The Judas Tree, page 8
But when she saw it she’d recoiled in shock. ‘I hope you didn’t touch it! Good God, child, you’ll catch rabies or bubonic plague or something! Go and wash your hands and make sure you scrub under your nails with the soap and brush.’
His father had come up behind him and grabbed the photo before Will had a chance to hide it. Given the mood he’d been in at breakfast, Will had half-expected a hiding, but instead he rested a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘That’s a good find,’ he said. Will remembered the astonishment he’d felt at the note of pride in his father’s clipped words. ‘Did you bring the thing back with you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, run and find it,’ he barked. ‘We’ll leave it in a box in the shed to rot down then I’ll show you how to bleach its skull.’ Then he patted his shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. It was one of the only times his father had touched him with any breath of affection.
‘Oh, Philip!’ his mother cried. ‘That’s revolting. I don’t want him doing any such thing.’
His father then looked at him with a brief flash of collusion and Will felt as if he might explode with pleasure. He dumped his rucksack and camera on the kitchen table and charged out of the house like a greyhound from the traps. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he ran. He scrambled over the fence at the bottom of their garden, ignoring the sting of brambles as they tore at his legs. When he reached the glade, out of breath, lungs burning, he dropped to his knees to look for the shrew. But there was no sign of it. Will searched the ground, snatching at the grass and leaves in desperation, patting the earth frantically.
‘Where are you?’ he wailed, tears stinging his eyes.
After half an hour of searching he fell back on his haunches, sweat streaking his dusty face, and looked up at the darkening sky through the trees. He would have to go home empty-handed. He pulled the Polaroid out of his pocket and stared at the picture of the shrew for a few minutes before ripping it into tiny pieces and throwing them into the undergrowth, where they settled on the vegetation like confetti.
‘How are your parents?’ Luke asked, breaking into Will’s thoughts. He picked up a frame from the small table beside him. Another picture of Harmony, this one taken about ten years before. Her hair was kissed golden by the sun, fine grains of sand decorated her eyelashes and dusted her cheek, and her eyes matched the sky behind her perfectly. She smiled back at the camera, back at Will, and he recalled the sound of her laugh just before he had taken the shot. He’d told her a joke. A bad one.
‘You fool,’ she’d said through her giggling.
Then snap, snap, snap: three photos, one of them the best he’d ever taken. Will wished Luke would put it down; the way he looked at it unnerved him.
‘My mother’s well. My father died last year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Luke said, as he rested the photograph back on the table.
‘We weren’t close.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I remember. I remember it all.’
Luke stared at him with unfaltering eyes and Will wondered if the discomfort he felt was from Luke’s implied judgement or his own overwhelming shame.
Chapter Seven
Harmony stood in her towel, damp and warm from the shower, and looked in the mirror. Her heart sank a little. Age had crept up on her, sallowed her skin, folded fine wrinkles and creases around her tired-looking eyes, dotted her hairline with grey. She sighed and rubbed some tinted moisturiser over her face, dabbed Vaseline on her lips, then applied some mascara. She went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. She had no idea what she should wear. Why did she even care?
She was surprised at how jittery she felt knowing Luke was in their flat. She reached to open her top drawer then paused, hesitating, her fingers resting lightly on the drawer handle. She glanced at the bedroom door and listened. She could hear the men talking in the living room, their voices low, words indistinct. She reached into the back of the drawer and felt for the cardigan. When her fingers found the soft wool her stomach knotted. She pulled it out and held it up, brushing her thumb over the little brown teddy bear stitched to its front, before bringing it up to her face and breathing in its smell, closing her eyes as she did so, pretending for a few moments her baby was still growing inside her. This cardigan was the only thing she’d bought for her unborn child. She wasn’t superstitious; she was a scientist and knew better. She walked beneath ladders and thought nothing of black cats crossing her path, but even so, something had stopped her buying things for her baby. Emma had turned up a few days after Harmony told her the news, her car jam-packed with baby paraphernalia, tears of joy in her eyes. But Harmony insisted she take everything back with her; she didn’t want any of it in the house. Just in case.
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d said, trying to ease Emma’s disappointment. ‘But it feels wrong until the baby’s here safe and sound.’
Emma rested a hand on Harmony’s arm, her head tipped forwards with concern. ‘There’s nothing wrong about being prepared. You’ve got to channel the inner Girl Guide when it comes to babies. What if it comes early? Take the Moses basket and sling at least.’
But Harmony stood her ground and a disgruntled Emma had driven everything back to Oxfordshire.
