The Judas Tree, page 31
‘Me? Really? I mean, if that’s what you want. But, well …’ He hesitated. ‘I haven’t even met them yet.’
We walked through the extravagant wooden door of St John’s College and stepped onto the rain-slicked pavement. The world outside hummed with cars and buses as they drove along the wet road, headlights illuminating the midday gloom, windscreen wipers swiping arcs through the drizzle. We joined the swarm of weekend shoppers on Magdalen Street who scurried this way and that, heads lowered, coats buttoned up against the miserable cold. As I watched them, an unexpected stab of jealousy struck me in the gut. Jealous of their uncomplicated lives. Jealous of them having nothing more pressing on their minds than which shop they were hurrying to, which café they’d refuel in, or how long they had left until their parking ran out. Jealous they were free from the uncertainty and fear which gnawed like a couple of ravenous rats.
‘You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.’ Kit’s voice cut through my thoughts. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, then pulled me to a standstill, ignoring the grumble of a woman forced to move around us. ‘It’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
I gave a weak, unconvincing smile. Kit was wrong. And not just about lunch. None of it was going to be OK. How could it be OK when the unknown loomed so large and threatening, a wall around me, trapping me inside it. When I was younger I’d imagined myself as a chess piece. Being moved from square to square by my parents. Inexplicably I allowed them. Perhaps it was easier to let them make my decisions than muster the energy to fight them.
‘We only want what’s best for you,’ my mother would say. ‘Don’t you want that too?’
What was best for me was conventional achievement. Money. A successful career. A sensible car with comprehensively researched insurance. A well-showered husband and two polite children who won prizes at school and practised the piano without being asked. She could hardly contain herself when my university acceptance dropped onto the mat. She droned on and on about the potential husbands I’d meet. A smorgasbord of cultured intellectuals who played tennis and skied and wore shoes with ‘real leather uppers’. An army of fictional Sebastians and Ruperts who’d walk me through cloistered courtyards reciting Wordsworth and Tennyson and Yeats.
‘My very own daughter at Oxford University.’
I’d discarded the letter on the table. ‘I’m not sure I’ll go.’
Her face drained of colour as she clutched her imaginary pearls. ‘Not go?’
‘I might take a year off.’
‘A year off?’ she breathed. ‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I’d said breezily. ‘Travelling probably.’
‘Travelling?’
In the end I didn’t go travelling. The thought of weathering my parents’ devastation was exhausting. I also didn’t fancy backpacking alone. So in October, desperate to escape and gain some sort of independence, I loaded suitcases into the boot of my father’s car and tuned out my mother’s relentless excitement. My stomach tumbled with nerves on the journey. I was convinced I wouldn’t fit in. Convinced I’d make no friends. That I’d be alone, skulking in the corner of a dusty library, struggling with the work, and being ignored by the braying, entitled hordes basking in the glow of their privilege.
But on day four I met Kit.
‘It’ll be all right. Remember I love you.’ He ran the tips of his fingers over my cheek.
I chewed my lip. ‘Did Jay say how late he’ll be?’
Kit shook his head. ‘Time is a concept which he’s apparently rejected.’ He took my hand and we started walking again. ‘He’ll be there though. He won’t go back on a promise.’
Kit and Jeremy were in their third year and had been friends since the first day of freshers’ week. The friendship was intense, close as brothers, the kind I’d found elusive. I wasn’t unpopular at school, I’d had nice friends – friends I no longer kept in touch with – but never anybody I’d formed a bond with.
On the fourth day I forced myself to brave the college bar. Jeremy was the first person I noticed. He was sitting in the corner of the airless basement holding court with a group of fuck-me-eyed girls who hung on his every word. But my gaze drifted quickly off him. Jeremy wasn’t my type. It was the guy beside him who grabbed my attention. Unruly blond hair. Grungy, with understated good looks, wearing a faded black T-shirt, jeans, and battered trainers. He turned and caught me staring, held my gaze for a moment, then smiled and looked away, glancing back to smile again. I watched him for a while, serene in that rowdy, hormonal room, the space he occupied tranquil. I wanted to crawl in with him. We kissed outside the bar in the shadows, the music and drunken shrieks from inside fading as we melted into each other. We held hands when we walked to his room. Our fingers entwined. His thumb stroking the side of my hand. Each touch electric. The sex was incredible and we were inseparable from that moment on. As we lay together afterwards, he talked about Jeremy. It was clear how much the friendship meant. So when, a few days later, he took me to meet him, I was riddled with nerves. Would he like me? Was I good enough? Would he take one look at me and turn down his thumb like a displeased emperor? But Jeremy welcomed me with open arms and the two of them drew me into their friendship. We became a three.
