The Kind Folk (28 page)

"He simply means your baby's in an incubator," Delia tells him. "It's standard procedure with a premature birth."

"He looks a lot healthier than you did when—" Maurice gestures as though he's miming vagueness if not beckoning to it, then finds he can be clearer. "When they had you in a display case."

"There's the thing with his hands," says Freda.

Luke is even more reluctant to learn "What thing?"

"You'd think he was trying to make shapes with them like you used to, Luke. He started nearly as soon as he was born."

"It's a positive sign," Delia says. "The doctor said it shows his strength."

The window in the door of the ward has set about resembling a framed portrait of the head and shoulders of a nurse. "My grandson's father is here," Ambrose tells the intercom.

"Luke Arnold," Delia contributes, which appears to prompt Freda to say "Wash your hands, Luke."

"We all have to, son," says Maurice.

The nurse opens the door and indicates a hand gel dispenser on the wall. Once Luke has used it, reflecting that it can't wash away his nature, she says "Follow me, Luke."

The extensive ward is full of incubators and a chorus of wails, mostly feeble and thin. Parents or other visitors are standing by many of the transparent containers with newborn babies inside, but he can't see Sophie. That's yet another excuse for his mouth to grow drier as he's ushered across the ward. He wonders if he can at least be grateful that she isn't near a door or window when he finds her seated beside an incubator.

She looks exhausted and a little tearful, but contented too. "Here he is, Sophie," the nurse says. "Another one delivered safe."

Sophie gives Luke a radiant smile that almost manages not to waver. When he stands by her she puts an arm around his waist, and by the strength of her embrace he knows not to hold her too hard. She rests a hand on his, close to her heart, as she gazes into the incubator. "There's our Maurice," she murmurs.

He seems to be asleep. He has a chubby body and a wizened reddish face, which Luke could imagine is betraying an age far in excess of its few hours. He's lying on his back with his tiny fists loosely clenched. At least this seems normal—other babies are doing so—and Luke is also able to take comfort from observing that the baby has a long nose like Sophie's. The more their child takes after her, the better. He's looking for other similarities when she says "Was he worth coming home for?"

"As much as you are," Luke assures her, and the baby gazes at him.

For a moment he's convinced that their child is about to lift his arms and stretch his fingers wide in the sign of the Folk, but the little body doesn't stir except to swell its chest with a vigorous breath. It expels what Luke could easily take for a contented sigh, and the eyes, which are as blue as Sophie's, close once more. "I think he knows you're here," she says.

She imagines she's being fanciful, but Luke wonders how close she has come to the truth. It's partly to fend off the notion that he says "I wish I had been sooner. I even had to wait when I got here. The lifts had broken down."

"More likely they were locked down. It's part of testing the security system to make sure nobody's baby is stolen. It's worth the trouble if it does that, don't you think?"

Luke hears her believing not just that she and their baby will be kept safe but that everything is normal. He isn't even sure she's right about the lifts, never mind that it was hospital procedure. What kind of voice did he hear behind him in the corridor? Might the voice from the lift have been equally suspect? Perhaps he and the hospital fell for a prank designed to show him how vulnerable they are. The thought has silenced him when Sophie rises to her feet, using him for support. "We'll have to step out for a little while," she says. "They're on their rounds."

A number of consultants are advancing through the ward, examining the monitors above the incubators or reaching through portholes in the plastic to examine the babies more closely. "Don't worry," Sophie murmurs, "it's routine," and Luke supposes he ought to be grateful that she has no idea why he's lingering by the incubator. His reluctance to leave their child alone for even a moment feels like the start of the rest of his life.

HE SPEAKS

"Folk."

"Is that your favourite place now, the park? All right, mummy will take you this afternoon."

"Folk."

"We won't go just yet. Doesn't Maurice want to finish his lunch first? We'll go after we've said goodbye to daddy."

"Folk."

"You don't want daddy to go, do you? You're just saying that's what he has to do. He'll go and pretend to be lots of people and then he'll come home to us tomorrow."

"Folk."

"Home, that's right. Soon we'll have a new one now that daddy's sold his little house, and Maurice will have a garden all of his own."

"Folk."

