Breaking Light (18 page)

Mr Turnpike cleared his throat again and began reading out the will. Gabriel could feel the lump in his own throat growing and swallowed to push it down. For this reason he wasn't listening, at least not consciously. There was a small allowance from the age of twenty-one and then, later on, there was Oakstone, shared by the two sons, although Mrs Bradley would have the right of residence for as long as she lived.

Gabriel looked across at Michael again – at his brother. How had this happened? He felt strange and wondered if Michael felt the same now that they were not just Gabe and Michael anymore, but brothers. Michael's thin hands were fidgeting, playing
back and forth on the edge of the desk, as if it were a piano. His healed fingers were beautiful – slender, like a girl's.
Thud, thud
.

‘Are you boys listening?' Mr Turnpike took an ordinary handkerchief from his pocket, not the silk one, which stayed immaculately where it was, and dabbed at his brow. ‘I understand this must be hard for you …'

Gabriel said nothing and Michael murmured something and shrugged, because this was just the kind of thing, without any point or direction, which adults said to children.

‘Stop picking, Gabriel,' Mother's voice wheezed from close behind, which made Michael stretch his neck to get a better look at the scab on Gabriel's knee, where a drop of blood was now visible under the crust. The attention made Gabriel want to pull it all off, just to show Michael. But, when he reached for the scab again, Mother's hand came suddenly forward and grabbed his wrist hard – so hard it brought tears to his eyes, which made the whole thing – a comforting, good thing – turn just awful and embarrassing.

Michael gloomed again and refused to look up. Mr Turnpike stared rather hard at his manicured hands, as if the buffed nails might be about to convey a coded message. ‘There's something so sad about this … this business when children are involved …' he suggested.

‘You don't say,' Mother replied dismissively, so that the hair at the back of Gabriel's neck stood out. But then Mrs Bradley looked over at him and smiled. Her eyelids were pink, he saw, and her face a bit blotchy, but he reddened all the same.

‘There's just one more thing, then … You need to supply me with details, bank accounts …' Mr Turnpike said, vaguely.

Just then, Michael looked up at Gabriel. They were looking at
each other. Without knowing why, Gabriel made a face – pulling out his ears and squinting his eyes. Michael's eyes were darker than ever, made darker by the smoky, brownish gloom in the room, but a light turned on somewhere deep inside and flickered once. Michael's lips were very red and slightly pouted, like Mrs Bradley's, and he looked very thin inside his best suit, as if his ribs might show through the fabric. Gabriel, on the other hand, was jam-packed in his own suit – he could feel the fabric in his armpits and his crotch, and the shorts were hitching up his thighs. Too much going on at once. He was ready to burst – must let it all out somehow. The air in the room was unbreathable. He might have been swimming underwater. Michael might have had the same thought because he suddenly blew up his cheeks like a puffer fish and let the air out in one long, perfect raspberry fart.

That was it; they burst, snorted, shrieked with dammed-up laughter, grunting like sea lions in the closed room. It was awful, horrible and wonderful at the same time.

Mr Turnpike's mouth fell open in his red face. ‘Well, I have never …'

‘Shush,
chéri
,
s'il te plait
.' Mrs Bradley sighed and sucked at her cigarette. ‘Try to be a grown-up boy, for your father's sake,' she said, which made Michael howl even louder.

‘Right, that's it!' Mother said, and stood up. ‘I knew the whole thing would turn into a farce.' She grabbed Gabriel by the back of the neck and forced him to stand up, pushing him towards the door.

Gabriel slithered and managed to look back once at Michael, whose eyes were alight with a feverish flame.

*

Did he realise, as he was pushed away, that the heavy oak door closing on the room, still ringing with Michael's hysterical laughter, was also the door closing on their childhood? Had he realised?

Now, as he rose from the churchyard wall, Mr Askew remembered something else which he had chosen to forget: he remembered Mother's hand closing hard around his wrist as she pulled him out on to the street, how she had been leading him just as much as she was leaning on him, and the tears streaming down her face. Poor Mother; he had loved her then and felt bad about loving – about being in love with – Mrs Bradley.

And he remembered how, when they got home, she had suddenly dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands cupping his face, her eyes looking into his eyes.

