The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (6 page)

‘Yes, the baby,’ said Carmela. ‘But who is it really? Who is he or she, in his or her heart? Does she already have a soul? Who are you, little one?’

Nico clearly had no interest in the soul of someone he couldn’t yet see. He yanked at the Jeep, which made Carmela clutch her head.

‘Ouch!’ she cried. ‘What’s going on?’

Simon took a closer look at the Jeep, and wanted to laugh. ‘It’s stuck in your hair.’

‘Can’t you free it?’

‘Um . . . Your hair’s completely tangled around the mechanism. Hang on, hold still . . .’ Gently, he tried to unravel the knots. It was hopeless. ‘No, I’m sorry. Might have to cut it out.’

Nico giggled. ‘You’ll just have to be a mummy with a car on her head.’

‘A car on my head, and soon there will be baby vomit down my back,’ lamented Carmela. ‘How are the mighty fallen.’

Six

Luke

Broken guttering. I needed to fix that. I slumped sightless at the table, battered by the staccato drumming of water.

Why had I allowed a stranger on a train to change my mind?
Why?
I’d known what was right. I’d seen the honourable course. Eilish would have been a widow by now, respectable and dignified and financially set for life. The last instalments of the mortgages had been paid on both this house and Thurso Lane. There was a pension. She would have mourned, and then she would have coped. She would still love me.

The phone on the kitchen wall was ringing.

Rain and darkness. I was back outside the flat. The key turned, and the door opened. Peace waited for me, just a few steps away; but Eilish was standing among the roses, and I didn’t want to leave her.

Then I’d slammed the door shut again, and I was running. I was running from death. I staggered up the steps, along Thurso Lane and onto the main road. Here, floodwater rushed along the gutter, bubbling in a murky wave before surging down a drain. I fell face down on the kerb and began to push my keys through the grating of the drain.

Really?
screamed The Thought.
You really want to carry on?
The suffering’s only just begun, buddy.

The keys were through. I felt the current snatch at them. I hesitated for one last moment, and then released my grip.

They were gone. They were gone, and so was my promise of peace. The rain seemed to pause in astonishment, then pelted more violently than ever. I don’t know how long I lay on the wet pavement. I do remember how that gushing stream glowed red, orange and green in the reflection of the traffic lights.

Much, much later, a night bus disgorged a group of partygoers. I heard them trooping along the footpath. They were singing in raucous alcohol-fuelled voices. When they came close to me, the singing stopped.

‘Taking a nap, mate?’ yelled a male voice.

I didn’t answer.

‘Pissed to bits,’ declared another. ‘Go home, Grandad, you could drown down there.’

I rolled over, and onto my knees. I felt profoundly tired, as though I’d never stand up again. One of them—a girl—tottered closer to me. She wasn’t walking in a very straight line.

‘You’re crying.’ Her voice was slurred.

‘Just a bit,’ I said.

‘Why’re you crying?’

‘Because I’m very, very frightened.’

She leaned down, swaying on her stiletto heels, peering into my face. The others lost interest and began to drift away.

‘What’re you so shit-scared of?’ she asked.

She was about Kate’s age. A kind girl, probably. I didn’t want to spoil her night out. I managed to smile at her.

‘I’m shit-scared,’ I said, ‘because I’ve decided to live.’

The phone had stopped ringing. The kitchen was silent for a moment, and then our answering machine clicked into action.

‘Eilish? It’s me.’ I recognised the voice of Stella Marriot, a very old friend of Eilish’s. ‘Um, I’m just off to Cornwall as planned,
got to show some interest in this new granddaughter, but look . . . I forgot to ask if you’d feed the bloody cat. Would you, Eilish? The usual routine. Oh blast, the alarm code’s been changed; hang on, let me check, yes . . . it’s one-four-one-four. Got that? Fourteen-fourteen. Thank you, darling. Perhaps you young things could both come over when I get back? Ages since I had more than a fleeting glimpse of Luke. Works too hard. Time he slowed down, he must be important enough by now! Come for supper, I’ll poison you both with my new Thai cookery skills. Okay? Right, better get going, it’s a hellish drive down there . . . bye.’

