He missed her and he missed his daughter. He really needed to see Charlotte again, if only briefly, to make sure she was all right. She had her poetry recital coming up and he wondered how she was getting on with her preparation. He felt a stab of guilt. The presentation had been such a big part of her life and he’d tried to make it part of his. Somehow, it never seemed to work; perhaps he’d tried too hard. He could almost hear her tutting, a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment.
It was only then that he remembered he’d forgotten to phone her. He dialled her number. No answer. Instead, he phoned home but again no answer, just the answerphone; his own voice asking the caller to leave a message. He cringed at the sound of his diction and told Julie he was going to pop in. Tom knew that his visit home could involve a painful confrontation and that Julie would want to pin him down to discuss ‘things’. Could he face it? Yes, he decided, he had no choice; it was part of the process. The future had to start somewhere, if only to sweep away the past. He’d been away long enough; he’d made his point, and sufficiently intruded on his parents’ routine. His plan, as well as his future, was simple enough. It was time to go home.
Facing his Waterloo, Tom read a bit more of Guy’s diary. His great-uncle had got himself injured and his brother, Jack, had rescued him. But trench warfare proved too much for Jack – he deserted.
I went to see him on his last night on this earth. I cannot describe the feelings of despair that raked my soul as I said goodbye to my little brother. He was executed the following day, 11th November 1917. He was just 19 years old. May he rest in peace.
Tom noticed how the small elegant writing diminished to a minuscule scrawl as Guy described the aftermath of Jack’s death at the hands of a firing squad. He tried to imagine his great-uncle writing the words, his eyes welling up, his hand shaking. How strange it was to think that one’s forebear had been shot for desertion; the family name sullied in the annals of war. He wished he knew the names of the men who sat on the court martial, the men so convinced of Jack’s guilt, so sure that their brutal justice would stand the scrutiny of history. He imagined meeting one of their ancestors – shaking their hand, accepting their apologies. Tom remembered himself when he was nineteen, in his second year at Leicester University, his immature head full of grandiose ideas and fantastic schemes. He closed the diary, the date was 14 November 1917. Guy was leaving France, knowing he might never return. Tom knew the feeling. He stared out of the window as the train pulled into Waterloo.
By now it was half past five. He was about to unlock the front door and walk straight in, but something held him back. He rang the doorbell but it didn’t ring. He tried again, but no – definitely not working. Instead, he knocked – quite gently the first time and then progressively louder – but still no response. Blow this, he thought, and unlocked the door and walked into his hallway.
‘Anyone home?’ he cried out. No answer, not even Angus. They’d probably all gone out for a walk, which was unusual for Julie. He went through to the sitting room. He felt uneasy; how odd it was to be back. It’d only been a few days, no time at all, but already he felt like an intruder, a stranger amongst familiar things. He looked wistfully at the room as if taking it in for the first time: the ‘honeybee’ yellow painted walls with its dado rail, the beige carpet; the old fireplace with its wooden surround adorned with various family photographs, and a silver framed mirror above the mantelpiece; the heavily loaded bookshelves, his neatly organised CD rack. Only the Schubert Unfinished Symphony lay out of place. He glanced at the family photographs from one to another – photos of the three of them together or individually. And of course, Tom and Julie’s wedding photo. Wiping an invisible film of dust off the frame, Tom couldn’t help but smile at their cheesy grins, the romantic but painfully self-conscious pose. He looked up at his passive reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The occasional grey streak seemed less occasional now, the lines on his face more pronounced. A man doesn’t age this quickly, he thought, but the realisation of ageing can be alarmingly sudden.
It was then he noticed it in the reflection – lying on the sofa behind him. He spun round, hoping that reality would contradict the evidence of what he saw in the mirror. But no, it was still there. He went over to the sofa, picked it up, and looked at it. Faded brown in colour, made of leather and battered; yes, it was the same briefcase all right. He looked up at the ceiling. Surely, they weren’t upstairs again. A surge of angered panic coursed through his veins. He flung the briefcase back onto the sofa, and ran quickly out of the sitting room and upstairs, bounding up the stairs in twos, across the landing and towards the spare bedroom at the back of the house. He threw the door open and almost fell inside; convinced he would find them there. But the room was empty. He felt both foolish and relieved, but at the same time, somewhat disappointed to have been denied the opportunity to vent his simmering anger. He looked round the bedroom – the bed neatly made, all clothes put away, nothing out of place. Tom stepped back and gently closed the bedroom door, noticing again the crack in the doorknob. It wasn’t his concern any more. But if the briefcase was here, then surely Moyes couldn’t be far away. Perhaps, he thought, they’d all gone out for the walk together – the image revolted him. It wasn’t so much the thought of Julie and him still together; it was the idea of Moyes ingratiating himself into Charlotte’s life which he found particularly irksome. Or perhaps, he thought, they were in the garden; it was, after all, a lovely hot day. He missed his garden – it was unusually big for the area, which was one of the house’s main appeals when he and Julie bought the place all those years ago. He returned to the spare bedroom and looked out into the garden.
