The Kind Folk (8 page)

What he saw is under the bed and next to it as well, in the darkest corner of the bedroom. Perhaps it fell from its nest under the pillow, or did Terence try to smash it? The three jagged fragments feel colder than the stone they're composed of and unpleasantly slippery, as if they've just been dredged up from a marsh. Luke fits them together and stares at the result before scrambling to his feet and kicking the remains into the darkness under the bed. He hasn't time to dispose of them now. He'll need to return to the house by himself.

He's running downstairs only so that Sophie won't wonder why he took this long, not because he feels pursued. He locks the house and hurries to the car. "Hard to shut," he says as he starts the engine, after which he does his best to seem too busy driving to speak. He's hoping the task will keep the sight at the house out of his mind until he can set about trying to understand. It was the stone Terence brought home from Amberley Street, the elongated face that looked as though the subject was dreaming he was an ancient god. It was the face Luke imagined he would see watching him from dozens of windows at once. However fanciful that may have been, the image on the shattered plaque is exactly the same face.

A NAME FROM THE BOOK

The hotel room in Norfolk smells faintly of lavender. Luke could imagine it's the scent of the chintz that pads the chair beside the bed, and the matching stool that squats bandy-legged at the dressing-table. The bed is laden with a quilt plump enough for winter. The room overlooks a square that's neither regular nor straight-edged, from the middle of which a stone cross extends a narrowed shadow. It might almost be a sundial indicating that it's close to five o'clock by pointing at a butcher's, where headless birds hug themselves as they dangle upside down above a slab. Luke has hours before he goes onstage—hours to spend with Terence's journal.

Downstairs a stone-flagged hallway leads to a cobbled yard behind the inn. A smell of aged paper reminiscent of Terence's house has massed in the boot of the Lexus. As Luke carries the ledger into the hall the manager, an angular woman with shoulders wide enough to hang a doorman's coat on, leans over the sill of the reception alcove. "Heavy work, eh?" she says. "What line are you in, Mr Arnold?"

"They say I'm a comedian. I'm on at the Broadest Broad."

"You must have a lot of jokes in there."

Luke smiles as he supposes he's meant to and tramps up the variously tilted stairs. The ledger is too massive for the dressing-table, and the room isn't equipped with a desk. He dumps the journal on the bed and primes the percolator that's elevated on a shelf. When he sits on the bed the cover of the journal stirs like the lid of a box whose contents have grown restless. "Let's see what you're hiding," he says in the voice of a policeman he used to portray for all the Arnolds, and throws the ledger open.

The smell of stale paper rises to meet him and then settles on underlying the scent of the room. The ledger isn't just a diary, Luke sees now; Terence seems to have used it to record ideas for stories.
HORSEMAN RIDES SO FAST HIS TOP FLYS OFF + HE CANT FIND IT... HIGHWYMAN BEING CHASED GETS CHOPED IN HALF BY A
TREE 
...
Luke knows where those came from but prefers Sophie's inspiration, and is disconcerted by the misspellings; could those have been the secret Terence wanted him to keep?
ANGEL LOSES HALO + CHILDREN PLAY WITH IT FOR A HOOP, A DEVIL WHOSE HIS ENEMY TRISE TO STEAL IT FROM THEM ... SCULPTER FINDS BITS OF GREATEST STATUE EVER MADE + WHEN HE MAKES A STATUE WITH THEM IN
... Apparently Terence couldn't think how to develop this one.
BOY GOES TO HIS FIRST DANCE AT MIDSUMER + HALF THE MEN HAVE LEGS LIKE ANIMALS 
... That's more akin to the tales he told Luke. None of the entries identifies the properties where he found the relics; the first one that does refers to John Strong's house.

It was added later than the date on the page, in a different ink that doesn't reappear for several pages. The original entry celebrates the granting of the demolition contract by the city council. After that the diary grows more terse, often with just a few words to a page, and some phrases read as though they were meant for only the writer to understand.
CAME INTO MY HEAD
is followed by
LIKE DREAMS
and then
NOT MY DREAMS,
possibly suggesting that Terence found he didn't like them after all. The thought is greeted by a choked hiss at Luke's back and an outburst of liquid bubbling. "Coffee for the mister," he says like a waiter at the tapas bar he and Sophie frequented when they were at university, and pours himself a cup somewhat tempered by a packet of powdery cream. A bitter sip sends him back to the journal.

