The Judas Tree, page 7
‘So how are you today, young William?’
‘All good thanks.’
‘Super stuff. The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Lovely. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Gracious, no. I’ve had three already.’
‘Three?’ Will lifted his eyebrows. ‘It’s not even ten. You’ll be bouncing off the ceiling.’
Frank smiled and playfully batted the air. ‘I’ve been up since five. I’m surprised I’ve only had three.’
Will pushed through the plastic strip curtain, reminiscent of a seventies corner shop, and in the tiny cupboard that passed as a kitchen he made himself an instant and dumped two spoonfuls of sugar in it. ‘How are the boys?’ he called through.
‘Fluffy,’ Frank said. ‘And as lazy as ever. Poor Pinwheel was a bit off-colour on Saturday but the vet wasn’t worried; she said it was probably something he ate. A past its sell-by mouse, I suspect. Greedy toad.’
Will smiled to himself and took his coffee back through the strip curtain. Being at the shop settled him; he felt comfortable here, knowledgeable and well respected, with no pressure to be anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t have to be talented or skilful, or, if truth be told, stretch himself. He knew about wine. He’d worked in the business since his early twenties, and he enjoyed working close to home with no commute and no pressure. Frank was independently wealthy and worked because he loved it; if the business ever folded, he’d be unaffected financially. It was easy and pleasant, which is just how Will liked it. He didn’t make much money but it was steady, and though there were undoubtedly days when he wished he was out with his camera searching for beauty in the obscure and mundane, they weren’t frequent.
‘Would you like a custard cream?’ Frank asked. ‘I’ve a packet in my satchel.’
‘I’m OK, thanks.’ Will opened the large desk diary by the till. There was a delivery that afternoon and he was meeting a new restaurant owner on Wednesday, but other than that, it was a quiet week.
‘Did you have a good weekend, William?’
Will had a flash of Luke walking out onto the terrace and his stomach somersaulted. ‘Fine, thanks. You? Get up to anything fun?’
‘Oh, well, you know, this and that.’ Frank opened his old, battered bag, so stuffed with god-knows-what that it bulged in the middle, cracking the dry tan leather. He retrieved the packet of custard creams and carefully unwrapped them, took one, then wrapped the packet up and slid it back into his bag. ‘I do like a custard cream,’ he said to the biscuit. Then he seemed to remember something and waved the biscuit frantically at Will. ‘Ooh, yes, yes. Something did happen,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Eric had a death threat through the post. That was rather thrilling.’
‘A death threat? A real one?’
‘Yes, from a poor woman distraught he’d killed off Princess Aisha in Far Reaches of Sylion.’
‘Blimey. That must have been terrifying.’
‘To be honest, we’re used to it. Some of the diehards get terribly upset when he hurts their characters. And Aisha was very popular. Her fans saw it as an unforgivable betrayal that their gorgeous heroine got the chop.’ He shrugged. ‘I think that was it as far as weekend excitement goes.’ Frank put the last of his custard cream into his mouth then brushed the crumbs from his suit. ‘And now to work. I was thinking it was all getting a bit untidy in here. How about I give it a dust and a straighten?’
Will smiled; the shop was immaculate as always, but Frank was cursed with a compulsive disorder he wasn’t aware of and every Monday and Thursday he dusted and straightened the clean and perfectly straight bottles.
‘Good idea,’ Will said. ‘I’ll get on with sorting out the cellar to make room for the delivery.’
‘I meant to ask you on Friday, how’s your mother?’
‘She’s doing OK, I think. I spoke to her last week. Though she still seems a bit off with me. I’ve done something to upset her, but I’ve no idea what.’
‘That’s grief for you. It makes everything terribly cloudy. When I lost my dear old mum I couldn’t talk to anyone. Not even Eric. The only ones who understood were Pinwheel and Pie. They were such a support. She’ll come around. Time’s the perfect healer. You should visit her, she’d like that.’ Frank took a breath and clapped his hands together. ‘Right. Must get on. This shop isn’t going to clean itself, you know.’ He disappeared through the strip curtain to get his duster and polish.
Will perched on the edge of the stool behind the counter and idly switched on his phone. There was an email notification. He clicked to open it.
