The Kind Folk, page 7
It wouldn’t be Luke, and the thought leaves him feeling hollow. He may have made a virtue of imitation, but he has yet to come to terms with being one. The journal is reminding him with references to the situation: not just FREDA RADIENT but presumably LIT FROM INSIDE and also BIGGER AND BRIGHTER. Months before the birth Terence is thinking up names—LUCIUS + LUCIA COME FROM LIGHT—and it occurs to Luke that even the name he calls his own is just a substitute. He turns another page, rousing its introverted smell, and feels as if he has missed the birth. In fact there’s no entry for the date, but three days later Terence wrote LUCAS HERE.
Perhaps the entry is so brief because he was disappointed that the Arnolds didn’t use the name he liked. Surely it can’t mean he knew they had the wrong child—Luke. EVEN BETTER THAN THEY COULDVE WISHED FOR ought to be heartening, as well as the record of Luke’s progress: LUCAS ON THE MOVE at two months, LUCAS WALKING by Christmas, HEALTH VISITER NOT SEEN ANYTHING LIKE the following week, LUKE TALKS SENTENCES almost immediately after, LOST COUNT OF LUKES WORDS less than a month later … Perhaps Luke should be pleased, but he feels remote from this account of a deception everyone played out without realising. It seems unlikely that this section of the journal will help him find out where he came from, if any of the entries will. As he leafs fast through the diary he feels as though he’s trying to leave his childhood behind.
The name of a town catches his attention—Peterborough, which he drove through on his way to Norfolk. The entry is dated almost a quarter of a century ago. RALPH SANSOM PETERBOROUGH, TOLD ABOUT HIM. Suppose the person referred to didn’t live in Peterborough but had that for his surname? Even if he lives there, what can Luke ask? He’s already starting to feel absurd and deluded as he uses his mobile to search online. But there is indeed a Ralph Sansom in Peterborough, and the listing gives his phone number.
Luke thumbs the key to make the call and immediately wants to cancel it. Surely he won’t run out of words when his job is improvisation, but is he nervous of what he may learn? As he takes a breath that tastes of lavender and old paper a voice says “Yes?”
It sounds more like a challenge than an invitation. “Yes,” Luke says. “Mr Sansom?”
“Yes?”
“Mr Ralph Sansom?”
“Yes?”
The voice has grown thinner and shriller, pinching the word. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Sansom,” Luke says. “I—”
“Then don’t. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not in the market.”
“I’m not a salesman, Mr Sansom.”
“What are you, then?”
Luke doesn’t want to answer that, at least not yet. “I found your name in—”
“Wherever you’ve got it, rub me out. I’ve signed up not to be pestered by your kind.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Luke says and wonders whether he does indeed sound like a cold caller. “Your name was in a diary, Mr Sansom.”
“A diary,” Sansom says as if repeating it may cancel the notion. “You do surprise me. Whose?”
“His name was Terence Arnold.”
“Arnold.” Sansom isn’t quite so ready to repeat this, and pauses again before saying “And what is that expected to mean to me?”
“I was hoping you could say.”
“I’ve said it.” Presumably in case this is unclear Sansom adds “Not a thing.”
“You wouldn’t know of another Ralph Sansom in Peterborough.”
“There hasn’t been one while I’ve been living here, and that’s my entire lifetime.” Sansom takes a harsh effortful breath and says “May I ask what you know about this Arnold person?”
For a moment Luke can’t understand why Sansom has grown more resentful, and then he thinks he does. The man is wishing he’d said there was somebody else called Ralph Sansom; he feels he has betrayed himself. “He was in demolition,” Luke says. “Maybe you hired him.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” With no diminution of annoyance Sansom adds “You keep saying was.”
“He died last month.”
“You’ll realise why I’ve no response to that.” As if he doesn’t think this is a contradiction Sansom says “How, may I ask?”
“A heart attack.”
“Common enough. Was there any cause?”
Luke tries not to feel accused. “He didn’t have his medication.”
