Sworn Secret (20 page)

Dan tweaked Kate’s cheek. ‘One day we’ll get that car-crash smile of yours back.’

Jon clenched his teeth. Kate sat down and Dan followed suit, picking his wine glass off the floor.

‘So, you think she’s got it right?’ Dan said, as he sat back and made himself comfortable. ‘You think this is the old boy’s last hurrah?’

‘What kind of question is that?’ Jon said.

‘Just wondering aloud. You never know, there might be a bit of cash coming our way.’

‘Jesus, Daniel.’

‘It was a
joke
, brother dear.’ Dan smiled and drained his glass.

‘As if you need money anyway. You must be the only artist in history that gets rich while they’re still alive to enjoy it.’

‘There’s that Hirst chap.’

Jon didn’t reply.

‘And that dreadful woman with her spunked-on sheets.’

Kate smiled, just briefly, but enough for both Jon and Dan to catch it, and Jon’s gut twisted.

‘Did I see a smile, Kiki?’

‘Stop calling her that,’ Jon snapped. ‘You’re not bloody twenty any more.’

‘For fuck’s sake,
Jon
. Stop being so fucking serious all the fucking time.’

‘Do you have to use language like that?’

‘Mother’s too deaf to hear from the kitchen and dad’s bonkers. So who gives a
fucking shit
?’

‘Do you try to be offensive or is it something that just comes naturally?’

‘An artist who doesn’t offend is as pointless as—’ He stopped himself and looked at Jon mock quizzically. ‘What is it you do again?’

Jon’s mother came back into the room, which allowed Jon to stop his dulled brain searching for a suitable retort to Dan’s dig. She handed him two glasses of red wine, one of which he passed on to Kate.

‘I think we’ll sit down to lunch right away; the meat’s been in the oven far too long already. I’ll go and get your father.’

‘Do you need some help?’

‘No, Jon, I’m fine. If you want a job you can take Lizzie’s place off the table.’

When they moved through to the kitchen Jon was surprised to see how chaotic the place looked. There seemed to be even more piles of books and papers than normal, the kitchen worktops held dirty crockery and pans and there was a basket of laundry in front of the washing machine that spilled clothes on to the floor. He hadn’t noticed dust in the house before, yet he could clearly see its dull sheen across the surfaces and sparkling swathes of it drifted in the shafts of light that came through the windows.

‘You could have given her a hand with the house this morning,’ he said to his brother.

Dan chose not to acknowledge him.

Then his mother and father appeared at the door. His father, as always, frail and pallid, was dressed in perfectly ironed red trousers, a white shirt and a dark green sweater. His brown leather shoes were well polished and as always his hair had been carefully brushed and set. Jon stood and was about to wish his father a happy birthday, but his mother spoke first.

‘These are the people I was telling you about, Peter. They’ve just dropped in for a spot of lunch. Would you like to join us all? It would be nice, especially given how smart you look today.’ She glanced at Jon.

His father suddenly looked frightened.

‘Come on, darling,’ she said. ‘There’s roast beef.’

But his father looked at them all with apprehension and began to shake his head. ‘No, no. I’d like to go back to bed. I think I’d like to go to bed.’ He tried to turn around but Barbara held on to him, stroking and patting his arm and giving gentling shushes to try to get him to walk with her.

‘You know it’s your birthday today,’ she said.

‘Birthday?’ He looked confused, but then gave a smile.

‘Yes.’

‘How old am I?’

‘You’re seventy-eight.’

‘Seventy-eight?’

She nodded and smiled. His father’s smile grew broader, but rather than easing Jon’s feelings of disquiet, the smile, which bordered on the maniacal, worsened them. His father stared around the room, taking in each of his sons, then Kate. But as quickly as it had appeared, the smile vanished and thick panic returned.

‘No,’ he said, trying to turn again. ‘No. I . . . I want to go back up the stairs . . .’ He was getting more and more agitated, but again Jon’s mother tried to lead him towards the table. ‘No!’ he shouted suddenly, yanking his hand out of her grip. ‘NO!’

‘Please, Peter,’ his mother said. ‘Please will you eat with us?’ The desperate plea was heartbreaking.