‘I'm so sorry, my darling,' she had said to him. ‘I'm sorry about it all, but I was trying to keep our dignity – yours and mine. You see, it's
all
we have.'

His heart had bumped funny then. He had wanted to touch her cheeks, which smelt of crying. He had been bursting with love, but then the moment had passed.

‘What about love, Mother?' he wanted to shout now, down into the tunnel of time. ‘What about the love that should have warmed my childhood?'

At least that childhood had ended in laughter.

Mr Askew had just congratulated himself that Mrs Ludgate might, by now, despise him enough not to turn up this Friday afternoon. The sound of the doorbell brought him back to reality.

‘You all right?' She looked him up and down, reproachfully.

‘Yes, of course; why shouldn't I be?'

‘You were looking peeved; a bit … lost, you know.'

He didn't reply, but noticed that
she
was looking different. She was wearing summer gear: a thin-strapped dress in the kind of floral pattern which would forever separate English women from their continental sisters. Her bra straps were, by all measurements, broader than the dress straps, so that it looked as if she was wearing her lingerie on top of her clothes. He shuddered involuntarily and let his gaze sink to her feet.

‘What?' she demanded.

‘Eh?'

‘What are you staring at?'

He honestly could not have told her, but suddenly realised that she must have had some kind of accident and decided to take a softer approach.

‘Have you had an operation on your feet?' he asked, hopefully.

‘No.' She was beginning to sound quite snappish. ‘Why?'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry.' This wasn't going well, he realised. ‘It's just
… Well, those things on your feet … I thought they might be orthopaedic.'

They both looked down at her feet, which had finally escaped from the white trainers, only to be fooled into the cul-de-sac of a pair of bright green rubber clogs. Her toenails, which could be glimpsed through large holes, had been painted sky blue, as if they were about to sing solo in a children's pantomime.

‘Yeah … and what's wrong with them? They are
Crocs
; my daughter sent me them from Exeter for my birthday.'

‘Crocs? But what are they
for
?'

‘They are like flip-flops, only more fashionable. And the nail polish is the same colour as Kate Moss.'

‘Kate who?' He couldn't believe he was having this conversation.

‘Supermodel.'

‘A supermodel wears those …
things
?'

‘Nah, probably not,' she realised, not without disappointment, ‘'cause she needs to wear heels – not as tall as the other models, poor love – but she does wear this colour nail polish. It's called “denim”.'

‘Oh, I see.' He sighed, realising that Mrs Ludgate was just too loud for his world. ‘I suppose you'd better come inside. I was just about to make myself a cup of tea.'

‘So, do you like the sea, then?' she asked, casually, as she followed him through to the kitchen.

‘Pardon?'

‘The seaside – I saw your car parked up by the rocks at Edencombe the other day. Reckoned you must be one for staring at the sea. Sunsets, and all that. Nothing there apart from the beach and the flipping sea and that old loony home up on the cliffs.'

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head. ‘No, that can't have been my car you saw.'

‘There's no one else around here who'd drive a car like that. It looks like it's from East Germany or the Cold War or somewhere like that.'

‘Czech Republic, actually,' he corrected.

‘Yeah, whatever … It was your car I saw and it was empty, which means you must have gone for a bit of a romantic stroll along the shore—'

‘Look,' he flared, ‘I honestly can't remember. I must have stopped off to sun myself for a while on the way back from the garage.' He could feel the prickling of sweat and his shirt was sticking to his back. He wished he had not been wearing the lambswool slipover. It was too hot a day.

‘Only it was raining. Pissing it down, actually.' She would not let it rest.

‘So what were
you
doing there in the rain, then?' She had pushed him far enough into a corner and he realised it was time to strike back. But, as it turned out, it was too late.

‘Just going past on the bus. Family stuff; none of your business.'

‘Well, no –' he had not seen it coming and it made him crude – ‘but
your
business is to clean this house, so you'd better go to it, don't you think?'

Defeated, he turned to the kettle and busied himself with a cup, whilst craving for the comfort of chocolate. Just then, the doorbell rang again. ‘What now?' he barked, and threw the teaspoon on the worktop, from where it fell on to the tiled floor, clattering. Like that spatula, all those years ago.

