The Judas Tree, page 4
Emma came through the French windows and put a tray of drinks, a bowl of crisps and a small plate of swollen green olives on the table. She sat in the chair beside Will and slipped her sunglasses down from the top of her head to shield her eyes.
‘So who’s this nightmare colleague of Ian’s you’re making us eat with?’ Harmony asked Emma.
‘God, don’t tell him I said that, whatever you do.’
Harmony laughed. ‘As if I would!’
‘It’s his lawyer. He worships the bloody man.’ Emma poured Harmony a glass of cordial from a jug filled with ice cubes and freshly cut mint. ‘He was asking questions about you.’ Emma grinned at Harmony and lifted her eyebrows.
‘Me? Really? Do I know him?’
‘You met him at the party. Dark hair. Good-looking, if you like that sort of thing.’
‘Should I be jealous?’ Will smiled and sipped his beer.
‘What type of questions was he asking?’ Harmony sat forward, her interest piqued.
Emma shrugged. ‘It was Ian he was asking. Said something along the lines of him having met one or two interesting people at the party and then described you. Ian knew he meant you when he said your husband had white-blond hair. Anyway, Ian mentioned we were having lunch with you and Will to look at the photos, and as far as I can tell he invited himself along. Like I said, Ian worships the man, so obviously his wish is his command, and, well, here we are.’ She reached for an olive then gestured towards the laptop. ‘Come on, Will. Show me these photos before they get here and I have to start dashing in and out of the kitchen like a lunatic.’
They were interrupted by high-pitched screaming. Will turned to see the children running across the lawn towards the fort. Josh had clearly stolen something from his sister and was holding whatever it was above his head as she ran after him shrieking at him to give it back.
‘For goodness’ sake, Josh!’ Emma called. ‘We’ve guests. Can you try not to be a total savage for a few hours?’
They both ignored her and disappeared into the woods.
‘It’s a shame they aren’t eating with us,’ said Harmony, staring after them.
Will’s stomach turned over as he caught her sadness.
‘I had to feed them before you got here. If they don’t eat before midday they’ll eat each other,’ Emma said. ‘They’re basically wild animals. Don’t worry, though, they’ll be like wasps on jam when I bring pudding out.’ She smiled. ‘They’re Pavlova addicts. You’ll be lucky to get any.’ She reached for her glass of wine then leant forward to peer at the laptop.
‘These are amazing, Will,’ Emma said, a few moments later as she looked through the photographs. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I look gorgeous in this one!’ She grinned and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re a photographic miracle worker!’
‘I tell him that all the time,’ Harmony said, without moving her face away from the sun. ‘He needs to make time for it. I can’t remember the last time you went to your studio, Will.’
‘And that’s a great one of you, Harmony.’
Will looked at the photo. He didn’t agree with Emma; his wife didn’t look great. Her silk dress skimmed her body in all the right places, but she looked thin, her collarbone pronounced and her cheeks gaunt. She’d lost so much weight since the miscarriage.
Emma continued to scroll through the pictures. ‘There,’ she said, tapping the screen with her fingernail. ‘That’s Ian’s lawyer.’
Will looked at the screen. The photo showed two people, a couple – Anne and Cliff – whom Will had met a couple of times before. In the background, cast in shadows to the left of the picture, was a figure Will hadn’t noticed until then. It was difficult to make him out properly, but he seemed familiar. Will had certainly met him, but for the life of him couldn’t work out when or where. There was an intensity about him that cut through the blurry darkness and locked on to Will. As if he was staring right at him. Now Emma had pointed him out it was hard to look anywhere else; his presence held the photo like a curse.
‘I recognise him,’ Will said. ‘But not from the party. I must have met him here before.’
‘Not here,’ said Emma. ‘That was the first time I’d met him myself. I thought he was a bit strange, to be honest, but then I was as drunk as a tequila worm by nine.’
Will stared at the indistinct face and racked his brain to place him. ‘Must have been with Ian then.’
Emma didn’t answer but clicked to the next photo. ‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just look at Pete in this one! What kind of face is he pulling? And there’s Katia and Steve.’ She glanced at Harmony. ‘Such an odd pair,’ she mused. ‘Do you know them? The world’s least suited couple. I mean, look at them. Could they be any more mismatched?’ She laughed. ‘She’s tiny, barely speaks English and is only interested in handbags, and Steve is a six-foot-five oaf who lives in his – frankly vile – cycle lycra. God knows what they have in common.’
