comparison to where he now called home.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.
She didn’t reply, so he did so anyway.
There were pictures of people in frames scattered across the sideboard but without his reading glasses, their faces were blurs. It was the same when he’d tried to remember what his children looked like; clouds always masked the finer details. Well, all apart from James. He knew the man James had become and he’d never forget that.
The silence between them lasted longer than either noticed. As the uninvited visitor, he felt the need to begin.
“How are you? You look well.”
She gave him a look of distain, but it failed to unsettle him. He was prepared for that.
“I like what you’ve done with the cottage,” he continued.
Again, nothing.
He scanned the sandstone chimneybreast and the wood-burning furnace they’d had a devil of a time installing soon after they’d moved in. He smiled.
“Is that old thing still working? Do you remember when we almost set the chimney alight because we hadn’t cleaned it out before…”
“Don’t.” Her curt response prevented him from reaching the end of memory lane.
“Sorry, it’s just being in this room after so long brought it back…”
“I said don’t. You do not turn up at my house after twenty-five years and begin speaking to me like we’re old friends.”
“I’m sorry.” An uneasy, foggy quiet filled the room.
“What do you want?” she asked, directly.
“What do I want?” he repeated.
“That’s what I asked. What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you, Kitty.” It was a partial truth.
“Don’t call me that. You lost any right to call me that a long time ago.”
He nodded. His voice sounded a little raspier and deeper than back then, and contained traces of an accent she couldn’t place.
“And spare me your apologies,” she continued. “They’re a little late in the day and unwelcome.”
He’d played out that opening scenario dozens of times in his imagination before Luca had booked his flights over the Internet. Would she remain in shock or slap him; embrace him; yell at him; cry or just refuse to let him in? There were countless reactions she could have had, but he didn’t know how to respond to cold hostility.
“Where did you go?” she asked. “While I was out searching for your dead body, where the hell were you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Calais, France, Twenty-Five Years Ago
June 10, 10.25am
I’d not made acquaintance with motion sickness before that night, locked in the back of the lorry. I’d lost track of how long I’d been vomiting for, as my stomach had become nothing more than a hollow trunk.
The driver had warned me the crossing would take about an hour and a half, but the festering storm outside soon put pay to his estimate. An uncaring English channel picked up our ferry and tossed it around like a rag doll. So I strapped my left hand with a plastic fastener on to a hook hanging from a sturdy packing crate to prevent me from being thrown back and forth.
I’d buried my history with my mother’s bones, but to truly shed my skin, an unfettered, unspoiled me could only thrive far away from the past.
France’s geographical location made for an obvious starting point. Reaching it without a passport or money was, however, an obstacle. But a haggard lorry driver with nicotine stained moustache and distain for authority offered me a solution.
Earlier in the day, he’d picked me up near Maidstone and we’d enjoyed a rapport over the state of British football and the Thatcher government’s penchant for privatising anything and everything. At no point did he inquire as to my hidden motives when I explained where I was headed and how my lack of means might hamper me. However he’d come to his own conclusions.
“I did a bit of bird back in the day,” he began, rolling a cigarette as he steered. “As long as you ain't murdered or raped no one, I’ll get you over
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.
She didn’t reply, so he did so anyway.
There were pictures of people in frames scattered across the sideboard but without his reading glasses, their faces were blurs. It was the same when he’d tried to remember what his children looked like; clouds always masked the finer details. Well, all apart from James. He knew the man James had become and he’d never forget that.
The silence between them lasted longer than either noticed. As the uninvited visitor, he felt the need to begin.
“How are you? You look well.”
She gave him a look of distain, but it failed to unsettle him. He was prepared for that.
“I like what you’ve done with the cottage,” he continued.
Again, nothing.
He scanned the sandstone chimneybreast and the wood-burning furnace they’d had a devil of a time installing soon after they’d moved in. He smiled.
“Is that old thing still working? Do you remember when we almost set the chimney alight because we hadn’t cleaned it out before…”
“Don’t.” Her curt response prevented him from reaching the end of memory lane.
“Sorry, it’s just being in this room after so long brought it back…”
“I said don’t. You do not turn up at my house after twenty-five years and begin speaking to me like we’re old friends.”
“I’m sorry.” An uneasy, foggy quiet filled the room.
“What do you want?” she asked, directly.
“What do I want?” he repeated.
“That’s what I asked. What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you, Kitty.” It was a partial truth.
“Don’t call me that. You lost any right to call me that a long time ago.”
He nodded. His voice sounded a little raspier and deeper than back then, and contained traces of an accent she couldn’t place.
“And spare me your apologies,” she continued. “They’re a little late in the day and unwelcome.”
He’d played out that opening scenario dozens of times in his imagination before Luca had booked his flights over the Internet. Would she remain in shock or slap him; embrace him; yell at him; cry or just refuse to let him in? There were countless reactions she could have had, but he didn’t know how to respond to cold hostility.
“Where did you go?” she asked. “While I was out searching for your dead body, where the hell were you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Calais, France, Twenty-Five Years Ago
June 10, 10.25am
I’d not made acquaintance with motion sickness before that night, locked in the back of the lorry. I’d lost track of how long I’d been vomiting for, as my stomach had become nothing more than a hollow trunk.
The driver had warned me the crossing would take about an hour and a half, but the festering storm outside soon put pay to his estimate. An uncaring English channel picked up our ferry and tossed it around like a rag doll. So I strapped my left hand with a plastic fastener on to a hook hanging from a sturdy packing crate to prevent me from being thrown back and forth.
I’d buried my history with my mother’s bones, but to truly shed my skin, an unfettered, unspoiled me could only thrive far away from the past.
France’s geographical location made for an obvious starting point. Reaching it without a passport or money was, however, an obstacle. But a haggard lorry driver with nicotine stained moustache and distain for authority offered me a solution.
Earlier in the day, he’d picked me up near Maidstone and we’d enjoyed a rapport over the state of British football and the Thatcher government’s penchant for privatising anything and everything. At no point did he inquire as to my hidden motives when I explained where I was headed and how my lack of means might hamper me. However he’d come to his own conclusions.
“I did a bit of bird back in the day,” he began, rolling a cigarette as he steered. “As long as you ain't murdered or raped no one, I’ll get you over
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