"Own, yes. That means it's Maurice's for him and his friends to play in."

"Folk."

"And walk about in, absolutely right. Maurice can nearly walk by himself, can't he? What time do you think you'll be home, Luke?"

"Folk."

"Yes, that's daddy's name. Sorry, Luke, what did you say?"

"As soon as I can be. Well before dark."

"Folk."

"Dark, that's when the night comes, but we don't mind even when daddy's not here, do we? So don't go rushing, Luke. Are you going to show daddy you can eat up all your food before he goes, Maurice?"

"Kind Folk."

"That's what it is, your food. Did you hear, Luke? He said it was his food as clear as anything."

"He's coming on all right."

"Does Maurice think that's funny? I wonder if you're going to be a comedian like your daddy. You certainly love to perform. Now are you going to perform eating up a little bit more?"

"Folk."

"No? Oh dear, you've learned that word early, haven't you? I wonder how often I'll be hearing it while you're away, Luke."

"Folk."

"Well, you do like saying your daddy's name. Let's give that face a wipe if you're really sure you've finished and then he can have a goodbye kiss."

"Folk."

"No to that as well? Only to goodbye, I hope, not to a kiss. It just has to be dark and then daddy will come back to us, and you'll forget he was ever away. Now here comes the wipe."

"Kind Folk."

"Your face, that's whose it is and nobody else's. Oh, what a face to make. Daddy wants a nice clean face to kiss."

"Folk."

"You aren't going to say no to everything, Maurice, are you? Ah, what do you want now? You see, he's doing that thing with his hands again, Luke. I know the doctor says he should grow out of it."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure he will. Look, I'd better be on my way. I want to be there in plenty of time."

"I'll bring him to see you off, then. Are you still after something, Maurice? Don't just reach like that, you'll hurt your fingers. Try and say what you want. I really think the doctor's right and it's frustration, Luke."

"Reaching to grow up, he said."

"Folk."

"Grow, Maurice, yes. That's what you're doing. Do you think he could know, Luke?"

"Folk."

"Know, yes. Maurice is doing so much of that we can hardly keep up. Now are you going to tell us what you want? Juice, of course it is. Silly mummy should have known."

"Folk."

"Known. That's like know when you've done it. What's the matter, Luke?"

"Just, just I really think I need to be off. You're the one who doesn't like me rushing."

"You bring your juice while we wave goodbye to daddy. See, you can say it. You show him you can."

Luke hurries down the corridor ahead of them but has to linger as Sophie leads the toddler after him by the hand. Maurice stumbles a few times, though he's already walking everywhere in the apartment with the support of whatever's convenient. When he and his mother reach the doorway Luke picks him up for a farewell hug.

The boy is plump but lithe and firm. He might never have been in an incubator nearly eight months ago. "Look after mummy," Luke murmurs, at least as much a reassurance to himself as any kind of admonition. Sophie takes the child from him, and Luke embraces her as well, more fiercely than he could risk at the hospital. "I'll call you later," he promises, which is meant to comfort him as well. At the landing he turns to exchange waves with her and their child, and then he hurries downstairs, trying to put some of the sight out of his mind.

It isn't just the suit that covers Maurice from his neck to his toes, leaving only his head and hands free, even though the blue fabric swarms with winged fairies out of a Victorian picture book. Sophie's mother bought it, and Luke couldn't object without making his reason all too clear. Worse, as Maurice waved to him the toddler stretched his fingers unnecessarily wide, and Luke hopes Sophie didn't notice. Perhaps her interpretations of Maurice's words were accurate, all of them, and Luke was only hearing what he was afraid to hear. Perhaps Sophie was right, and the boy kept talking about juice. He didn't really call his father Lucius.

Luke knows it's too easy to be skeptical. It could almost be another trap set by the Folk, to help them go unnoticed until they're ready to make themselves known. While he hasn't seen them since Maurice was born, they feel as imminent as a storm that has loomed over him throughout the winter. It was worst at Christmas, when the fairy that the Arnolds perched on top of their tree became Maurice's first word, which he repeated for hours on end. There's no use in blaming the Arnolds or the Drews, however, or even the Folk. Luke has to acknowledge that the greatest threat to his son may be himself.

