just sounds funny when you say it like that, Jo.’
Mum glares at Simon, smoothing her hands across her lap.
‘Mum?’
‘Sorry, Jo. Sorry,’ Simon says, taking over. ‘Look, the whole thing was my idea – let’s get that straight before we go any further. You need to know that, Luke. I offered – Laura and I weren’t planning for children, and I was happy to help out if I could.’ He gestures towards Mum and Dad. ‘These are my best friends – what else was there to do?’
Luke shakes his head.
‘So we agreed, the party was the best place – keep it simple – if we all went with someone else, there could be no jealousy, no cause for upset. And that, as they say, is that.’
A burst of rainfall hammers against the kitchen window. Luke runs his hands over his face, wishing he could hide behind them forever. ‘Man, I don’t really know what to say about all this. Simon is Kitty’s dad?’
Mum and Dad reach for each other, their hands linking, a small sadness passing between them.
‘Richard is Kitty’s dad,’ Simon corrects, his brows knitting together, his headmaster’s voice rearing up. ‘I just provided some of the material needed. Better me than some complete stranger, eh?’
Dad folds his arms and taps the wood with the tip of his forefinger. ‘We’ve so much to thank Simon for, Luke. We wouldn’t have Kitty if it wasn’t for his friendship. It doesn’t change a thing, Luke. She’s still your sister. We’re still your parents. Nothing’s changed – you know that?’
Luke rises and walks across the room, stopping beside the dresser to gaze at the small display of birthday cards lined up along the shelf.
Mum joins him, holding her arms wide. ‘I’m so sorry we left it so long, love. There’s just never been a good time to tell you…’
He allows her embrace, letting his head drop against her shoulder. Exhaustion pools in his chest.
‘We should be grateful for everything we’ve got, Luke,’ Dad says.
Luke raises his head to look at him and Simon, sitting either side of the table, swarthy as fishermen. Simon’s hair has been bleached lighter over the summer months, and Luke now sees Kitty so very clearly, with her waving blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Simon studies his fingernails, not looking up, and Luke understands it all, his desire to hold tight to this ready-made family, when he has none. He thinks of Len, alone this evening, walking away into the coursing rain, never looking back. Luke steps back and looks at them all, at Mum and Dad and Simon.
‘I am grateful,’ he says, and all at once he’s compelled to call Martin, to reach out for him across the darkness of this rainswept August night, as the raging wind batters against the windows and doors of the little bungalow in Blake Avenue. He makes his way along the hall towards the telephone stand, where he hovers a moment, gathering his thoughts. He places his hand on the receiver – and it rings, sending a judder of fresh adrenaline through his veins. He lets the phone ring twice, then picks it up, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
‘Hello?’ he says with some hesitation. There’s a short silence on the other end of the line. ‘Mart? Is that you?’
; ‘It’s Dad,’ Martin whispers, his voice muffled as if he’s cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. ‘He can’t get out of bed. Can you come over?’
The rain batters against the glass panels either side of Luke’s front door, streaking channels of tears down its frosted vertical stripes. Martin has never asked Luke over to his house. ‘What is it, Mart? Is it his bad back?’
Martin’s voice is hoarse with fear. ‘I’ve never seen him so bad, Luke. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He keeps begging me to fetch the gun and finish him off.’
‘I’ll get my dad, mate. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Martin hangs up, leaving nothing more but the desolate whirr of an empty line. Luke stares at the receiver a moment, as his brain shifts gear. ‘Dad!’ he calls along the hall, already reaching into the cupboard for his raincoat. ‘Dad!’
Dad and Simon appear in the hallway, a matching frown on both tanned faces.
‘We’ve got to get over to Martin’s place. He needs us.’
13
Met Office report for the Isle of Wight, early September 1976:
Maximum temperature 62°F/16.7°C
Despite the recent downpour, meteorologists and weather experts continue to deliberate over the effects of the ceaseless summer, many claiming it will take years for the water table to return to a healthy level. But to the rest of the country – to the everyday folk in their houses and gardens, in their cars and buses, in their school rooms and offices – the summer of ’76 is over; the heatwave has finally broken.
