The Lover's Children novel Chapter 133

JAMES

“I’ll see you out.” Richard accompanies Stanton to the front door.

As the door swings closed behind them, Charlotte murmurs to her father, “Did you arrange it?”

“Arrange?” He stands, works through the drinks tray, then helps himself to another brandy. “Arrange what?” He offers up the decanter. “Anyone else?”

“You know what.”

Klempner appears to address the wall. “I wouldn’t call it arranging. But I let it be known that Harkness is no friend of mine. And the nature of the injury he inflicted on your mother. And that I’d consider that I’d owe a favour to anyone who… took an interest. The natural inclinations of some of the hard-liners did the rest.”

“Natural inclinations,” snorts Mitch. “Natural justice, more like. ”

“Even better. Natural justice.” Klempner raises his glass, and this time it’s definitely a toast. “Harkness, destined for a life of soft food, soup and sodomisation. I’d say the glove fits. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes glint.

“Justice?” says Richard. “Or revenge?”

Klempner meets him, bland-faced, in the eye. “Sometimes, life offers the happy opportunity to combine the two.” His gaze skirts Mitch’s face again. He takes a large swallow of the brandy, smacks his lips. “Oldest principle of justice in the world. Leviticus. A tooth for a tooth.”

“If it gets too bad,” growls Richard, “the prison authorities will move him.”

“Perhaps his reputation will follow him,” says Charlotte.

“Perhaps it will,” agrees Klempner, blandly.

Charlotte winds a lock of hair around a finger, appearing to work through some internal conflict. Unwinds it. Winds it back. “Dad… Did you have that kind of problem when you were inside?”

Klempner arches brows, lips twitching. “No.” He rocks his hand. “Not beyond the first twenty or thirty minutes, anyway.”

“No one tried?”

He grins a shark-grin. “Oh, they tried.”

“Larry…” Mitch tucks her knitting into the Bag-of-Holding-All-Things. “I find I’m quite tired. I think I’d like an early night.”

*****

Beth looks to Richard. “They might have gotten the money from somewhere else.”

Charlotte rolls eyes skyward. “You think? I'd say my dad’s happy to put out a signal on what will happen to anyone who messes with his family.” She levels a finger at Beth. “That includes you.”

*****

MICHAEL

The air’s brisk and clear. Ice traces the edges of puddles. My woollen sweater, a thick cable-knit, Mitch’s hand-made contribution, is cosy and comfortable.

Extra nesting boxes constructed. An extension to the chicken run almost complete.

A good morning’s work…

And I can feel a coffee coming on…

Strolling into the kitchen, I’m not particularly intending to be quiet, but at the door, mid-stride, I halt…

And there it is. The sight that I, and the rest of the male family members, have learned means…

… Something…

Three red-topped heads, clustered together over the kitchen table. Mitch speaks rapidly and quietly, a mug of her mint tea cupped between palms. Beth holds another. Charlotte's mug drifts coffee-scented steam, but sits untouched beside her.

Decaf?

Three heads. Whispering and nodding.

Hmmm…

A voice rumbles low close by my ear. James. “Do I scent conspiracy in the female contingent?”

I murmur a reply. “I’d say so. Think we should interrupt and investigate?”

“Oh, I’d say so.” James clears his throat. Three faces, each a mask of innocence, pop up. He ambles to the hob, reaches for the coffee pot. His tone casual, “What were you talking about?”

Charlotte manifests a smile little short of cherubic: a suspicious act in its own right. Mitch paints on a matching guileless expression. Beth speaks up. “It's a lovely forecast for tomorrow. We might not get many more days like this before winter moves in. We thought we might take a day off and go for a picnic. All of us. ”

A picnic?

Sounds innocent enough…

James and I exchange glances…

“A picnic?” He probes at the word, as though with a tongue at a loose filling.

“Yes, to the City park. Adam and Cara would love it and Vicky would enjoy the fresh air. It would be good for her.”

