Chapter 43
Violet
‘You’re doing what?’
Henry’s gaze was steady across the table. ‘Donating the money – well, as much of it as I’m legally permitted to do, once I’ve spoken to the tax office.’
A beat of time passed where the ability to articulate anything coherent abandoned me completely. I knew if I attempted to speak, mewls of disbelief would be all that emerged.
We’d come out to eat, the four of us, Henry having offered because he felt bad for dragging us away from Palma. Unusually for him, he’d booked us into Brasserie Número Ocho, which was situated right in the heart of Pollen?a’s main square – a space he habitually avoided on account of it being ‘overpriced and overrun’. I couldn’t quibble with either of those descriptions, yet the fact Pla?a Major was busy did not detract from its charm. Smooth grey slabs were framed by neatly manicured plane trees, their waxy green leaves a welcome splash of colour against the gold stone of the surrounding buildings. Trails of lights had been strung up, riotous food scents filled the air, and the scrape of cutlery was offset by the hum of contented chatter.
Offered the choice of sitting in or outside Brasserie Número Ocho, we’d opted for the former, Luke and I both exhaling gladly as we stepped from the dense heat of the early evening into the air-conditioned interior. My son might have inherited his dark hair and eyes from his Mediterranean-blooded father, but the pale, freckled skin came from me. ‘Like two speckled eggs in a basket,’ my dad had observed, back when Luke was a baby cradled proudly in my arms, before his mind had been taken over by anxiety. Once it had him in its grip, referring to him as anything other than what he deigned acceptable became too great a risk. Even my dear, sweet, tolerant father had been subjected to the lash of his grandson’s tongue. He’d always taken it in good humour, brushing off Luke’s disparagement as he might pollen from the sleeve of his jacket. I understood how it felt, and therefore knew how greatly it must have hurt him.
‘I was wondering...’ Henry said now, bringing me back to the table. He cleared his throat and waited until Eliza had lowered her menu before he continued. ‘If you’d like to choose a charity. Something you deem worthy of a sizeable donation.’
He’d directed his comment to Luke, but it was Eliza who exclaimed in delight.
‘That’s so generous of you. There are so many great causes.’
Henry’s attention remained on Luke. ‘Perhaps a mental health charity,’ he went on casually. ‘I know we’ve spoken to a lot of them, and thought you’d be the best person to judge how effective they were.’
Luke couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he’d tried. He’d pushed his chair back as far as it would go, the struts pressed up against the latticed wall that doubled up as a wine rack. It resembled a giant beehive of sorts, and I’d have been willing to bet that were he physically able, my son would have inserted himself into one of the holes and stayed there.
‘Why me?’ he said, glowering across the table at Henry. ‘It’s not my money.’
‘No, but—’
‘And none of them really did anything anyway, just spouted platitudes at me. The only person who ever helped me out in any real way was Maria.’
Henry pulled a face. ‘I thought she was a bit of a charlatan.’
‘A hypnotist,’ I corrected. ‘And Luke’s right, she was very good.’
Henry chuntered.
‘See what I mean,’ Luke grumbled. ‘Don’t ask for my opinion if you’re going to disregard my answer.’
‘Your dad’s trying to do a nice thing, albeit clumsily,’ I said, and Eliza, who had remained quiet until now, agreed with me. When the waiter arrived to take our orders, I heard her hiss, ‘He’s doing it for you.’ Luke, however, remained stony faced.
A youngish couple with a baby had been seated at the table beside ours, and I thought it likely that their arrival had unsettled him. Luke did not respond well to wailing infants, hadn’t since he was eight years old and been trapped on a plane with one. Things had become so fraught on that occasion that he’d ended up humming loudly in his seat, hands clamped over his ears as he rocked backwards and forwards in distress. Henry and I had been powerless to snap him out of it, and it’d felt as if every person on the flight was judging us, condemning us, labelling us ‘bad parents’.
‘It’s not a big deal,’ said Henry, who I noticed was making short work of his beer. I’d opted for water even though I longed for a proper drink, had been longing for the numbing effects of alcohol too much of late, and it wasn’t healthy – nor was it sensible, given how fractious the atmosphere was becoming.
Luke took the straw out of his orange juice and brought the glass up to his lips.
‘Whatever, Dad,’ he drawled between sips. ‘Like I said, do what you like.’
