Chapter 34
Violet
The blow-up I had predicted happened two hours after the funeral.
I had watched Luke closely throughout the day, noticed the muscles twitching in his jaw, the tremble in his fingers, which he kept knotted together in his lap, my gaze on him rather than the procession of mourners. Antonio’s eldest son, Mateo, had worked in a shift pattern with Henry, each man taking their turn sitting with the body of their father at the tanatorio. Unusually, for a Spanish burial, it had taken place seventy-two hours after death, partly to allow Mateo’s wife and children to fly over from their Dubai home and join him, and also because of some disagreement over the family’s niche tomb site. I had gleaned all of this not from being told, but by listening through the walls of the house to Henry’s increasingly frustrated telephone conversations. When I’d come across him in the kitchen, not long after one such call, helping himself to what was plainly not his first beer of the day, I’d tentatively asked if there was anything I could do to help. Henry had glared at me for a few seconds, then stalked out without a word, slamming the door behind him.
The ceremony had been well attended, which would’ve pleased Antonio, with many guests openly weeping as the coffin was brought through. Juan did not attempt to hide his grief, and every time he let out another noisy sob, Henry’s shoulders stiffened a fraction more. I didn’t want to dwell on whether our Spanish neighbour was crying over the loss of a friend, or the fact that Antonio’s untimely demise had rendered Juan’s job as his right-hand man immediately redundant. It was easier to avoid him, but it troubled me that Luke chose to do the same. He and Juan had shared a unique connection ever since the latter had saved him from drowning, and it was one I’d assumed was important to both of them. If Luke lost an ally in Juan, it would be my fault. Everything, it seemed, was my fault.
In keeping with tradition there was no wake planned, Mateo apparently deciding that the traditional rosario gathering in nine days’ time would provide ample space within which to celebrate the life of his father.
‘I want us to have a party the likes of which Papi would be proud,’ he told me, as we huddled together in a patch of shade outside the church. Despite being clad in a dark suit, Mateo seemed impervious to the scorching heat of the afternoon, whereas I had sweated right through my linen shift.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ I told him, and he smiled briefly in acknowledgement before turning away to speak to Henry in hushed, rapid Spanish. I was too exhausted, too sad, and too full of dread to linger any longer in town, but it was with trepidation that I made my slow way back towards La Casa Naranja. I’d seen Luke and Eliza leaving the church and hoped beyond reason that they’d chosen to go somewhere other than the house.
‘Hello?’ I called as I crossed the threshold, only to recoil as a resounding crash rang out, followed by a guttural roar.
Luke.
Ignoring the stress-response stab of pain in my stomach, I hurried past the stairs and made my way through the open door into the kitchen. Eliza was cringing against the far wall; hands up in front of her face, clearly terrified. Broken pieces of crockery littered the floor, and a carton of milk had been upended across the worktop. Luke had his back to me, shoulders hunched and arms dangling loose at his sides, and when he turned to look at me, I experienced a flutter of panic.
‘I’ll clean this up, shall I?’ I said, trying my best to remain calm.
In answer, Luke picked up a second mug from the draining board and hurled it hard against the back door. Eliza squealed, her fear bringing me up short.
‘Well, that was idiotic,’ I snapped, my voice rising into a shout as he made a grab for the teapot. It was part of a set that Ynes had given me, and I loved it.
‘Don’t!’ Eliza screamed, as splinters of handle and spout skidded across the tiles. ‘Stop it.’
But her pleas fell on stubbornly deaf ears. Luke had gone to a place where neither of us would be able to reach him, far into the crimson mists of his own fury and grief and, like any caged or stricken animal, all he was capable of doing now was fighting his way out. Ducking under one of his flailing arms, I held my own open to Eliza and she flew into them, closing her eyes in fright as I wheeled around and ushered her quickly from the room.
‘Go down the hill, back to the church, and find Henry,’ I told her. ‘Run!’
She didn’t need telling twice, and was out of the front door seconds later, a blur of black and pink hurtling past the open window. I stationed myself in the hallway, feet planted wide and firm to stop my knees from trembling, and tried not to shout as more sounds of smashing rang out from the kitchen.
‘Where is she?’
