The Longest Holiday (37 page)

I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look around to see Laura’s mother standing there.

She instantly looks guilty for eavesdropping. ‘Sorry, I was just getting some fresh air.’ She turns around and goes straight back inside.

I return inside soon afterwards, noticing for the first time a sign outside the main reception.

It will pass, whatever it is.

Laura used to like the billboards outside churches in America. I remember her telling me about one she saw once. What was it? ‘Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’ Something like that. Outside the rain starts to pelt down. I turn and stare out of the window for a while before going back upstairs.

Later that day, Lottie and Barry ask me to stay with them. I can’t believe it.

‘Laura would want this,’ Lottie says when she tries to convince me. And I do take a lot of convincing; I don’t want to put them out any more than I already have. I know I’ve been unwanted since the beginning.

‘Come on, son,’ Barry says to me and I tense. No one has ever called me ‘son’ before. ‘There’s no point in letting the hotel clear you out. You’re hardly there, anyway. Plus, we have room.’

‘What about Matthew?’ I have to ask.

He sighs and leans forward, meeting my eyes. ‘Matthew has only just told us some things that we didn’t know,’ he says in a strained voice. Laura’s mother averts her gaze.

‘Like what?’ I ask with a frown.

‘He said …’ He’s clearly finding this difficult. ‘He said that on the morning Laura was hit, she told him she forgave him for what he had done.’

I feel like he’s punched me in the gut. She was taking him back?

‘But,’ he continues, ‘she added that it was over. She said she wanted a divorce because of how she felt about you.’

I stare at him, unable to speak as my eyes well up with tears. I quickly look away.

‘We didn’t know,’ he adds quietly. ‘We thought they would still work things out.’

‘Maybe they still will,’ Lottie chips in, but Barry puts up his hand to silence her.

‘That’s enough, love. You’ve got to respect her enough to know what she wanted. Matthew has accepted it. At long last.’

She looks close to breaking point as she gets up and leaves the room. I feel bad for her.

‘She’ll be okay,’ Barry says. ‘This is hard for her.’ He pauses. ‘And I – we – know this is hard for you, too. We can see how much you care about our daughter.’

I nod. My mouth opens to say, ‘I do,’ but no sound comes out. He knows, though, and I’m grateful.

They take me to the hotel to collect my things and wait for me to check out, then they drive me home. They have a big, dark-green Range Rover, and I sit in the back, looking out of the window as we drive away from the city and into a more rural landscape. The fields are mostly muddy. Tall towers of haystacks stand in some of them, like giant sentries overlooking the land. We pass through villages full of old thatched houses with crooked walls and exposed beams. I stare at them in wonder – some look like they’re going to fall over. I’ve only ever seen stuff like this on TV and in films – it’s like I’m in a fairy tale, yet this is Laura’s life. This is what she’s used to. We drive over tumbling streams and beside village greens, past old country pubs and red telephone boxes, and finally we come to the house where Laura grew up.

An old red-brick wall surrounds the front garden. It’s low enough that I could jump over it, but high enough to keep a child in, and I imagine Laura playing in that garden as a little girl, under the shade of the old pine trees soaring overhead. The house itself is a beautiful, quaint English farmhouse, painted cream and with a red-tiled roof. I can see a black-painted wooden barn and other farm buildings further down the driveway, and to the right, up a hill, a small stone church. I’m still looking around with wonder when Laura’s dad opens my car door.

‘Sorry,’ I say with embarrassment, climbing out.

‘That’s okay,’ he says, leading me towards the house.

Inside I can smell woodsmoke and a warm earthiness that fills me with an odd sense of calm. This feeling grows stronger when I go into the old farm kitchen, with its stone floors and a cooker that radiates heat. I stand in front of it to warm myself. Lottie tells me it’s an Aga, and she used to hang Laura’s socks on the front rail after she ran outside without shoes on.

‘She’d do it all the time,’ she says good-naturedly with a roll of her eyes. ‘Her favourite job each morning was letting the chickens out and collecting their eggs, but she could never be bothered to put on her welly boots, however much I chastised her.’

I wonder what welly boots are.

‘Do you want to come for a walk with me?’ Barry asks.

‘Sure.’

I follow him across the kitchen to a back door, where several pairs of muddy rubber boots are lined up on the stone floor underneath a bunch of bulky coats hanging on hooks. Barry looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Do you have a coat?’

