A Place for Us (18 page)

Lucy

T
HE DOORBELL RANG,
ferociously, at 7:00 a.m. Lucy tried to ignore it, as she did most mornings; then she sighed and let out a low growl of irritation, rolled out of bed, and stamped down the hall. The rain had stopped, and as she opened the door a sharp wintry breeze flew into the damp flat.

“Package.” The grim-faced courier held out a box and a tiny BlackBerry, screen hopelessly scratched. “Please sign.” Lucy drew a straight line, wondering if there was a piece to be written about signatures on courier deliveries, because she’d never once managed to sign something on one of the screens that even closely approximated her name. The courier walked away without a word—they always acted as though she’d kept them waiting ten minutes, not ten seconds—and Lucy slammed the door, slightly louder than she should have.

“Post for you, Irene,” she growled, throwing the box outside her flatmate’s closed door. Irene was an obsessive eBayer and at least once a day, usually more often, some piece of vintage fashion would arrive in Amhurst Road, ready to be exclaimed over, photographed, blogged about. Lucy really didn’t understand how Irene could afford any of it, but she didn’t want to be hauled away to prison as an accessory to identity fraud so she assumed a position of
ask no questions
, and longed for the day when she had a place of her own.

Lucy started making herself some coffee, then remembered she was trying not to drink coffee because of that article she’d read about how every cup shortened your life by 3.5 minutes. So she made herself some hot water with a slice of lemon, which was what Lara had at the start of each day, as she liked to inform the office in her blaring foghorn voice.
“It’s amazing, it’s really cleansing. It means you’re not hungry for breakfast.”

She said it every morning.

The flat was on the ground floor of a chilly Victorian house in the heart of Hackney. Lucy’s room was much bigger than Irene’s, and soon after Lucy moved in she’d understood why Irene had chosen the other. Lucy’s was freezing, even in summer. It faced northeast and the sun never quite reached the huge, draft-magnetic, grimy gray bay window. It smelled vaguely of cats and damp; Irene’s room, however, smelled of cleaning products, plastic synthetic packaging materials, and Gucci Envy.

Snuggling back under the still-warm duvet with her hot water and lemon, Lucy pulled her laptop up onto the bed and waited for it to power up, gazing vacantly at the black screen. She wished she could shake this feeling of dread that seemed to have settled on her lately, like a cloud somewhere just above her head. She couldn’t work out what was causing it.

It wasn’t just the foreboding she felt when she thought about Gran’s invitation, or her wild, panicked eyes when Lucy had asked her about that damned article. She wished she’d never mentioned it to Deborah. It wasn’t just Southpaw’s frail face and swollen hands, either. This time tomorrow she’d be in her dad and Karen’s house. Karen would have bought croissants from Marks & Spencer. Dad would have something to show her; he always did. Some funny book, some article from a newspaper he’d cut out. And Karen . . . she’d be there, sipping coffee, just . . . staring at them.

It was always the same; but the last time she’d been back, nearly two weeks ago, she’d
known
something was going on between them. Was it true? Had Dad found something out? Karen was snappy, not eating anything. Dad was behaving strangely too. That kind, friendly, Dad-style jollity she knew so well was turned up several notches. He only did that when he was feeling panicked: the more worried he was, the more sprightly he became. She’d lived with it for years. As a child, Lucy had always known if her mother was particularly bonkers or feeling spiteful when she got up in the morning. Dad would be making French toast in the kitchen, singing Gilbert and Sullivan at the top of his voice.
Everything’s fine here! Nothing to see!

“So, all was good up at Winterfold,” Lucy had said. “Gran says the preparations are going well. She’s polished all the silver.”

“Oh, yes!” Dad had said. “More coffee, Karen? The party, hey! It’s going to be great.”

Karen had looked up from her magazine. “No, thanks.” She’d pushed her plate away, the croissant virtually untouched. “I’m not feeling that well, actually.”