In Kit and Jeremy, I found my tribe: impassioned, unconventional, free-spirited.
Three dreamers.
‘Maybe we should live on a ranch in Wyoming or a hammock on a beach in Guatemala?’ I’d say as we passed a spliff around.
‘Or a croft in the Highlands. Breed some hairy cattle and look for kestrels.’
‘I’ve always wanted to live on a farm somewhere. As part of a community. Grow our own food. Break our chains and create a better life.’
Our conversations made me tingle. It was as if no dream was too big. I yearned for adventure. There was so much out there. I wanted to drown in it. From the deserts of Africa, to the jungles of Costa Rica, to the souks of Morocco; I wanted it all. If Kit had suggested packing rucksacks and heading off to travel the world for the rest of our lives, I’d have said yes, yes, yes without hesitation.
But fate had something different in mind.
‘Hang on,’ Jeremy said, when I asked him to join us for lunch. ‘As some sort of chaperone?’
‘Please?’ I pressed my hands together in prayer. ‘You can use your magic powers on them.’
‘Magic powers?’ He laughed and lit up.
‘Hypnotise them or whatever it is you do to people.’
He laughed again.
‘They’ve had my life planned since conception and this is about as far away from their plan as you can get.’
‘It’s karma then.’ Jeremy pushed open the window and let out an exhalation of smoke in its vague direction as a winter chill flooded the room.
I smiled as I imagined my parents grappling with the concept of karma. ‘Please, Jay? For us? Free food and drink?’ A fresh tide of anxiety surged inside me. I turned to Kit. ‘Maybe we should run away? Pack clothes and a toothbrush and disappear.’
Kit laughed but I wasn’t joking.
‘Run away without me?’ Jeremy looked theatrically shocked.
‘You can come too. But only if you come to lunch.’
‘Of course I’m coming. I like the idea of being your mediator.’
I’d booked a table for five at the brasserie on Turl Street. It was loud and busy, not too expensive but not too cheap, with a menu written in French to satisfy my aspirational parents. My father would order ‘Steak frites. Blue. Leave the garnish in the kitchen.’ My mother would have something which sounded more sophisticated than it was, coq au vin or confit de canard, ‘a green salad instead of potatoes. No dressing.’
My nerves thrummed as we neared the restaurant. I hesitated before pushing open the door and looked at Kit. ‘They aren’t …’ I searched for the best word of many I could have selected. ‘Easy.’
‘It’s fine. I’m used to difficult parents.’
The restaurant was a barrage of hubbub, heat, and smells. I scanned the room for my parents. They were sitting at a table in the corner in starched silence. A bottle of red in front of my father. My mother’s eyes fixed straight ahead. The restaurant manager hurried over to us, his distaste obvious, readying himself, I imagined, to throw us out. I informed him we were joining my parents for lunch and he looked us up and down, nose wrinkled, mouth stretched in revulsion. A wave of nausea swept through me, triggered by the smell of charred meat and overwhelming dread. For a horrible moment I thought I was going to throw up on the shoes of the sneering manager.
I grabbed Kit’s arm. ‘I’ll phone them instead—’
But then my mother caught sight of us. I watched her expression change as she took in the sight of me, her initial pleasure melting away with her smile, replaced by undisguised horror which only deepened as we approached. What was it that bothered her most? The ribbons woven into my head full of plaits? The ring through my nose? My tie-dyed cotton trousers? Or was it the boy holding my hand? Scruffy-haired, Greenpeace and Amnesty badges pinned to his moth-eaten charity shop sweater, rips across both knees of his jeans.