Luke’s name hit him so hard he felt winded.
From: Luke Crawford
Subject: Following up
Will,
It was good to see you yesterday and lovely to meet your beautiful wife. Though I have to say rather strange bumping into each other like that! A small world, as they say. I was thinking on the way home how close we’d been at school and what a shame we drifted apart. Would be great to catch up properly. I’m away on business next week and pretty busy towards the end of this week, but I’m free tonight or tomorrow evening. Would you and Harmony like to meet for a drink or something to eat? Either at mine or at yours if that suits you better.
How does this sound?
Luke
‘Frank, I’m nipping out for a minute or two,’ Will said, trying to keep his voice steady.
‘Everything OK?’ asked Frank. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’
‘Just need some air.’
Will’s head swam. This wasn’t going to go away. He leant back against the wall of the Co-op and covered his face with his hands. Christ. Why had he given him his card? He needed to work out what to do, but it was too hard, his head too mixed up, his thinking blurred.
He turned on his phone and dialled Harmony.
‘Hey,’ he said when she answered. ‘It’s me.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’m good. You?’
‘In the middle of something.’
He tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat.
‘Is it important?’ she said with a degree of impatience. ‘I’m quite busy.’
‘Luke emailed me.’ He felt sick.
‘Really?’ Her voice softened. ‘What did he say?’
‘He wants to meet up. Either tonight or tomorrow at ours or his.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I’m not sure. He’s keen to see me. I think if I say we can’t, he’ll just come back with another date. I think I should.’
‘Do you want me there too?’
‘Yes. Yes, if you’re happy to be. Yes, of course.’
‘Tonight is better for me. I’ve got a lot of work to do so shall we do it at ours? That way, if the evening runs on, I can excuse myself and get back to it if I have to.’
‘So you think I should say yes?’
‘That’s up to you. But if he’s coming you need to sort the food out. I’m up against a deadline at work. Jacob needs to see my interim draft by the end of the week.’
After the phone call ended, Will rested his head back against the wall and turned it over and over in his mind. Seeing Luke, having him over for a catch-up, was the very last thing he wanted, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He just had to say yes and get it over and done with and then they could both move on. He took a deep breath then hesitantly typed a reply.
Hey Luke, yes it would be great to catch up. Why don’t you come to ours for 7ish tonight? I’ll cook something. Our address is 146a Hanniker Rd, W14.
Will wasn’t sure how to sign off. Yours sincerely? Kind regards? Best? He scrolled down to see how Luke had done it and saw a simple Luke. Will added his name and pressed send. Then he stared at his phone in his quivering hand and battled a wave of nausea which swept through him.
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ said a worried-looking Frank as Will pushed back through the door. ‘A young woman came in asking for a bottle of pudding wine suitable to accompany a chocolate roulade. I panicked a bit.’
‘What did you go with?’
‘The Estrella Moscatel de Valencia.’
‘Perfect,’ Will lied. ‘I’d have given her the same myself.’
Frank’s face relaxed. ‘That’s a relief. It was a bit of a punt, if I’m honest.’ Then he picked up his duster and Pledge from the top of the stepladder and returned to his spraying and polishing.
At five o’clock Will told Frank he had to leave to meet a client. Frank didn’t seem to mind; he said he needed some peace to tidy the cupboard in the kitchenette. Will walked down to the Sainsbury’s Local at Fulham Broadway. As he walked up and down the aisles, memories of Luke bombarded him; things he’d forgotten came back as if it were yesterday, like the time they tore pages from their hymn books in assembly and made tiny paper aeroplanes. Later they’d bunked off cadet training and scrambled up the wooded hillock behind the science block, as steep as it was overgrown, where masters on the hunt for errant boys rarely went, and spent an hour flying their hymn-book planes. They’d been in fits of giggles as they launched the flimsy things, which looped and plopped at their feet or flew off in odd directions, both as close to happy as either of them could be in that place that was more prison than school.
Will pushed through the front door of the flat laden with shopping bags and kicked it shut behind him. Harmony’s bag hung on the hook in the hallway.
