One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  And then, bouncing over the horizon, tumbling down the hill, a green Land Rover careered towards us, stopping in a spray of mud. The back door flew open and finally, finally we could all cling to activity, as four or five men, under the monk-like GP’s instruction, carefully lifted the bleeding boy, only a boy, I thought with a lurch as his thin, frail arm, the withered one, dangled – someone held it up quickly – into the back of the Land Rover, to lay him on the bench along one side. And then they all got in, the men, to cushion Luca, support him from the bumps, one holding his head, all on their knees, all blood-splattered, the driver slammed the back door and ran round to leap in the front and take the wheel.

  We watched as slowly, carefully, the Land Rover crawled up the hill, out of the valley, all of us holding our breath collectively, willing it not to jerk. But the driver, the gamekeeper, Dan, whom Maggie had taken a shine to earlier, knew the ground like his own body. He coaxed that vehicle around ruts and over the brow of the hill, to softer ground, a meadow, to a track where he could crawl along and meet the ambulance, which even now could be heard wailing towards us out of the distance. A wave of relief rippled palpably amongst us and I felt my shoulders relax slightly. I exhaled slowly.

  I was aware of Hal beside me, which surprised me. Hugh, of course, had gone, Angus Harrison too, and some other men. I thought Hal had been amongst them. He’d been at Luca’s shoulder, lifting him.

  ‘Oh, I thought you’d gone.’

  He looked at me. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  Don’t ask me why, but in that moment, as we made our way up the steep hill, I was transported back to the days when Hal waited for me outside lecture theatres, with cups of coffee: that same penetrating look on his face. Once, when I’d been to see a musical with some girlfriends – a silly show, it may even have been The Chippendales in the King’s Theatre – and we’d come out giggling, recounting bits, there he’d been, in his greatcoat, waiting, and my laugher had died as my friends had caught his expression and knowingly peeled off. My heart had sunk. Why, of all things, should that spring to mind, I thought angrily, guiltily even, as we, the straggling remains of the shooting party, made our way up the steep hill, out of the sunlit valley.

  The children were in the kitchen with my parents when we got back. Mum had made them sweet tea and they were sitting in a shocked huddle around the table, cradling their mugs, white-faced.

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’ Biba said immediately, as I came in.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I soothed automatically.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Hal quietly. More honestly. We didn’t know.

  ‘It wasn’t Daisy’s fault,’ blurted Biba, eyes glittering. ‘How was she to know you shouldn’t get mud in the end. She doesn’t shoot. It wasn’t her fault!’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Mum murmured, swooping to put an arm round her as Biba burst into tears again.

  ‘Where is Daisy?’

  ‘Upstairs with Laura,’ said Seffy.

  ‘Best left, love,’ said Dad, putting a hand on my arm as I made to go. Yes. Of course.

  Outside, the sound of people packing shooting paraphernalia into cars, drifted through. Guns were being zipped into slips, gumboots coming off, shoes on, cartridge bags thrown in. But there was no cheery banter to accompany the activity. No end-of-day laughter or chat, as there had been when we’d all set off. It was eerily quiet. Through the window I saw the Preston-Coopers, who were supposed to be staying, loading smart overnight bags into their car; the Palmers, too. Time to go. No one wanted weekend visitors hanging around at a family crisis; they’d make themselves scarce. Even Maggie was nowhere to be seen. Angus Harrison put his head round the kitchen door.

  ‘You’ll give them our love?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He nodded gravely. Departed. Nothing more to be said. It shocked me, though, that he thought the worst. These men shot regularly, most Saturdays in the season: a barrel exploding in someone’s face was clearly a rare accident.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Cassie said uncertainly, sensitively.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Seffy told her, quickly.

  ‘No, but my mum…’

  ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  They got up from the table. I watched them move to the back door together.

  ‘Hal could run you back,’ I said quickly, and when I turned, enquiringly, Hal’s eyes were already on me.

  ‘Sure,’ he agreed, grabbing his keys. He strode out ahead of them, before the youngsters had a chance to demur. I watched them go. Thanked him silently for that.

  ‘Now then, young lady.’ Dad turned to Biba. ‘You and I are going to hose down those dogs. Daisy won’t thank you for leaving them in that state.’