“We can be careless as we get older. Now if you’ll excuse me—” Sansom interrupts himself with a laborious exhalation and says “Just before I bid you farewell, what is Mr Arnold’s diary supposed to have said about me?”
“Either somebody told him about you or one of you told the other about someone.”
“Yes?” The word is sharper than ever. “And so?”
“That’s all there is. I thought you might be able to fill me in.”
“Then your call has been a waste of time,” Sansom says, and immediately “One moment. If that was all he wrote about me, what made you seek me out?”
“I’m trying to find people he may have been to see,” Luke decides as he speaks.
“Been to see for what purpose?”
“I’m trying to find that out too.”
“There’s nothing to discover,” Sansom says. “And may I enquire who you are that you’re prying into his affairs?”
“I’m one of the heirs of his will.”
“Then may I suggest you content yourself with that? I assume it didn’t authorise you to go through his private papers.”
“I want to find out more about myself, that’s all.”
Sansom draws a breath that rattles in his throat. “Who are you exactly? What do you think you’ll uncover?”
“I thought I was Terence Arnold’s nephew but I’m—”
Even if Luke knew how to continue, there’s no point in voicing it. Whatever noise Sansom makes in response is cut off before Luke can be sure it’s a cry, and then the phone is silent except for a hiss of static like a fall of dust or a whisper searching for words. In a moment he finds some of those for himself. “What a joke.”
12
THE SECOND CALL
THE MANAGER KEEPS GLANCING at the ledger Luke has planted on the sill of the reception alcove. As she returns his credit card and hands him the receipt she says “Do you know what I’d do if I had your gift?”
“You’ll tell me.”
“Find out what makes people happy and do my best to put that on.”
“I’m afraid that’s what I do already.”
“No call to be afraid. I think it would make me happier as well,” she says and gives him a doubtful look.
There’s no question that he lived up to expectations last night at the Broadest Broad. When someone shouted out for Jack Brittan, the voice and the mannerisms came so readily to Luke that it felt like being possessed by the needs of the audience, and he found himself observing his performance while his mind replayed the conversation with Ralph Sansom—especially the end. He’s sure the man recognised Terence’s name, but however often Luke echoes Sansom’s last sound in his head he can’t decide what it may have expressed: dismay or shock or incredulity or even some kind of delight? Suppose Luke’s call managed to locate a member of his actual family? The only way to resolve any of this, if it will, is to speak to Sansom or somebody who lives with him.
Luke locks the journal in the boot and drives out of the small town. Fields reach for the horizon under a blue sky parched of clouds, and soon the roadside begins to sprout signs for Peterborough. Each one feels more like a reminder, and when he sees a layby he pulls in. Before any doubts can overtake him he recalls Sansom’s number.
“Yes?”
Despite the reminiscence of the last call, it’s a woman’s voice. “Can I speak to Ralph Sansom?” Luke says.
“I’m afraid you can’t, no.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“He isn’t here.”
“Can you say when he will be?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Ah,” Luke says but can hardly leave it at that. “I’m sorry, what…”
“My father has had to be taken into hospital.”
“I’m sorry.” Luke feels reduced to echoing himself. “What’s the trouble, do they know?”
“Somebody upset him very much. He isn’t of an age to be able to shrug that sort of thing off.”
Luke struggles not to apologise a third time. “Have they said how serious it is?”
“He’s already had more than one attack. They’ve told us not to hope too much.”
Luke feels still guiltier for asking “Did he say what upset him?”
“I know someone rang him yesterday but I don’t know who or what about. Believe me, I’d like a word or two with them.”
Luke opens his mouth, which fills with silence. Eventually Sansom’s daughter says “Can I ask why you’re calling, Mr…”
“It’s Luke, but it isn’t important. I won’t bother you any more.”
“Will my father know you if I’m able to give him a message?”
“We’ve never met. Are you waiting to hear from the hospital? I’d better say goodbye in case they’re trying to get through,” Luke says and rings off.