No, I thought. I don’t think we could come for supper. I don’t think Eilish and Luke exist as an entity any longer.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Kate’s voice. Listening to my daughter was far, far worse.

‘Anyone there? Mum . . . Mum? Can you pick up the phone, please? Okay, you’re obviously out gallivanting . . . I was wondering if you’d heard from Dad. I thought we could take the same train but he’s switched his phone off or something. I can’t get hold of him.’ A sigh. ‘Okay. Well, can you call me if you get this?’

I stood up, intending to look for Eilish. We’d taken care of each other through every crisis in our lives. This was another one. I’d reached the stairs when she appeared on the gallery above me. She was wearing a bright, summery dress. I knew it well. In fact—and I’m not proud of this—I’d tried it on several times, but it didn’t do anything for me. It looked much better on her. Not today, though. By contrast with its vivid flowers her face was pallid, the freckles standing out unnaturally. Her mouth seemed weighted down at the corners. Her hair wasn’t brushed, and it frizzed around her head.

‘No,’ she said, stopping me with a raised hand. ‘Don’t come up.’

‘Eilish, I—’

‘And don’t say any more—not to me, not to anyone. I don’t want to hear a word of this . . . this absurdity. There’s a lot to do. Kate’s arriving sometime today, and tomorrow your mother and
Simon and Carmela and Nico and Wendy, and they’re all going to be—’ She broke off.

The tree-planting. Of course
. ‘I’d forgotten,’ I said.

‘Had you?’ She began to walk down the stairs. Her steps seemed steady, but I saw how she gripped the rails on both sides.

‘I think you should talk to someone,’ I said. ‘What about Stella? She’s off to Cornwall—just left a message about the cat—but she won’t have gone yet. She’ll come round. I don’t mind if you tell her.’

‘No.’

She stepped around me, careful to avoid any accidental contact. She was in survival mode. I’d seen it before, when we lost Charlotte. In those first terrible hours we sat in the bedroom, holding our baby—now dressed in the stripey suit we’d so happily bought for her—weeping until we had no more tears. It felt as though Eilish and I were one person: one grieving, shattered person. Then Charlotte was taken away for an autopsy, and Eilish insisted on getting out of bed and putting on her clothes. She said she had a funeral to arrange and it was bloody well going to be a good one. She faced the world, though the world did not expect her to.

On the day of the funeral I looked like a scarecrow. My eyes were bloodshot, my suit crumpled. I’d cut myself shaving. But Eilish was beautifully turned out in navy linen, her hair in an immaculate French pleat, her face closed and rigid. She never noticed, and nobody mentioned, that her shoes weren’t a pair. One was a blue court shoe, the other a sandal. I admired her even more, because those mismatched shoes were a window onto her courage.

She had that same closed look now, as she opened the chest freezer and began hauling things out of it.

‘This can’t just be ignored,’ I said. ‘You must have a thousand questions, and we have decisions to make. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything to make this easier for you. I’ll leave immediately, if you want.’

‘Sleep in the study tonight, will you? Tell the children you have a cold.’ She was piling the contents of the freezer onto the bench top; piling things up, higher and higher and higher in a tottering pile, without even looking at them.

‘Please stop!’ I implored her. ‘Let’s cancel the family. It’s only planting a tree for Dad. We can tell them we’ve gone down with flu.’

‘Please don’t mention this thing again.’

I was baffled. ‘What, never?’

‘Not until after tomorrow.’

‘But it’s going to be impossible—’

‘No, Luke!’ She slammed the freezer lid. ‘No. I’m asking you to let me keep my dignity for another forty-eight hours. My
dignity
. For pity’s sake, is that so much to ask?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything.’