‘Hello,’ he called, as he walked down to the kitchen. There was no answer. ‘Harmony?’ He put the bags on the worktop and went back down the corridor to her study. The door was shut. He knocked as he opened it and saw her at the computer, the glasses she wore for close work perched on her nose and her hair tied up in a loose ponytail, revealing the soft, smooth skin of her neck.
‘Hey,’ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and bending to kiss her. ‘Good day?’
She tilted her cheek towards his kiss but didn’t look away from the screen. ‘Fine.’
‘I didn’t know you were working from home today.’
‘I came back at lunchtime. I left some notes here which I needed.’ She glanced at him. ‘My head’s all over the place at the moment.’
‘Luke will be here about seven.’ He paused, waiting for her to say something but she didn’t. ‘I’ll leave you in peace and make a start on the supper. I bought steak.’
‘Lovely,’ she said, squinting at the screen. ‘Let me finish this bit I’m on, then I’ll have a quick shower and be with you.’
‘No hurry.’ Will turned to head out of the study.
‘Will?’ She swivelled in her chair.
‘Yes?’
‘We really do need to talk soon. About trying for a baby.’ She smiled, and he nodded and left the room.
Before he unpacked the shopping, he opened the bottle of Italian red he’d brought back from the shop. It was one of his favourites. He poured himself a large glass, which he drank as he set about making French dressing and a salad, laid the table, put out salt, pepper, mustard, both English and French. A heaviness, a solemn resolve, had settled over him. He felt as if he were preparing a wake. When he’d finished, he topped up his wine and went outside and sat at the wrought-iron table they’d found at a salvage yard a few years back. They’d planned to revamp it, rub the rust back, repaint it in a vibrant colour, something unusual, but it had never been done. Truth be told, Will liked the rust and the chipped paint, it suited the garden with its rampant weeds that ate up the terrace and overgrown shrubs that threatened to suffocate the small patchy lawn area.
Will sat for a while, nursing his glass of wine, his mind drifting to the conversation he’d had with Frank about his mother. However distant he’d been from his father, he forced himself to remember how lost she must feel without him. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen her. It was months ago. He must call her and arrange to visit.
The sound of the doorbell startled him.
He stood, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. ‘You can do this,’ he whispered. ‘Just be pleasant and get it over with.’ He walked into the house and as he passed their bedroom, called in to Harmony, ‘He’s here.’ At the front door he paused and inhaled, then let his breath slowly out, before opening the door.
Luke held a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. ‘Hello, Will,’ he said, as he held out the bottle.
Will took the wine and glanced at the label. It was a Saint Emilion, a good year; he’d spent some money on it. ‘That’s a very generous gift,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s hard to buy wine for an expert,’ Luke replied. ‘The flowers are for your wife.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
They stood either side of the threshold. Neither moved or spoke. There was a palpable tension between them, thick with conflicting emotions. They held each other’s stare until it became uncomfortable and Will was forced to step to one side and allow Luke in.
‘You have a nice place,’ Luke said, as he followed Will into the flat.
‘We’re happy here.’ Will cast his eye over the living room which was filled with the assorted bits and pieces they’d collected over the years. It was like a shop of curiosities, cluttered and eclectic. There was a lot of kitsch Americana they’d bought while living in the States when Harmony had taught at Stanford for two years. Coca-Cola cool she called it: a battered bubblegum dispenser, an imitation Route 66 road sign, vintage baseball cards pinned along the mantelpiece like cardboard bunting. There were things they’d picked up while travelling in their early twenties: a statue of the elephant-headed god, Ganesh, which they’d bought in Delhi, some Sri Lankan and Balinese throws, a wooden frog from Thailand. Then Will’s photographs, which patchworked the walls with arty landscapes, cityscapes, and portraits of Harmony. Luke walked over to one of the pictures of her. It was taken at the foot of a looming Mayan temple. She wore a turquoise vest top and a pair of safari shorts, her hair held off her face with a red and white bandana, a water bottle in one hand, her skin tanned and smooth as caramel. As Luke looked at it Will recalled making love to her later that evening, how they’d talked about the approaching end of the world, the Mayans’ prophecy, how he’d kissed her from head to toe, and how she’d tasted sweet with coconut oil and bitter with citronella.
When he finally drew his eyes away from the photo, Luke smiled at Will.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Will said.
‘Yes, please. A beer if you’ve got one.’