‘Hi Mum.’ I bent to kiss her cheek and tried not to let her obvious instinct to recoil get to me. ‘Dad.’ I smiled at my father, who reached for the already half-empty wine bottle. ‘This is Kit.’
My mother shoehorned an uncomfortable smile onto her face. My father stood and begrudgingly held out a hand.
‘Nice to meet you both.’ Kit shook my father’s hand without any sign of nerves. I envied his ability to remain unfazed in any situation. It didn’t matter who he was talking to, or where they came from, he never showed any hint of intimidation. ‘I’ve heard lots about you.’
My mother threw me a hard stare. ‘Sadly we can’t say the same.’
I glanced at Kit, who smiled.
‘You said someone else is coming?’ my mother said to my nose ring.
‘Yes, our friend Jeremy. Is that still OK?’ I willed Jeremy to walk through the door. I should have reminded him not to be late.
My father asked what we wanted to drink – an orange juice for me, a pint for Kit – then clicked his fingers aggressively for the waitress. I gave her an apologetic smile, but she didn’t seem to care.
My mother’s stony expression was hardening by the second and, as my father ordered a second bottle of red, I fought another urge to bolt. Kit reached for my hand beneath the table and gave it a squeeze. My skin felt clammy. This was worse than I’d imagined. What on earth had I been thinking?
‘The steak looks all right,’ my father said to Kit as a waiter passed with a tray of food for a neighbouring table.
‘Actually, I don’t eat meat.’
‘Don’t eat meat?’ My mother stared at him, open-mouthed, as if he’d slapped her.
‘I’m vegetarian.’
‘No meat at all? Not even chicken?’
Kit shook his head genially.
She exchanged an unsubtle look with my father. ‘A vegetarian?’ she mouthed.
My father appeared amused. ‘Your loss, that. Not much better than a thick, juicy steak.’
Jeremy chose this moment to walk through the door and I could have kissed him. I stood and waved, and he strolled over, casually dressed in a creased but clean white shirt and jeans. His confidence lit up the room. People watched him as he passed, drawn by his rockstar good looks, shaggy dark hair which curled at his collar, sculpted cheekbones and unparalleled self-confidence.
‘Hello, hello!’ He flashed us his brilliant smile. His energy was a tornado whipping around us. ‘I have to say I’m starving. Gagging for a drink, too.’
My mother gawped as if he were speaking a foreign language.
My father’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry. Who are you again?’
My stomach churned. Jeremy was supposed to calm everything down, not make things a hundred times worse.
‘Jay. Kit’s best friend.’ Jeremy pulled out a chair and sat down, then reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. My father’s jaw hit the floor. ‘Lovely. So, Mrs …?’ He turned to me, tilting his head quizzically. ‘You know something? I don’t know your surname.’
‘Wakefield.’ I cleared my throat. ‘These are my parents, Jane and Keith Wakefield.’
Jeremy winked at my mother. ‘Well, Jane, I can see where Tara gets her looks.’
Despite a welling panic, I let out a burst of nervous laughter, but then I noticed my mother blushing, her fingers reaching for a tendril of hair, a smile twitching, tickled by the hackneyed cliché.
When it came to sniffing out weak spots in people, Jeremy was a truffle pig, and he had the measure of my parents within moments.
‘Jane,’ he said, over a pint in the college bar later. ‘Is a woman obsessed with acquiring more. She wants more than a husband soaked in red wine and mediocrity. More than a semi-detached house on a suburban street in Hertfordshire. Disappointment oozes from her pores. If she wasn’t so bitter, I’d pity her.’ He drained his glass and pointed at me. ‘Your parents are a cautionary tale.’
And he was right. I was terrified of ending up like them. Unsatisfied, unfulfilled, and stuck in a greyscale, insular life.
‘So what do you want to do after university?’ my father asked Kit as he poured another glass of wine.
‘I’ve not given it much thought. I’ll probably see where things take me.’
My father stared at him for a moment or two, perhaps waiting for Kit to laugh and tell him, no, he was joking, of course he was planning to go into accountancy or finance. But Kit held his stare and offered nothing more.