‘No.’ I shake my head.

‘Here, you can borrow one.’ He rummages through the clothing until he finds one for me and then looks at my sneakers.

‘I take it you didn’t bring wellies with you?’ he asks with a smile, picking up a pair of the rubber boots. So that’s what they are.

‘No,’ I reply with a smile.

‘These look to be about your size, but say if not. We have plenty.’

They must have a lot of guests coming and going, because, as far as I know, it’s just the two of them. Laura is an only child.

‘Thanks.’ I’m trying not to feel uneasy about putting her parents out, but I guess I’d better just go with the flow.

When I’m all kitted up and feeling warm, we head off. There’s a muddy patch of garden out at the back with a few things growing in it.

‘Lottie’s veggie patch,’ Barry tells me.‘Not much in it anymore.’

We pass through a gate at the end of the garden and then we’re in a large, muddy farmyard.

‘What do you farm here?’ I ask, trying to make polite conversation.

‘Wheat, mainly,’ he replies. ‘We also have some horses. Can you ride?’ he asks.

‘No. Can Laura?’ I ask with interest.

‘Oh, yes,’ he says offhandedly. ‘Ever since she was three.’

‘Three?’ I exclaim. ‘She never told me she could ride.’

He smiles and shrugs. We come to a green field. ‘That was her horse over there. Pandora.’ He points at a tawny brown horse.

My face breaks into a grin as I watch Pandora eat grass. He leaves me at the gate for a moment and wanders off to pluck a lone apple from a nearby tree. He throws it to me and I catch it easily. He nods at the horse, then clicks his tongue. Pandora wanders over and I hold out the apple. I laugh as she takes it from my outstretched fingers, praying she won’t bite me.

He reaches over and strokes her mane. ‘Laura loves this horse,’ he says sadly. ‘She wouldn’t let me sell her, even after she grew out of her. She’s retired now.’

I tentatively reach forward and stroke her nose, then the wood beneath me cracks and gives way.

‘Whoa!’ I step off the wooden gate.

‘Bloody thing,’ Barry mutters. ‘I’ve been meaning to fix it for weeks. Sorry about that,’ he apologises.

‘I’ll help you,’ I find myself saying.

‘Are you good at DIY?’

‘I’m okay,’ I say with a shrug. The truth is, I’m probably better at breaking things than I am at fixing them. I think of the bathtub back home.

‘That would be great. Maybe we’ll tackle it in the morning,’ he says.

We walk away from the gate and the field. I nod up the hill towards the church. ‘Do you go?’

‘We try to,’ he replies, setting off in that direction. ‘Do you ever go?’

‘Not anymore,’ I say, staring ahead at the uneven path.

We reach the top of the hill. There’s a small village hall here, too, and a view across rolling hills.

‘Cambridgeshire on the whole is pretty flat,’ Barry tells me. ‘But here we have a few small hills.’

‘It’s pretty,’ I say. I glance around at the higgledy-piggledy gravestones and one catches my eye. It’s a newish gravestone and a wreath of red flowers lies on top. The name reads: William Henry Trust.

‘Will Trust?’ I ask Barry with surprise. Laura told me about her former boyfriend, the Formula One racing driver.

He nods slightly, and we wander over to the grave.

‘Will’s parents live in the house next door.’ He indicates down the hill towards the farmhouse and beyond, where I can just make out a large country house through dense trees.

‘The funeral was in Cambridge. He was a big personality and this little church couldn’t have held all the guests. But they brought his body back here to be close to them.’

I fall silent, because I really don’t know what to say.

‘So young. Too young.’ His voice sounds choked.

We stand there in silence for a long time until he points at another grave further along the path. I walk ahead and look down at it.

‘Bernard Smythson?’ I ask Barry with a raised eyebrow.

‘My father,’ he replies, nodding at the next grave: Mary Smythson. ‘And my mother. My grandparents are also buried just along there. We have a family plot,’ he adds, giving me an odd look before quickly averting his gaze. I stare at his profile and suddenly I realise what he’s saying.

Laura will be buried here if she dies.

I feel ill as I picture her cold and dead in the ground beneath my feet. I can’t imagine going home if she dies. I can’t imagine going on at all.

‘Come on, son,’ Barry says gently, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I fight back tears as we walk down the hill to the farmhouse.

