Chapter 29
Henry
Twelve Summers Ago
Four years to the day since he had got down on one knee in only his pants and asked Violet to marry him, Henry found himself waiting for her beneath a gazebo festooned with flowers. She was already his wife – they had taken care of that at a registry office in Cambridge two weeks ago – but privately Violet had confessed that she wouldn’t feel properly married until they’d exchanged vows in Mallorca, and Henry had smiled widely at that, because he couldn’t have agreed with the sentiment more.
Thanks in large part to the persuasive power of his father, they had secured La Residencia hotel in Deià for both the ceremony and the party that would follow, and Antonio had taken it upon himself to invite almost everyone he’d ever met – or so it seemed to Henry. He cast an eye over the rows of guests, searching the faces for those he recognised. Ynes, who had helped Violet with all the floral arrangements, gave him a discreet thumbs-up from underneath a startingly enormous hat, while Ana smiled thinly from her seat between Juan and Tomas, the latter of whom was busy devouring a rocket-shaped ice lolly. Luke was inside with Violet’s mother, the plan being to bring him out only at the very last minute. They couldn’t be sure how he would react to so many strangers, although when Granny Lupton had suggested that perhaps it was wiser for her to take him somewhere else for the day instead, both Violet and Henry had refused. They were his mum and dad, and it was important to them that Luke be there to witness such a special moment in his parents’ lives.
There had been troubling incidences at school, reports of Luke snatching things from other children and once even biting another boy; wandering off during group story time and refusing to engage in group activities. Noise sensitivity was still an issue, but they were managing it with child-size ear defenders, and Luke knew he could ask to sit in the ‘quiet room’ if he felt overwhelmed by the chaos of the classroom. This he did, more frequently than his teacher deemed strictly necessary, often taking a stack of books with him, or whatever art tools were his current favourite. Crayons had rapidly been rejected in favour of pastels, and there had been a mildly concerning black felt-tip pen phase, during which he’d drawn only large human heads with crocodiles inside them – but lately, he’d switched to simple pencils and paper. Violet had encouraged him to draw a card for Henry’s birthday the previous month, and she’d later told him that Luke had mulled carefully about what he was going to do for days before he started. The resulting picture, of La Casa Naranja complete with turret, stray cat, and orange tree, had been framed and hung in pride of place on their bedroom wall. Every time Henry looked at it, he found a new and thoughtful detail to admire. For all his problems, nobody could deny the fact that his son was talented.
‘This is his way of telling you he loves you,’ Violet had explained. ‘He finds pictures easier than words.’
As far as Henry was concerned, there could have been no greater gift.
Hearing footsteps, he turned to see his father approaching. Antonio had dressed to impress in a pale cream linen suit and emerald silk shirt, which was open at the neck to reveal a thatch of wiry dark hair and a thick, gold chain.
‘My stupid giant boy,’ he said affectionately, clapping Henry hard on the back.
‘Hola, Papá.’
‘Are you happy?’ Antonio asked, beaming with pride as he surveyed the wedding that he had so generously helped fund. Henry assured him he very much was.
‘A house, a business, a son, and soon a wife – you have done well, gran chico.’
Antonio rarely, if ever, praised Henry, and he was taken aback by the genuine pride in the older man’s tone. Their relationship had always been one of gentle goading from Antonio’s side and festering resentment on Henry’s, so it made a pleasant change when they were able to converse on a more adult level.
Henry checked his watch. Violet was running late.
Antonio made a show of standing on his tiptoes to readjust his son’s bow tie, and several guests laughed in appreciation. Having batted him away, Henry squinted along the makeshift aisle and saw the reflection of the sun in the hotel’s glass patio doors as they were pushed open. This must be it, he thought with a thrill, she was on her way to him at last. Antonio had caught on, too, and having given his son’s grey morning coat a final readjustment, he hurried down the steps and took his seat in the front row.
Henry heard the bells in the village of Deià chime as the music began – ‘And Roses And Roses’ by Astrud Gilberto – his whole body tingling with the thought of seeing Violet in her dress. She hadn’t worn it to the registry office in Cambridge in the end, telling him she preferred to save it for today, and while Henry had thought she looked lovely in the cream trouser suit from Next, he knew he was about to be bowled over, and grinned as he heard several gasps float up from the guests.
But then, a murmuring sound filtered through the banks of chairs, one that caused the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Turning, Henry saw his father-in-law Christopher approaching, his cheeks aflame and suit crumpled.
‘What is it?’ Henry met him halfway along the aisle. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I can’t... we can’t,’ Christopher was barely coherent. ‘We need help.’
From the corner of his eye, Henry saw Ynes get to her feet and make her way along the row, apologising in Spanish as she stepped on the toes of guests in her rush to reach him. Antonio, too, had risen, the smile that had been fixed falling as he reached the assembled group. They were all talking at once, and Henry couldn’t hear, couldn’t think.
He looked at Christopher. ‘Take me to them.’