Then one day she weakened. It was a crisp winter morning with a royal blue sky and sunshine that glinted off the shop windows and illuminated the clouds of vapour as they formed on her breath. She was happy, the type of happy that fills a person up and spills over the edges. As she walked, stroking her hands lightly over her tummy, she couldn’t keep her smile from beaming. Before she knew what she was doing she’d turned into Jojo Maman Bébé. The tiny cardigan caught her eye immediately. The wool was soft and warm and she could so clearly picture her baby buttoned into it and lying in her arms. It had seemed such an innocuous thing to do, buying the cardigan that day; so easy and inconsequential. But after her miscarriage this piece of clothing seemed to possess an almost mystical hold over her. It represented everything that should have been and though she’d tried on numerous occasions she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
She breathed in its smell one last time then carefully folded it and slipped it back in the drawer. As she closed the drawer, the bedroom door opened.
‘Harmony?’ Will said, poking his head around the door. ‘Are you nearly ready?’
‘Yes, sorry. I’ll be two minutes.’
He nodded and disappeared, closing the door softly behind him.
They had to talk soon. She’d make him, later, after Luke had left. He couldn’t keep avoiding the subject.
When she walked into the living room Luke stood and smiled at her. His presence overpowered the room. There was a luminosity about him, a magnetism she imagined A-list actors possessed. He was out of place in their living room and she felt strangely uncomfortable.
‘Glass of wine?’ Will asked her.
‘I’ll have one with supper,’ she said. ‘Maybe some orange juice if we have any?’
‘We do,’ he said. ‘Luke? Another beer? Or would you like to move on to wine?’
‘Wine would be great,’ he said.
Will left the room and Harmony and Luke stood in an awkward silence until he cleared his throat and gestured at the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve been admiring these beautiful pictures of you.’
Harmony felt her skin flush. ‘My husband’s a great photographer. He can make anyone look good.’
Luke laughed. ‘He said they were only good because you were a great subject.’
‘He’s too modest.’ She sat on the sofa as Luke sat back down in the armchair. ‘It’s impossible to compliment him. A bit more self-belief would do him no harm at all.’
Will came back into the room and handed Harmony her juice and put a glass of wine on the coffee table in front of Luke. ‘Do who no harm at all?’
‘You,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about your photography.’ She watched him bristle uncomfortably. ‘I was saying it would be good if you believed in yourself a bit more.’
‘Well, I am who I am, I suppose. Luke bought you some flowers,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I wasn’t sure which vase to use so I put them in some water in the sink.’
‘Thank you,’ Harmony said to Luke. ‘I love cut flowers.’ He was looking at her in that way again, like he was studying her for an exam, taking in every detail, every eyelash, every mole.
‘So,’ said Will, as another silence took hold of them. ‘How about I get the steaks on? I mean, if you’re both hungry.’ Will looked at Luke. ‘How do you like your steak?’
‘Let me guess,’ said Harmony, with a smile. ‘You like your steak rare.’
‘Yes. Always rare.’ He leant forward and took hold of his glass of wine, his eyes locked on to hers. ‘With the heart still beating if possible.’
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
‘I presume from your face you like yours burnt to a crisp, with all the guilt and flavour cooked out of it.’
‘Nothing wrong with having a conscience.’
‘Nothing wrong with liking your food to taste good.’
‘Think we’ll beg to differ on this.’ Harmony smiled. ‘I was a vegetarian for years and still can’t get my head around the idea of eating bleeding food.’
‘And you marched against the Iraq war and you believe immigration is the basis for economic growth and cultural advancement?’
‘Of course I marched.’ Her smile slipped from her face as she saw the challenge in his eyes. ‘Everybody should have marched. It was an illegal war based on fabricated motive. It was an utter disgrace and yet another blot on our country to add to the catalogue of blots that litter the history books.’
Will, who was standing behind the sofa, rested his hands on her shoulders and gave her a steadying squeeze. ‘Harmony has an impressive moral compass,’ he said to Luke.
‘Don’t patronise me, Will.’ She shrugged his hands off her and turned to glare at him.
‘I didn’t mean—’ Will didn’t finish his sentence. ‘I wasn’t patronising you.’
‘There is no shame in standing up for what you believe in, in making yourself heard and sticking to your principles. In fact, there is considerable shame in not doing so.’
Will drew in a sharp breath as if she’d stabbed him. ‘I need to get the steaks on,’ he mumbled as he backed out of the room, unable to escape fast enough.
‘He seems on edge,’ Luke said after he’d gone. ‘Do you think it’s something to do with me?’
‘No, of course not. At least I don’t think so.’ She hesitated. ‘Will hasn’t mentioned you before. He never talks about school. Actually, he doesn’t talk about anything from his childhood. Maybe seeing you again is bringing stuff back that he doesn’t want to think about.’ She sighed. ‘I can see he’s finding it strange, unsettling even. I shouldn’t have snapped at him.’
‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Harmony shook her head. ‘No, you should. It’s great that you and Will have met up again. I think it’s a good thing for him. Maybe it will help. It can’t be healthy to keep so much bottled up.’ She stood. ‘Are you all right for a minute or two? I think I should give him a hand in the kitchen.’
‘Of course.’
‘Hey,’ she said, as she walked into the kitchen.
He was blotting the fat-marbled steaks with some kitchen roll. He was a great cook and she loved to watch him doing it. He made it seem so effortless. When she cooked it was stressful; she was far too concerned about measurements and timings, and had no natural affinity with flavours or seasoning. Will was flamboyant and experimental, loved unusual spices, and always sloshed an extra glass of wine in. But as she watched him drying the meat she noticed none of his usual enthusiasm. He was being deliberate, methodical, his face set in concentration as he pushed his fingers against the steaks. He glanced over his shoulder and tried to smile at her but didn’t quite manage it. His skin had paled and he blinked at her slowly.
‘I wasn’t trying to patronise you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if it came across that way.’
‘I overreacted. I don’t know why. Work’s been difficult today, but that’s no excuse.’
‘No, you didn’t. I shouldn’t have said that thing about your moral compass.’ He wiped his hands on the tea towel which was draped over one shoulder then reached for the pepper mill. ‘Just ignore me when I say stupid things like that.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She paused. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Just need to get these steaks on.’
‘No, I meant—’
‘I’m fine.’ He threw a couple of pinches of salt onto the steaks. ‘Do you mind going back and keeping Luke company? I’m nearly done.’
She glanced back towards the living room and hesitated.
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Everything all right?’ Luke asked as she rejoined him.
‘Yes, all under control.’
‘I was looking at your wedding photo. You both look so young. Did you meet at university?’
‘We were at different places but, yes, we met while we were both students. He was studying photography and media studies at East Anglia and I did natural sciences at UCL.’
She thought back to the day she met Will. He was so very different to the boys she’d been out with before; he drank wine, not beer, had floppy blond hair, wore faded blue jeans and a crumpled pink shirt, and his well-bred accent was softened with a laid-back confidence. She’d have written him off as a vacuous posh boy if it hadn’t been for his smile – wide and open and honest – which drew her in from the very first moment.
‘We bumped into each other. Literally. He was listening to music, not looking where he was going, of course. I was late for a lecture and we collided.’ Harmony smiled. ‘My stuff went everywhere and he helped to pick it up. He asked if I wanted to go for a drink and I just said yes. Which was very unlike me. But I felt immediately relaxed in his company. He was gentle and easy to talk to.’
Luke nodded in agreement, as if this was also his experience of Will.
‘My mother would have loved him,’ she said softly.
‘She died when you were young?’
‘I was twelve.’
‘Losing someone you love is incredibly hard.’
‘Have you lost someone close?’
He nodded, visibly wincing with remembered grief. ‘My wife. Eighteen months ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
He looked at his glass, swilled the wine around it, lost for a moment in sadness. ‘She was killed in a car crash. She swerved into oncoming traffic and hit a lorry. He said she came from nowhere.’
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Harmony. ‘How awful.’
He looked back at her and smiled briefly, before his face reset, lips drawing tight, thoughts turning over and over in his head. Grief did that. It hit out of the blue, the slightest trigger bringing unwanted recollections: a turn of phrase, a song, a smell. Sitting there watching him quietly process his emotion, she found herself thinking of her mother’s death. She remembered climbing the stairs that lunchtime, carefully carrying a bowl of soup, which was all her mother could eat by then, trying not to let it spill. She set the bowl on the bedside table and rested a hand on her mother’s bony shoulder.
‘Mum?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve got your lunch.’
There’d been no movement or response, and as Harmony stared at her mother, perfectly still, her lips parted as if about to speak, she realised something was different. A serenity had settled over her like a silk veil. Her face was relaxed, with none of the pained tautness she’d grown used to. Harmony took hold of her hand and turned it over, tracing her finger along the crease that crossed her palm, her lifeline, strong and pronounced, no breaks at all, no warning she’d die at the age of thirty-six. A dishonest line. Then she laid her cheek on her mother’s upturned hand.
‘Is she dead?’
Harmony lifted her head to see her sister in the open doorway with her arms crossed.
‘Yes,’ Harmony said. ‘I think so.’
Her sister nodded and walked over to the bed. She bent and kissed their mother’s forehead, pausing for a moment, her eyes tightly closed, then she reached for the bowl of soup and without saying a word she took it back downstairs.
Harmony looked up at Luke. ‘Death is hard however it comes. We were expecting my mother’s for a long time. She was in so much pain, and had been for months, that in a way it seemed kinder for her to slip away. I miss her every day, even after all these years.’
