Chapter 32
Henry
Ten Summers Ago
The day started out typically enough. Breakfast on the terrace – toast, eggs and tomatoes for himself and Violet, Rice Krispies with all the milk drained off for Luke – followed by the usual half-hour of gentle cajoling, as each of them took it in turns to tempt their son into doing something other than sitting in his bedroom all day.
Henry was keen to get out of the house. He’d been forced to abandon the overhaul of the spare bedroom that he’d begun when they arrived a few weeks previously due to a hold-up on materials, and the knowledge of the mess, and the unfinished plastering, itched at him. Violet had found him in there twice, just staring around in search of a task, and told him off for being ‘obsessed’.
‘It will all get done eventually,’ she said, rubbing at her eyes. ‘This is supposed to be our relaxing time.’
She was right, he knew, but relaxation was not a state that came naturally to Henry. He was less agitated when he was busy, whereas Violet seemed to have become almost drunk on sleep. Luke, for the most part, was quieter and more subdued in Mallorca than England and, like them, he relished the break from the everyday pressures. Getting him to school on time had become a battle they lost more often than not, and in the days before term ended, Henry and Violet had been summoned into the primary school Luke attended for a meeting. The teacher was sympathetic, but also practical, warning them that if not dealt with properly, their son’s tardiness could soon mutate into a full-blown refusal to attend school at all. That was all very well, Henry had thought bitterly, but other than manhandle Luke from beneath the duvet and into the classroom, his options were limited. Violet, of course, preferred a softly-softly approach.
‘If we make an issue out of it, he’ll only get worse. At least he is still going in.’
Sure, Henry had brooded, but for how long?
It had taken him months after their wedding to persuade Violet that speaking to a professional was the right step to take, but while the GP had listened, frowned, and asked Luke a series of questions, she hadn’t been able to do much else other than refer him to the local centre for addiction and mental health. A letter was written, and they had waited, and waited, and waited. When Luke was eventually seen almost three months later, the counsellor spent less than fifteen minutes deciding that their son was deemed ‘low risk’ and advised Henry and Violet to go private.
‘We’re stretched far too thin,’ he’d explained lamentably. ‘Demand far outweighs resource, and we have youngsters that we have to prioritise. Luke has some behavioural issues, but we don’t deem him to be a risk to himself or others.’
For Henry, who’d been the recipient of endless punches and kicks, and seen their house smashed during Luke’s terrifying bouts of rage, it felt like an exceptionally cruel dismissal.
‘Get some help,’ was what well-meaning people suggested, and every time he heard it, Henry had stop himself from shouting back, ‘How?’
There was no help, they were alone in their misery, and the sense of helplessness that brought felt overwhelming. Upon Violet’s insistence, Henry had agreed not to discuss their son’s ongoing issues over the summer holidays and focus instead on the three of them spending time together as a family. Luke, however, had apparently not got the memo.
‘What about Sóller?’ Violet suggested now, her eyes meeting Henry’s over their son’s bowed head. Luke was using the back of his spoon to squeeze yet more milk from his soggy cereal and did little other than grunt in response.
‘You used to love riding the tram,’ she went on, glancing at Henry for help.
‘Mum’s right,’ he said, picking up the mantle. ‘The driver used to let you ring the bell, don’t you remember?’
Nothing. Not so much as a murmur.
Henry tried again.
‘Alcúdia then? We could get ice cream for lunch.’
Luke shook his head morosely.
‘Magaluf?’
That got his attention. Luke’s chin came up and he fixed Henry with a quizzical stare.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Henry said. ‘Line the shots up, go to a foam party.’
Violet tutted.
‘Dad’s being silly,’ she said. ‘Nobody is going to do any shots.’
‘What’s a foam party?’ asked Luke, and Henry laughed in spite of Violet’s exasperation.
They all looked up as a voice carried over the garden wall, bidding them good morning in Spanish. Violet, who’d been standing with her hands on the back of Luke’s chair, rushed through the house towards the front door, and soon enough, Juan had joined them on the terrace. He had come with a proposition.
‘I am taking Tomas fishing,’ he declared. ‘In Cala de Deià. And we wondered if you would like to come with us?’
‘All of us?’ Violet said brightly. Hopefully, Henry thought darkly. He had noticed the way their Spanish neighbour casually flirted with his wife, always finding excuses to touch her, and he wished Violet wouldn’t lap the attention up so eagerly. He didn’t see the man as a threat, so much as a mild irritant, but he had to hand it to Juan – when it came to getting through to Luke, the Spaniard beat Henry hands down. His son had sprung out of his seat and was jumping up and down on the spot with such glee that it was impossible not to feel grateful.