The baby started to cry.
I glanced at Henry, but he was brooding, eyes down and shoulders slumped.
The young mother at the next table reached into the pram and began to make cooing noises, her hand on the infant’s tummy but her attention on the menu. The man said something to her, and she laughed, apparently unfazed by the ongoing howl. I’d never left Luke to cry; the moment he screwed up his pink cheeks in preparation, I was there, lifting him into my arms, nestling him at my breast. I had cherished those early months, the moments of togetherness we shared that were ours alone. Henry wanted to help, to try bottle feeding, eager to take over when I was tired, but his efforts had failed. Baby Luke refused to settle with anyone else but me.
‘It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,’ Henry would say, trotting out the same remark so often that over time it became not a joke but a barb. He was envious of the bond I had with Luke, and he’d allowed the seed of his disgruntlement to grow.
The tapas we’d ordered arrived, dish after dish of homecooked Mallorcan delicacies. I’d only wanted some calamari, but Henry had insisted we push out the proverbial boat, and Eliza breathed out a ‘whoa’ as the tabletop vanished beneath a deluge of food. Patatas bravas speckled with paprika, pescado blanco with thick wedges of fresh lemon, langostinos sizzling in chilli oil, padrón peppers crunchy with salt, several variations of Spanish olive, dense brown hunks of bread, and pots of creamy aioli.
‘Tuck in,’ Henry said, raising his voice to be heard over the still-bawling baby.
Luke speared a potato but didn’t eat it.
I glanced towards the window, saw the rich blue glow of sky behind the clay rooftops, and thought of my mother, her bewilderment when the men arrived to tow away the car I’d failed to pay for, her fear as a letter threatening bailiffs dropped on to the mat.
‘I think donating the money is a very honourable notion,’ I said, helping myself to some olives.
Henry looked at me suspiciously. ‘But?’
‘But it’s not a practical solution.’
‘Go on.’
The pitch of the baby’s cry was growing louder, the mother’s shushing ineffectual.
‘You need to keep hold of the money,’ I said plainly, ‘so you can afford to buy me out.’
Henry groaned. ‘Not this again.’
‘We know The Orange House is worth far more than you’ll get once you’ve paid the tax man what you owe, but I’m willing to take what’s left and say no more about it.’
I didn’t dare look at Luke, but I could feel his eyes on me, laser-like in their focus. I couldn’t allow myself to be swayed. I had started, and so I barrelled on.
‘You get to keep the house, I get a portion of what I’m owed – which is a very good deal for you, by the way – and everybody’s happy.’
‘Everybody’s happy,’ he repeated faintly. ‘Jesus, Violet, what is the matter with you?’
I frowned as if I didn’t understand the question.
A waiter had approached the neighbouring table; I heard him enquire in Spanish if there was something the baby needed, anything he could warm up for them – some milk, perhaps? It stood to reason that other diners had started to complain about the noise. The woman shook her head. I didn’t catch her reply, but whatever it was appeared to satisfy the server, and having topped up their water glasses, he strode briskly away.
The baby, however, continued to protest.
‘Since when did money mean more to you than anything else?’ Henry asked tersely.
‘Since when did pride matter more to you than me?’ I wanted to say, though it wasn’t as simple as that; not a single slight that had to be forgiven but years of them.
Eliza was casting nervous glances over her shoulder at the young couple. Like me, she was obviously concerned that Luke was teetering on the tip of anger. He’d abandoned his meal and was drumming his fingers against the tablecloth. All of a sudden, it felt like too much. I pushed back my chair and threw down my napkin, poised to stage another restaurant flit and go. But to where? I was exactly where I wanted to be, with the people I cared about the most.
Henry went to stand, his arm already stretching out towards me, but before I could react, Luke got abruptly to his feet. Eliza shrank into her chair, Henry wheeled around, I froze, and then my son did something that none of us were expecting.
Stepping over to the pram, he crouched down and began to make soothing, clucking sounds, before turning to the parents. I couldn’t hear what he said, though the exchange seemed friendly enough, and the next moment, Luke had lifted the baby into his arms.
‘There, there,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. You’re OK. I’ve got you.’
It took less than a minute for the baby’s cries to cease, but when I considered what I’d witnessed, a change in my son so profound and sanguine, it felt as if my own tears could continue to fall forever.