The Boy Who Loved Rain, page 1
THE BOY WHO LOVED RAIN
“The reader is drawn ever deeper into a labyrinth of lies, truths and half-truths, of guilt, shams, of shallow-buried regrets, walled-up secrets and harsh recriminations. Before the stumbling in the gloom can lead out into the daylight where hope becomes a possibility, the dark places must be explored where psychosis, religiosity, and faith jostle in disequilibrium. It is not only Colom who has to discover his identity; his parents and others at the centre of the tale have to face their own mirrors of truth.
“This is a compelling debut novel, written in a style that combines elegance and passion. Like all good fiction, it turns the reader’s gaze inwards.”
Derek Wilson, historian and novelist
A pastor, poet, and missionary, Gerard Kelly lives in Normandy, France. He is author of fourteen books and the founder of the popular twitter prayer stream @twitturgies. He blogs at godseesdiamonds.tumblr.com.
THE BOY WHO LOVED RAIN
They say that what you don’t know can’t hurt you. They’re wrong.
GERARD KELLY
Text copyright © 2014 by Gerard Kelly
This edition copyright © 2014 Lion Hudson
The right of Gerard Kelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 129 2
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 130 8
First edition 2014
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover image: © Cath Waters/Trevillion Images
Keeping a secret is the first step
in becoming an individual.
Telling it is the second step.
Paul Tournier, Secrets
Contents
I
LONDON
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
II
PORTIVY
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
III
AMSTERDAM
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
I
LONDON
PROLOGUE
When I was thirteen I lost myself. It was as if night fell and I didn’t know where I was. People ask me: How can you not find yourself? How can you not know who you are? It must seem so dumb to them, not even to know who you are. But if they can’t see it, I can’t explain it. I just know that once you lose yourself, there’s no easy way back. Kids sometimes pinch themselves to know if they’re awake or dreaming. That should work for sure if you’ve lost yourself. You should be able to roll up your sleeve and slap your arm, squeeze the fat pink flesh of it and find out who you are. People who’ve never been lost imagine that would work – they think that something physical and real and maybe even painful should be enough to wake you. The point of a compass or a thumbtack, scratched across a knuckle until it bleeds and then goes deep; a tiny chasm opening up into the flesh. You’re supposed to recoil in horror from the first pain, or if not, then at least from the blood and exposure of flesh. But what if you don’t? What if you are watching the whole operation, fascinated by the effect of metal on flesh, following the lines of the canyons that have opened up in your skin, not even caring about the pain? At school I used blades from a pencil-sharpener. They made highways on my arms; ploughed fields; landing patterns for aeroplanes and passing spaceships. The problem with cutting yourself to find out if you’re lost is that you do: you find out that you’re even more lost than you thought. The lostness has depths you haven’t even begun to explore. Your points and blades are just scratching the surface. It’s like switching on a torch in the dark, thinking you will find your way by it, only to discover by its beam how lost you truly are.
CHAPTER ONE
Rain is liquid water in the form of droplets that have condensed from atmospheric water vapour and then precipitated – that is, become heavy enough to fall under gravity.
“Rain”, Wikipedia
Colom woke with a start, the dream slipping away like water from a bath. Only the question, the puzzle, remained strong. Once again he was at sea, trying to push himself towards a muddy shoreline, where he might just find a grip and pull free. There was nothing to push against. Every time he felt he was moving closer, the drift took him further away. If he couldn’t get to the land he would surely drown when his tired limbs surrendered at last to exhaustion. He knew that the ocean wanted him, had claimed him. He knew that in the end he would not have the power to resist. Nor would his sister, thrashing just as he was in half-darkness at the edge of his peripheral vision. He couldn’t get to her, couldn’t propel his body in her direction. And even if he did, what use would he be? They could drown together, or they could drown apart; either way they were both going to drown.
He woke up trying to solve the riddle, as if the question had been set for today’s exams: “My sister is drowning, and I can’t reach her. But I don’t have a sister. How can I save my sister from drowning when I don’t have a sister?”
The room was dark, the house silent but for the noises he already knew – his father’s soft snoring seeping through the wall. The central heating boiler, housed directly below his room, clocking on for its pre-dawn duty. Was this what had woken him again? The creeping cold of his legs told him it wasn’t. He swung them from the bed and shuffled barefoot to the drawers to find some fresh pyjamas.