‘What the...’ he said aloud, astonished by what he saw. ‘What are they doing?’ At the back of the garden were Julie and Charlotte, just standing silently. Charlotte seemed to be holding something in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. But what really puzzled Tom was the sight of Mark Moyes digging a hole in the lawn, just in front of the laurel hedge.
Tom charged back down the stairs, ran through to the kitchen and into the garden. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted at them as he stepped outside. Julie and Charlotte jumped; Moyes stopped digging. The three of them turned to see Tom marching across the lawn towards them.
‘Tom,’ said Julie, unable to hide her surprise. ‘What are doing here?’
‘I left a message, but what’re you doing for goodness sake and what’s he doing here?’
‘I’m afraid something dreadful’s happened.’
Tom’s stomach flipped. ‘What? What’s happened?’
‘Oh, Daddy,’ said Charlotte, her voice cracked with despair. ‘It’s Angus...’
Tom looked from Charlotte to the shallow hole in the ground and back to the wrapped bundle in her arms. ‘Oh no, not Angus. How... how did it happen?’
‘Run over,’ said Charlotte quietly.
‘Oh, God.’ Most of the time, Tom had simply tolerated the dog, but the sight of his forlorn daughter made his heart lurch with pity. He looked at the silent Moyes who looked suitably awkward for being there and then at Julie. ‘Where?’ he asked Charlotte.
‘Richmond Road.’
‘Were you at the park?’
She nodded. ‘He must’ve seen somethink on the other side of the road and he just ran off and he got hit by Adam’s dad.’
‘Adam?’
‘Boy in her class,’ said Julie.
‘Was he not on the lead?’ Tom immediately regretted the implied reprimand in the question.
‘Of course he was; he just lunged forward and I wasn’t able to grip the lead on time. Sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Tom put his arm around her. ‘It wasn’t your fault; there’s no need to say sorry, sweetheart.’
Charlotte began to sniffle. ‘Yes, but he’d done it before, couple of weeks ago. I should’ve been more careful.’
Finally, Mark spoke. ‘Erm, I’ll carry on then.’
Julie said: ‘Charlotte wanted us to bury Angus here, in
the garden.’
‘He liked it up here,’ said Charlotte, ‘always sniffing around.’ She smiled at the memory.
Tom glared at Mark. ‘So Mr Moyes just happened to be passing, I s’pose.’
Julie’s face flushed. ‘I phoned him.’
‘So you phone him before you phone me now, do you?’
‘Oh, come off it, Tom. I didn’t know where you were. I mean, you disappeared, not a call, nothing. All I got from your parents was that you’d gone off to France or something and you hadn’t come back. That’s why I called Mark, OK?’
Tom turned to Moyes. ‘And you came running like the proverbial lapdog, I suppose.’
‘At least I was around,’ said Mark.
‘How convenient.’ Tom was beginning to regret the irrevocable descent into pettiness, but he couldn’t stem the flow of sniping. He looked disdainfully at the hole. Moyes had obviously only just begun digging. ‘I can take over from here,’ he said holding out his hand for the spade.
‘No, no, it’s OK,’ said Mark shielding it.
Tom stepped up to him and spoke quietly so as to not be overheard by Charlotte. ‘Listen, matey,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s my daughter’s dog here, and I will bury him.’
‘Bit late for all that now. Where were you when she needed you most? When they both needed you?’
Tom hadn’t punched anyone since school, but he’d gladly have punched Moyes now. ‘Not as readily available as you, obviously. Now, if you don’t mind...’
‘Oh, stop it,’ cried Charlotte, ‘just stop.’
Mark and Tom looked sheepishly at her. Julie took Tom’s arm and led him swiftly to one side. ‘Tom, simmer down. Do you really think your behaviour is appropriate given the circumstances? You can see how upset she is, and you sizing up to Mark is not helping matters.’
Tom heard the sound of Moyes’s spade hitting the earth. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry.’
‘We were having a quiet, respectful little ceremony here. It’s important we do it properly for Charlotte’s sake; it’s not as if we can simply throw the dog out with the rubbish; he meant a lot to her. Now, you can stay if you behave, but I’m not sending Mark away. When Charlotte phoned me from the park, I was in such a state, I couldn’t think. So I rang Mark, and yes, he did happen to be nearby, hardly surprising when he doesn’t live far. And I asked him back today – I needed someone to dig a hole, and you weren’t exactly available. Frankly, I couldn’t have done all this without him.’
Tom wasn’t convinced but he knew he had little choice but to accept it. The sound of Moyes’s digging began to irritate him. Each mound of earth dug out seemed to undermine his parental role and emphasised his sense of having been cast out. He hated the thought of standing around watching Moyes diligently digging under the grateful eyes of his wife and daughter. It was like having to call in an expert to fix the simplest DIY task, the humbling effect it had on one’s standing as the ‘man of the house’. It was humiliating and, despite Julie’s warning, Tom wasn’t prepared to have his role undermined. He ambled nonchalantly over to Moyes, who continued digging away. ‘Really, I’ll take over. Please.’
Mark stopped and straightened up, his face glistening with sweat. ‘No, it’s all right, I’m halfway there now.’