But his father shook his head over and over and stepped backwards towards the door. He was terrified. Jon’s mother breathed in and stood tall, then turned and went to her husband. She reached out for him but he flinched, and then backed out of the room, shuffling towards the staircase.

‘I’ll take him back to his bed,’ she said to nobody in particular. ‘I was stupid to think he’d be up to this.’

‘Let me take him,’ said Jon, without moving.

‘I’m fine.’ His mother started after her husband, issuing terse instructions as she went. ‘The plates are in the oven. One of you boys carve. The other can do the vegetables. I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

Jon hated how relieved he felt as he watched his father disappear up the stairs, one step at a time with a pause between each.

Dan began to carve the meat, and Kate and Jon got out the plates and bowls of vegetables from the warm oven. They silently passed grey parsnips and potatoes, mushy runner beans and unrisen Yorkshire puddings between them, distributing a small amount of each on four hot plates. His mother possessed an extreme culinary impediment quite in contrast to Kate, who was a tremendous cook, but even so Jon found the anticipation of a plate of the bland food of his youth strangely comforting.

His mother came back into the room without a word and sat down. She stared at her plate, gathering her thoughts, then put her hands palm down on the table and lifted her head to look at them.

‘He’s settled now. I’ve put him to bed.’

‘He seems to be going downhill.’

Jon’s mother shot him a hard stare. ‘There is no need to comment on his medical condition, thank you very much. He’s fine. He has good days and bad days, as well you know.’

They were all quiet. His mother reached for the jug of water and poured herself a glass.

‘You all have to remember it’s the disease we’re seeing. Not your father. It’s this repugnant disease that has hold of him.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘There is no
but
, Jon. Now eat your food before it gets even colder than it already is.’

Jon looked across at Kate, who stared at her food blankly. He felt a pang of sadness for times past, when she would have cast him a sideways glance and mouthed
good luck
before diving in for a whole grey potato.

The food was far less comforting than he’d imagined it would be; the beans disintegrated in his mouth, the parsnips weren’t cooked in the centre and the meat was too tough to chew.

‘You need help with him,’ Jon said, breaking the silence. He watched her carefully push a piece of beef to the side of her plate with her knife. ‘I think you need a full-time carer for him.’

She didn’t respond; it was as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘There are trained, experienced people,’ he continued. ‘They will come and live with you both. They can help with him, do some housework.’ Still nothing from her. ‘Maybe cook a meal for you.’

Then she turned her head and fixed on Jon. ‘I have absolutely no need for a
carer
to look after Peter.
I
am his
carer
. I couldn’t think of anything less pleasant than having some imbecile sharing the house with us. I mean, exactly how would it work? She puts my husband in the bath, on the loo, into bed, and then she and I sit down in front of the news with bowls of soup on our laps and chat about the weather?’ She paused. ‘And do you have any idea how expensive these people are?’

‘That’s a consideration, Jonny. I mean, you shouldn’t go spending the old inheritance willy-nilly.’

Jon would have kicked him if they’d been sitting closer. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Dan?’

Dan groaned. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Jon. It’s not what the hell is wrong with me, it’s what the hell is wrong with
you
. It was a bloody
joke
. It’s way too heavy in here, and it’s supposed to be a birthday party.’

‘Christ, Dan! This isn’t a bloody party!’

‘You should get over yourself, you know. So Dad’s got Alzheimer’s. It happens. Mother’s dealing with it bloody well. She wants to deal with it. Why don’t you just relax and let’s all try and enjoy our lunch? When Mother wants some help with Dad, then all she has to do is ask. She knows that. Don’t you, Mother? Just leave her alone. You’ve been trying to help since you got here and you’ve actually done nothing to help at all.’

‘Well, that makes two of us then.’

‘Boys, that’s enough nonsense,’ their mother said. ‘Be quiet and eat your food. I know you’re worried, Jonathan, but you don’t have to be. I am perfectly all right and I have no issues in looking after your father.’