He’s ashamed to have used the excuse. How responsible is he for Sansom’s condition? He already feels to blame for Terence’s death. The Lexus shivers as a lorry several houses long speeds past, and he watches the vehicle shrink into the distance until the road is deserted. Can he really justify contacting people Terence mentioned in the journal when the effect on them may be as random as his search? He has no idea how dangerously unpredictable it may be—and then he sees his mistake. He shouldn’t abandon the hunt quite so soon, and he gets out of the car to consult the journal.
13
THE LAST NAME
AS SOON AS HE HAS TURNED along the street Luke parks the car. It’s the only vehicle beside either of the pavements shaded by trees. Cars are sunning themselves in some of the driveways of the large front gardens, where pairs of houses too individual to be twins stand together. He climbs out and shuts the door, not gently enough to avoid rousing the dog that runs to snarl at him through the bars of a gate. He has barely set out along the street, which slopes up to a steeper hill that overlooks the town, when he grows aware that a vehicle is creeping after him.
It swerves sluggishly away from him as he twists around. Its roof sports a peak emblazoned with a phone number, while its sides display the logo of the Pass With Patsy driving school. The driver isn’t watching Luke—she’s nervously intent on a hesitant three-point turn—but she has helped him feel like an intruder. He won’t be deterred when he has come so far out of his way, more than twenty miles off the route home and along roads the map stretched a good deal straighter than they proved to be. Harold Yancey is the last person named in the journal, and surely this means he has whatever information Terence was searching for. If Luke feels as tentative and apprehensive as the driver on the road, that’s because the man may be his father.
A wind sets the trees dabbing the pavement with shadow. A car on a drive shudders and begins to flutter, or at least its canvas cover does. It puts Luke in mind of an inflatable castle at a fairground where the Arnolds took him for a birthday treat—where the sideshow reminded him of a tale of Terence’s about a castle that changed shape once you ventured in. He still has all his memories; he’s recalling more every day. Meeting his real parents can’t change the life he has lived, and he makes himself stride uphill.
He’s several houses short of Yancey’s when a woman wheels a pushchair out of her garden, and the toddler waves at him. “Hello,” Luke says in the kind of voice people seem to use in such a situation.
She gives him a grin that exhibits almost a mouthful of teeth. “Who are you?”
“Luke Yancey.” This sounds so odd, even though unspoken, that it comes close to robbing him of words. “I’m nobody in particular,” Luke says.
“I’m sure you are,” the woman says with a dutiful laugh. “Don’t mind Trish. She’s asking everyone that, even me.”
“Who are you?”
“Now, Trish,” the woman says but keeps her gaze on him.
“I’m Luke, Trish. My name’s Luke.”
“That’s just a little name.”
“Luke Arnold,” he says mostly to the woman and with all the conviction he can summon up. “I’m looking for the Yancey residence.”
“It’s the one with the lamps,” the woman says and points without looking. “Excuse me, we’re in a hurry.”
She didn’t seem to be until just now. “Come along, Trish,” she says and speeds the pushchair downhill as the toddler makes to wave to Luke.
The Yancey house is a grey stone building with elongated chimneys crowned by sooty spikes. Four lamps stand beside the gravel drive. They’re equipped with sensors, which are so responsive that the lamp nearest to the pavement glares at Luke as he passes through the shadow of a tree. He won’t let this make him feel unwelcome, but he could imagine that whoever lives here is anxious for light, as though the lamps are an extension of their nerves. The other lamps stay dormant while he strides along the drive and pokes the bellpush on a pillar of the stone porch. “There’s the door,” a woman shouts at once.
She sounds harassed and strident, and she could be Luke’s mother. He wonders how she’ll sound if she learns she is. In a moment he hears weighty footsteps tramping along a hall. As he takes a not entirely steady breath the panelled antique door swings open to reveal the man he has summoned. “What can we do for you?” the man says as though he hopes it’s very little if anything at all.