“Oh dear,” Bill had said, and then, “Poor old thing. You’ve been working so hard lately, haven’t you?”

Lucy saw her father watching Karen, and she didn’t quite understand the look in his eyes, and was discomfited. “Yes, much too hard,” Karen said. She arched her back and stood up, then said, too casually, “I keep meaning to tell you, by the way. I’ll be at the lunch, of course, but the drinks on the Friday night—I’m not sure I’ll be able to make them. There’s a conference call with the States at six thirty that day—”

“Oh, no!” Lucy, ever the Pollyanna, cried. “Can’t you tell them it’s important?”

Karen was standing in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes, then looked over at her husband. “I have, several times. Rick won’t listen. I’ll be there the next day.”

“But how sad you have to miss the drinks—those parties of Gran and Southpaw’s are the best,” said Lucy, who literally could imagine nothing better than a family gathering at Winterfold, the house full of people and light and laughter.

Her father said nothing throughout this. Then he got up too, went over to the sink, and rinsed out the cafetière. “That’s a real shame, Karen,” he said, and started humming.

And I am
right and you are right and all is right as right can be!

•   •   •

Lucy took a sip of her hot water, grimacing. The lemon was bitter, the water lukewarm in the chill of her room. The truth was, she couldn’t bear the idea of upsetting her dad. He’d been like a sad old dog after he split up with her mum, padding around his new house in the village in his slippers, trying to invite people over for weird things like Korean barbecue night. Karen had been good for him. And—Lucy forced herself to admit it—she liked her.

Karen was fun, when she didn’t have that awkward look in her eyes. She liked
X Factor
and popcorn films; she could recite
The Proposal
and
The Holiday
off by heart but, like Lucy, she hated
Love Actually
, said it was way too saccharine, which was exactly what Lucy thought. And she was so clever, she had this amazing job. Lucy had once heard her on the phone to her boss, and Karen had said about fifteen things Lucy didn’t even understand as sentences, let alone pieces of actual information. She’d been good for Dad. She’d relaxed him, while Lucy’s mother, Clare, had wound him up with her intense moodiness and obsession with fads: tai chi, womb rebirth, Bikram yoga. Lucy had grown up with it and she’d seen how hard it was for him. Karen didn’t take, take, take all the time, she just let him be himself; and in the beginning you could tell she just thought he was wonderful, looked at him like he was the voice of wisdom. Lucy sometimes felt Dad labored under a yoke of Winter-ishness. Pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t, keeping the mood of the room upbeat, happy, when it wasn’t. He wanted the approval of his parents more than anything, and because he was nearby, handy, undramatic, he never seemed to get it. Which was stupid, Lucy thought. He was the best dad ever, and he was an amazing doctor, nothing too trivial for him. He cared about people: look at old Mr. Dill’s housemaid’s knee, which had got so bad he couldn’t walk. Dad went and saw him every day for two weeks and took him soup and just let him talk. Or Joe Thorne’s finger: Joe had told Lucy in the pub last week that he’d have lost it, if it wasn’t for her dad. No career, nothing. He’d saved that awful man Gerald Lang’s life at the disastrous summer party, which had passed into Winter folklore. And there was the time he waded into the river and pulled out Tugie, Gran and Southpaw’s final dog, who was obsessed with finding otters, while Lucy and Lucy’s then boyfriend, Tom, just looked on blankly.

Tom said afterward, “I would have gone in but I really didn’t want to cramp your dad’s style. I think he needed that.”

Yeah, right,
Lucy had wanted to say.
You’re a twenty-five-year-old ex-rower who runs every day. My dad is nearing fifty and his knees click when he walks. Sure, that was really nice of you.

Oh, why hadn’t she done anything?

