Lark Song, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Jane Bailey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477805121
ISBN-10: 1477805125
Cover design by Emma Rogers
For Anna and Lucy
CONTENTS
THE LONG VIEW
PART ONE
1 A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME
2 THE RESCUE
3 THE COAT
4 ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
5 TAINTED LOVE
6 HEAVY HEAVY
7 LOOKING OVER A FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER
8 GETTING TO KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU
9 MY GRIEF IS WORSE THAN YOURS
10 UNCONDITIONAL
11 SECOND BEST
12 MAGIC
13 THE ENEMY’S ENEMY
14 SOPHIE’S PIECE OF MIND
15 FUN MUM SUPPER
16 EAU PLEASE!
17 DREADFUL MOTHER
18 DON’T CHANGE A THING
19 THE MATING GAME
20 THE INVISIBLE MAN
21 PRESENTS FOR EVERYONE
22 MY GORGEOUS WIFE
23 BULLIED MEN CLUB
24 MEMORIES IN THE ATTIC
25 CONNECTIONS
26 MAKING BABIES AND KEEPING SECRETS
27 CHEAP AS CHIPS
28 DUNCAN HELD RESPONSIBLE
29 BOXING DAY MORNING
30 O SOLE MIO
31 THE MISTAKE
32 HAPPINESS CREEPS IN
33 OUT OF HARM’S WAY
34 QUESTIONING SOPHIE
35 TAKEN IN
36 STILL QUESTIONING SOPHIE
37 BUBBLES IN THE AIR
38 AND STILL QUESTIONING SOPHIE
39 AFTERMATH
40 QUESTIONING DUNCAN
41 DIGGING
42 NO SMOKE
43 MORE DIGGING
44 LAMBING
45 A DREAM COMING TRUE
46 PLANNING
PART TWO
47 CITY OF DREAMS
48 LETTING GO
49 WILL IS AMAZED
50 THIS IS IT
51 PAYING
52 HANDCUFFED AND GUILTY
53 HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN?
54 BACK HOME
55 A MOTHER’S WARNING
56 DUNCAN SWAN THINKS HE’S SO CLEVER
57 LOVE DON’T COME EASY
58 JACK GETS PHYSICAL
59 LARKING ABOUT
60 FINDING A VOICE
61 IT’S NOT FAIR
62 GET LOST
63 THE LONGER VIEW
PART THREE
64 CONSEQUENCES
65 CRAZY WOMAN
66 A MAN WITH A MISSION
67 MELTING AWAY
68 DREAMS OF LOST CHILDREN
69 HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF
70 LAST CHANCE
71 FORAGING FOR SCRAPS
72 NO LEMON
73 THE LARK IN THE CLEAR AIR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE LONG VIEW
Duncan stands on top of the escarpment and surveys the Severn Valley. On the right of the horizon is the breasted silhouette of the Malvern Hills, and ahead is the dark blur of the Forest of Dean and the faint blue line of the Black Mountains in Wales beyond. Giant shadows cross the fields below him, the grass an improbable green and separated by trees and hawthorn puffed out by late spring. Everything is swollen and full and ready to burst. His head is leaden and his eyes well up. It must be the wind, he tells himself. There has to be a way back, a way to put things right. He can’t believe what he has done to those children; it’s hard to put any sort of border around the enormity of it.
He can’t understand how the tears come like this. There is usually a mechanism, some switch to stop them and drive them into a knot in his throat instead. But now they run down his cheeks and scald his skin, the same hot shame he felt when he wet his trousers in the school nativity play, aged five. It is all his fault. A terrible secret has been unearthed, not accidentally, but doggedly and deliberately. And now the damage is irreparable. He had told himself that he was helping Freya in the name of truth, but he has just bulldozed all the obstacles in his way, and in the process, he has ruined the path. The wild cherry is weeping its blossom; the cloud shadows mock him, swooping over the hedges and the houses and the fields, slick and smooth, slithering over everything in their way, transforming themselves and then reshaping, but damaging nothing.
