Dreaming of the Bones (38 page)

“It’s quite true,” Adam interrupted flatly.

Kincaid stared at him. “But I thought you and Lydia—”

“Oh, I had that honor, all right, although if I’d known what would come after I’d never have done it. Youth is no excuse for irresponsible behavior, and ours caused Lydia no end of grief.”

Gemma saw the weariness in his eyes. “Adam, you loved Lydia, didn’t you? How could you let her—”

“How could I stop her?” he said with a quick, impatient gesture of his hands. “What you don’t understand is that Lydia
always
got her way, no matter the consequences to her or to anyone else.”

CHAPTER
16

… I stand here for sense,

Invincible, inviolable, eternal,

For safety, regulations, paving-stones,

Street lamps, police, and bijou residences

Semi-detached. I stand for Sanity,

Comfort, Content, Prosperity, top-hats,

Alcohol, collars, meat…

R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from the satire “John Rump”

Kit trudged into the wind, his hands in his pockets, his head tucked, turtlelike, into the collar of his jacket. The air smelled sharply of rain, and although it was only a few minutes past four o’clock, the lowering clouds had caused the streetlamps to flicker on.

But Kit didn’t mind the damp cold or the early dusk. He’d been glad of any excuse to get out of the house—had offered, in fact, to fetch his grandmother’s favorite biscuits from the supermarket at the edge of the housing estate.

Eugenia had frowned at him from her bed, and in desperation he’d resorted to guile. Smiling falsely, he said, “Please, Grandmama, it will only take me a few minutes, and then you can have Orange Cremes with your tea. I’m sure it would make you feel ever so much better.”

He waited, holding his breath, smile pasted in place, until the
crease between her brows relaxed and she pulled the mauve bed jacket closer to her throat with a little sigh.

“Mind you don’t tarry, Christopher. You can make your grandfather’s tea when he comes in. I’m sure I can’t be expected to look after everyone,” she added, and Kit almost snorted in disgust. His grandfather had been waiting on her hand and foot since Kit had been there, even though nothing seemed to please her, or to distract her for long from the box she kept close to her side. It held things from his mother’s childhood: school reports and photos, crayon drawings, medals from spelling competitions, a bit of lace from a party dress.

“Of course not, Grandmama,” he said, as convincingly as he could manage. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Fetch my bag from the sitting room, then, and I’ll give you a pound. You’ll not need more than that, and I’ll expect to see the change.”

Leaning back against the cushions, Eugenia closed her eyes, as if her little speech had exhausted her, and Kit did as she asked before she could change her mind. She wasn’t ill enough to loosen control of her purse strings. Did she think he couldn’t be trusted to take a pound without pilfering?

She’d confined herself to bed after the funeral yesterday, much to Kit’s relief, and he suspected to his grandfather’s as well. He and Granddad had played endless games of cards in the kitchen, and for a time his grandfather’s quiet, undemanding company had eased the weight in his chest. But today an urgent phone call had sent Granddad to his insurance office after lunch, and in her husband’s absence Eugenia had become more and more fretful, fussing at Kit over trivial things until he felt he’d scream.

Now his steps slowed as the rows of brown-brick semidetached houses came to an end. He knew if he looked up he’d see the Tesco at the end of the road, but he stared determinedly at the toes of his trainers, shuffling them against the pavement. His right shoelace had come undone, and as he squatted to tie it he thought of his mum’s nagging about his laces.

Suddenly he saw her vividly before him, pushing her hair from her face with an exasperated smile. He froze, one knee up, hands
stilled on his wayward laces, afraid the tiniest movement might dissolve the vision.

“You’ll break your neck one of these days, Kit, mark my words,” she said, laughing. It had been a joke with them, a symbol of all the unreasonable things mothers say to their children. As she reached out to ruffle his hair, her image faded, and he felt nothing but the wind.