Luke was suddenly looming over me, shoulders hunched, lips curled.
‘You need to try and calm down,’ I said, in as level a tone as I could muster.
‘Eliza?’ he shouted, thundering up the stairs two at a time. I waited a moment, then followed him, reaching the landing as he came storming back down from the turret.
Stay calm. Exude calm. It’s fear that’s manifesting, not aggression.
‘She’s not here,’ I said.
Luke paced towards me with enough aggression to unsettle me, make me flail, stumble, and clutch the banister for support.
‘If she breaks up with me because of this, I’ll fucking kill myself.’
I could not halt the tears that greeted this, most hateful threat, and bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood.
‘I’m sure she won’t do that. She loves you.’ The last words came out strangled as he pushed his way past me, and I pressed myself against the wall for a moment, giving my heart the chance to stop shuddering. I heard the back door open, and then an ominous scraping sound, followed by the unmistakeable shattering of glass. I was gripped by panic, but somehow found my feet, which felt leaden and clumsy below me. I half ran, half fell down the stairs, catching sight of yet more destruction as Luke charged towards the lounge.
‘No!’ I screamed, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. It was the one I’d ironed for him that morning, a fleeting snapshot of normality in a day that had morphed rapidly into a horror film. Luke shook me roughly away, sending me sideways into the small hall table. A vase of flowers I’d placed there teetered for a second or two, before dropping off the edge, and I watched as a shoal of broken glass and murky water spread across the floor. Luke, who was clutching a large shovel, aimed a kick at the table’s flimsy wooden legs and sent it flying against the opposite wall.
‘Stop it!’ I yelled, my will to remain calm abandoned. ‘Stop destroying my house.’
Adrenaline surged through me, obliterating the pain in my gut. I was no longer scared but angry; my limits exceeded, and lines crossed. He was doing what he always did, what I had allowed him to do ever since my wedding day. But I wouldn’t stand by and bear witness while he tore the house apart – not this place, not our home.
Luke raised his shovel; he wanted me to cower, perhaps even to fall to my knees, but I couldn’t give him that power. I made myself look at him, my eyes fixing in on his, deep-set pools of the darkest green, and flashing with malice.
‘This isn’t you,’ I whispered.
His lips began to quiver, and he pulled them taut, scowling at me as tears brimmed.
‘Luke,’ I began, but he shook his head, his temper refocusing. Stalking away from me into the lounge, he swung the shovel round and brought it down hard on the big dresser, splintering first the cupboard doors and then the shelves above. I put my hands over my ears, unable to move, knowing it was pointless to intervene, and watched as my son rampaged and smashed and roared.
Then, suddenly, Henry was in the room, his hands on the shovel, the two of them locked together in a silent duel. Luke seemed to crumple, his knees giving way as he folded in against his father, clinging to him as he’d once clung to me as a baby, asking him to help, to make it stop. Henry’s eyes were wet, but he did not let go of our son.
‘I know,’ he said. Not ‘it’s OK’ or ‘you’ll be all right’ or ‘things will get easier’ – none of the platitudes I had pedalled out time and time again – simply ‘I know’.
I know it hurts.
I know it’s not fair.
I know you don’t mean it.
I know you’re sorry.
When I had told Henry just days ago that he was strong, I had meant it. He’d always been stronger than me when it came to Luke, thicker-skinned when the insults were being hurled, more resilient to the physical blows. Where I’d made excuses, Henry had pushed for solutions, demanding we try whatever we could, no matter the cost. Owning up to the fact that your son has problems would be hard for anyone, and it had taken me longer than Henry to get there. In protecting myself from the facts, I had driven a wedge between us, insisting that he treat Luke the same way I did, with cotton wool and a caring face, and never once giving any merit to his suggestions because I believed that I, as his mum, knew better. I’d made a mess of everything, and for what? Luke hadn’t needed me in this, his hardest moment, he had wanted someone else, someone he could trust to be honest even if the truth was unsavoury. Once upon a time, I might have resented this new closeness between them, and it was a relief to discover that I didn’t. Not remotely.
Henry might have lost his father, but in those moments, as he cradled a weeping Luke in his arms, there was no doubt in my mind that he had gained back a son.