A sound along the corridor, of creaking floorboards and mewling, suggested Irene was awake and about to come out to feed Chairman Miaow. Lucy snapped out of her reverie, looking around her. It was seven thirty-two. She ought to get up, get in the shower first, be at work early,
ahead of the game, so when Deborah asked her for the fourth time what was happening with that article about Southpaw, she’d be able to say, “I’m sorry. I still need to dig around a little more. Work out what angle to take. But I’ve had this idea for a piece on the Kardashians. The Oscars. Rihanna. Jennifer Aniston and her secret heartbreak.”

She’d rung her grandmother and told her she wasn’t going to do it anymore, and she’d meant it. Lucy’s conversation with Cat had shaken her, not just because Cat was so . . . vicious. It was more than that. For the last few weeks Lucy had been buying time so she could decide whether she really should just give up the whole thing or carry on digging a little further, for her own sake, if no one else’s. Even if she never showed the article to another living soul, she felt she had to write it: because something wasn’t right, that was for sure.

She scrolled quickly through her e-mails. The usual morning inbox junk. Discounts from the Outnet, celebrity gossip updates, a new pub around the corner from her was opening a microbrewery called the Dalston Hopster—even Lucy could see that the lack of irony in that was almost appalling.

She almost missed the e-mail from her mother, sent late the previous night, and Lucy’s shoulders tensed in anticipation as she opened it.

Hi Darling

I’m off to India tomorrow, just to remind you. I find it hard to be in the country with the celebrations taking place this weekend. I feel excluded by your grandparents. This is a source of sadness to me.

In answer to your question, I have been in touch with Daisy myself. I wanted some advice on traveling alone, especially through Delhi. I have tried to contact her several times with no reply. I did remember, however, that she used another name when she went to Kerala: Daisy Doolan. Read this because even though it’s four years old I think it is very interesting.

https://bitly.com/perssonch

She didn’t tell your grandparents she’d been booted out, did she? What’s happened to her, then? I’ll let you know if she replies.

I’m away until the week before Christmas. Raymond has my schedule and the details of the ashram if you need to contact me in an emergency. Take care, darling, be well, be full of light and love.

Clare xx

Who was Raymond? Typical Mum. Lucy clicked on the link, and as she read slowly, her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped.

“No,” she said to herself. “She wouldn’t do that. That’s not right.”

Charity worker fired, sent home in disgrace

Local residents profess themselves shocked and saddened by the exit from the Sunshine Children’s School of Daisy Doolan from the United Kingdom, who has done so much to aid school attendance and prosperity in this area and was rewarded only recently with a medal from the mayor (see picture). In 1983 when Miss Doolan arrived in Cherthala, literacy was already high but attendance was low and poverty was great. She raised 2 million rupees toward the building of the new school for girls and, as we know, five pupils have gone on to Bombay University to study a diverse range of subjects. Miss Doolan is said by the school’s principal to have been embezzling money up to the sum of 1 million rupees over five years. She has been dismissed and police are anxious to trace her whereabouts. One colleague said she had left and gone back to England.

Cat

B
Y
F
RIDAY, IT
felt as though she had been at home for months. Had she really been away all that time? The only difference was that first night in the upstairs bathroom, unchanged after all these years, same William Morris peacock wallpaper, same pig-shaped tooth mug, handle missing. Same carpet, same dust-encrusted bottles of ancient Body Shop Ice Blue Shampoo and Grapefruit Shower Gel. She’d stared at her reflection, tired, strung-out after a long day, and nearly screamed at the truth that only old, familiar mirrors give you. She’d thought:
I look like her. I look
exactly
like her.

That first night, Cat slept as though she’d been drugged; Luke too. It was the first night they’d been in different rooms, and she was still worried that the cut on his head might wake him up; but the thought of putting him into his own room—that alone made coming home worthwhile. When she checked on him, he was fast asleep, arms flung outward as if he was running to hug someone, duvet tangled around his feet, cheeks flushed.

It was so strange, how easy it was to slip back into life here. As if it had been waiting for her, and her son, to come back into it. Easy, and terrifying at the same time. Had she changed? Was she a different person? Were they? She couldn’t help asking herself this, as the day of the birthday lunch grew nearer, and then it was Friday.