A family, a beautiful, fragile family, full of life and laughter and affection. He gazes at his blurred horizon. All this could have been his. Well, not Wales, obviously. But that life, that reason for waking up in the morning. And yet he has betrayed no one, has lied to no one, and all he ever wanted was the truth.
There are muffled sounds behind him, but the wind is in the wrong direction for him to make them out. He hopes no one will come up to him with a yappy dog and comment on the view. He has no tissue and snot is running over his lip.
‘Good to see the long view, isn’t it?’ It’s a yappy man instead. ‘I like to think I get the bigger picture up here.’
Duncan wipes his nose on his sleeve and tries to see the bigger picture. At least the shadows of clouds leave sunshine behind them, not the trail of waste he has created. He is terrified the man will see his tears and show sympathy. He moves away down the hill, as if human kindness might scorch him.
PART ONE
1
A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME
The house smelt of autumn, as if it had breathed in wood smoke from the surrounding fields and was sighing it into the upstairs rooms. Jack sat on his bed with his laptop, stuffing Milky Ways into his mouth. He had bought a bumper pack from the mini supermarket, and had only intended to eat one every now and then, but he found that each one beckoned him just as the last one was being chewed. He barely had time to savour the final mouthful when the need to tear the paper off the next one took over. He was powerless, which was briefly a good feeling, but suddenly it was not. He was shoving the blue papers under the bed where they joined some balled-up red ones, and he realised that he’d done the same thing last week with Maltesers. He wouldn’t do it again. He left two Milky Ways in the bag. He wouldn’t eat them. He had willpower. He was going to get fit and look like Warren Gifford in his class. All the girls liked Warren; he played football and said cool things. He was witty. Jack was going to be witty. He typed in ‘Things to say to girls’.
You smell great. Could he really say that? He tried to imagine Ellie Chapman’s response to this, but it wasn’t good. I lost my phone number. Can I have yours? Ugh! Do you have a plaster? I scraped my knee falling for you. He tried to imagine what she’d say to that and shuddered. Do you know what this material is? (Feel own shirt) That’s boyfriend material! He smiled. He could imagine saying that one day, but not now, and not to anyone he knew. He could imagine Warren Gifford saying it. Some guys were just funny. Some guys could just pull it off. His dad, for example. His dad used to be funny around people. He knew how to make people laugh. It was so slick. He made it look so easy. How come they shared the same genes?
The image Jack saw in the mirror was so different from the way he felt. He should have been seeing a noble nose and a square jaw. His brows should be thick and straight, his shoulders broad, his look intense and commanding. What he saw was a boy with a softness that didn’t suit him any more. He wasn’t fat. He might have been heading for plump. No, he was plump. Plump, plump. Pullump, pullump. It sounded like an elephant lumbering around. He wasn’t going to be able to compete with Warren Gifford any time soon. Anyhow, he didn’t actually want to be Warren Gifford because Warren Gifford was a knobhead. He just wanted to be more attractive to girls. He knew what his problem was because he’d googled it over and over. His problem was metabolism. His metabolism was not up to scratch. This wasn’t his fault, but he could change it. It was possible to flick a switch and kind of turn it up. He just needed to build up some muscle because muscle burnt up more calories than fat. If he did some weight training and then jogged to school every day . . . but then everyone would see him and think he was a dick, and he’d arrive at school all sweaty. No. There had to be a simpler way. He would do ten sit-ups before tea and ten before bed.
Sophie opened his door. She stood there expectantly, holding her fluffy otter toy, which was wearing an outfit that Mum had made.
‘Go away, I’m doing sit-ups.’
‘No, you’re not. You said you’d play.’
‘I have to do exercises.’
She moved to stand in front of him.
‘It’s execution day. You said so.’