‘Of course, the invitation is for all of you,’ Juan agreed, laughing as Luke began to zoom around the patio, arms stretched out as if he was a plane about to take off. It was the most animated he’d been in days, and Violet beamed as she watched him.
‘Thank you,’ she was saying to Juan over and over. ‘You’re our guardian angel.’
That was, Henry mused privately, a bit of an overstatement.
They travelled down to Deià in two cars, Henry’s old red jeep creaking on its wheel bearings as he navigated the hairpin turns of the mountain roads. Luke sat strapped in the back, his pale limbs sticky with sun cream. For once, he hadn’t put up a fight when Violet guardedly produced the bottle, and Henry was hopeful that perhaps a figurative corner had been turned that morning as well as the literal ones. This summer could be the one where everything changed for the better, his son finally shrugging off the anger and anxiety and becoming the person Henry knew he had it in him to be – a happy little boy with a positive soul, a child who strode confidently through life instead of cringing in the shadows. It was all he and Violet wanted, and all they ever seemed to talk about.
It felt nice to be back in Deià, with its jumble of golden houses that always felt to Henry as if they’d been snatched from the pages of a history book. He had fond memories of the place, from his and Violet’s wedding – which began so strangely but had ultimately become a wonderful day of shared love and laughter – to the lazy afternoons they’d spent here when Luke was still very young, wandering the narrow hillside streets with a punnet of strawberries propped on the back of the pushchair between them, juice-stained fingers entwined, sweet kisses exchanged. Glancing across at Violet, he saw that she, too, looked serenely contented, her bare arm diving up and down through the rushing air beyond the open window, red hair rippling across freckled shoulders. A free spirit again, if only for a precious few moments. Henry saw her every day, at home and out doing jobs, across the dinner table in the evenings and tucked in next to him in bed at night, yet it never felt like enough. His love for her had always been this way: intoxicating, passionate, urgent, all-consuming. Even when he was mad at her, he adored her beyond measure.
Henry’s mood remained buoyant as he steered the jeep through Deià and followed the road down through the olive groves to the coast beyond, parking up in a shady spot right beside Juan’s flashy Mercedes. Tomas, thirteen now and as boisterous, strapping and loud as nine-year-old Luke was cautious, small, and quiet, exploded from the car and started tugging at Henry’s door, urging him to hurry.
Violet, laughing, headed around to the back of the jeep, and hauled out her cavernous beach bag, in which she’d somehow managed to fit three towels, an assortment of buckets and spades, a large blanket and lunch for everyone.
‘All good?’ Henry asked Luke, as his son clambered slowly out of his seat and tugged down his baseball cap. It was one of those with an extra flap at the back to protect the neck, though Luke had insisted on wearing it sideways.
He nodded, cowed as he often was in the presence of Tomas, who Henry guessed he yearned to impress. There was something undeniably magnetic about the Spanish teenager, with his easy confidence and wide grin, that drew people to him. Ana had once confided to Henry that she feared for the broken hearts her son was destined to leave in his wake once he started dating. He was such an incorrigible flirt – a trait, no doubt, that he’d picked up from Juan, who was now unpacking fold-up chairs, fishing tackle and a clanking bag of wine bottles from his boot.
‘For the se?oras,’ he said to Henry, a glint in his eye as he added conspiratorially, ‘to get us into the good books.’
Ana, who’d heard this last comment as she paused to refasten the buckle on her sandal, rolled her eyes and murmured something unintelligible under her breath. Tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder, she put a hand on Henry’s arm.
‘Shall we run away together?’ she said teasingly. ‘It would teach this tonto a lesson.’
Henry grinned as he admired her smooth tanned skin and wide shining mouth.
‘Maybe in another life,’ he said, feigning disappointment. ‘In this one, I am very much a taken man.’
Ana pulled a face, then laughed good-naturedly before calling over to Violet.
‘I hope you realise how lucky you are, mi amiga.’
Luke was pulling at Henry’s sleeve.
‘Can we go?’
Juan passed him a small metal box.
‘You,’ he said, tapping the peak of Luke’s lopsided hat, ‘can carry the worms.’
It was a short, dusty walk from the car park to the cove, and Juan led the way, Tomas bounding along in his wake. Violet had fallen into step beside Luke, the tin of bait held gingerly, as if it might explode at any moment, while Henry brought up the rear with Ana. Despite setting off relatively early, they discovered that the rocky shoreline was already littered with holidaymakers, and Henry saw Luke stiffen as he took in the crowds.