Hmmm…

But it’s hard to read anything alarming into a picnic with the children.

“Your last picnic in the park was interrupted,” I comment.

“So it was,” agrees Mitch. “I'm sure Larry won't repeat his mistake.”

*****

“They want a picnic with the kids?” Klempner shrugs. “What could you possibly read into that? I don’t see the problem.”

“I think,” says Richard, “It’s implicit that we…” He winds a circle in the air around our group… “… should all attend and remain in attendance.”

Klempner sniffs and rubs his nose. “Yes, message received loud and clear on that point after the last time.”

*****

The forecast comes true in a blaze of autumn gold: that final gilded kiss of the sun you get when winter looms and you know there are only a few days before the last crisped leaves fall and the mornings turn silver.

In the kitchen, I assemble strollers, blankets, and a cheap kickabout ball. James chops and cuts at the counter. Klempner looms behind him. “I thought we were going for a picnic. Not setting out on a military campaign.”

James continues dicing fruit into a plastic container, nodding to where Mitch is packing sandwiches for an army into a carryall. “I suggest you discuss it with your wife.”

Klempner rocks on his heels. “I’ve learned better than that.”

James flicks eyes sidelong, his cheeks hollowing. “Wise man.”

He scrapes bread crusts into a bowl, fruit cores, peel and veggie stalks into the chicken bucket. Then, in response to the twin groans from beneath the counter, scraps of ham fat and cheese rind off the board and down. “Anything else, Mitch?”

Rummaging through the Bag-of-Holding-All-Things, she pops up, surveying the stack on the table; “Something dainty for Adam and Cara? Finger-rolls maybe?”

“Already packed.”

“In that case, it’s just Vicky’s bottle and I’m good to go.”

Beth tucks a rolled-up tartan blanket into the pack, filling gaps with tubes of sun cream in Factor-Block-The-Lot.

Klempner wears that baffled expression he gets. “Do we really need all this?”

“Autumn days can be hot,” I point out. “Small children can burn easily. And both Adam and Cara have fair skin. Vicky even more so.”

*****

The day is glorious. In the park, we’re not the only ones taking advantage, couples and families, cyclists and joggers and walkers, oldsters on benches watching youngsters playing on slides and swings.

My ball is an instant hit with Adam and Cara. I kick and they run after it, screaming. The rules of the game are unclear, becoming more so when Scruffy and Bear join the game. Since Scruffy's interpretation of the football rules consist of him getting the ball and keeping it as long as possible, the game grinds to a halt until I produce the second ball, kicking it off into the blue yonder for the dogs to retrieve.

Charlotte sits propped against a tree trunk, one hand cupping her stomach, the other holding a book. James reads too, his head in her lap. Elizabeth and Mitch sit by Vicky, playing with brightly painted wooden animals on the tartan rug. Flipping through glossy magazines, they sip chilled wine as they chat. Snatches of conversation drift by. “So, what do you think of the blue one?”

“It's a bit fussy don't you think? All that lace.”

“Maybe you're right… How about that one, in the green?”

“Much better. A bit too plain actually. Could do with accessorising…”

This was a great idea…

So, what was it all about yesterday?

It’s hard to see what could possibly have produced the conspiratorial red-headed huddle I saw the previous day.

Klempner and Richard share a nearby bench. Richard shakes open his paper and, one ankle cocked onto a knee, Hmmms satisfaction as he scans the financial pages. Briefly, he squints upward, then tugs his hat forward, shading his eyes.

Klempner simply sits and stares. Leaning back, arms outstretched left and right on the back rail, his vacant gaze alternates between Mitch and somewhere lost ‘out there’. But he doesn’t look unhappy. His eyes are soft, his breathing even.

Red-faced and panting, Cara flops down by Charlotte. Adam by Beth. Mitch murmurs to Beth, who in turn catches Charlotte's eye.