Lottie cooks dinner that night – a warm and comforting chicken stew packed with potatoes and carrots. For once, my taste buds seem to be doing the right thing.

‘Did you grow up in Key West?’ Lottie asks me as she fills up my glass with red wine. I want to say I feel quite relaxed, but it’s the wrong word. I have a permanent sense of foreboding, just below the surface, and I know that won’t leave until Laura wakes up. But it’s the calmest I’ve felt in a while; that’s the truth. And she will wake up. She has to. God, she has to.

‘I did,’ I reply to her question. ‘My mother was American, my father was Cuban.’

‘Marty told us that your parents weren’t married?’ Barry sounds curious, rather than disapproving, so I don’t mind his question.

‘That’s right. My mother was his mistress. Making my brother and me his illegitimate offspring,’ I add flippantly.

‘Your mother and brother aren’t around anymore, though?’ Lottie pries. ‘Or your father?’

‘No, they’re not.’ I look down at the table.

‘I’m sorry. That must be hard.’

I meet her eyes again and see the sympathy in them. I’m not sure I want it. It’s hard enough to cope with everything else at the moment. But I can’t push her away. She’s trying, after all.

‘Do you have any other family?’ Barry asks gently.

‘Jorge and Carmen are like family to me,’ I say, deflecting the question, because the answer is no. ‘Jorge is Carmen’s brother, and she was married to my brother. They’re good to me.’

They exchange a look and after that we change the subject.

I’m staying in a room at the top of the stairs. The guest room. Laura’s bedroom is next door, Lottie tells me.

‘Do you mind if I …’ I can’t finish my sentence. I feel too uncomfortable in case she says no or thinks it’s weird, but her reply is easy.

‘Of course you can have a look.’ She leads me further down the corridor and pushes open the door. Laura’s perfume instantly fills my senses and I’m shocked.

‘I’ll leave you,’ she says gently, going out of the room.

I stand there for a long time, breathing in the scent of my girl, looking at the bed. Her bookshelves are still full of books, some old, some new, even some from her childhood with battered colourful spines. Then I spot a night light in the shape of a butterfly. I sit on the bed and my whole body heaves as I sob like a baby.

My poor girl. From the outside looking in she had such a perfect life. A perfect home, perfect parents who love her, a perfect husband who turned out to be not so perfect … I should feel like an impostor, being here. But I don’t. Her life wasn’t perfect. And I know that I helped her. I’ll be here for her until she wakes up, and if she ever asks me to leave, I’ll go. But I don’t think she will.

‘There, there.’

I jump at the sound of Lottie’s voice, at the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I choke out, knowing I must look bad.

‘There, there, it’s okay. Sometimes we need a good cry,’ she says softly, rubbing my back. ‘She’ll be okay. I just know. A mother is usually right about these things.’

I look up at her to see her own eyes are filled with tears.

On Tuesday morning, I’m with Lottie at Laura’s bedside.

‘When is Matthew coming here again?’ I ask her.

‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘He thought it might be best if he stayed away for a while.’

I’m blown away by this revelation. Am I taking his place? Are they accepting this fact?

‘He doesn’t have to do that,’ I mutter.

‘He feels like he does,’ she says quietly, then suddenly blurts out: ‘She just squeezed my hand! I felt it! She just squeezed my hand!’

I smile at her delighted face and my heart soars. ‘It’s not just a reflex.’ I shake my head determinedly.

‘It’s not, it’s not,’ she repeats, breathless with excitement and anticipation. ‘Laura? Laura, darling, it’s me, Mum.’ She presses Laura’s hand and continues to talk as I move closer to the bed. I sit on the other side, stroking her hair while the ventilator breathes for her. ‘I’m with Leo,’ she says. ‘He’s here with me. He came for you, my darling. Come back to us. Please come back to us.’

‘HER EYES FLUTTERED!’ I don’t mean to shout it so loudly, but I’m so astounded I can’t help myself.

‘Her eyelids fluttered? Come! Somebody, come!’ Lottie leaps up from her seat and leans over her daughter, manically pressing the call button. A doctor arrives within moments, but neither she nor I can tear our eyes away from our girl. He checks over her vital signs.

‘It’s probably just a reflex,’ he says kindly, and Lottie and I make eye contact. Perhaps she doesn’t want to deck him as much as I do, but at least we’re on the same wavelength.