‘Let’s go and get a Coke,’ he said, hurrying forwards to steer his son into the nearest of the two tavernas, but Luke didn’t budge. Henry looked to Violet, his perpetual ‘what shall we do?’ expression being met by one of exasperation.
‘Luke!’ Juan yelled, from the top of a wide, concrete ramp. ‘The boat is here.’
The small vessel to which he was now gesturing looked decidedly rickety, its wooden hull scratched and faded. Henry thought it might once have been red, but the paint had long since flaked off, leaving behind only the faintest suggestion of colour.
Tomas had swung his stocky legs over the side and was busy stowing the fishing lines and a cool box beneath the bench seats, while Juan fiddled around untying ropes.
‘Aren’t we going to eat first?’ called Violet. There was a nervous tremor in her voice to which Henry had become well accustomed.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he told her, addressing Luke at the same time. ‘Juan’s been taking boats like that one out since he was a kid.’
‘I don’t know.’ Violet looked unsure. ‘I thought it would be... I don’t know, bigger... sturdier.’
‘Luke’s not scared; are you, mate?’
Henry had never called his son ‘mate’ and could not fathom why he’d chosen to do so now. A ‘mate’ was someone you went down the pub with on a Friday night after work, not your ashen-faced nine-year-old son. Luke was considering his reply when Violet interrupted.
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, honey. If you’d rather stay on the beach with me and Ana, then that’s fine. Or we could go for a hike back up to the village?’
She always did this; laid out multiple options and allowed Luke to choose. It happened on every single day trip, at every mealtime, and on all the rare occasions when they sat down together to watch a film. When Henry had raised the issue, asking Violet why she allowed their son to dictate most, if not all, of their decisions, she’d argued that it helped him feel in control.
‘It doesn’t matter to us as much as it matters to him, so why do you care?’
And Henry had been forced to admit that he didn’t know. But he did care, it bothered him – had always bothered him. So often it felt to him as if he and Violet were the children in their family, while Luke, from his lofty perch of power, had somehow become the adult.
‘Mum’s right,’ he allowed, as his son continued to stare glumly towards the multitude of colourful beach towels, sunbathing couples, and noisy families down at the water’s edge. ‘You could miss out on the fishing trip, but I think that would be a shame, especially since Juan expressly invited you.’
He was manipulating him, Henry knew, but wasn’t Violet guilty of the same exact thing? Each of them had developed their own unique way of communicating with Luke, and this just so happened to be his. He deliberately avoided his wife’s stony glare as he continued his process of coercion.
‘Go on, do it for me. I’ve barely seen you these past few days.’
‘Henry...’ Violet’s tone had a warning edge to it. ‘If he doesn’t want to, then—’
‘It’s OK.’ Luke turned to face his mother. ‘I’ll go in the boat.’
Before either of them could reply, he had stalked past Henry and joined Juan, passing across the bait tin before clambering up and over the bow. With his stick-thin pale legs, spindly arms, and wide, startled eyes, he looked as vulnerable as a stranded duckling, and Henry felt a surge of protectiveness flood through him. Turning to Violet, he bent and pressed a kiss against her rigid cheek.
‘I’ll look after him,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
He and Juan took one side of the boat each before steering it down the ramp into the shallow water.
‘Life jacket,’ he said, once he’d leapt in over the side, snatching one up and passing it across to his son. Luke, who had chosen a seat right at the front, shook his head.
‘I don’t like the sound it makes.’
Henry gritted his teeth into the approximation of a smile.
‘It’s for safety, mate, so we can’t have any silliness.’
There he went again with that word: mate.
Luke folded his arms. ‘No.’
Henry was about to argue back when Juan put a big warm hand on his shoulder.
‘It is OK,’ he said. ‘Look at the water, it is like a well today.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Henry said, but again, Juan was insistent. Lowering his voice, he murmured, ‘Do not make a big deal out of this. It will only upset the boy. Let him come around to the idea on his own.’
‘You sound like my wife,’ Henry grumbled back, which only served to make the Spaniard’s lips spread even wider. Glancing back towards the beach, he saw Violet and Ana laying out the picnic blanket, the latter having already stripped down to a gold bikini. She was softly edged and voluptuous, while Violet was petite and more athletic. Realising that he might be enjoying the view a bit too much, Henry turned his gaze quickly away.