Charlotte nods and stirs, folding away her book, disturbing James, saying something quiet to him.

Mitch rises, folding up blankets, packing away magazines and snacks. “Come along, Larry.”

He blinks back to life. “Where are we going?”

“To feed the ducks.”

His forehead wrinkles. “But we did that last time.”

“And we were interrupted if you recall. Cara and Adam would like to do it again.”

Klempner shrugs and stands, Richard with him. James exchanges a glance with me, but tucking a slip of paper into the pages of his book, he finds his feet.

The women work in a kind of unspoken coordination. As Beth finishes packing the hamper, Richard takes it from her. “What’s going on?” he murmurs.

Sea-green eyes rise to meet him. “Perhaps nothing,” she says, “But let's see.”

“Elizabeth…”

“Master, please. Shhh... This is for Mitch.” Richard pauses, then demurs.

James interrogates Charlotte with a glance, but tight-lipped, she meets his gaze with a steady eye.

So, strolling down to the pool, Cara and Adam toddling ahead of us over tight green turf, we have to be content with that.

*****

KLEMPNER

There’s an odd mood as we head downhill. Mitch wears an indefinable air of determination. And it’s rubbed off on Jenny and Beth. The three walk side-by-side, their men trailing behind. I carry Vicky. Cara charges ahead. Adam rides Haswell’s shoulders.

Haswell and James seem thoughtful. Michael has a kind of wondering look around his eyes.

Down by the paddling pool, gaggles of children are gathered with families, some already tossing in scraps of bread to a flapping, quacking, onslaught of ducks.

A boy of maybe six or seven wades through the water trying to persuade the breeze to fill the sails of his toy yacht. A girl, a bit younger, tows a large plastic duck behind her, bright yellow, its beak gaping in an inane grin.

As she realises where we’re headed, Cara raises a yell, galloping to the pool as fast as short legs will carry her. Adam, seeing her dash away, shrieks to be let down, then follows in her wake. Belatedly, Cara u-turns back to Mitch. “Quack-quacks, Gammy! Quack-quacks!”

Mitch is prepared, doling out handfuls of bread crusts, left-over sandwiches and scraps of pastry. Clutching their prizes, my granddaughter and her ‘brother’ dash in to meet the vee-formation of ducks abandoning their previous benefactors, ploughing a wake to the water’s edge.

Cara executes possibly the worst overarm bowl in history, lobbing her entire fistful of crumbs in one go. Her missile fragments mid-air, into a starburst of doughy shrapnel which drops about two feet from where it started. Adam copies her, with much the same result.

Ducks wing in by the squadron, skidding, sliding and swooping down from all directions. The two toddlers quaver. Beth stands behind Adam, a hand on his shoulder.

Cara turns uncertainly to Mitch, who crouches down with her. “They can't hurt you, Sweetheart. They're only ducks, remember. They're just hungry. Here…" She squats on her haunches, one arm around Cara's shoulders, the other hand tossing in crumbs a bit at a time. Ducks careen through the water, quacking raucously…

Something in my head spins and swirls…

…and, in a shock of memory, the Present hurtles to the Past, carrying me in its wake…

“They can't hurt you, Sweetie. They're only ducks.”

“Duckies?”

“That's right. The duckies won't hurt you.”

Curly brown hair…

Laughing eyes…

“More bread, Mommy?

Frozen, I follow the memory, trapped in time.

Mitch pauses, turns to look up at me then, eyes softening, she cants her head. “The memory?” She lays her hand on my arm. “You have the memory again?”

“Yes, I do… She did this.”

“She? Your mother?”

“My mother, yes. She did just what you did. Said what you just said. That the ducks couldn’t hurt me.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No…” My chest is tight. It’s hard to breathe. “Not yet.”

Mitch offers me her hand and I help her upright. Standing by me, she slips her hand into mine, squeezing gently. “Just watch the children. Maybe you’ll get all of it this time.”