My father turned to Jeremy. ‘And you? Thoughts on a career? Or do you also lack ambition and drive?’
Jeremy scoffed. ‘A career? You mean truss myself up in a suit to slave for some arsehole with a trophy wife and a country club membership?’
‘Maybe not now, Jay?’ Kit raised his eyebrows and shook his head imperceptibly.
But Jeremy pressed on. ‘No, Keith. I’ve no intention of working myself to death to line the pockets of greedy fat cats.’
My father put his glass down. ‘Sounds as if you’re scared of hard work.’
Jeremy smiled. ‘I’m not scared of anything. But the system bleeds us dry. I watched what it did to my dad. Took everything from him then left him for dead. But think about it, Keith. Why do we need a job anyway?’
‘To pay for things?’ Irritation inched in around the edges of my father’s words.
Kit stiffened as Jeremy leant forward, eyes alight. ‘Things?’
‘Yes. Things. A house, car, clothes.’ He gestured around him. ‘A meal in a restaurant. A nice big television?’
‘A television! Christ. Television rots your brain, Keith. Give that rubbish up immediately. So why do we want these things? If we didn’t desire them we’d be free. No more need to work day in day out, hour after hour, for years and years, fuelled by a rabid desire for things we don’t need. And when we get whatever it is we’ve desired? Satisfaction? No. The void is filled by desire for something else.’ Jeremy smiled at my father. ‘The fat cats don’t even have to get their hands dirty. The marketing men to do the grubby work for them. It’s their job to convince the rest of us that without these things we can never be happy. That way we keep turning the wheel. Grinding away so we can buy things we didn’t even know we wanted until they told us we did.’ He leant back and crossed his arms. ‘Just imagine, Keith. No alarm clocks. No mortgage. No suffocating debt. All you need to do is step off the wheel.’
My father didn’t speak for a moment or two, but then he reached for his drink. ‘There’s nothing honourable in being unemployed.’
‘There’s nothing honourable in working so hard you lose sight of what really matters. Believe you me, I know that first-hand. I know the damage it does.’ Jeremy picked up his glass and drank, his thoughts distant for a moment or two.
My father’s cheeks were now a deep shade of plum. Jeremy smiled and pushed his glass towards him for a top-up. Kit’s face had paled and he shifted in his seat awkwardly while staring at the menu. The stilted silence was unbearable. This was all a horrendous mistake. I needed it to be over.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Everybody stared at me. I felt faint. Kit reached for my hand.
‘What did you say?’ My mother wrinkled her forehead as if she hadn’t heard me properly.
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant. Kit and I. We’re … I’m pregnant …’ My words faded beneath the weight of my parents’ mushrooming horror.
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re not.’ The words came out in a strangled squeak. ‘You’ve just gone to Oxford.’
The table was pin-drop quiet amid the restaurant clamour.
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘How did this happen?’
Kit and I exchanged looks and Jeremy lifted his hand to conceal a snigger.
‘Don’t get fresh with me. I know how it happened. I’m asking how the hell you could let this happen? I thought you were supposed to be clever? We give you everything then you ruin your life with this …’ She hesitated, nose wrinkled as if she’d smelt something bad. ‘This person.’
‘Don’t, Mum. Jesus—’
‘I love your daughter, Mrs Wakefield.’ Kit smiled at me. ‘And I’m going to look after her and the baby.’
‘Christ almighty. You’re having it?’ My mother’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.
I bit back the all too familiar rage.
The truth was, up until that precise moment, I wasn’t sure I did want the baby. I’d done the test on my own in the loo in the pub. The instructions said it would take up to two minutes, but those two blue lines switched on in seconds like Christmas lights on Regent Street. I’d slipped out of the pub and walked down to the river and sat in the freezing cold. As I stared at the moon bouncing off the water, people laughing and revelling in a bar nearby, I decided to end the pregnancy. I wouldn’t tell anybody. Not even Kit. I’d give a false name at the clinic. Do it quickly. Get it over with. But I wasn’t able to keep it from Kit. I went to him, tears streaking my cheeks, trembling. His face fell.