SHOWS WHERE THINGS STAYED
... The coffee doesn't help his mind grasp that, but doubtless
BROUGHT MOON IN
refers to the ironwork at the houses—the gleeful moon framed by open hands.
GO TO LIBRARY
must have been important, since Terence underlined it thrice, infecting the page with an inky rash.
LEFT PAPERS THERE
may be the explanation, and
COPY
DOWN
comes next, followed by
SAYS IT BRINGS BLESSING
. That seems obscure if not actually secretive, and Luke finds it disconcerting. It's dated less than a year before he was born.

He remembers Terence telling Freda and Maurice they were blessed with Luke, but that needn't mean he helped, even if he thought he did. The jottings in the diary don't prove that:
FEEL FULL MOON
isn't comprehensible, and a few days later
FELT WHEN IT WAS
is as bad.
ONLY WORDS
might be summing itself up as a phrase, and the next one is
JUST LIKE PRAYING
. By the time Terence wrote it Freda knew she was going to have a child.

It wouldn't be Luke, and the thought leaves him feeling hollow. He may have made a virtue of imitation, but he has yet to come to terms with being one. The journal is reminding him with references to the situation: not just
FREDA RADIENT
but presumably
LIT FROM INSIDE
and also
BIGGER AND BRIGHTER
. Months before the birth Terence is thinking up names—
LUCIUS + LUCIA COME FROM LIGHT
—and it occurs to Luke that even the name he calls his own is just a substitute. He turns another page, rousing its introverted smell, and feels as if he has missed the birth. In fact there's no entry for the date, but three days later Terence wrote
LUCAS HERE
.

Perhaps the entry is so brief because he was disappointed that the Arnolds didn't use the name he liked. Surely it can't mean he knew they had the wrong child—Luke.
EVEN BETTER THAN THEY COULDVE WISHED FOR
ought to be heartening, as well as the record of Luke's progress:
LUCAS ON THE MOVE
at two months,
LUCAS WALKING
by Christmas,
HEALTH VISITER NOT SEEN ANYTHING LIKE
the following week,
LUKE TALKS SENTENCES
almost immediately after,
LOST COUNT OF LUKES WORDS
less than a month later... Perhaps Luke should be pleased, but he feels remote from this account of a deception everyone played out without realising. It seems unlikely that this section of the journal will help him find out where he came from, if any of the entries will. As he leafs fast through the diary he feels as though he's trying to leave his childhood behind.

The name of a town catches his attention—Peterborough, which he drove through on his way to Norfolk. The entry is dated almost a quarter of a century ago.
RALPH SANSOM PETERBOROUGH, TOLD ABOUT HIM
. Suppose the person referred to didn't live in Peterborough but had that for his surname? Even if he lives there, what can Luke ask? He's already starting to feel absurd and deluded as he uses his mobile to search online. But there is indeed a Ralph Sansom in Peterborough, and the listing gives his phone number.

Luke thumbs the key to make the call and immediately wants to cancel it. Surely he won't run out of words when his job is improvisation, but is he nervous of what he may learn? As he takes a breath that tastes of lavender and old paper a voice says "Yes?"

It sounds more like a challenge than an invitation. "Yes," Luke says. "Mr Sansom?"

"Yes?"

"Mr Ralph Sansom?"

"Yes?"

The voice has grown thinner and shriller, pinching the word. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Sansom," Luke says. "I—"

"Then don't. Whatever you're selling, I'm not in the market."

"I'm not a salesman, Mr Sansom."

"What are you, then?"

Luke doesn't want to answer that, at least not yet. "I found your name in—"

"Wherever you've got it, rub me out. I've signed up not to be pestered by your kind."

"It's nothing like that," Luke says and wonders whether he does indeed sound like a cold caller. "Your name was in a diary, Mr Sansom."

"A diary," Sansom says as if repeating it may cancel the notion. "You do surprise me. Whose?"

"His name was Terence Arnold."

"Arnold." Sansom isn't quite so ready to repeat this, and pauses again before saying "And what is that expected to mean to me?"

"I was hoping you could say."

"I've said it." Presumably in case this is unclear Sansom adds "Not a thing."