‘How far out are we going?’ he asked Juan, who was manning the rudder. The outboard engine purred as it propelled the small craft forwards, a moderately loud yet unobtrusive sound that did not seem to have fazed his noise-averse boy.
‘Not far,’ Juan replied. ‘If we stay close to the rocks, we may be lucky enough to find calamar – perhaps even pulpo.’
Henry could not be sure, but he thought he saw Luke suppress a shudder.
Tomas, meanwhile, had stood up and was rummaging around by his father’s feet.
‘Did you bring the traps, Papá?’
‘Siéntate,’ Juan snapped coarsely. Sit down.
Tomas sat, but not before he’d caused the boat to wobble precariously. Henry’s hands reached instinctively for Luke but, outwardly at least, the boy appeared unfussed by the kerfuffle. He was gazing silently out towards the horizon, that quivering blue gradient where sky met sea. The latter was almost turquoise today in its intensity, and clear enough that there could be no doubt as to how deeply it ran. Henry loved the ocean, but he’d never been a particularly strong swimmer. The land suited him better, and it was when both his feet were firmly placed upon it that he felt most at ease. Now that they were out here, the shore far enough away to render individual faces a blur, Henry questioned the reason why he’d been so insistent that they come. He and Luke could have been happily ensconced in the shade, sipping an ice-cold fizzy drink at this very moment, and instead they were out here, bobbing along in the full sun, about to sit unmoving for hours on end in the hope of catching a fish they could just as easily have ordered from one of the beach tavernas. It was as he registered this regret that everything went suddenly, and catastrophically, wrong.
Tomas, still sulking from his father’s scolding, decided to cheer himself up by opening the bait tin and extracting a long worm, which he promptly tossed at Luke. Henry watched it land on the back of his son’s T-shirt, and saw his hand come around to remove it. A beat passed that was probably no longer than a second, but which would, over time, feel to Henry as if it had spooled out in agonising slow motion, after which Luke’s expression turned from one of surprise to horror. Crying out with a mixture of shock and rage, he launched himself off the bench seat and flew at Tomas, fists flailing, mouth a gaping roar. The teenager yelped in alarm and dodged to one side just in time to avoid being struck.
‘I’m going to kill you!’ Luke screamed, his unbroken voice high and shrill and fierce with intent. Henry staggered on to both feet and the boat lurched in the water, sending him crashing to his knees. Tomas shouted a warning, but as he did so, Luke lost his balance.With a sickening thud, he fell backwards and cracked the side of his head on the wooden hull.
‘Watch out!’ Henry cried, struggling to get up as the boat swung violently around. One moment his son was there, slumped on the deck, and the next he was gone, over the edge to be stolen by the sea. Henry blinked, unable to believe what had happened, the enormity too much for his brain to process. By the time it did, and he was scrabbling forwards on all fours, Juan had already dived off the side of the boat.
Henry heard a keening sound coming from the shore. Violet must have witnessed the whole thing, and she was powerless to do anything other than react. Tomas was crying as he repeated the word ‘Papá’ over and over, and Henry felt hot tears begin to well in his own eyes. He was torn by indecision, not knowing if should jump off the boat or not, fearful of abandoning Tomas and scared of what might happen if he didn’t, petrified of the sea and of his own inability to save his son, hateful and frightened and useless and— Henry gasped as a head broke through the surface, followed by a second. Juan’s thick arm was tucked under Luke’s chin, the other cutting through the water towards the boat.
‘Here!’ Henry stretched out both his arms, grasping his son’s shoulders then sliding both hands under them. With Juan pushing from below, he managed to pull Luke out of the water and into the boat, where he lay, silent and sodden, among the mess of fishing tackle and coiled rope. Henry had done first-aid training at work, but had yet to put it into action, and now found that he couldn’t remember where to start.
‘Help!’ he shouted, desperately, as Tomas heaved his father back over the side. Juan was panting with effort, but unlike Henry, he didn’t hesitate. Reaching Luke’s side in less than a second, he knelt and put an ear to the boy’s mouth, then tilted his head back, pinched his tiny nose between thumb and forefinger, and brought his lips down over his mouth. Henry could hear Violet’s screams, the lapping of the waves, the silent sobs coming from the shuddering teenage boy by his side, and then, mercifully, the rasp of a choking cough. A terrible coldness gripped Henry as the truth settled over him, bringing with it an avalanche of shame.
All he had done, all he’d been capable of doing was to sit, and wait, and watch, as another man, one far better and braver than him, breathed life back into his son.