Lark song, p.22
Lark Song, page 22
‘Is it you, Daddy? Is it you?’ Sophie, unlike her brothers, had not seen her father for a third of her life, and it was hard to imagine what must have been going through her head at that moment.
The woman who was with him was now at his side, having screeched and whimpered a little. ‘He doesn’t have any children. You’ve made a mistake! This is just a terrible mistake!’
Freya was standing with Sophie now too, and the dread that had spread over the ruins of her happy face would be a hard picture to forget. Her neck was corded. One jittery hand was over her mouth, and the other clutched her daughter to her. Sophie tried to look up at her. ‘If it’s Daddy, why’s he with her and not with us, Mummy?’
Will, who clearly had no doubt whatsoever that this was his father, beard or no beard, was shouting at him now, demanding to know what the fuck was going on. Reuben struggled to get free, but kept his mouth firmly shut. Surprised at his own strength, Duncan held him fast.
‘I think you owe this family an explanation,’ said Duncan, as calmly as he could, but he knew he sounded angry. Angry enough to clamp this man’s other arm behind his back, but he’d only ever seen it done on cop dramas. For a while he seemed to be holding his hand. It was not a slick move.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Reuben, unable to keep quiet any longer, and Jack stared at him in recognition, as if he knew that voice for certain.
‘That’s a question I think we’ll be asking you, Reuben!’ said Duncan, at the same time feeling all his dreams collapse like Freya’s face.
A small crowd had gathered and the stall-holder was explaining what had happened to everyone who would listen. The words inglesi and polizia and tutto rovinato were mentioned a lot, and he hit his forehead with the inside of his wrist. Freya and her children all watched the newborn truth slither out and lie motionless in front of them, but no one said a thing. They watched it as they had watched Gloria’s still lamb, waiting for someone – for Freya – to lick some life into it. But in the end, it was Will who nudged it to its feet.
‘Dad, what the fucking fuck . . . ?’ he said.
‘Yeah, Dad, what the fuck . . . ?’ said Jack.
‘Look,’ said Reuben, almost amiably. ‘This is not what you think.’
Freya, at last, exhaled a voiceless, sarcastic laugh. ‘Not what we think? And what would you like us to think this is? A resurrection?’
Reuben smiled and shook his head. (The gall of the man was incredible.) A crushed strawberry fell out of his hair. ‘The thing is, I’ve no idea what happened to me. One minute I was taking a walk by the river in a game reserve, and the next thing I came to with a head injury in shock somewhere – in a remote village. I lost my memory!’
‘But you remember the game reserve,’ said Duncan calmly, suddenly remembering a piano stool and a trapped doll.
‘I . . . Who are you?’
‘And you just happened to bump into your lover, Tilly. Or is that Matilda? In this remote village? In Africa?’
‘No!’ Tilly looked panicky. ‘No, I’d never met him before!’
A sloppy piece of nectarine slithered from Reuben’s shoulder on to the ground, leaving a snail’s trail of pulpy juice down his leather jacket. And it was at that moment that some penny dropped for Sophie, for at that precise instant she chose to look Tilly squarely in the face and say: ‘Matilda!’
It came out like a reprimand, as though she didn’t believe Matilda was telling the truth, rather than a simple acknowledgement of some distant recognition.
‘You two knew each other before?’ said Freya, incredulous.
‘No! No, of course not!’ said Reuben. ‘I’d never seen Tilly in my life – before the accident.’
‘Daddy!’ And that was all Sophie said – somewhat firmly – and Reuben’s head sunk into his chest.
‘You faked your own death!’ said Jack.
There was a pause that was so potent even the fruit-seller and his colleagues stopped gabbling and looked across. Reuben did not, or could not, look up.
‘You did, didn’t you? You bloody well did!’
‘Fuck you, Dad!’ Will put his arm round Jack. Lorenzo temporarily released a hand and put it comfortingly on Will’s shoulder. Sophie swallowed hard, attentive, alert.