"You wouldn't know of another Ralph Sansom in Peterborough."

"There hasn't been one while I've been living here, and that's my entire lifetime." Sansom takes a harsh effortful breath and says "May I ask what you know about this Arnold person?"

For a moment Luke can't understand why Sansom has grown more resentful, and then he thinks he does. The man is wishing he'd said there was somebody else called Ralph Sansom; he feels he has betrayed himself. "He was in demolition," Luke says. "Maybe you hired him."

"I did nothing of the sort." With no diminution of annoyance Sansom adds "You keep saying was."

"He died last month."

"You'll realise why I've no response to that." As if he doesn't think this is a contradiction Sansom says "How, may I ask?"

"A heart attack."

"Common enough. Was there any cause?"

Luke tries not to feel accused. "He didn't have his medication."

"We can be careless as we get older. Now if you'll excuse me—Sansom interrupts himself with a laborious exhalation and says 'Just before I bid you farewell, what is Mr Arnold's diary supposed to have said about me?"

"Either somebody told him about you or one of you told the other about someone."

"Yes?" The word is sharper than ever. "And so?"

"That's all there is. I thought you might be able to fill me in."

"Then your call has been a waste of time," Sansom says, and immediately "One moment. If that was all he wrote about me, what made you seek me out?"

"I'm trying to find people he may have been to see," Luke decides as he speaks.

"Been to see for what purpose?"

"I'm trying to find that out too."

"There's nothing to discover," Sansom says. "And may I enquire who you are that you're prying into his affairs?"

"I'm one of the heirs of his will."

"Then may I suggest you content yourself with that? I assume it didn't authorise you to go through his private papers."

"I want to find out more about myself, that's all."

Sansom draws a breath that rattles in his throat. "Who are you exactly? What do you think you'll uncover?"

"I thought I was Terence Arnold's nephew but I'm—

Even if Luke knew how to continue, there's no point in voicing it. Whatever noise Sansom makes in response is cut off before Luke can be sure it's a cry, and then the phone is silent except for a hiss of static like a fall of dust or a whisper searching for words. In a moment he finds some of those for himself. "What a joke."

THE SECOND CALL

The manager keeps glancing at the ledger Luke has planted on the sill of the reception alcove. As she returns his credit card and hands him the receipt she says "Do you know what I'd do if I had your gift?"

"You'll tell me."

"Find out what makes people happy and do my best to put that on."

"I'm afraid that's what I do already."

"No call to be afraid. I think it would make me happier as well," she says and gives him a doubtful look.

There's no question that he lived up to expectations last night at the Broadest Broad. When someone shouted out for Jack Brittan, the voice and the mannerisms came so readily to Luke that it felt like being possessed by the needs of the audience, and he found himself observing his performance while his mind replayed the conversation with Ralph Sansom—especially the end. He's sure the man recognised Terence's name, but however often Luke echoes Sansom's last sound in his head he can't decide what it may have expressed: dismay or shock or incredulity or even some kind of delight? Suppose Luke's call managed to locate a member of his actual family? The only way to resolve any of this, if it will, is to speak to Sansom or somebody who lives with him.

Luke locks the journal in the boot and drives out of the small town. Fields reach for the horizon under a blue sky parched of clouds, and soon the roadside begins to sprout signs for Peterborough. Each one feels more like a reminder, and when he sees a layby he pulls in. Before any doubts can overtake him he recalls Sansom's number.

"Yes?"

Despite the reminiscence of the last call, it's a woman's voice. "Can I speak to Ralph Sansom?" Luke says.

"I'm afraid you can't, no."

"Do you mind if I ask why?"

"He isn't here."

"Can you say when he will be?"

"I wish I knew."

"Ah," Luke says but can hardly leave it at that. "I'm sorry, what..."

"My father has had to be taken into hospital."

"I'm sorry." Luke feels reduced to echoing himself. "What's the trouble, do they know?"

"Somebody upset him very much. He isn't of an age to be able to shrug that sort of thing off."

Luke struggles not to apologise a third time. "Have they said how serious it is?"

"He's already had more than one attack. They've told us not to hope too much."

Luke feels still guiltier for asking "Did he say what upset him?"

"I know someone rang him yesterday but I don't know who or what about. Believe me, I'd like a word or two with them."