“Apples, milk for Luke, trash bags. I’ll be home in time for lunch. Luke?” She looked around. “Luke?”

“He’s with Southpaw.” Florence appeared in the kitchen, where Cat and her grandmother were sitting, and poured herself some more coffee. “They’re making something together. They’re covered in paint.” She shrugged. “It looks like a dragon.”

Cat stood up. “It’s so great. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s shy around men.”

“Your grandfather is a childish man in many ways,” Martha said, smiling. She stood up slowly. “Get some lemons, will you? Oh, and can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.” Cat hunted around in her purse, hoping against hope she might find some more English money in there.

“Can you pop into the Oak Tree and tell Joe I’ve found the extra champagne glasses in the attic and he doesn’t need to bring any more up?”

“Oh, right. Sure.”

If Martha registered Cat’s hesitation, she didn’t comment. She reached for a chocolate biscuit. “Have this, darling, you’re far too thin. Take your time. Lunch is all ready and Luke’s fine.”

As she strode away from the house, down the hill to the village, Cat swung her arms in front of her, breathing in the damp, mulchy air. Luke
was
fine, in fact more than fine. Since he’d been here he hadn’t stopped talking, a sort of French-English babble that he sang to himself as he ran around the sitting room, picking books off the shelves that lined the walls, asking Southpaw a hundred questions. His great-aunt Florence, too—he seemed fascinated by her and what she knew about things. “Why is your hair so messy?” he’d asked—only he said “
messeee
”—the night before at dinner, and Florence had simply thrown her head back and roared with laughter.

Recalling it now, his pleasure at Florence’s glee, the whole family together and the lightness of it, how silly it was, gave Cat a sharp pain in her chest. No matter how often she said to herself, “It’s just for the weekend, enjoy it,” she knew now that one of the reasons she’d never wanted to come back was simply that a part of her had always known she’d find it almost impossible, once she was here, to leave again.

To have been that person in Paris with that life seemed unreal, out here on this beautiful day, with the curling lane rolling away from her, the village in the distance, the gentle hue of ginger-brown leaves still dusting the tops of the trees. The sky was a clean gray-blue, wisps of cloud like lines of cotton wool. She breathed in again, clearing her mind. “Three more days,” she said to herself as she turned off and headed through the woods, her feet following the same old path across the stream she’d always taken. “Forget about everything else. Be like Luke. Enjoy it.”

•   •   •

It was a little after twelve when Cat entered the pub with her shopping, cheeks flushed from the crisp damp wind whistling through the village. The door banged behind her and the lady behind the bar looked up, as did the only other people there, a couple in the corner who then, after a brief pause, fell back into conversation.

“How can I help you?” said the landlady.

Cat stared. “Sheila? It’s Cat! Winter! I heard you were back in Winter Stoke. Gosh, hello!”

Sheila stared back; then her eyes widened and she clapped her hands together. “Well, I never. Cat, my dear! Come here, give me a kiss.” She hugged Cat. “Well, I heard you were coming back for this party, but I didn’t think it’d be true. You here to see Joe about tonight?”

“Oh—” Cat began.

But Sheila said firmly, “He’s nearly free anyway.
Joe!
” she called sharply.

Cat’s heart sank as the man in the far corner turned round and, seeing her, scrambled to his feet. The woman he was with stood up quickly. “Cat!” she said brightly.

Cat froze. “Karen? Karen!” She’d seen her only once, and so long ago that it took Cat a moment to recognize her. She looked at her, and then at Joe. “How are you?”

“I’m really well, Cat. It’s great to have you back. I know they’re all so pleased you’ve made it.”

Cat thought Karen didn’t look well at all. She had yellow shadows under her eyes and she’d obviously been crying. She wrapped her shapeless black cardigan defensively around her, and Cat, trying not to let her mind run ahead, smiled at her in a friendly way.