  The two Labradors, who’d been in the river, were always under Daisy’s self-imposed wing. Ordinarily she’d be cleaning them in the kennels.

  ‘No – no, you’re right.’ Biba still very distressed, but knowing this was something she could do for her sister, followed my father out. They took the dogs with them.

  The large house, so recently full of noise and laughter and the expectation of a glorious day ahead, was suddenly ghostly, denuded. I looked at Mum opposite me, gazing wearily into her tea. Her ash-blonde hair was a little awry; her shoulders sagged in her Italian cape. I leaned across; held her hand.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie-down?’

  She looked up at me gratefully. ‘Oh, darling, would you mind? I feel all in.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I won’t sleep, of course. So you’ll let me know the minute…?’

  ‘Of course I will, the moment they phone,’ I assured her.

  As she went, gathering her handbag, it occurred to me she looked older: in stocking feet now, shoes in her hand, her bunions from years of high heels hurting, no doubt, face lined and tired. And it struck me they wouldn’t be around for ever, these parents of mine. And they’d most likely die unaware; uninformed… No, Hattie, don’t go there.

  I got up from the table shakily. Went to the sink, clutching the tops of my arms, gazing out of the window. The thing that I loathed and feared most in myself, which on good days was a small seed in the corner of my mind, always there but small, but on bad days was a huge swollen growth, the size of a watermelon, filled my head like an abscess. Veined and thin-skinned, it seemed ready to pop. I held on tight to the edge of the sink; shut my eyes. Breathed deeply. No. I wouldn’t let it pop. Couldn’t let it pop. And, if I willed it enough, it would deflate. Crumple back like an airbag, or a child’s balloon, days after the party. I waited for that to happen. The kitchen clock ticked on in the empty house. Minutes passed. I stayed there, at the window, holding on, in so many ways.

  A car came up the drive. Hal’s car. I exhaled slowly. That was quick. Good. The car forked before it got to the house, went slowly down the back drive, probably to the kennels, I realized, where Seffy had no doubt spotted Biba and Dad. Gone to see if there was any news. No, no news. A bad sign, I thought. Surely if it was good, Hugh would ring? I looked at the phone on the dresser. I can’t, its shape seemed to say. And I thought how often I’d stared at phones over the years, willing them to ring. Ring. Ring! I’d breathed at one, my face close. It had been a different shape from this neat, compact little handset on the dresser: bulkier, squarer, the receiver attached with a coiled cord.

  I opened the window for some air. Could hear the others with the dogs, Hal and Dad raising Biba and Seffy’s spirits: giving them a job to cling to. They’d probably be hosing down the kennels too, now. And I remembered how good Hal was at that, at taking one’s mind off things: remembered coming out of my finals, my face white with shock.

  ‘Not one question. Not one bloody question! I was promised King Lear. It was all Macbeth and Hamlet !’

  ‘So what?’ he’d shrugged. ‘It’s only a fraction of the marks.’

  I’d extracted a Number Six from a crushed packet with trembling fingers, leaned against the wal
l and sucked hard as hordes of students flowed past discussing the paper.

  ‘It’s a quarter. The tragedies are a quarter!’

  ‘A fraction, like I say. Not a complete tragedy.’

  ‘Not funny, Hal. I was so bloody stumped I ushered in Goneril and Reagan anyway, said Shakespeare had had enough of neurotic females after Ophelia, wanted a bit of bite.’

  ‘Which will impress the examiners no end. Shame you didn’t usher in the Brides of Dracula too: they had bite. Come on, I thought we’d go to the zoo.’

  ‘The zoo?’ I’d blown out a line of smoke in astonishment. ‘No, no I need a hostelry, Hal, need to do some sorrow-drowning. It’ll take at least a bottle.’

  He’d insisted, though, and we’d spent a very crazy day at Edinburgh Zoo, making the animals feel at home, which Hal said was important. Said it was rude to stare, as everyone else did – how would we like people to walk past our houses staring in? Said we had to be supportive, inclusive. So we’d lumbered past the elephants swinging our arms from our noses, chattered and screeched at the monkeys, waddled like penguins past their pool. I smiled, in spite of myself now, remembering the aquarium. Hal in his huge coat, being a swooping sea turtle, the odd looks: giggling like children, which we weren’t much more than, of course, King Lear forgotten. And how Hal had laughed when I’d been the koala bear, opening my eyes wide, crouched up on a bench, clutching my handbag to my tummy as my baby. A wonderful laugh, his head thrown back to the heavens, brown eyes glittering: lovely. My heart gave an exultant little kick, a little – see? kick, and I could feel the thing in my head, my abscess, shrink down, back to the little pea-sized lump. Better: much better.