Even with the broken night, he was up early, dressed and showered by the time his mother had put breakfast on the table. Neither spoke as he ate, the undulating rhythms of the Today programme filling the space they created. His father was already gone.
Fiona had dropped him at school, cleared away breakfast and folded a basket of dry linen by the time she found and washed the wet sheets from his room. The act of piling bedding yet again into the washing machine brought to light an unease that had been shadowing her for weeks. Her son’s evident anxieties plagued her throughout the day. By the time she stood facing a heavily mascaraed and less than enthusiastic sales assistant across a counter cluttered with china, she could sense a shortness in her temper as sharp as hunger.
“Mrs Dryden. D – R – Y – D – E – N. They phoned and told me it would be ready today.”
She followed the girl’s eyes as she read slowly through the list on her clipboard. Even upside down Fiona saw her name two-thirds of the way down. She resisted the urge to point, checking her watch for the fourth time to slingshot a visual hint of her impatience.
“Here it is,” she said at last, as if there had been some doubt.
“Six side plates and one gravy boat in Blueberry Mist. I’ll get them from the stock room.”
Fiona shifted her feet to reinforce the urgency of the task, but the girl had already opened a half-hidden door behind the till and twirled herself into a backstage area. 2:45 p.m. If she made it back to the car by 3:00, there was still hope of being on time for Colom. She hated picking him up late in his first week back after such a long break. She regretted trying to collect the china this afternoon, but she came to town so rarely these days, and she had hoped it would be a quick task. In truth, the indulgence of ordering china filled her with horror. The pretentiousness of the shop grated against her. The smug superiority of the staff. Even in this cathedral-like glass shopping centre, the store retained its old-world snobbery. David, for his part, never tired of reminding her such things were now within their reach. Was there justice in such spending after so many years of privation?
She had also hoped lunch with Susie would not turn into an interrogation worthy of the Stasi, though she feared it would. Her troubles were travelling the church
“So what will you do?” Susie’s bluntness matched her dyed, cropped hair and grey executive suit. She was impeccably made up, her narrow designer glasses telegraphing the seriousness with which she expected to be treated. Fiona had made her own best stab at honesty, though neither her hair, three weeks past a missed appointment, nor her outfit, more randomly selected than strategically planned, cried out “managerial directness”.
“I just don’t know. We’ve discussed a few ideas – programmes we could follow; places we could send Colom – but I have no faith in any of them, to be honest. It takes all my energy most days just to keep David from blowing a gasket.”
Susie’s millefeuille pastry had been surgically sliced into eight well-ordered pieces, of which six now remained. They had both made the healthy choice of wholemeal open sandwiches, only Susie had partnered hers with an indulgent cake for dessert. Fiona wondered which poor soul would be on the receiving end of the calorie-burn when their boss got back to her office.
“Colom is back at school this week for the first time since before Christmas,” she said. “I focus on getting us through each day. I’ve tried to think what might bring a longer-term change, but I really have no idea. I trust. I try to pray – though I’ve not had much success in that department lately. I press on: persuading; cajoling; caring for them both as best I can.”
“What about the doctors?” Four pieces eaten, four left – a perfect square.
This was the question Susie had come to ask. By doctors she meant professionals outside the church: people who would struggle to understand their style of parenting. People you needed to explain yourself to. Avoiding such people – only ever having problems that could be resolved in-house – was one of the learned habits of their tribe. They weren’t fundamentalists or cranks but they were a self-defined community with clear beliefs. It was so much easier to deal with people who understood this. And accepted it.
“We haven’t seen anyone yet. David so wants to solve this our own way. I don’t know if we can hold out much longer. We do need help with this.”
At which point the waitress swept in to take away their plates, the conversation left spinning on the table like car wheels at an accident scene.
Fiona had taken the opportunity to pick up her coat.
“I mustn’t be late for Colom,” she said, “and I still have shopping to do.” She caught from Susie a look that told her the interrogation would be resumed at the next available opportunity.
