Читать книгу Draca - Geoffrey Gudgion - Страница 38

As the sounds of his father ’ s car receded, Jack stared at the carrier bag that his father had dumped beside the carving, dropping it with as little respect as a bag of shopping. Grandpa wasn ’ t the first person Jack had known who ’ d died, but he was the first one that he ’ d loved. He ’ d never before had that jolt at the sight of a cardboard brick that was all that was left of a person. In Afghanistan he ’ d had to go through the personal effects of a dead m arine , sending home treasures and tokens of endearment that, despite his efforts, would spill a fine, red, desert dust when the box was opened. It was desperately sad, but it didn ’ t touch him personally in the same way. There was even a guilty sense of relief that he was still alive and it wasn ’ t his effects that were being sent home. It had been close, though. The day that m arine died, Jack had dug a bullet out of his own body armour.

And when m arines died, they were blown away from unreality. They did not belong to the place that had destroyed them.

But Grandpa had belonged to this place. This place had belonged to him. The familiar scene of boats on the water should be different without him. Jack half expected to find a razor cut across the view like a slice across a sail ; s ome rip that had opened, pulled Grandpa through and sealed itself behind him. There was just an ugly purple cube inside a bag as a sign that he ’ d gone, the way a suicide might leave a pile of folded clothes on a beach. Two bricks ’ weight of granules instead of a note.

Charlotte, coming through the kitchen behind him, didn ’ t belong here. Jack decided he partly belonged; upstairs the small bedroom with the single bed still displayed Grandpa ’ s cherished fragments of his childhood.

Charlotte ’ s hand touched his shoulder, balancing herself as she swung her leg over the bench. Even in his hung-over state, the flash of her thigh was distracting.

‘ Hey, chum. ’ She put a fresh mug on the table.

‘ Hey, Lottie. ’ ‘ Charlotte ’ had always seemed too formal a name, unless he was ticked off with her.

‘ Thanks. For sticking up for me, I mean. ’

‘ I didn ’ t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. ’

The flow of her movement checked and she settled more cautiously onto the bench, staying silent while she emptied the last of the coffee into her mug. As she replaced the pot , she stretched to squeeze his hand. ‘ Poor Jack. I really thought it could work. You and me. ’

‘ So did I. ’ He paused. In front of them, the trees on Witt Point appeared motionless in the heat, but their reflections in the water were hazed by wavelets, and ripples ran through the reeds in the shallows. There would be enough wind to sail, out in the harbour.

‘ Why did you marry me, Lottie? ’

She thought for perhaps two breaths before answering. ‘ Do you remember how we were always laughing together, before you were wounded? Those golden months between Afghanistan and the last, bloody deployment? You were the best male friend I ’ d ever had. The closest I ’ d been to loving a man. ’

‘ Were? ’

‘ Are. Even after all the crappy times since you came back. ’

‘ We did have a lot of fun, didn ’ t we? ’ He smiled, until he realised he ’ d used the past tense. Talking was easy in this place, side by side, staring at the view rather than each other.

‘ I think I was a bit in awe, as well, even before the honours list came out. We all were. And we were so perfect, the handsome hero and the g eneral ’ s daughter, the must-have couple for any gathering. Maybe I got lost in our own mystique. ’

Jack formed a question in his head, testing the words, wanting to keep the tone light.

‘ I remember your father spouting off at dinner, once. ’ Jack dropped his voice in imitation of the g eneral ’ s gruff pomposity, punctuating each phrase with bulldog puffs of air through his lips. ‘ Good God! When I joined the service, there were three absolute no- nos : druggery , buggery and treason. ’ He slapped the table in pretend anger. ‘ Now druggery earns a slap on the wrist and buggery is positively encouraged! Next thing we know, treason will be a matter of conscience. ’

Charlotte laughed. Jack could do a pretty good imitation of her father.

‘ Daddy thinks the world of you. They both do. And they know things have been difficult. ’

‘ You ’ ve never told them you ’ re gay, have you? ’ Jack remembered the hurt on Charlotte ’ s face at that dinner.