Pain stabbed through his chest and he sobbed, his careful control shattering. Why her? Why couldn’t it have been him instead? Then he wouldn’t be here now, with this ache inside him that was more than he could bear. Kit pressed his face hard against his knee and wept.

At first the rushing sound seemed a part of the buzzing in his head, but slowly he recognized it as separate from himself. His sobs subsided as he listened. It wasn’t the wind—the wind had been constant, a moan just below consciousness. He looked up, scrubbing at his face, and then the rain was upon him in a cold wave, stinging, pelting, soaking him to the skin within seconds.

Kit pushed himself up from the ground like a sprinter and ran in a blind, instinctive dash for shelter. He heard the change in the timbre of his pounding feet as he reached the tarmac of the supermarket car park, then the Tesco loomed before him. Realizing the back was nearer, he swerved towards the rubbish bins and slid into a stack of cardboard boxes. Here the overhang of the loading bay blocked the worst of the rain, and he collapsed against the boxes, gasping.

After a moment, he pushed his sodden hair from his forehead and looked down at his dripping clothes. Grandmama would kill him. He could hear her already: “Christopher, how much sense does it require to get out of the rain? And now look what you’ve done—I’m sure you’ve ruined my carpet.”

“Bitch,” he said, under his breath. Liking the sound of it, he filled his lungs and shouted into the rain, “Bitch! Stupid cow!” But the wind sucked the sound away, and beneath it he heard something else. Was that a scrabbling beneath the boxes? A whimper? He listened, then knelt and lifted up the nearest overturned box. Two boot-button black eyes stared back at him, then the dog whimpered again and cringed away.

“It’s okay,” Kit said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re wet and cold, too, aren’t you, doggie?” He went on in the same singsong voice, saying any sort of rubbish that came into his head and holding his hand out, palm up. The dog had a shaggy gray-brown coat—some sort of a terrier mix, Kit guessed—and he suspected that the matted, wiry hair hid prominent ribs.

After a few moments, the dog inched forwards on its belly and licked his outstretched fingers. “Good dog, that’s a good dog,” Kit whispered, turning his hand until he could stroke the dog’s ear, then gently touching its back. It flinched but didn’t move away, and beneath his hand he felt it shivering. “What am I going to do with you?” he said gravely, as if he expected an answer. “You can’t stay here like this, with no shelter and nothing to eat.” He stopped stroking the dog’s back as he thought, and it turned to nuzzle his hand, prompting him to begin again.

At the touch of the dog’s cold nose against his palm resolution filled him. He dug in his jacket pocket for the twine his grandfather had been using that morning to teach him Snakes and Ladders. It was a makeshift excuse for a collar and lead, but it would have to do.

Cambridge
21 March 1970
Dearest Mummy
,

Isn’t it odd how one gets attached to places? During the months with you and Nan, I dreaded coming back to Cambridge and trying to pick up the pieces of my life. It seemed only our cottage would ever feel like home to me again, and I wanted nothing more than the comfort of our domestic routine. What to make for tea … a bit of digging in the garden… a new novel from the library… these small things made up a manageable universe
.

But all the while I could feel the urge to write growing in me, as inexorable as the rising of sap in the spring. I must write, blessed or cursed, it’s what makes me who I am, and to do so I must stand on my own, however wobbly
.

But you knew this all along, didn’t you, Mummy darling? You pushed me ever so gently, until I saw it for myself. And the funny thing is that, once here again, in this house which I’d thought would be filled
with ghosts, I feel at home. By some odd process it is no longer Morgan’s house, or even Morgan and Lydia’s house, but
mine,
and it is reassuringly familiar
.

I try to keep things simple. A schedule helps keep the black thoughts at bay, so I spend an hour or two a day pottering about the house, putting things to rights, then a couple of hours reading, then no more than two hours writing. Any longer and I find I begin to fray, but I’m learning to recognize the danger signals now
.