‘I’m not going to explain any more until I see a lawyer.’
‘What?’ said Will. ‘You can’t speak to your children without a lawyer? Fuck you!’
Sophie was crying now, and clinging on to her mother. Hearing her brothers swear so openly must have shocked her. Then, quite suddenly, she turned her head back to her father and said, in the most pitiful sob: ‘I didn’t tell Mummy, I promise! I didn’t!’
‘What?’ Freya was bending down to her, aghast. ‘What didn’t you tell me?’
‘Scusate, signori,’ said the head waiter, who had run out to join them with an air of restrained panic. ‘Non avete pagato!’
Duncan reassured him they would be paying. Don’t worry, they would all be paying.
52
HANDCUFFED AND GUILTY
It was a peculiar kind of torture sitting in an Italian police station with your devastated children, opposite this Matilda woman. And nobody saying a thing, but each finding the polished floor worth looking at. All around them were effusive Italian voices, filling what would have been the most unbearable of silences: a policeman at the counter jabbering down a phone, a trio of women sitting a few seats away, and a giant of a man reeking of aftershave who seemed to be the subject of their wrath.
It wasn’t so much that Matilda was pretty – although she was. She was young and slim with long blonde hair, now tied up in a hasty but elegant topknot. She wore khaki shorts that exposed perfectly tanned and shapely legs in a perfectly casual way. No, it wasn’t any of that. In fact, Freya felt almost sorry for her, obliged as she was to sit diagonally opposite the family she had helped to betray, and who held her under their constant scrutiny. (Not that they all stared at her together. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that only one or two of them at a time would glance over at the opposition, and then look down at their own feet to digest any new observations.) No, what Freya found the most humiliating about this ordeal was the pungent smell of pity exuding from her family and from Duncan. She thought it was overwhelming (although she may have been confusing it with the aftershave). There was something this girl had. She knew they had all seen it. None of them mentioned it, except for Sophie, who pointed it out by whispering in her ear. It was impossible to miss the four-leafed clover key ring dangling from her bag strap, impossible to convey to Duncan that she knew already about her false treasure, that she had thrown away half a dozen of them. She trembled with shame. It oozed out of her like sweat, or maybe with her sweat, because it was inordinately hot and the air-conditioning seemed to be on the blink. She was damp under the arms. She winced as she remembered a stupid past version of herself telling Duncan how unique and precious this gift was, how she wouldn’t take it off even when she and Duncan made love. How hurt he had been. She wanted to lean over, tap the girl on the knee and say, ‘It’s fake. It’s not real gold. He didn’t have it made specially. He gave me one too, and I found a load of them dirt-cheap in a charity shop. He’s conning you too. Don’t waste your time with him. He’s not worth it.’
But she didn’t. She sat and sweated out her degradation until they were seen by the police, and then they were dealt with fairly swiftly, with the help of Lorenzo, who stayed to explain something to a policeman with Duncan for a while after Freya had sat down again. Then Lorenzo (or ‘Renzo’, as Will was already calling him) came back from the police desk and, giving Will the glad eye, said they should all come now to his uncle’s restaurant nearby and eat. Will smiled back – his own eye pretty gladdened. Renzo was inviting them.
Sophie wanted to visit the toilets first, and Renzo found out where they were so that Freya could take her.
She stood against some gleaming cream-coloured tiles while Sophie went into a cubicle. The tiles were cool, and Freya pressed her back and hands against them, as if they might helpfully open a secret door to another world and swallow her up.
As Sophie was washing her hands, Freya asked, ‘So . . . do you . . . ? Do you know Matilda, then?’
Sophie put her hands under the dryer and the noise was hideous. Then she dashed at Freya and sank into her waist, arms wrapped around her.
‘I only met her once. When I was little. I think it was her. She was called Matilda, anyway.’
A coldness rushed through Freya.
‘You met her? Where?’