  My hands had already unclenched from the rim of the sink when he came in through the back door, glancing quickly at me to check I was OK.

  I smiled. Gave a little nod. And we knew each other so well, we didn’t really have to speak.

  ‘But no news from the hospital?’ Hal asked.

  ‘No, no news.’

  He came across. Held me close. And it felt so right. So safe. I stayed in his arms, my head on his chest, in the quiet, ticking house. I felt every muscle relax: felt my bones liquefy. At length, I raised my head.

  ‘Where’s Seffy?’

  ‘I left him down there.’

  ‘At the kennels?’

  ‘No, at Cassie’s.’

  I stared. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Letty wasn’t there. She’d left a note saying she’d gone to London. Quite normal, according to Cassie. Apparently she just disappears on a whim, leaving Cassie alone, which is rather worrying.’

  ‘So they’re on their own? Seffy and Cassie?’

  ‘Yes. Seffy said he’d walk back later, but he didn’t want to leave her just yet.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t!’ I stormed, breaking out of his embrace roughly. I stepped back. My breathing was laboured.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ He looked startled.

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, Hal, use your head! Two teenagers alone in an empty house – of course he doesn’t want to leave her! What would you do? What are you doing, even, right now? Getting cosy, that’s what!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think—’

  ‘You don’t think? You don’t think? Well, you’re not a parent, Hal. You don’t think they’ll be snogging away down there? Getting to first base? I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid!’ I was out of control. Unsafe in every way. Didn’t recognize my horrible, rasping voice.

  ‘They’ll be getting down to it, Hal, you mark my words. Oh, you stupid, stupid man!’

  I swung about wildly, casting around for my car keys – my bag, where was my bag? On the chair – no. Oh, on the dresser.

  ‘Unlikely, don’t you think?’

  ‘Unlikely? Oh, no, most, most likely, you have no idea.’ I was rummaging for my keys, frantic fingers fumbling. Not in my bag. Where then – in my coat? I was in a race against time, and I couldn’t find the wherewithal to get there, to stop him. Where were my sodding keys?

  Hal cleared his throat. ‘No, I meant, unlikely, seeing as she’s his sister.’

  My hands froze on the pile of papers I’d been upending in my search: a pile of Laura’s bills – milk, newspapers. Odd, how, in that moment, I remembered she owed the milkman £40. The whole world seemed to stop on its axis, like a Ferris wheel. And I was at the top, left hanging: swinging in my cart.

  27

  I stayed staring at the pile of papers. Felt the blood drain from my face. Slowly, I turned. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard.’ Hal’s eyes were steady. Not aggressive, but focused.

  I found a stool; reached out and dragged it to me. The earth had tipped beneath me and my legs wouldn’t carry me. I was aware of his gaze, but felt oddly detached from it. No, Hal couldn’t have said that. Couldn’t know that. This couldn’t be happening. If it were happening, if my world were unravelling like this, full tilt, at breakneck speed, life wouldn’t be going on like this. The gardener, for instance, outside the window, wouldn’t be raking the gravel in those slow, languid strokes. The sun wouldn’t be dancing and dappling those yellow and green leaves in such a frivolous fashion. If Hal knew Cassie was Seffy’s sister, the radio, on low in the corner, certainly wouldn’t be reminding me to get down to DFS now, for yet more slashed prices, more sensational bargains.

  ‘And that’s not all!’ went on the excitable voice. ‘Any threepiece suite you buy before the end of the month comes with a free, Scotch Guarded cover, and a five-year guarantee!’

  I turned my head to face my informer, feeling robotic in my movements. My mouth was sticky, but my voice seemed about to engage, to make a break for it.

  ‘You know?’ I heard it say.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  I stared at Hal. Almost challenged him. Very nearly didn’t believe him. But his eyes told me it was true. That he could see right through me, right around me, right inside me: knew everything about me. Could see my heart, soul, mind and spirit. It was as if, with all the thoroughness of the drugs squad, I’d been strip-searched, and all my dirty little secrets were now on display, spread about for all to see.