“Oh, thanks.” All she could think was,
Poor Lucy was right
, and she wished her cousin were there, wished their last words hadn’t been angry ones. She laid a hand on the bar and gestured to Joe. “Hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Gran wanted me to give you a message.”

Joe glanced at Karen, who said, “I was just in to talk to Joe about your grandmother’s cake, actually! Bill’s sorting it out this end, and we’ve had—oh, we’ve had a lot of fun with it, haven’t we . . . Joe?” she ended, as though she weren’t quite sure of his name.

Cat nodded. She glanced at Joe, and their eyes met.

He looked awful, she thought, even worse than he had on Wednesday. Maybe he just looked like that all the time. She remembered Lucy saying he was gorgeous, dark blue eyes, all of that. To Cat he looked like a man pushed almost past endurance. His face was gray and he hadn’t shaved. Black stubble prickled his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He rubbed his chin. “How’s your little lad?” he said. “And the car—it’s all sorted with the rental company? You’ll let me know what I need to do?”

“Yes, thanks. And—Luke’s fine. Thank you.”

“I wanted to give you something for him, actually. I haven’t—”

“Honestly, it’s fine.” Cat cleared her throat. “Listen, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know Gran doesn’t need the extra champagne glasses. She found the others in the attic.”

He nodded, still staring at her, but didn’t say anything. “Is that okay?” she said after a few seconds.

“Joe,” Sheila said sharply. “Answer her.”

He jumped. “Sure. That’s great. Thank you for letting me know. You must have enough on.”

“Me? I’m fine,” Cat said. “Seriously, are you all right? You look like you’re coming down with something.”

“I’ll be off, then,” Karen said chirpily to no one in particular. “See you—all later then. Bye! Thanks for the drink, Joe.”

The door slammed heavily behind her. Joe flinched, then shook his head. “I—sorry. I’m just tired.”

Sheila said, “He’s not been sleeping. It’s this party, is it, Joe?”

“Something like that.” Joe gave a small smile. His phone buzzed with a text, but he slid it straight into his pocket, then looked up at her. “Can I get you a drink?”

Despite herself, Cat suddenly felt sorry for him. He seemed totally alone, standing by the bar, his wide shoulders drooping, his jaw clamped so tight it was almost as though he were smiling. But this was the man who’d written off his own car and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage to her rental car, to say nothing of nearly killing her son in the process. And Karen—what was he up to, huddled away with Bill’s wife in the middle of the day?

“No. Thank you. So you know Karen, do you?” she asked, a little too bluntly.

“Yes.” Joe picked up a beer mat, cracking the hard cardboard apart between his fingers. “She’s been kind to me since I came here.”

“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Course.”

“It’s strange. Moving far away from your—your family, not knowing anyone.” He stared out the windows at the gray sky. “When you want to belong. And you don’t. I’m grateful to her.”

Cat, who had expected some glib reply, frowned. “Yes. Of—course.”

He shook his head as though recalling himself to the present. “Look, I got Luke this book anyway. I meant to drop it off today. Jamie loved it when he was his age.”

He disappeared behind the bar, and pulled a package out from beside the till. Dust rose up in the air, and it seemed horribly symbolic, falling there in the deserted pub.

“Oh . . .” Cat said, embarrassed. “You didn’t need to.”

“No, but I wanted to. Jamie and I read it all the time.” He handed her a paper bag, and she slid a long, slim volume out of it, and looked dubiously at the front cover.

“
Stick Man
,” Cat read. “Right. ‘From the author of
The Gruffalo
.’ It looks great. Thank you. Never heard of
The Gruffalo
, but I’m sure it’s a good one.”

Joe said softly, “Sorry. You’ve never heard of
The Gruffalo
?”

“No. Um . . .” She didn’t want to be rude. “I’m sure it’s a really good book. Looks great.”