‘In the house. When I was ill. When they were tupping.’
‘Tupping . . . ?’ She stared at Sophie, for a moment hoping that her daughter didn’t know what this word meant, but its truth landed into a perfect slot. ‘Oh, sweetheart! Oh, my darling little Soph!’ She tried to mask her heavy breaths with kisses. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Even as she asked this, she had a dread of the answer.
‘He told me not to tell you.’
‘Daddy?’
Sophie nodded. ‘He said bad things would happen – and they did! He died! Only . . . he didn’t, did he?’
Freya was crouching in front of her daughter now. ‘Oh, sweetheart!’ She tried to look at Sophie, but Sophie buried her head in Freya’s neck.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy!’ she sobbed. ‘I know I should’ve told you. I know that now. Duncan said I should tell you.’
‘Duncan?’ She drew back, holding Sophie gently by the shoulders. ‘Duncan said that?’
Sophie’s face was blotchy and sad. ‘He was right, wasn’t he? I’m sorry.’
She started to cry again, and Freya held her close, stroking her hair to soothe her but kissing her frantically.
A woman with a very deep tan came in, and Freya got to her feet. She wanted to check her face, but didn’t dare glance in the mirror because she couldn’t bear to see the idiot who would look back at her.
When they returned to the waiting room, Renzo was ready to escort them all to his uncle’s restaurant. Things had been sorted at the police desk. Reuben had to stay in custody, but only because of some details that Duncan had provided. (That Duncan should have provided any details struck Freya as bewildering, and then shocking.) Faking your own death, it seemed, was not a crime. Carrying a fake passport was. As was raising money for a charity that didn’t exist.
53
HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN?
Back at their hotel, the coolness of the elegant air-conditioned rooms seemed to ridicule them. Freya consoled the children as best she could and made sure that Sophie was asleep in the boys’ room before she returned to her own room and took a shower.
When she came out, she saw Duncan sitting on the bed and ignored him. She wrapped the huge white hotel towel tightly around her and combed her wet hair. She did it with jerky, angry strokes. She could see in the mirror that her mouth was set hard, and she looked grim.
Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think the better of it. He came and put his hands on her shoulders from behind and she shook him off, rounding on him suddenly.
‘Don’t! Don’t even think about it!’
Duncan lifted his hands away, high, as if her shoulders had been hot irons. ‘Freya—’
‘How long have you known? Hm? How long?’
She threw the comb across the floor and faced him, a sodden animal with nostrils flared and no idea what she might do next. She felt feral, not responsible for her actions. She had never thrown anything to intentionally break it, but she wanted to now. There was nothing to hand in the minimalist room. She flung open the shutters. The glorious medieval view seemed hideous. The glowing sun was an insult.
‘Freya, I swear, I didn’t know he would be in that café.’
‘But you knew he was alive!’
‘No, I just suspected he might be.’
‘Why? What made you think that?’
‘There was a tickets receipt. I found it in the phrasebook we found when we were clearing stuff out of your house. Two tickets to Italy, for the day after he died. Here.’
She opened her mouth in disbelief and rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. ‘I don’t believe it!’ She walked over to the window, gazing at the piece of paper he’d given her. She stood quietly with her back to him for a while, trying to take in what she saw, remembering the day they cleared the attic together. Then she turned. ‘And you’ve known since then? Since we . . . since . . . ?’
‘No – not quite—’
‘All this time you’ve known – okay, “suspected” – and you didn’t think to tell me! And you knew his charity was fake, and you didn’t tell me that either!’
‘I was going to, but . . . how could I? It would’ve destroyed you.’
‘And I’m not destroyed now?’
He sighed and slumped down on the bed. ‘I got it wrong. I’m so sorry. I got it wrong. I didn’t know what to do. I was going to investigate an address in Rome, just to be certain he wasn’t alive—’
‘Rome? And you were going to take us there! You were going to expose the children to that possibility!’