He’s quite a few years older than Luke, and might look more like him if his features weren’t obesely blurred. Though he’s dressed for a race—shorts and singlet—it’s unlikely that he could be more than a spectator. He’s the colour of a battered fish, and Luke suspects those may figure in his diet. One pudgy forearm is tattooed BELLE above a ruddy heart spiked with an arrow. Is Luke seeing his mother’s name? Before he has thought of an answer he can risk giving, the man says “Do we know you?”
“I hope so.” Having said that, Luke has to ask “Would you be Harold Yancey?”
“I wouldn’t.” At first the man seems content to leave it there, and then he says “I’m not the chap he married either.”
“Oh, I see.” Luke is seeing the reason for his visit disappear like a bubble. “Sorry,” he presumes he ought to add.
“We’re not prejudiced here.” Just as truculently the man says “You’re talking about my uncle.”
“Ah. Well, good.” Luke assumes it is and says “I believe he knew someone connected with me.”
“Who was that?”
“Terence Arnold.” When Yancey’s nephew shakes his head Luke says “He was in demolition but he was into other things as well.”
The man meets this with a hint of a grin. Whatever secrets Terence may have had, Luke is sure he wasn’t gay, but perhaps he shouldn’t make an issue of it when the man’s responses are so unpredictable. Instead he says “Does Mr Yancey still live here?”
“He hasn’t for a while.”
“Could you tell me how I can get in touch with him?”
The implication of a grin reappears and vanishes. “What for?”
“Do you mind if I keep it between me and him?”
“Depends what you’re keeping.”
“It’s to do with my past. I can’t tell you any more.”
As Yancey’s nephew looks dissatisfied the unseen woman shouts “For pity’s sake, Donald, send him up.”
“That’ll make him happy, will it?”
“It’ll make him whatever it makes him.”
Luke can’t tell whether he’s still under discussion, since Yancey’s nephew has turned away from him. The man faces him to say “She says go up and see Harold. Nineteenth Avenue, number eight.”
He’s jabbing a stubby finger at the hill to which the street leads. “Thanks for helping,” Luke says, but the man only shrugs and shuts the door.
The lamp at the end of the drive lets Luke pass unnoticed and then flares up to celebrate his departure. The blurred restless shadows of the trees mop at his silhouette as if they’ve resolved to erase it, and the outline of the draped car squirms vigorously enough to be groping for a different shape. The dog scampers to resume its yapping while the gate clangs like a dull bell. Luke starts his car and has to wait for Patsy’s learner to execute another tortuous manoeuvre, setting out for the opposite side of the road before backing away with a series of hiccups of the engine and nervous blinks of the brake lights. At last she’s facing the right way, and Luke drives uphill.
A row of imposing houses stands along the foot of the slope at the end of the road. A steep unpaved track called Church Lane leads to the top, where a hedge enclosed by railings stands against a scoured blue sky. Luke hears birdsong chipping at the afternoon, the chatter of a magpie that reminds him how the noise would make the air feel splintered when he was a child, somebody urging a dog to be quiet and lie down. A wind is bringing the voice down the hill, and he guesses that the hedge surrounds a park, where treetops have risen into view. “Quiet,” the command comes again, “lie still,” though Luke can’t identify any noise the animal is making or indeed the gender of the speaker. As the car climbs past the highest building on the lane, the tip of a spire appears above the trees. It belongs to a church, and beyond the hedge is a churchyard.
Some distance away a wide road he didn’t notice leads uphill to the gates. It isn’t Nineteenth or any avenue, and the wide rough track bordering the churchyard is unnamed. There are no other roads to be seen; the one he’s looking for must be behind the church. A drive broad enough for hearses extends past the building, and Luke eases the car into the churchyard.
The shadows of memorials don’t quite imitate their sources. The silhouettes of headstones are reduced to black squares reminiscent of open trapdoors in the flattened mounds. Winged dwarfs crouch behind angels, and truncated dumpy crosses mark the spot behind each stone cross. Every line of graves is numbered with a plaque set into the drive. Beyond the church are dozens of new plots and an unused grassy expanse that isolates the stubby shadow of the spire. There are no gates on this side of the churchyard. Having encircled the church, the drive turns back on itself.