He looked at her bald eyelids. There was something desperate about his little sister pleading like this, with no eyelashes. He didn’t know why she pulled them out. He wasn’t supposed to ask her, but whenever he did, she simply said she had to. She was just weird like that, but it made her look pathetic, and like those children in medieval paintings who didn’t seem to have eyelashes either.
‘Only if I can execute the ducks.’
‘No, not the ducks! Matilda. You can do anything to Matilda. You can hang her if you like.’
‘She’s already dead.’ He pushed the door to with his foot, and there, hanging from the door-handle by the neck, was a Barbie doll covered in red biro marks.
Sophie explained that he could torture Matilda and execute the grown-up ducks, as long as the ducklings were spared. He pretended it was a tough decision, then gave her a friendly swipe and agreed.
After tea, he positioned himself for ten sit-ups, did three and gave up. It had been a long day, and he was going to start the new regime tomorrow. He hated himself for being weak, and ate the last two Milky Ways so that there were none left to tempt him.
2
THE RESCUE
A few hours earlier, the autumn rain was tipping down, splashing back off the pavements to make ankle-height crystal fountains. Wide puddles were spreading out from the kerbs. People were sheltering under awnings or making their way doggedly from shop to shop, head-down and hooded. Duncan was standing in a charity shop doorway when the car went past. The spray was like a sheet of glass, a wave of clawing water. It soaked a passer-by and threw her sideways, so that she toppled to the ground. It was an undignified movement, the sort of dancing stagger that made Duncan hold his breath, hoping and believing she might right herself before the contact with the ground. He rushed over. He had thought her elderly, but when she looked up from under her hat, he saw that she was a youngish woman, and she looked mortified. He helped her to her feet and could tell from her heavy leaning on him that she was struggling. Her green woollen coat was sodden. A middle-aged lady stopped and asked if she could help.
‘No, no, I’m fine – really. Thank you.’
But Duncan stood his ground. ‘You’re drenched. And you’re hurt . . . Are you hurt?’
‘No, really. I’m all right.’
‘Look, I only live round the corner. Let me take you back and you can dry off.’
She looked at him directly and frowned. What a stupid proposal. He could be anybody. What was he thinking?
‘I’m perfectly okay. Bit bruised – mostly in the ego area. It’s really good of you, though. Thank you.’ And she ambled away.
Duncan watched her go and felt uneasy. The rain subsided, and he bought a newspaper and some chicken Kievs for later. As he walked back down the row of shops towards home, he saw the woman sitting on a bench, her head in her hands. He stood and looked for a moment, unable to think how to approach her.
‘Excuse me,’ he tried. ‘Um . . . Look, I know it’s none of my business, but, um, are you okay?’
She looked up and sighed. ‘Yes, I just missed my bus, that’s all.’
‘You really do look wet through. Look, I’m sorry I suggested taking you back to my place earlier – that was stupid of me. But please, at least let me buy you a coffee or something. Give you a chance to get dry before the next bus.’
She smiled then, a full and lovely smile with big teeth, he noticed, especially the front two. There was a coffee place just a few shops away, and they made their way there with barely a word.
‘There,’ he said, when they found a table for two near an open fire. ‘Let me take that coat off you.’ She obeyed, and he took his own thick coat off and placed it round her shoulders.
‘Oh!’ she said, but didn’t stop him. Her acceptance of this simple gesture gave him a shock of excitement – of triumph, perhaps. She smiled. ‘Are you sure you won’t get cold?’
‘Not at all. Not in front of this fire. Now, what can I get you?’
‘There’s no need. I can—’
‘I insist. A hot chocolate? A latte?’
‘A hot chocolate would be so good! Thank you!’
He returned from the counter with two hot chocolates and a plate of biscuits, and he saw that she had slipped her arms into his coat. He was so surprised by this gesture that he felt heady with tenderness for her.
‘You look better already,’ he said. ‘Bit of colour in your cheeks.’
She touched her cheeks. ‘This is so kind of you. I feel such an idiot.’