After the service, the small congregation meanders in the sunlit gardens of the crematorium, a sea breeze whispering in the clear air. Luke sticks close to Martin’s side, the pair of them wavering quietly beneath the adjacent oak tree, not sure what to do with themselves now that the funeral is over. There’s a careful hush among those assembled; it seems many here hardly knew Alan Brazier at all, most having been gathered by Richard and Joanna Wolff over the few days since he died, making up numbers for Martin’s sake.
Leaving Nanna sitting on the shaded bench between Simon and the vicar, Kitty runs to Martin, taking him by the hand and pulling him towards the wide, dried-out lawn, where she spins in circles and points out birds perching in the overhanging trees. He looks like a proper man in his new suit, picked out with Mum’s help from Chiesman’s department store in Newport. Luke joins his parents as they stroll to the edge of the lawn with Teddy and Rhona from the Spar, all of them dressed in black – such a stark contrast to the bleached-out shades of this summer.
‘Bless him,’ says Rhona, her eyes following Martin as he picks Kitty up and wanders around the edges of the shrubbery. ‘He only had his dad, didn’t he, Jo?’
Teddy purses his lips, resembling a member of the mob in his Fifties suit, his meaty hands clasped together respectfully.
‘Yup,’ Luke replies. ‘I don’t think he’s even got aunts or uncles. None that he’s ever mentioned, anyway.’
‘Such a shame,’ Rhona replies.
‘He’ll be alright,’ Dad says, slipping his hand around Mum’s waist. Kitty waves from across the lawn; they all wave back.
‘So what did the doctors say?’ Rhona asks in confidential tones. ‘You spoke to them at the hospital, didn’t you, Richard?’
He nods.
‘They said he’d been ill for months. Initially the doctors didn’t spot it was cancer, but, when they suspected it, he just refused to go for tests.’
‘Poor beggar,’ says Teddy, reaching inside his jacket for his cigarettes. He taps one out on to the heel of his hand, before bringing it to his mouth, continuing to talk around the filter as he lights it. ‘What a way to go. Did Martin know he was ill?’
‘He knew something was wrong,’ Luke replies. ‘But he had no idea it was serious.’
Simon joins them and, seeing that Teddy is smoking, appears instantly relieved and reaches for his own cigarettes. Teddy offers him a light, and Luke resists the sudden urge to ask if he can have a fag too.
Dad tugs at his tie, loosening it enough to undo his top button. ‘Martin said he’d been trying to get him back to the doctor’s for weeks, but he wouldn’t have any of it. And then, of course, once we did get him into the hospital, he didn’t even make it through the night.’
Rhona gasps softly, absently wafting her hand to bat the cigarette smoke away. Cradling her little handbag in the crook of her arm, she opens it up and brings out a packet of mints, peeling back the crumpled wrapper and offering one to Teddy, who’s still mid-cigarette. She drops the packet back into her bag and snaps the clasp shut, shaking her head sadly. ‘There but for the grace of God.’
The McKees join the group, looking as out of place as everyone else. Marie embraces Mum, stepping aside as John awkwardly stoops in to kiss her.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Mum whispers.
‘Not at all, darling.’ Marie caresses the lapels of her dark jacket, and glances in Martin’s direction. ‘So sad.’
Dad shakes John’s hand. ‘Good to see you, John. Been keeping busy?’
‘Always busy,’ John replies, sweeping restless fingers through his white hair as Marie holds her arms out to embrace Dad. She kisses him twice, holding on to his upper arm as she talks.
‘You know John, Richard! We can’t keep him out of the office for more than a few days, or he starts getting withdrawal symptoms.’
Looking at them standing there in their sober suits and greying hair, Luke finds it almost impossible to believe they’ve so recently been the hosts of these parties. He pushes away an unbidden image of John and Marie mingling among their guests, carrying trays of drinks and nibbles, and letting it all hang out.