I haven’t ventured out much yet—too many people at once make me feel a bit fragile still, and well-meaning acquaintances tend to ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Nathan and Jean have had me to dinner, though, and treated me as though I’d never been away. We had the most ordinary and domestic of conversations, all about Alison’s nappies and the best ingredients for lentil soup. Jean is expecting again
.

You asked about Adam. He’s been his usual solicitous and generous self, but I can sense his need, and I’m afraid he wants more than I can give. I can’t afford to lose myself in any man, not ever again, and I fear I lack the necessary bit of ballast which allows other people to conduct a romance without going overboard. I dare not risk it
.

Your loving Lydia

CHAPTER
17

The unheard invisible lovely dead

Lie with us in this place …

R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from “Mummia”

He slept the deep and dreamless sleep of exhaustion, not stirring when the oblong of uncurtained window paled to gray, then to rose, then to the clear, washed blue of an April morning. When the phone rang, he fumbled for it with a vague awareness of the sound’s meaning.

Managing to get the receiver to his ear, he mumbled, “Kincaid,” as he opened one eye and squinted at the clock. Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Bloody hell. This had better be good.

“Duncan?” The voice was strained, apologetic. “This is Bob Potts. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid we have a problem and I didn’t know who else to ring.”

Kincaid heard the panic beneath the carefully chosen words and came fully awake. “Problem? What sort of problem?”

Potts cleared his throat. “It’s Kit. He seems to have… um… that is, he seems to have gone missing.”

“What do you mean, missing? Surely he’s just gone out for a bit.” Kincaid sat up, and in spite of his calming words, he was aware of the sudden pounding of his heart.

“His bed’s not been slept in. I went to wake him…” Potts paused and cleared his throat again. “I’ve looked everywhere. There’s no trace of him, and the dog’s gone, too.”

“What dog?” Kincaid remembered Vic telling him that one of the great regrets of her childhood was that she’d never been allowed a pet. Her mother had disliked animals, and Kincaid thought it unlikely that Eugenia’s feelings on the matter had mellowed. He reached for the pad and pencil he kept by the telephone. “I think you’d better tell me exactly what happened.”

“Kit brought a dog home from the supermarket, a stray mongrel,” said Potts. “But I really don’t see what—”

“Just start from the beginning. I won’t have a clear picture to work with unless you tell me everything.” Kincaid tried to keep the impatience from his voice.

“All right,” Potts agreed, still sounding reluctant. “It seems Kit found this dog behind the Tesco yesterday afternoon, while he was sheltering from a rainstorm. He made up his mind to keep it, and, of course, Eugenia… um… that is, we didn’t think it appropriate.” Potts hesitated a moment before adding, “Kit was rather upset, although we did reach a compromise.”

“And what was that?” Kincaid asked, with some skepticism.

“I convinced Eugenia to let him keep the dog in the garage overnight, until I could take it to the shelter this morning. I assured him that they would do their best to find it a home.”

Some comfort that would have been, when Kit must have known that the dog’s chances of adoption and survival were slim at best. “I take it Kit wasn’t happy with your solution?”

“Uh, no,” said Potts, and from his tone Kincaid could imagine Kit, white-faced and silent with fury. “He went to bed without his tea, so this morning I thought I’d take him his breakfast first thing—”

“Were any of his things missing?”

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t think of that,” Potts answered, sounding more distressed. “I looked for him outside at first—I thought he must have taken the dog for a walk, but surely he’d be back by now. It’s been more than two hours …”

“Did he leave a note?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

That could be good news or bad, thought Kincaid. “Did he take any money?”

“I … I’m afraid I don’t know that, either. If you’ll hang on a
moment, I’ll have a look.” There was a clatter as Potts put the phone down. Kincaid heard voices, muted at first, then Eugenia’s strident tones came more clearly. Potts came back on the line. “Eugenia had a twenty-pound note in her purse yesterday, and now it’s missing,” he said, his voice rising in competition with his wife’s.