Susie had got through her defences and rattled her. She made a point of smiling when the girl returned with the china, hoping she had not been unduly impatient. She thanked her as she paid and quickly headed for the lift to the car park. The words she had never spoken out loud before were echoing in her mind. We do need help with this. Saying it didn’t solve it, but by saying it to Susie she had said it to herself. Every step she took towards the car confirmed it. By the time she pulled out into the Hammersmith traffic she knew it to be an immovable truth, one that she would have to broach on the homefront before long. They needed help, and they needed it soon.
She clicked her mobile into the hands-free holder and pressed the first speed dial. All week they had played voicemail tag. Twice when he returned her calls she missed his. Their schedules were such that they could go for weeks without talking in depth. They were either in different places or in the same place with so many people around them that privacy was impossible. Or they were alone and so tired that sleep was an infinitely stronger attraction than communication of any sort.
His precise, clipped tones invited her again to leave a message or, if she needed urgent help, to call the Pastoral Helpline. “Me again,” she said after the tone. “I really do need to talk to you this evening. Even if I’m asleep when you get in, will you wake me? Thanks.” She rang off satisfied that she had forced herself into a corner. She didn’t know what to do. They had made choices. They had commitments. She could see no way of breaking into his routines without breaking up his life’s work. In the meantime she had Colom to think of. His flourishing meant more to her than even her marriage. Certainly more than the church.
She turned the last corner, leaving the shops and traffic of the Fulham Road behind her, and knew at once that something was wrong. There was a space beside the bus stop where Colom’s shape was meant to be, his trousers sagging where they were too long for him; his dark curls full of movement and rhythm as if they made his head too heavy to keep still. No matter what the weather or the condition of Colom’s health his hair bounced and caught the wind. She felt she could spot him across the O2 Arena. Today he was nowhere to be seen. Despite her efforts the traffic had made her late and the black-jacketed crowd, wheeling and diving like crows, was thinning. Colom’s absence was unavoidable. Ignoring the hundred and one perfectly rational explanations for his non-appearance, Fiona felt panic rising in her chest.
CHAPTER TWO
I can feel the fire when it burns against my skin, the rain when it caresses my face and the breeze as it fingers my hair. I have all the senses that other people do. I am just empty inside.
J. D. Stroube, Caged in Darkness
If you aren’t extremely careful, slowing on just the right bend, it is all too easy to miss the turn for Caterham House. Overgrown hedges hide the opening and camouflage a sign that is, bizarrely, painted green-on-green. Like the secret access to the Batcave, a grand entrance is perfectly disguised as bramble. If you do catch it in time and turn through the gap in the jungle you will find yourself approaching one of the strangest stately homes in England. Once one of Surrey’s finest, the manor house has gardens designed by Capability Brown. A single track curves elegantly through mature woods to cross a humped stone bridge over a kidney-shaped fishing lake, before perfectly bisecting the croquet-ready lawns. You might expect this picture to find completion in the elegant sweep of a Blenheim-like mansion, but something quite different now sits at the road’s end: something small and squat and scarred with 1970s metal-framed windows.
The original splendour was lost when the manor fell into disrepair and whole sections were demolished. The upper storeys of the main house were removed and the ground floor capped with a flat asphalt roof. Three of the four wings were torn down, leaving the rump of the old house as just that – a remnant, the stump of what was once a spreading oak. The demolished wings were replaced by utilitarian extensions more like low-rent seaside bungalows than Edwardian jewels. You can almost hear the house sighing with regret and nostalgia. With lines designed to highlight the grandeur of the house, the surviving landscaped gardens serve now to draw attention to its poverty, like spotlights still trained on a stage long deserted.
Miriam had stayed twice before at Caterham, working alongside the resident convent community. Her own season as a nun had lasted less than five years, but her life since had been nun-like in many ways, including the one people were most puzzled by. It was thirty years since she had been under the narrow authority of an order but she had lived instead under the austere rule of her own free choice. She regretted neither the years she had given nor the years since. She wore her hair shorter now, trickles of white creeping into its auburn depths. Her habitual dress of trousers, blouse and cardigan had replaced the older, simpler uniform. She prayed more often in English than in French but at heart she remained the bonne soeur she had chosen in her youth to become, and she lived to fulfil the same vows. Apart from a brief season when the weight of loss and regret had all but crushed her, she had lived on balance a life of opportunity, not of disappointment.