‘I'll get the door!' cried Mrs Ludgate cheerfully, celebrating her triumph.

‘No, you most certainly will not,' he replied, adding ‘bitch' in his mind, as he pushed past her to get to the hall.

The sunshine collapsed like a wave into the cool hall as he opened the door to the bright day. He blinked at the sudden light before seeing Mrs Sarobi standing there, smiling.

‘I am sorry to intrude. I understand you prefer to be on your own, but I wanted to give you these to say thank you for helping me at the stall the other day.'

He looked at her thin, brown hands, which held out a basket of strawberries. It seemed, at that moment, to be the loveliest gift he had ever been offered.

‘How delightful. Thank you.' His hands touched hers briefly as he accepted the punnet.

She laughed. ‘It was the least I could do, after—'

There was a sudden noise from the hall and they both turned to look at Mrs Ludgate, who was about to speak. ‘Ah, Mrs Sarongi, is it? Are you bringing
supplies
?'

‘It's Mrs Sarobi,' Mr Askew corrected coldly.

‘Oh, it's okay,' said Mrs Sarobi, calmly. ‘I'm used to people getting my name wrong.'

‘It's not
that
difficult; you have to be pretty bloody stu—' Mr Askew began, but was stopped by Mrs Sarobi, who put a hand on his arm. Such a slender, beautiful hand, it reminded him of something – something lost in time and memory.

She smiled at Mrs Ludgate and said, ‘I had forgotten you would be here today; please, don't let me interrupt your work. I must leave …'

Mrs Ludgate shrugged evasively.

But Mr Askew could not stand Mrs Sarobi leaving. ‘No. Please … That is, perhaps you would like me to show you the garden?'

For a moment, she looked surprised, but composed herself. ‘Oh, yes, I would like that very much.'

‘Excellent. We will bring the strawberries and something to drink. Wine, perhaps?' He seemed to pose this question to himself more than to anybody else, uncertain as to whether it would be proper. Did she even drink wine? Perhaps her religion … His thinking was cut short when he heard Mrs Ludgate laugh behind him; he was quite certain he did, but, when he turned round, he saw only a fixed smile on her face.

He turned back to Mrs Sarobi. ‘You wait here; I won't be a second,' he said, handing her the punnet of strawberries to hold. Anxiously – eager, like a child – he went, knowing that, if he did not seize the moment, quick, quick, it might be gone. She might be gone, tired of him. As others had tired of him before.

Pushing past Mrs Ludgate for a second time, he rushed to the scullery next to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Sancerre from the rack. It was one of his follies, the rack. Had he seriously imagined that he might be entertaining on his return to Oakstone? That he would somehow suddenly turn into a host, after a lifetime of shying away from entertaining? He sneered at his own vanity and returned to the kitchen to pick up a couple of glasses. For an instant, he saw his own image reflected in a leaded windowpane: that moustache, its main feature, a disguise. Would it hold? The wine was not cold enough and the glasses were not altogether clean, he noticed, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Returning to the hall, he heard Mrs Ludgate's voice, triumphant:

‘… So I said to Mrs Edwards, “She looks Indian enough to me,
as if she ought to be wearing one of them sarongs,” I said, “but she ain't, is she? 'Cause she's Afghanistanian.” But I don't think she believed me. Looked at me oddly, all dark in the face, like she'd just turned Indian herself, she did.' She laughed, throwing back her head to show the creases on her neck.

‘Is that all, Mrs Ludgate?' he asked, coldly. She stopped laughing abruptly and looked at him.

‘What?' she barked.

‘If you could just get on with hoovering the drawing room today and perhaps water the potted plant by the window, that'd be grand,' he said, closing the door on his self-appointed housekeeper.

*

It had rained during the night and the vegetation was still glittering in the afternoon sun. There was a mild summer wind blowing through the boughs of the old elms, making the leaves rush like small pebbles in the shallows. He stood stiffly in front of her, holding the bottle in one hand and the stems of the glasses in the other. His dark slipover and white shirt, neatly buttoned at the cuffs, gave him the look of a waiter.