He felt bad enough just now, but it's far worse when he's alone with little Maurice. Luke is constantly alert for the child to betray his ancestry, and he's afraid that his very alertness may draw it forth. Maurice's precociousness is a sign of it, and how long before that attracts the Folk to reclaim their prize? It's partly the fear of waiting too long to prevent their intervention that has sent Luke away now. He has to believe he isn't putting Sophie and their child at risk by leaving them on their own; he might endanger them more by lingering. He'll be happy to think those aren't just the echoes of his footsteps that clatter thinly after him down to his car.

As soon as he's out of the city he sees the landscape growing greener. He wants to trust the promise of renewal—to accept the world as it appears to be and relinquish his sense of ancient presences slumbering beneath, dreaming of their own revival. He's far too conscious of one at the heart of the city, deep in the imperfectly drained pool the streets are built on. How can he be unaware that the surface of the world is an illusion when he's pretending himself? He isn't even bound where Sophie thinks he's going; he cancelled the engagement weeks ago. He told the management that he had to attend a funeral, which felt altogether too much like wishing somebody dead. He gave his mobile number in case anyone needed to contact him, but ever since then he has been nervous that they'll call while Sophie can overhear. So long as she believes in him, he could think he's giving his best performance. All the same, he vows that it's the last time he will ever he to her. He has to achieve his goal tonight, and then there will be no need.

The motorways take him south towards the theatre that booked him. Hours later he turns west into Wales. A motorway imitates the meandering of the coast but gives out well before he's in sight of his destination. A more tortuous road stays closer to the cliffs as it winds towards the Celtic Sea. It shows him Hafan Lanwisel between the land and the empty apron of the horizon, and he keeps glimpsing the islet through hedges and tall grass on his way to the closest point. He's hoping to leave the car by the path down to the beach, but the area doesn't look too secure; he can do without returning from his task to find the car broken into or vandalised. He drives to the next village, where he leaves it in a car park overlooked by a Celtic cross, then walks the couple of miles back along the cliff.

The path along the edge keeps Hafan Lanwisel in sight and shows him the causeway that connects it to the stony beach. The tiny island and the equally black trail of glistening rocks that extends from the land put him in mind of a half-buried serpent basking in the April sun. While the name doesn't appear in Terence's journal, Luke wonders if the site could be related to Terence's story of an islet somewhere off the Welsh coast. Anyone who ventured to be marooned on the rock at high tide would be granted a vision if they found the right words to address whatever rose up from the depths around them "at midnight of the full moon". Luke can do without a vision, and he would be happy not to have to wait for midnight. The only words he needs are the ones that will summon the Folk.

The path almost hidden by grass at the edge of the cliff is steep and not too solid. There are no obvious footholds, which suggests that it hasn't been used for some time. Perhaps only the most adventurous would risk the hundred-foot scramble that ends on sharp chunks of rock. Luke slithers almost helplessly down more than one stretch and barely manages to stop short of a viciously pointed rock by grabbing the tough weeds on either side of the path. Someone has abandoned a crooked staff at the bottom, propping it against the cliff, unless it fell there and lodged in a rocky niche. Luke grasps it and picks his way across the beach.

The causeway is natural; at least, it isn't manmade. It's composed of rocks no more regular than the multitude that make up the beach. They're fringed with dripping weeds and encrusted with shells like symptoms of a marine disease. The sea leaps up around them, spattering them darker. Almost as soon as he steps out from the beach the water is too deep for him to sound with the stick. If he doesn't hurry, the causeway will be underwater before he reaches Hafan Lanwisel.

The route is longer than it appeared to be—it's nearly half a mile long. He has to support himself with the stick on the uneven treacherous rocks. Surely the island will reward his efforts, though it's scarcely a hundred yards wide at its lowest visible section, which is taller than he is and glistening with shells and seaweed. Above them it slopes sharply to a flatfish grassy summit less than half the width of the base. Luke has to plant the staff among the weeds and lever himself up with both hands on it. He only just locates a foothold on the shells that lets him lurch onto a firmer surface above the weeds. He tramps to the summit and gazes around him.