‘Why? That driver was well out of order. He should’ve stopped.’
‘I don’t think it was the driver’s fault. People just don’t realise how quickly the puddles form. They don’t think.’
‘You’re very forgiving.’
She smiled again and looked about the coffee shop. He had thought her plain. Now that he could see her clearly, he was taken aback. There was something so extraordinarily gentle and unspoilt about her that he could hardly stop staring. He could feel his hands trembling suddenly. ‘Do you have far to go?’
‘Just out to Stonely. Do you know it?’
‘A little village to the . . . south?’
‘That’s it. Only twenty minutes away by bus. When you can catch one, that is!’ She looked at her watch. ‘I can’t stay too long. I have to be back to pick up my children from school.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Well, Sophie’s five – almost six, Jack is eleven, and Will is seventeen.’
‘You must’ve been a child bride.’ Oh God. Did he really say that? ‘I mean, you can’t possibly have a seventeen-year-old.’
‘Actually, I almost was a child bride, but not quite. Got pregnant as a student. Had to give up my degree, so I was twenty when Will came along.’
He pictured her home. It would be chaotic, bohemian, full of scattered toys and rugs and children, and he envied it.
‘What was it, your degree?’ He should stop quizzing her, but he wanted to know everything.
‘Botany. It was fascinating. I loved it.’
‘Did you ever finish it?’
‘Unfortunately not. Bringing up a child seemed to take over. I just work three days a week as a school classroom assistant at Sophie’s school now. And what about you? Don’t you work on a Friday?’
‘I have Fridays off. One of the perks of being in a partnership. There’s two of us. Architects. So . . . do you think you’ll ever finish your degree?’
She laughed. ‘I did have plans to go back when Will started school, and my mum was going to look after him, but then . . . well, she died.’
‘I’m sorry. What an awful time to lose a mother.’
She smiled and shrugged. ‘Never a good time, I suppose. What about you? Do you have children?’
‘No, sadly not.’ He felt as though someone had placed an enormous steaming-hot pie in front of him, full of things waiting to fly out. And when the pie was opened . . . ‘I was married, about ten years ago, but we didn’t have children. I would have liked them.’
‘I’m sorry. Did you lose your wife?’
This sounded odd to him. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would have been like if he had simply mislaid his wife, forgotten where he’d left her. But perhaps there was just something about him that made him look bereft.
‘No! Um. We divorced. Amicable divorce, really. Long time ago.’
‘What was her name?’
He hesitated. ‘Serena.’
‘And you haven’t been tempted since?’
Did she mean by the prospect of love or of children? He needed to steer things promptly. ‘Actually, I have tried online dating.’ He could hardly believe what he’d said. He had never admitted this to anyone.
‘Oh really? What’s that like? I mean, is it scary, putting yourself out there like that?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed. ‘I’m hopeless at it. I obviously don’t say the right things about myself, or read the subtext of other people’s profiles well enough. There must be a knack, and I haven’t got it.’
She was unwinding now, and her cheeks were aglow from the fire. The smell of damp wool from her own coat hanging over the back of a chair, where he’d positioned it in front of the heat, was wintry and comforting. Her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, have you had lots of really excruciating dates?’
‘Well, a few. Nothing terrible.’ What with the fire and her expectant, warm face he felt like opening up a little. ‘But, the thing is, I mind that they turn out to be ten years older than they claim because I want an honest woman. Is that too much to ask? And I mind that they don’t care about architecture or New Wave cinema or Radio 4, when they claim they do. I mind that they don’t really give a toss about walking along cliff paths. Not that I demand any of these things, but because they lied, and because I would like to have one tiny thing in common with them. And I mind that they say they are ready for love and “maybe more” but spend the first two hours running down their ex-partner or spouse with such vitriol it is hard to concentrate on anything but getting home to a good cup of tea, a digestive biscuit, and the cat. Mr Simpkins doesn’t talk about anything, and he’s fine about the Nouvelle Vague.’