‘Sex!’ came Ian’s voice from behind them. ‘They bonk like rabbits on Viagra.’
Will turned and saw Ian stepping through the French windows onto the terrace. Tall and slim with ruddy cheeks and hair that was greying at the sides, he was a man whose looks had improved with age and privilege; unfairly – in Will’s opinion – given what a git he was.
‘Excuse me?’ laughed Emma. ‘Is that any way to announce your arrival?’
‘Sex and shoes. He told me she goes like a steam train every night in return for a pair of Lablahniks once a month. They’re both as happy as pigs in shit.’
‘Laboutins,’ corrected Emma. ‘Or Manolo Blahniks. Not Lablahniks, for God’s sake. And don’t say that pig thing – I hate it.’ She peered behind her husband. ‘Where’s your golf partner?’
‘Nipped to the boys’ room,’ Ian said, as he bent to kiss Harmony’s cheek before reaching over her to shake Will’s hand.
‘Hello, Ian.’ Will had to work hard at liking Ian. He was pompous, too pumped up with that ludicrous alpha machismo he’d seen so much of at school and loathed, and, as far as Will was concerned, he brought the worst out in Emma. When they’d met they were plain old Emma Jones and Ian Barratt. When they married they became Mr and Mrs Ian Barratt-Jones. Will and Harmony had laughed when they’d heard about the hyphen.
‘She always wanted a hyphen,’ Harmony said, stifling her giggles. ‘How do you think they chose Barratt-Jones over Jones-Barratt? I mean, how did they decide who got pole position?’
If it wasn’t for the fact that Emma adored him, Will wouldn’t have given Ian a second look. But he was fond of Emma, who, despite her occasionally grating aspirational streak, was warm, kind, and funny. He’d liked her from the moment Harmony introduced them, aged twenty-one, the three of them picnicking in Hyde Park, sitting on the soft, green grass, laughing until they cried while getting drunk on Jack and Coke.
‘How was your game?’ Will asked.
‘Played like a fucking moron.’
‘Ian!’ Emma shook her head indulgently.
‘Sorry,’ he said, taking a couple of olives and shoving them into his mouth. ‘Played like a fucking idiot.’ He winked at Will, who forced a smile back.
Will’s attention was caught then by Ian’s companion walking through the French windows, his head slightly bowed as he watched his step.
‘He didn’t leave you on the eighteenth then?’ Emma said, as she walked up to greet him.
The man lifted his head and Will’s heart stopped.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
‘Oh my God,’ he breathed.
Harmony looked across at him. ‘Will?’
Will stared at the man who was now kissing Emma on both cheeks, warmly telling her how nice it was to see her again, how much he’d enjoyed the party, thanking her for allowing him to join them for lunch.
‘Let me introduce you to our friends,’ Emma said genially. ‘Harmony, Will this is—’
‘Luke.’ Will stepped forward.
Harmony looked between the two of them. ‘You know each other?’
Will and Luke held each other’s stare then Will watched a wide smile dawn on Luke’s face. ‘Will English. Well, I never!’
Will opened and closed his mouth, his voice sticking in his throat. ‘Luke?’
As he spoke his name there was a thump to his gut like a heavyweight punch. He recalled the photo from Emma’s party. The face in the shadows. How had he not recognised him?
‘You know each other?’ said Emma, repeating Harmony’s question and looking from Luke back to Will.
‘Actually, we do,’ Luke said. ‘We were at school together.’ He stepped forward towards Will, hand outstretched in greeting. ‘A very long time ago. What a surprise!’
Will hesitated then shook his hand. He was startled by his solidity, a matured masculinity that seemed alien; the Luke he knew was slight and small, a skinny wisp of a child with pale skin and a dusting of freckles. How could he be this fully grown man?
‘Yes. I’m … it’s … God, I’m lost for words.’ Will’s lungs constricted and his thoughts grew foggy as spiking memories bit into him. He’d spent so long trying to erase this boy – this man – from his head, yet here he was, standing right in front of him.
Luke Crawford.
‘You were at school together? Really?’ said Harmony.
Luke looked at her. ‘Yes. At Pendower Hall.’