“You have never heard of
The Gruffalo
?” He repeated this. “Seriously.” He looked around him. “Are you joking? Maybe it’s got another name in France. Look at the back. There’s a picture of the Gruffalo.”

Cat, feeling annoyed, turned the book over. “No. Sorry. There are lots of children’s books, anyway, and—”

“I think it’s really weird you’ve never heard of
The Gruffalo
, that’s all. What kind of a country is it you live in that doesn’t have
The Gruffalo
?”

“So you’ve said.” Cat put the book back in its bag.

“Let me give you some context,” Joe told her. “It’s like not having heard of Winnie-the-Pooh.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“It is,” he said insistently. “It really is.”

“Well, I’ll read him
Stick Man
tonight. Thanks.”

“Stick Man’s an idiot, basically, always nearly getting burned on a fire or carried away by a bird.
The Gruffalo
, that’s what you want. It’s double bluff, it’s genius.” He looked at her. “Look. I’ll give you my copy.”

“You’ve got your own copy?
That’s
a bit weird, isn’t it?”

He grinned suddenly, and his face changed. “That came out wrong. I mean for when Jamie comes to stay. My son. You can borrow it while you’re here for the weekend. I’ll bring it up sometime.”

“This evening. The drinks.”

“Yes.” He stopped. “Of course. Look, I’d best get on. If that’s all?”

“Oh, yes.” She suddenly felt foolish, in the way. “Thanks again for this. Um—see you later.” She raised her hand to Sheila: “Lovely to see you again, Sheila,” and made to leave.

“Hey,” Joe called out. “Cat, listen. I’m sorry, again.”

Cat turned. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.” Joe gripped his hair. “I’m really sorry. I feel worse and worse, every time I think about his little face. Believe me, I’m so glad he’s okay. It was so bloody stupid.” He stared at the floor.

Sheila had gone into the back and there was no one else in the pub. Cat crossed her arms. “Well, it was an accident. Wasn’t it?” she said, gently smiling, but he looked at her seriously.

“Of course it was, Cat.”

“I was joking,” Cat said. “I don’t actually think you were trying to murder us.”

“Right.” Again he scratched at his scalp. “I don’t even understand when people are making jokes anymore. This morning the guy from the brewery went ‘Boo’ to me and I nearly punched him in the face.”

She laughed. “You must have a lot on, with this party.”

“That’s about all we have on. This place isn’t keeping me busy. So the party, yes, I want it to be right. Impress everyone so they start coming here. It’s—yeah, I suppose it’s been on my mind a lot.”

She watched him. “Is there anything I can do?”

He gave a shy smile. “Just say ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ when the food comes out and make out you’ve never eaten anything so delicious before. That’s what you can do.”

Cat laughed. “Okay. Well, Gran says it’s going to be amazing. She doesn’t lie.”

“You live in Paris, though; you’re a tough person to please.”

“Believe me, I’m not. I can’t wait for a proper posh meal. I live on frozen foods and the odd croissant.”
And Henri and Madame Poulain’s leftovers, and once I ate a baguette someone left untouched on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens. Basically, I don’t eat much because we live on eighty euros a week. And then people compliment me on how slim I am.

“Well, I hope you enjoy tonight. And lunch tomorrow. It’s very important to your gran that it’s all perfect,” Joe said, moving behind the bar.

She watched him, his easy strength as he lifted a crate of tonic bottles out of the way, almost like he could flick them with his finger. “Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “I think I know what it’s about, though.” She gave him a piercing look. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, when you think about it?”

He stopped unloading the bottles and their eyes met again. Cat had the strangest feeling whenever she looked at him. As if she knew him from somewhere.

“Whatever. She’s very glad you’re back. She’s missed you. And your granddad. He’s not been well, has he?”

She shook her head, her heart pumping. “I—I don’t know.”

“He’s a lovely man. Been wondering about him lately; wanted to ask someone in the family if he was okay.”