‘Oh, hello, Luke – and Simon!’ Marie says, letting her hand drift away from Dad’s arm as she kisses Simon. ‘I am glad we came, Richard – it doesn’t look as if he knew many people around here, judging by the congregation. So what will happen with Martin now?’
Dad ruffles Luke’s hair, just as he used to when he was small. ‘We’ll help him work it out, won’t we, Luke?’
‘Maybe I should go and see if he’s alright,’ Luke says, and he leaves his parents with the others to amble across the crunchy dried grass, hands in pockets, wondering what he’ll say to Martin when he gets there.
‘Go and find Mummy,’ he tells Kitty when she sprints over, and she bombs past, heading back to the edge of the path, where Dad swoops her up into his arms.
Martin is standing at the foot of a young poplar tree, his long arms dangling at his sides, head tilted in concentration. Birds chatter in the branches above.
Luke stops a few feet away. ‘You OK, Mart?’
‘Hi,’ Martin says as he looks round, seeming surprised to see Luke standing there. ‘I was trying to show Kitty the chaffinch.’
‘She’s gone off to find Mum,’ Luke replies, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Just thought I’d come and see how you’re doing. You did really well in there, mate. It can’t have been easy.’
Martin reaches up and snaps off a leaf, turning it over in his large hands, studying the veins closely.
‘It was good of your dad to stand up and talk like that – I know everyone probably thinks it’s pathetic, but I just couldn’t do it.’
‘No one thinks it’s pathetic, Mart. Christ, you’ve been through enough without having to get up there and do a big speech in front of a bunch of stuffy suits and hats.’
He moves closer and prods Martin’s arm, making him look up. He looks ten again, like an overgrown child dressed in a man’s suit, and he smiles weakly, crumbling the leaf between his fingers and letting it fall to the ground.
‘The poem he read out was really nice.’
Luke flicks his head for Martin to walk with him, and they follow the line of the manicured hedge until the lawn opens out into the woodland path. ‘My mum chose it. I know it’s about a carpenter, not a framer, but still – I think it was a good choice. She’s written out a copy for you to keep.’
They walk on
through the woods, silent but for the soothing twitter of birdsong, and the occasional clatter of the wood pigeons as they rise up through the leaf canopy. The first signs of autumn are more visible here, where the moss-cloaked foot of each tree is joined by an explosion of earthy mushrooms and tiny red toadstools, coaxed out by the recent humidity and rainfall. Further up the older trunks, large, brightly coloured fungus fans out in elaborate formation, wrapping around the bark in vibrant swirls of yellow and orange, its delicate flesh as tender as chicken.
Luke glances at Martin, trying to read his expression, the contours of his long face ever-shifting as they pass beneath flickering slices of early afternoon light. As ever, Martin’s focus is in the treetops above as he scans for wildlife, occasionally pointing to the red squirrels that skitter from one branch to the next, searching out food for their winter reserves. At a fork in the path the lads slow their pace, coming to a stop in a warm pool of sunlight that breaks through the parting of leaves overhead. Luke casts his gaze along the rough paths, wondering where each leads to.
‘Which way, mate?’ he asks, turning to see Martin carefully folding his jacket on to the dusty earth before he reaches up for a low branch and starts to climb the tree. ‘What about your new shoes?’ Luke laughs. He watches as Martin steadily ascends the enormous trunk, moving surprisingly gracefully for a man of six foot five.
Martin pauses to look back, his movements causing a vortex of dust motes to dance and swirl in the warm pillar of light between them.
‘I hope I never have to wear them again,’ he says. ‘They pinch like hell.’ With a bob of his head, he beckons Luke to follow behind.
Once Martin has established himself on a sturdy crook of the tree, Luke goes after him, instinctively using all the same footholds and supports that Martin had scaled moments earlier. Seconds later he’s sitting beside him, looking out over the treetops, into the gardens of the crematorium, where he can just make out his parents, still in conversation at the edge of the path. Martin lifts a foot and inspects it, checking out the deep scuffs across its polished toe.
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