Will winced.
‘You didn’t tell me that at the party,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know who you were married to at the party.’ He looked at her quizzically and Will watched her cheeks blush.
‘What an amazing coincidence!’ Emma gave a surprised laugh.
Luke smiled. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Well, come on then,’ she said then. ‘Do sit down. Ian, will you sort some drinks out, please? This is now a proper celebration.’
Ian clapped his hands together and asked what they’d like. Will was vaguely aware of saying yes to another beer. Of Ian disappearing into the house. Emma laughing. Repeating the coincidence. He was aware of Harmony, poised in her chair, waiting with bated breath for more information, details and stories of a past Will had purposely shielded her from.
‘This is all a bit surreal, isn’t it?’ Will finally managed to say. ‘I was just looking at a picture of you and trying to place you. You’ve changed.’
‘It’s been a long time,’ Luke said.
‘How long?’ asked Harmony, her eyes glinting. Will imagined how quickly her brain must be whirring, cogs blurring with speed as she grappled with questions he had no intention of answering.
‘About twenty-five years? Wouldn’t you say, Will?’ Luke leant across the table for a crisp, and Will noticed his wrist, fine-boned still, but strong, skin tanned, a smartwatch so polished it glinted in the sun like a beacon.
‘Yes, it must be,’ Will said. Luke’s eyes had the same intensity they’d had all those years before, dark and earnest, hiding a seething tangle of thoughts and emotions. He was shocked how unnerving he found it. Will glanced at Harmony then back at Luke. Sitting between them was unbearable; two separate chapters of his life, as incompatible as oil and water. ‘We were fourteen when we last saw each other.’
‘Were you good friends?’ Emma asked.
‘Yes,’ said Luke evenly. ‘In fact, we were best friends.’
Will clenched his fist.
Ian reappeared with drinks. ‘Don’t sit down,’ Emma said, grabbing his arm. ‘I need you in the kitchen.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Harmony.
‘No, no. you sit there and chat. It’s all done.’ Emma ushered her unwilling husband back towards the French windows.
Left alone, the three of them fell into silence. The atmosphere was claustrophobic. Will’s heart raced; he was finding it hard to keep his breathing steady. Long-buried memories resurfaced: the crisp chill in the dusky October air, the feel of the cold, damp earth, that rich, mulchy smell of fallen leaves beginning to rot that caught in the back of his throat.
‘So you were best friends?’ Harmony said, clearly hoping for more information.
‘Actually,’ Luke replied. ‘We were more than that.’
‘There’s something better than best?’ Harmony flashed him a playful smile.
‘Yes, we were blood brothers. Still are, I suppose.’ He held his hand up, palm outwards, five fingers splayed. ‘You remember, Will?’
Will’s stomach knotted as he saw the white scar that ran from the base of Luke’s index finger to the heel of his palm.
‘Blood brothers?’ Harmony laughed. ‘That’s all a bit Huckleberry Finn, isn’t it?’
Will tried to stamp down his unease. He breathed out and forced another smile. Made an effort to keep his voice light and relaxed. ‘Yes, of course I remember.’ Then he raised his own hand and unfurled his fingers to display his matching scar. ‘Blood brothers.’
Luke’s smile faltered and he lowered his hand as Emma appeared through the French windows with a tray of food. ‘I must say this has made lunch so much more interesting. It’s like an episode of This Is Your Life. I feel like Michael Aspel!’
Will smiled tightly.
‘I’ve just discovered they’re blood brothers, Em.’
‘Oh, that sounds exciting. How do you become blood brothers?’ Emma asked as she sat down.
‘Will had this penknife his father gave him. God, we loved that knife, didn’t we, Will?’
Will recalled unwrapping the knife on his thirteenth birthday, the thrill he’d felt as he tore off the brown paper and realised what he’d been given. The inscription on the blade was as cold as the metal itself – To W.P.E. from your father – but Will hadn’t cared. It was like unboxing treasure; a real penknife, a Swiss Army one, with its magnificent blood-red handle, the mirror-like blade reflecting the excitement in his eyes in flashes as he opened and closed it, opened and closed it.
‘There was this tree we used to climb. The school’s hallowed Japanese Judas or Katsura, cercidiphyllum japonicum. Pride and joy of Pendower Hall. A specimen. One of the tallest of its kind in England, they said. Gifted by a renowned botanist, an ex-pupil, in the nineteenth century on his return from travels to Asia. We loved it, didn’t we, Will?’