The older man led the way towards the hotel, and Henry followed, ignoring the expressions of enquiry on the faces of those he passed. Antonio was only a few paces behind, Ynes at his side, her hat removed and clutched in both hands. They clattered up the steps and in through the open door, Henry’s polished brogues tapping loudly against the polished wooden floor of the lobby. A bank of sofas was arranged in a semicircle not far from the reception desk, a vase full of lilies making the air smell pungent and sweet. He never had cared for the scent, found it cloying, and after today, he would not be able to bear it.
Violet’s mother, Eleanor, was kneeling on the floor, her face scarlet as she struggled to contain his squirming, screaming son. Henry wanted to rush forwards and pull Luke away from her, respond to the boy’s increasingly desperate cries to ‘let me go, Granny’. He hesitated, unsure of what to do or say, glancing around until he saw another figure, this one cowering, her face turned away, shoulders shaking.
Violet looked as if she’d been attacked by a rabid dog. The plaited halo of her hair had been pulled out on one side, and the delicate lace sleeve covering her right arm had been torn. Henry crouched down in front of her, saw the livid scratches that criss-crossed her chest, the pink mark on her cheek that was starting to bruise.
‘Don’t worry.’ She braved a smile as Henry examined her injuries, feeling as he did so a hot and fierce anger tearing through him. ‘I’m OK, really,’ she said, though her bottom lip trembled. ‘Dad, I told you not to fuss. I’ll be fine in a minute. I just need to— I’ll be OK.’
Christopher Lupton’s watery blue eyes connected fleetingly with Henry’s, and in that moment, he understood exactly who was to blame.
Luke.
As it dawned on Henry what must have happened, his son broke free from Eleanor, pushing the older woman so hard that she fell sideways on to the floor. Christopher stumbled towards her with a shout of dismay, Antonio swore, and Violet cringed against Henry. Luke barrelled over, fists flailing, mouth agape, and threw himself at his mother, clinging so tightly that she cried out in pain. Henry saw his small hand creep up to her hair and tug, his fingers pulling, teeth clenched in determined fury.
‘Stop it,’ he bellowed, more forcefully than he ever had before, his voice cracking open with fear and confusion. He grabbed Luke’s arms, but the little boy was strong, and Violet screamed as more of her hair was ripped out. The harder Henry gripped, the rougher Luke became, his legs kicking out and his rigid body convulsing like a beached fish. Violet’s gold hoop earring was torn away, and Henry saw blood trickle down her neck.
‘You’re hurting her,’ he shouted. ‘Luke, you’re making Mummy bleed. Stop it – just stop it!’
His son growled, and it was a guttural enough sound to make Henry recoil.
Antonio stormed forwards, his hand raised as if to strike.
‘Don’t!’ screamed Violet. ‘Leave him.’
Even now, in the midst of such a maelstrom, she cared only about Luke’s welfare. Henry bit down hard on his lip as angry tears flared. Antonio had swung around and was stalking away, grumbling to himself. Luke had begun to wail; still he held tight to Violet, angry but scared, terrified of his own outburst and powerless to stop it. Ynes, who had been standing silently to one side, stepped forwards and placed a tentative hand on the boy’s quivering shoulder.
‘No la toques,’ she soothed. ‘Toma mi mano.’
Don’t touch. Take my hand.
She repeated the words, her tone soft and singsong, a lullaby of persuasion. Luke’s shudders lessened, and eventually, his vice-like grip began to ease, the small arms falling to his sides, the chin dipping to his chest. Ynes scooted down until her nose was level with his, and whispered something Henry did not catch. The little boy nodded, then his face collapsed into sobs.
‘It’s my fault,’ murmured Violet, through a mess of running make-up. ‘I should have known he would react badly to seeing me look so unlike myself. It scared him.’
‘Scared him?’ Henry grunted. ‘Jesus Christ, Vee – look at the state of you.’
She started to cry.
Ynes was ushering Luke away now, Henry heard mention of ice cream.
‘He didn’t mean it,’ Violet stuttered, her hand shaking as she wiped her eyes. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt me.’
‘But he did!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But nothing, Vee. He is out of control. We need to do something, see someone, we can’t put it off any more. This isn’t something that’s going to go away on its own.’
She was shaking her head, tears dropping on to the pale satin skirt of her beautiful dress, ear stained red with blood, weals across her chest where Luke had dragged his nails through the flesh. Christopher looked ashen, his arms full of his still-weeping wife, while Antonio glared down at them, twitching with impotent fury, eager to get on with the ceremony, look after his guests, be the centre of attention. It was all wrong.
‘This is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives,’ Henry said despairingly to Violet, and was surprised when she responded with a broken-sounding laugh.
‘And so it will be,’ she said.
He sighed, rubbed a hand across his jaw.
‘Listen to me, Henry.’
He focused his gaze on her, stared into eyes that were puffy and veined with red.
‘Everything is going to be OK. This was just a blip, a silly tantrum. Luke is fine, will be fine, we’ll be fine, all of us. I promise.’
Henry wished he could believe her, put his faith in those assurances and trust that she knew better than him.
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t.