‘But I didn’t, though! I was torn. I didn’t want to find out he was alive. But then I wondered if I was doing the right thing ignoring it, hoping it would go away. And I thought, what if one day you found out you were a bigamist or something?’
‘A bigamist? Don’t flatter yourself, Duncan Swan! You think I’d marry a man who has put my children through what you just have? Hm?’
‘I didn’t put them through anything – he did! He was the one who lied. He was the one who walked away from his lovely wife and children and faked his own death!’
Her towel dropped off her, and she picked it up and thwacked him with it as hard as she could.
‘Ow.’
‘And how long have you known what he did to Sophie?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t look all innocent with me! She told you she’d seen them having sex together!’
‘Oh, no! Oh God, I swear I didn’t—’
‘She told me! And you told her to tell me! So don’t try and tell me you didn’t know! How much more have you hidden from me?’
‘Oh God! Oh . . .’ He put his hands over his face.
She was breathing deeply, taking in great gulps of air. ‘And you just thought you’d take us all to Italy! What a kind gesture! And I really thought you were doing it for us. I really did.’
‘But I did. It was only afterwards that I got the idea—’
‘Oh, and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy investigating him behind my back. Don’t deny that. Don’t deny you wanted to prove him a bastard—’
‘Freya, he is a bastard. He had sex in front of your daughter. Your little girl. Now at least we can know what’s hurt her. Now we can start to help her properly.’
‘We? We won’t be doing anything. I’m getting the next plane back with my children.’
‘Freya—’
‘You can help me change the flights tomorrow.’
She opened a wardrobe door. The hanging dresses she had carefully selected for the holiday were listening and had the nerve to look indifferent. She grabbed them off their hangers with a great clatter and slapped them on top of her open suitcase. Then she swept into bed and turned her back on him, covering herself carefully with the sheet. She stayed like this as long as she could, until her back ached and she had to turn. Duncan was curled away from her. She thought she could hear faltering breathing, and maybe a sniffle, but she couldn’t be sure.
Where were the clues, then? There were always good things to remember when someone died, and the good things seemed to line up and ask to be counted. Quick! Before we slip out of your memory forever. Think us through carefully. Dwell on us. Celebrate us. Weep for us. She felt as though the protective layer of widowhood had been rudely removed, like cling film, leaving her exposed and open to anything.
She lay in the luxuriously cool cotton sheets next to Duncan, unable to drift off to sleep, unable to touch him. The most telling memories were stacking up like cars in a traffic jam and she knew she would have to release them if she was to stand any chance of getting rid of the buzzing engines clogging her head.
It had been a party. Of course it had been a party. Someone like Freya never met anyone like Reuben in the normal course of events. Sober, he would probably never even have remarked on her. But this was a Halloween party, so it would have been barely halfway through the first term. ‘Tarty Witches and Wizards’ or, as one of her housemates had drily remarked, ‘Wizards and Tarty Witches’. There had been no need for the male students to dress up – apart from the obligatory pointed hat, (although one or two hopefuls had gone off-theme with some quite racy S&M costumes). The witches, on the other hand, were mostly in short skirts and wearing suspenders and very low-cut necklines and push-up bras. Freya had been wearing a black dress and a witch’s hat and felt out of place the moment she walked through the door of the Students’ Union. There was no chance of conversation, since the music was so loud you had to shout. She bought herself a cider with her friends – who soon wandered off – and stood in a corner, inspecting a noticeboard that she couldn’t read in the gloom.
Some long time passed. It was hard to remember quite how it happened: their versions differed. Reuben remembered seeing her across a crowded room and being ‘awe-struck’; she remembered someone pushing him (a girl?) and him falling into her so hard that he spilt her drink down her front. The next thing – they both agreed – he was apologising and patting her front with his hand, as if that would somehow soak up the liquid. He offered to buy her another drink, but she said she was heading off anyway, so would just go back and change.