They ate the rest of their lunch with only the harsh scraping of knives and forks on their plates to break the silence. When they’d finished, Jon cleared the plates. He ran a sink of water, added some washing-up liquid and then splashed the water to make bubbles. The growing bubbles reminded him of the hot bubbly baths he used to run the girls when they were small and overexcitable. There was a call from his father upstairs. His mother stood up and he bit his tongue to stop himself making yet another offer of help. She left the room without speaking and Jon walked back to the table to collect the wine glasses. Dan put his hand on his to stop him taking it.

‘I’m not finished,’ he said.

‘The bottle’s empty.’

‘So I’ll open another one.’ Dan stood and went to the cupboard where his parents stacked their wine. There were only a couple of bottles left. Dan picked them both out, studied the labels and chose one.

‘Right,’ said Dan. ‘I’m taking this bottle outside for a cigarette. Fancy one, Kiki?’

‘Actually, I do,’ she said, with no hesitation.

‘You don’t smoke,’ said Jon.

‘Leave it, Jon.’

They went out of the back door into the garden, and Jon stood alone at the sink. He thought of his father upstairs, of how he had looked vacantly through him, his own sons no more familiar than strangers in a crowd. It amazed Jon how much his mother still loved him. He wondered then if it was love. Perhaps, instead, it was just her overwhelming sense of responsibility. In a way he found this easier to understand. He could see how she put up with everything because she had to rather than chose to. But then he remembered how she’d cradled his foot to put on his slipper, and how gentle her voice had been when she told him how old he was and the look in her eye when she told them to remember it was the disease and not him they were seeing.
No
, he thought,
not because of a sense of duty; definitely because of love
.

He washed up the plates, then wrung out the J-cloth and wiped the table. When the kitchen was clean, he walked through the kitchen door to the patio. It was a beautiful afternoon, with the sun high in a cloudless sky and birds singing for the hell of it. The smell of barbecues was strong, and the sounds of children playing and happy friends and families clinking beers and laughing came from all directions.

The garden was in need of some attention, and his heart went out to his mother again. The grind of her nursing reflected in the neglect, in the weeds that pushed their way through the York pavers, in the overgrown square of lawn, the bushes that reached their tangled branches out to find whatever sunlight they could. She loved this garden. Whilst his father had his books and writings and positions on councils, committees and think tanks, she had the garden, and could happily spend hours at a time deadheading roses, clearing beds of the tiniest weeds and fallen leaves, mowing grass, tying climbers or pruning the ancient apple tree that grew in the far corner. She had a special straw gardening hat and basket that she carried worn, wood-handled tools in. The garden like this was evidence of how unfair life could be; there would be no long summer evenings sharing wine with her husband in the garden she’d spent years attending to. Their comfortable twilight had been snatched away, replaced with incontinence, paranoia and exhaustion.

Kate and Dan were smoking at the wrought-iron table on the terrace. Kate hadn’t smoked in years; the sight of her holding a cigarette was odd and he felt even further distanced from her. When they saw him they stopped their conversation.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

‘Kiki was telling me about the headmaster.’

Kate avoided Jon’s eyes.

‘What he did to Anna.’

‘She shouldn’t have.’

‘Dan agrees with me,’ said Kate. ‘He thinks Stephen shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

Jon felt like punching his brother. A raucous burst of laughter came from next-door’s garden. ‘Will you keep your voices down?’ he said to Kate and Dan. ‘You’ve no idea who can hear you talking.’

‘Of course he shouldn’t get away with it,’ Dan said, pushing back in his chair.

Dan took a cigarette from the pack and lit it from the one he was smoking. He pushed the spent one into an ashtray overflowing with butts on the table.

‘I mean, if it was my daughter that some dirty git had slept with? Well, Christ, I don’t know how you haven’t killed the fucker.’

‘Jesus, Dan, what century does your drug-shrivelled brain inhabit? You’re like some Neanderthal teenager. How exactly do you think me going to prison for the rest of my life is going to help?’

‘I didn’t mean you should actually kill him, you tosser. Purely turn of phrase. But you should turn him over to the cops for sure.’

‘It’s the police, Dan. In England we call them the police. Cops only exist in American crime-show drivel.’ Jon stepped down the two steps on to the unkempt lawn. He shouldn’t let Dan get to him. His brother didn’t live in the real world. He never had. ‘Kate and I can discuss this later,’ he said.