Will didn’t reply. He lowered his eyes and stared at the tiny bubbles in his beer, rising to the surface as if trying to escape.
‘It had branches which were perfect for climbing and thick leaves we could hide in. Anyway, one day we went up into the woods, to this favourite tree of ours, and took turns to cut our palms,’ Luke continued. ‘Then we pressed our hands together, said a few words, and pledged eternal loyalty to each other. That kind of rubbish.’ He laughed. The sound jarred and Will wished he could ram his hands over his ears to block it out.
‘Ow!’ Emma exclaimed.
‘Yes, it hurt like a bitch.’ Luke’s smile fell away.
Will thought of the tree. Its branches fanning upwards like the fingers of a giant’s hand. The cloak of leaves and dappled sunlight. The exhilaration he’d felt as they climbed higher and higher, his heart thumping, skin tingling.
Harmony reached for Will’s hand and turned it over, then traced her fingertip the length of the thin, raised scar. A tingle ran through him. ‘After all these years, I’ve finally found out.’
Will pulled his hand back then reached for his glass and downed the last of his beer.
‘I can’t believe you cut your own hands open,’ Harmony said. ‘Can you, Em? Didn’t we just read copies of the NME and lust over David Bowie?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Will said.
‘Boys can be very odd,’ said Emma.
Emma took each plate in turn and served everybody thick slices of honey-roast ham. They passed bowls of green salad and new potatoes around and Ian circled the table pouring cold white wine.
‘Your garden’s looking beautiful, Ian,’ said Will, keen to keep conversation away from him and Luke. ‘You’ve been working hard.’
Emma snorted with laughter. ‘Will, you should know by now, my husband’s idea of a hard morning’s gardening is napping in a deckchair under the willow tree.’
‘Excuse me?’ Ian retorted. ‘The lawn was mowed this morning.’
‘By the gardener!’ She furrowed her brow and reached across the table for the bread basket. ‘You’re such a liar.’
Ian’s face clouded over. ‘A liar? I’m not a bloody liar!’
Emma was clearly startled by his eruption. ‘I didn’t mean to touch a nerve. I—’
‘You haven’t touched a nerve,’ Ian interjected. ‘Not at all. But liar is a pretty strong word to use.’ He stared at Will. ‘Don’t you agree? I’m not sure it’s on for a wife to call her husband a liar in company. Or at all, to be honest.’
Will wasn’t sure if Ian expected him to agree with him or not. He hesitated, glancing at Harmony for guidance, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Luke. The look on her face was one of focused curiosity. Will had always been cagey about his childhood and she was obviously ravenous for details. He knew she wasn’t going to let this go and reliving it all was the last thing he wanted. Perhaps he could just get up from the table and leave? Walk away without saying a word.
‘It’s OK, Ian. Emma didn’t mean anything by it.’ It was Luke who spoke.
Emma looked at Luke with visible relief. ‘You’re right. I didn’t. It was a joke, because you implied you did the garden but the gardener does the garden.’
‘Well, I pay for the bloody gardener,’ Ian blustered.
An awkward silence settled over the table.
‘This ham is delicious, Em,’ Harmony said, trying to ease the discomfort. ‘You’re such a good cook.’ She turned to Luke. ‘I’m appalling in the kitchen. Every time I eat Emma’s food I’m reminded just how bad I am.’
As quickly as it had blown up, the exchange with Ian was forgotten as Emma laughed Harmony’s compliment off with a casual wave of her hand. ‘You’re a perfectly good cook when you want to be. You just don’t want to be.’
‘Shoddy cooking skills is the price you feminist working types have to pay, isn’t it?’
As Ian laughed to show he was ‘just playing’ with Harmony, Will cut into his ham. Luke’s composure rattled him. How was he so unfazed? How could he conduct himself with such confidence, remain so unaffected by the crippling discomfort that silenced Will? And how suave he was, leaning back in his chair, casually holding his glass of wine, elbow resting on the back of Emma’s chair. He listened intently as she spoke, engaged and interested, so different to the wraith-like boy he’d known, with his darting eyes, coiled like a spring, so thin his bones threatened to pierce his paper-white skin.