  My voice became the only animate thing in the room.

  ‘How did you know?’ It came out in a whisper.

  ‘Seffy told me. Or at least, told me he suspected.’

  I clutched my mouth. ‘Seffy!’

  Hal gave me a moment. But a million moments would never have been enough. Eventually he went on, slowly, methodically; as one would to a patient coming round from an anaesthetic.

  ‘Said he suspected Dominic might be his father and you his real mother.’

  ‘But – but no. I mean how…? That simply isn’t possible. How can he have?’ I was frozen with terror.

  ‘He came to see me. Tracked me down. Rang first, of course, leaving a polite message at my law firm, informing me that he was Hattie Carrington’s son, asking if we could possibly meet. He left his email address. I answered, and the following day he was downstairs in reception. We went for a drink. He asked me if you and my brother had ever had a relationship. I had to say quite possibly, you’d been caught in his office. OK, he said, when? When would it have been? He wanted dates. Precise timings. He wrote it all down in a notebook. Very calmly, methodically. He told me he’d found some stuff at the back of your wardrobe in a box. Had forced the lock while you were away. Wanted to know why it was so secret, so permanently barred. Then he had the box mended. He’d found all the clippings about Dominic that you’d kept, all through his glittering career: articles, profiles. The obituaries and retrospectives after he’d died. Reams of it. Years and years in a small box. A first edition of his diaries too, published posthumously, of course.’

  I tried to make sense of what he was saying. My head was still shrieking – what? What? This couldn’t be happening. Seffy knew?

  He asked if I’d take a DNA test to see if it matched his, or was close. As his uncle and nearest relative on that side of the family. Not strict
ly true: Cassie is, of course. But he didn’t want to alarm her until he knew for sure.’

  ‘When?’ I managed at length, mouth very dry now. ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a year ago.’

  A year ago. I couldn’t speak. Stared at him.

  His eyes held me. I was having difficulty breathing. Shock had sucked the air from my lungs. What I could muster was coming in shallow bursts. A year ago.

  ‘Why didn’t he say anything?’ My mouth formed the words but my mind was racing frantically ahead. My son knew. Knew he was mine. I was struggling to catch up. Having to stumble to my feet with each well-aimed kick to the head.

  ‘He figured if you didn’t want him to know, he wasn’t going to rush to tell you. Initially, of course, he didn’t think that. Initially, when we first found out, he was very angry. And extremely distressed.’

  Suddenly I dropped my head into my hands. Of course he was. Because what I’d done was the most wicked thing a mother could ever do. Disown her child. But I’d had to do it. Couldn’t tell the world he was Dominic’s: had had to protect Dom, his career, his reputation. Back then, years ago, he was constantly in the papers. Constantly jetting off, Kissinger-style to the Middle East, Sierra Leone Kosovo, even… There he’d be on the six o’clock news, our man in some war-torn territory. My man. Young, clever, handsome. A man to be trusted. Trusted with our country’s safety. And there I’d sit watching him, with Seffy in my arms, or later, toddling about the tiny sitting room. Dom would sweep back his mane of blond hair and talk to camera, troops in battledress ranged behind him, talk to me, look me in the eyes, his voice deep and sincere, telling me a peace treaty was imminent. ‘We’re working hard: trust me.’ How could I wreck all that? Throw in a grenade, a lovechild, watch his life implode? Tarnish his name? Oh, no, I’d had to protect him. I’d loved him so much I would do that, at all costs. But what a cost.

  And then later, when I thought I could tell Seffy, when Dom died, thought I could tell the world, it was almost worse. He became a martyr, a hero. Our own Foreign Secretary, victim of a heinous terrorist attack. The funeral all over the papers. His memorial service televized, dignitaries, heads of state attending, the Duke of Edinburgh on behalf of the Queen. All that sorrow and reverence. How could I? I just couldn’t. But… maybe a couple of years down the line? When it had all blown over? But then his diaries had come out, posthumously, to great acclaim. A huge publishing phenomenon, a forward by Letty, his widow; a picture of her and Cassie. So I couldn’t. And then… well, then it had been too late.