The girl towing her toy duck laughs and points as a hundred examples of the real thing splash and dive around her…

“The toy…”

Mitch frowns. “Toy?”

“The girl with the yellow plastic duck…”

“What about her?”

“That time… You remember… in Helsinki… All those years ago… We were in the bath, you and I, and I remembered her, my mother, for the first time. She was singing to me, very small, in the bath…”

“I remember. So…”

“There were ducks there too, in the bath. Little yellow plastic ducks, bobbing in the water.”

“That sounds like a good memory.”

My breathing eases. “Yes…”

*****

JAMES

Klempner looks spaced-out, almost high. His eyes are dilated wide, staring between nothing and the micro-drama unfolding in the paddling pool.

Cara, mouth and eyes wide with delight, dashes to Klempner, tugging at his trouser leg. “Quack quacks, Gandy Kay.” She points with one hand, offering him a grubby clutch of squashed crumbs with the other. “Quack quacks!”

Moving like someone in a dream, Klempner hunkers down beside her with the bread, and, one arm laid on his granddaughter’s little shoulder, tosses bread into the water with her.

Another small armada of birds flies in, settling onto the water, then en masse, paddling with intent toward Cara. Face crumpling, she backs away uncertainly.

Klempner says, “They can't hurt you. They're only ducks. And if they could hurt you, you don't run away. Don’t ever do that. They'll just chase you. If you’re scared, you face them and you scare them back.”

Michael pulls a face, muttering. “For God’s sake, she's barely two years old. How much of that stuff do you imagine he thinks she understands?”

I shrug. “No idea. Who knows what a child that age understands? He had to grow up early. And remember, children that age are sponges for knowledge. Even if Cara doesn't fully understand it, it will become part of the jigsaw in her head.”

He shoots me a look, narrow-eyed, but then backs off, scowling.

Klempner reaches out, offering a palmful of crumbs to the squadrons. Squabbling and shoving, they peck and pluck and gobble direct from his hand. Ducks bob and flutter, tilting down in a bottoms-up dive for escaped bits. All the while, Cara watches with wide-eyed astonishment. Then, “Me wanna, Gandy Kay! Cara wanna.”

“Hold out your hand, then.” Klempner crumbles a bit of pastry crust into her waiting palm. Charlotte steps forward but I stay her with a hand across her chest. “She's never been safer,” I murmur. She shoots me a look, but subsides.

A swan flaps down, splashing to a graceless landing on the water surface before, tucking ruffled feathers smoothly in, serene again, it glides across the water to join the bread-guzzling ducks.

The huge bird hisses, bullying a channel through its much smaller brethren, jabbing with its beak to send them scuttering away before they settle in a rough circle, just out of range. All around, kids back away uncertainly, or mothers pull them away.

The swan centres on Cara and her handful of bread, sliding across the water toward her. Cara wavers, looking to her grandfather.

“That's a bit big for you yet,” says Klempner, “but this is how you do it.”

The swan moves in, wings flapping, beak open, hissing like a coffee pot.

Klempner rises smoothly off his haunches, flings his arm wide, in imitation of the bird, and hisses back. Hshshsshhh!!!

It’s difficult to skid on open water, but the swan pulls it off, executing a smart u-turn. Wings tucking in, it halts, reverses, then beats a hasty, if strategic, retreat.

Cara, jumping and pointing at the fleeing bird, breaks into delighted chortling.

Klempner pauses, watching the routed swan break into a flapping, running, launch over the water, then hightail it for less challenging skies.

He squats down again, speaking to Cara, eye to eye. “You see…” he says… “… When someone tries to bully you, all you have to do is speak in a language they understand.”

He lays an arm around little shoulders. “Don't you worry. I'll show you how it's done.”

*****

This is the final part of ‘The Lover’s Children’,

But Charlotte, James, Michael and their family and friends

will return.