I watched as she took a kitchen knife and slit the wrapping off a frozen leg of lamb. Her movements were quick and jerky.

‘I think you’re deluded,’ she said savagely. ‘Perhaps by tomorrow you’ll have found your sanity again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and get Kate’s room ready.’

‘Can I help?’

She shook her head and disappeared upstairs. I wandered into the study. It was tidy; unnaturally tidy, because I hadn’t intended to return to it. There were no sticky notes on the filing cabinet, no chaotic piles on my desk. In the top drawer lay a sheet of paper with notes for my executors. There was also a list of everything Eilish might need to know: my online passwords, the location of the stopcock in the flat, the addresses of everyone I wanted to be informed. I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood with no purpose, in a future I hadn’t expected to see. I was an impostor in my own life. Through the window I could see Gareth trudging, his head bent under the rain, as he moved cattle out of the sloping field. He’d be calling to his animals, and they would follow him through the gate in the thick hedgerow
because they trusted him; which was ironic, really, as some of them were going to end up in our freezer. Lucky Gareth. He had a perpetually happy girlfriend, and his own small son ran around the farm with him at weekends and on holidays. Rain ruined his haymaking some years, and his tractor was always breaking down, but Gareth knew who he was. He fitted his boots and overalls. Always had, always would.

The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up without thinking.

‘Dad!’

The sound of Kate’s voice made my breath catch. I was glad to be here, talking to her, after all. I was glad she hadn’t just lost her father.

‘Hello there,’ I said. ‘Welcome back to Blighty.’

‘Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’m after a Dad-hug.’

I smiled. She used to get Dad-hugs when she was tiny and skinned her knee, when her schoolfriends were bitchy, or when she woke in the night and screamed at the sight of a face at her window. The first few times this had happened, I crept outside with a cricket bat in one hand and the other clutching my pyjama bottoms. Finally we worked out that the culprit was the full moon.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Owen turned out to be a complete knob. He had a one-night shagathon with a slapper called Gwen, just before I went to Israel. And
then
—check this, Dad—he claimed it was all my fault because I made him feel insecure!’

‘No! What a . . . um, complete knob.’

‘Exactly. So I cut a few pieces out of his favourite shirt. You know, the mushy-pea-coloured one. Fake satin.’

‘You did
what
?’

‘Dolly shapes, all holding hands. So that when he put it on he’d have dancing ladies across his chest. Very arty, very tasteful. I never liked that shirt.’

I was astonished to feel an explosion of laughter in my chest. My marriage was over, and maybe my life too . . . yet somehow I
could still appreciate the image of Owen with dolly shapes across his irritating shiny front. Funny thing, human resilience.

‘You vandal,’ I said.

‘I thought that was pretty mild, in the circumstances.’

‘I suppose you could have mutilated things that would have caused him more pain.’

‘Exactly!’ Her laugh was wicked. ‘Then I went on the dig, and I thought we’d make it up—because for God’s sake, Dad, we’ve been together two years—and guess what he’s done? Cleared out my bank account! Reckons he’s owed for rent and vet’s bills and damage to his frigging shirt.’

‘The man’s a cad. D’you want me to call him out?’

‘My champion! Yes, please, call him out and run him through. Or you could just collect me from the station at half-past one.’

The house seemed to echo after she’d rung off. No sounds at all. Suddenly anxious, I climbed the stairs and looked into Kate’s room. The bed was made, the pillows plumped, bath towels folded at one end. Books and ornaments on the shelves had been straightened. It took me a moment to spot Eilish, sitting in the rocking chair by the window. Her eyes were shut, and she was hugging Kate’s polar bear—Mr Polington—in both arms. As I hesitated, a gasping sob burst out of her, quickly smothered when she pressed her face into the bear’s soft flank.

I crept away. I had shattered that brave woman’s life. The least I could do was let her grieve unwatched.