Will fetched a glass from the cupboard in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Becks from the fridge. Back in the living room he found Luke holding a silver-framed photo of them on their wedding day, studying it as if trying to memorise it.
Will poured the beer and handed it to Luke, who thanked him and sat in the armchair by the window.
‘So,’ Will said, sitting on the sofa opposite, trying to think of conversation as far away from Pendower Hall as possible. ‘You were saying at lunch that you work with Ian?’
Luke nodded. ‘I’m his lawyer.’
‘What sort of thing do you do for him?’
‘I shouldn’t really talk about it.’ Luke fixed his eyes on Will. ‘I’m sure Ian will tell you if he feels the need.’
Will looked down at his drink. His hand was trembling and the dark red wine wavered gently in the glass, the reflections from the light overhead dancing on the surface. The living room felt hot and stuffy suddenly. Will stood and went to open the sash window.
‘Did you take the photographs?’ asked Luke.
Will nodded and sat down again.
‘They’re very good.’ He turned and looked at the picture of Harmony on the steps of the temple again. ‘Especially the ones of your wife.’
‘She’s very photogenic. An easy subject for anyone to photograph.’
‘Yes, the camera seems to love her, but the way you’ve framed them is impressive, your sense of space and balance.’
Will cast his eye over the photographs, which were as familiar as his own reflection; each one he remembered taking with crystal clarity. ‘It’s my passion.’
‘It always was, wasn’t it?’ Luke stared at Will so intently that Will had to look away. ‘You did it professionally, didn’t you?’
Will furrowed his brow, taken aback by the question, wondering how Luke knew. He shifted in his seat. ‘For a while. It was a few years ago now. I did a couple of weddings and some portfolio shoots. But there were a lot of people – most far more talented then me – doing the same and there wasn’t enough regular work to rely on. Hopefully, one day, I might try again.’ He smiled and lifted his glass to his lips. ‘That’s the plan anyway.’
‘I remember that Polaroid camera you had at school.’ Luke leant forward to put his glass on the coffee table. ‘You were always snapping something.’
Will’s heart missed a beat as a recollection of that afternoon caught him unawares.
Luke laughed. The noise was incongruous and unsettling. ‘Always slung around your neck, that camera.’
The camera Luke was talking about was gathering dust in a box on top of the wardrobe. He hadn’t used it since school, but Luke was right, when he was young he rarely went anywhere without it. He’d been given it by a little-known uncle, his mother’s bachelor stepbrother, who lived a reclusive life with three boisterous chocolate Labradors in a cottage on the edge of a Scottish loch. They had visited him once when holidaying near Inverness. Will had found the camera on a shelf and been fascinated by it. The uncle apparently never used it and sent it home with Will. From the very first photo he’d taken – a picture of his mother at the kitchen sink filling the kettle – he was hooked. Those images developing from ghostly white to brilliant colour in front of his eyes was actual magic. There was something about preserving a fleeting moment for eternity that bewitched him. His mother had encouraged him, and on those days when his father was in one of his black moods, ready to fly off the handle at anything Will might do or say, she’d pack him a bag with some lunch – a cheese sandwich, an apple and, if there was some in the battered royal wedding biscuit tin, a piece of fruit cake – and send him off to take photos. On one of these trips, not far from the stream that ran through a wooded glade about half a mile from their house, he found a dead shrew. The wretched creature was half covered with leaves and had been dead some time, its body stiff and dry. Its eyes had rotted away or been eaten by insects and were just empty hollows, brown velveteen fur frayed around the sockets like ragged fabric. Its feet were curled into tight balls. Its mouth was open to reveal sharp yellowed teeth. Will had taken a photo of it then sat cross-legged in the long grass and watched the picture emerge like a mirage from the whiteness. When it did he smiled; it was a brilliant photo. Everything was captured. There was even a mini-insect crawling across the shrew’s shoulder that he hadn’t noticed when he’d taken it. He sat beside the animal and stared at its death portrait, the sun warming him in dappled patches as it shone through the trees. Eventually, when the rumbling in his tummy became too loud to ignore, he said a solemn goodbye to the tiny corpse and walked home. He couldn’t wait to show his mother the photo.