‘ I ’ m not gay, I ’ m bi. ’

Jack shrugged. ‘ Bi, then. ’ He didn ’ t challenge her. ‘ But have you? ’

She shook her head. ‘ I think they were starting to suspect, though. ’

‘ And marrying me gave you ‘ air cover ’ . ’

‘ I hope I was never so cynical. ’

‘ You should have told me though. Before we married. That ’ s the only thing that still rankles. ’ His words tasted of strong coffee and stale alcohol.

‘ We ’ ve had this argument. I thought that part of me would go away. ’

Jack opened his mouth and shut it again, realising they were being drawn back into a well-worn channel. They were quiet for a while, watching the view, until she touched his hand again.

‘ We ’ re best like this, Jack, almost like brother and sister. ’

‘ But it ’ s not enough, is it? For either of us. ’

‘ We make love, sometimes. ’

‘ So when was the last time? ’

Charlotte let go of his hand, and began fiddling with the frilly edging to the carpet around the carving.

‘ You ’ ve changed, Jack, since you were wounded. It was easier to love the laughing hero. You ’ ve been pretty hard to live with lately, chum. ’

It was a morning for long pauses.

‘ That thing ’ s looking at me. ’ Charlotte stared at the rug, where one corner had fallen open, exposing the carved head like a monster in a baby ’s blanket. The way the light caught its carved eye gave it life. From this angle, the gaping jaw was a lascivious grin rather than a snarl. Charlotte pulled her shirt closed across her chest and held her hand there, beneath her throat, as if she ’ d spotted a peeping Tom.

‘ It ’ s got good taste. ’

Charlotte stretched to spin the wrapping so that the head was pointing away from them, towards the water. ‘ I don ’ t like that thing. It ’ s creepy. ’ Her breasts slipped within her shirt as she moved, pushing free. Jack swallowed, and shuffled a little closer on the bench.

‘ It ’ s growing on me. Grandpa used to talk to it, like a pet. ’

‘ Bloody ugly pet. ’

A mile away over the water, the triangular sail of a yacht ghosted seawards. Jack put his arm around Charlotte ’ s back and let his hand rest on her hip.

‘ I wondered, you know, Lottie. Even before we married. The way you look at beautiful women, it ’ s the way I look at them. The way I look at you. ’ There was something about this place that inspired calm. It made for honesty.

‘ But you still married me. ’

‘ Being with you was always so easy, so natural. And when I walked into the officers ’ mess with you on my arm, I was king of the world. ’

‘ Nothing to do with me being a g eneral ’ s daughter then? ’

Ouch. ‘ I hope I was never so ambitious. ’

‘ Do you want us to separate? ’ She said that so lightly that she might have been offering him a cup of tea. Jack thought long enough about his reply for her to turn and peer at his face.

‘ We ’ re still friends, Lottie. Does that have to change? ’

‘ No. Our trouble is that we don ’ t love each other enough to make a go of it, even if I could, and we like each other too much to end it. ’

‘ But I think I ’ ll live here for a while. Restore the boat. Try and make sense of my life. Think things through. ’

‘ I ’ m cool with that. Don ’ t spend too much time on your own, though. It makes you moody, these days. ’

‘ Then come and see me. Come for weekends. ’ The thought of not seeing her, of drifting apart, was suddenly frightening.

‘ I could. ’

‘ How about you, Lottie? Do you want to separate? ’

‘ Nah. I think playing ‘ happy families ’ suits us both. ’

Jack sipped coffee. They hadn ’ t spoken so calmly since he was repatriated. Perhaps being in the cottage, away from their normal lives, was letting them look back on themselves from the outside. Charlotte pushed a curl of dirt from a whorl in the wood with a fingernail, grey spiralling over rose.

‘ What are you thinking about, Lottie? ’

‘ George. ’

Jack ’ s shoulders slumped as he remembered the funeral.

‘ Someone else who deserves an apology. ’

‘ Precisely. Let ’ s go down there later, after I ’ ve checked in with the office. ’

Jack groaned. He didn ’ t want to see George Fenton, not until he was feeling stronger. He ’ d grovelled enough for one day.