He watched as the spade pierced the earth and wondered what he had to do to make Moyes stop. He clenched his fist and tried to contain himself, but the ownership of that spade had taken on a meaning of gigantic proportion. ‘Look, give me that spade.’ Mark shook his head and was about to resume digging when Tom reached out and seized it. Both men stood facing each other, each gripping onto the spade, wanting to yank it out of the other’s hand but restraining themselves for the sake of decency and the fear of looking pathetic in front of Julie. This was primeval men stuff; they both knew it but couldn’t acknowledge it. It was Tom who broke first. Gripping firmly, he jerked it. It was enough to unbalance Moyes who, on being pushed back, stepped into the shallow hole he’d just dug, his leg disappearing half way up to his knee. He slipped and, with arms flailing, landed on his backside on the edge of the hole, his back scraping against the laurel hedge. Witnessing this undignified spectacle, Charlotte turned her back abruptly and, still cradling the blanket, stood facing the opposite direction.
Julie yelled at Tom, ‘Have you not listened to a word I said? For goodness sake, you’re still at it.’ She paused and then, in a quieter voice, added, ‘I think you should leave.’
‘What, me? Or him?’
‘You, Tom. You,’ she said firmly.
Tom looked from Julie to Charlotte, willing her to turn around. He knew he’d behaved like a fool and had overstepped the mark, but he couldn’t help himself. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go.’
‘Yes, I think it would be for the best.’
He placed his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and wondered whether to present her with the earrings he’d bought in St Omer. She made no attempt to shrug his hand off but equally remained firmly rooted to the spot. He decided it wasn’t the time for gifts. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. And I’m sorry about Angus.’ He suddenly realised how much Angus had been part of the family life and how much he was going to miss the old thing. Everything seemed to be slipping away from him. He trudged back across the lawn.
As he reached the outside door to the kitchen, the sound of digging had started again.
*
It had taken a few days to sink in. But now Rachel realised Tom was little better than some of the other losers she had wasted her time on over the years. She never had much luck with men. She could attract them all right; problem was she usually attracted the wrong sort. Adrian was typical. Decent enough but too self-obsessed and not in the slightest bit interested in Abigail. If she wanted to settle down, and she did one day, she needed someone who could make a difference to her and Abigail’s life; she could barely survive on the wages of a part-time job in an antique stall and the occasional odd job. It all started to go wrong the day Abigail’s father upped and left one autumn morning twelve years ago. Abigail had only just been born. He went off to be a roadie for a second-rate rock band and never came back. What a spineless git he turned out to be. Never heard from him again and except for the odd cheque or present, neither did Abigail.
It was late, past one in the morning. She wondered whether to open another bottle of wine; she somehow managed to polish off the first one fairly quickly. She rubbed her eyes; she really ought to go to bed. The music playing gently on the stereo soothed her aching mind. Adrian had lent it to her. Something called I Giorni, according to the CD sleeve, by a composer called Ludovico Einaudi, a solo piano playing lots of gentle arpeggios with sweet, lilting melodies on top. Modern day Satie, she thought to herself. She opened the second bottle of wine and filled her glass. She sat on the floor, rested against the settee, and reached out for her packet of cigarettes. She had stopped smoking two years back but had recently taken up the habit again. She picked up the small silver gun beside her and looked at the reflection of her eyes in the shiny barrel, her finger resting gently on the trigger. She smiled and squeezed. A little flame shot out. She lit her cigarette.
The lighter had been a jokey Christmas present from Tom seventeen years ago. Or was it eighteen years? It was naff of course, it was meant to be. She pulled the trigger again and stared at the flickering flame. It was a day or two after Boxing Day, and she and Tom had gone out for a meal in an Italian restaurant in Islington. Tom had heard good reports about it and indeed, the food was delicious, the atmosphere perfect. He presented her with his tongue-in-cheek present, which was only meant to be a witty extra. What the main present was, delivered before Christmas, Rachel couldn’t remember. But she remembered how the smile on Tom’s face soon disappeared when a guitarist suddenly appeared and circled the tables singing romantic Italian ballads in a flat croaky voice. The man hit upon the couple and sang for their benefit. Tom was mortified and sat there with a fixed grin while Rachel fell into a fit of giggles at s
eeing him so embarrassed. The guitarist in his tight black trousers and frilly white shirt, took their reaction as an endorsement of his playing and subjected them to (what felt like) his whole repertoire. By the end, Tom could barely contain his embarrassment and Rachel’s cheeks were wet with laughter. The man finished with a flurry and then presented Rachel with a single red rose.
Rachel grinned at the memory. She drew on her cigarette and flicked the lighter on and off, on and off. A gun-shaped lighter, a fake red rose and a flat serenader; she had never known such a convergence of naffness in one evening, but equally she had rarely known such an unforgettable one. Arm in arm, they stepped out into the cold night air but the warmth of romantic contentment surged through her every vein. She always remembered that moment, that feeling when everything felt gloriously right and natural. Right there, at that moment, she would have done anything for that man. Anything.
They caught a taxi back to hers and made love. It wasn’t passionate or urgent, it was more exquisite than that, it was soft and gentle, a love of unsurpassed desire and warmth.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 15