Dreaming of the Bones (32 page)

“Of course not,” said Rosemary as Gemma popped the last bit of
scone in her mouth and finished her tea. “Would you choose the best one for me? I’ll add it to my collection.”

“You’re going to say motherly things, aren’t you?” said Duncan when Gemma had disappeared round the kiosk. “And tell me she’s a nice girl.”

“She is a nice girl, though she’d probably resent both of the epithets. I would say that she’s an attractive and sensible
woman
, and I hope that you appreciate her.” Rosemary’s tone was half teasing, but she watched him with concern. He was too bright and brittle—she feared what would happen when the coping mechanism failed. And as much as she hated to add to his burdens, she saw no choice. Quietly, she added, “And I did want to talk to you, darling.”

Still determinedly playful, Duncan answered, “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today, and I fear it bodes no good.”

“I don’t know that good or ill have much bearing here. It’s more a matter of dealing with the truth.”

“Truth?” Duncan frowned with evident unease. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

“Tell me what you see when you look at Kit, love.”

“I see a nice kid who’s been dealt a bloody awful hand of it, and it’s bloody unfair,” he said with vehemence, but she saw no flicker of comprehension.

Rosemary took a last sip of her tea, then said slowly, “Let me tell you what I see, darling. When Kit came out of the church today, between his grandparents, I thought for a moment I was hallucinating.” She reached out and laid her fingers briefly on his hand. “I saw you. Duncan at twelve years old. Not in his coloring, of course—that came from his mother—but in the shape of his head, the way his hair grows, the way he moves, even his smile.”

“What?” His face drained of color.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that Kit is
your
child. The genetic stamp is as unmistakable as a brand.”

He closed his mouth, made an effort to swallow. “But that’s impossible…”

“The consequences of sex are usually all too possible, darling,” said Rosemary with a smile. “Don’t I remember giving you the birds and the bees lecture—”

“But what about Ian? Surely he’s—”

“Duncan, do some simple arithmetic, for heaven’s sake. The boy is eleven—you and Vic split up almost twelve years ago. I’m sure you’ll find his birthday falls within six to eight months of the time you separated.” Rosemary looked at his glazed expression and sighed. “I’d guess Vic didn’t know she was pregnant when she moved out—I don’t suppose you know when she started seeing what’s-his-name?”

“Ian. I’d like to think it was after she left, but I don’t know.”

Rosemary smiled. “Let’s say very shortly after, then, for argument’s sake. But I’m sure the truth of the matter became evident over time, at least to her.”

“I don’t believe it. Surely you don’t think Vic knew all along … when she rang and invited me …” He trailed off, still working out the implications.

“And I’ll wager that’s what has got Eugenia Potts in such a twist, as well. She may not be admitting the resemblance to herself, but I imagine seeing you and Kit together gave her a bloody great shock.”

“Kit… oh, Christ. She did go right round the twist when she saw me with him the other night.”

“She certainly never cared for you. To your credit”—she smiled at him—“because you wouldn’t dance attendance on to her.”

He was silent for a long moment, absently pushing cake crumbs about on his plate with his finger. Then he looked up at her. “Why couldn’t I see it, then, if it’s so bloody obvious?”

“I suppose it’s because our images of ourselves are so static. We literally don’t see ourselves the way others see us—we base our self-concept on the one view we see every morning in the mirror. But if you were to place a photo of yourself at that age next to one of Kit, you’d see it.”

“But what if you’re wrong? This is all based on pure speculation and … and intuition,” he finished a bit lamely. He was, thought Rosemary, grasping at straws in a last-ditch effort at denial.

“Who was it at Christmas telling me how important intuition was to a detective?” When he didn’t smile, she sighed and said, “Darling, I could very well be wrong. And I don’t like to meddle. Under other circumstances—if Vic were alive, and she and Kit and
Ian were all living happily as a family—I might not have said anything. But as things are now… how can you afford not to be sure?”

Cambridge
21 June 1964
Dear Mrs. Brooke
,

Please forgive my writing, but I couldn’t bear to tell you our news over the telephone. Lydia is in Addenbrook’s, quite ill after suffering a miscarriage last night. The baby was a boy, and I have called him Gabriel after my father. There will be a service here in the hospital chapel tomorrow
.

Lydia is weak and feverish from the hemorrhaging, and I am unable to calm her. She seems to think this is somehow her fault, a punishment, and no amount of reasoning will change her mind
.

Could you perhaps come straightaway? It may be that you can comfort her where I cannot
.

Morgan

Kincaid rang the bell of Gemma’s flat well after dark, hoping she was home, hoping she would consent to see him, for he’d left her abruptly on her own in Grantchester with only a muttered assurance that he’d ring her later.

Afterwards he’d walked blindly through the village until he’d reached the footpath along the Cam, and after that he couldn’t say now how long he had walked, or even in which direction. But the temperature had eventually begun to drop, his feet in their slick-soled shoes to hurt, and he found himself back at his car on the High Street as the sun dropped below the rooftops.

He’d driven back to London with his desire for company growing as urgent as his earlier need for solitude, and now he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the click of the latch on Gemma’s door and a sliver of yellow light spilled out onto his face and hands.

“Gemma? May I come in?”

She pulled the door back further and he saw she’d changed into old jeans and a sweater. As he stepped into the tiny flat he saw the picture books spread over the bed, and a boy-shaped lump under the duvet. “Is it too late?”

“We were just reading,” said Gemma, giving an exaggerated nod towards the bed. “But Toby seems to have disappeared. I think he ate the magic pebble that makes little boys invisible, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

Kincaid cleared his throat and put on his best Sherlock Holmes voice. “Let me put my detective skills to use. Where’s my magnifying glass? All right, Watson, the game’s afoot!”

There followed the elaborate ritual of hide-and-seek, as they ignored the occasional suppressed giggle from under the bedclothes, until finally the missing boy was brought to light with much squealing and tickling.

“More, more! Hide me more!” wailed Toby as Gemma carried him off to bed, but she tucked him in with a promise of another story in the morning.

I missed all this, thought Kincaid with an unexpected stab of loss.

“Are you all right?” asked Gemma as she carefully shut Toby’s door. “What on earth happened to you this afternoon?”

He sat at the half-moon table, and she pulled out a chair so that she could face him.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said, absently rearranging the candles Gemma kept on the table.

“Start at the beginning. What did your mother say to you? You were white as chalk when I came back from the kiosk.” She leaned forwards and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, the gentleness of her touch belying the impatience of her words.

“You’re too observant by half,” he said, stalling, but she refused the bait and merely watched him in silence. He took a breath. “My mother says Kit is the spitting image of me at the same age. She says she thinks Kit is my son.”

Gemma’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating with surprise until he saw his own reflection in them. “Dear God,” she breathed. “How could I have been so blind?”

“You don’t doubt it?” He found he’d hoped for at least a token protest, and yet he felt some small kernel of satisfaction in her immediate recognition.

Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I saw it myself—the resemblance. He seemed so familiar, as if I saw him every day.” She
touched his face again, with a look of wonder. “And I do. But you—how could you not have known Vic was pregnant?”

He pushed his chair back and stood, feeling suddenly confined in the flat. “We could go for a walk,” he suggested.

“I don’t like to leave Toby.”

“No, of course not. Silly of me.” Bloody hell. He hadn’t got used to the responsibility of one child, much less two. He wouldn’t know where to begin.

The odd sense of claustrophobia grew heavier, and searching for an excuse for movement, he fumbled in the breast pocket of his suit until he felt the book of matches he’d picked up yesterday in the pub.
You never knew when things might come in handy
. Bloody Boy Scouts had drummed that one into him, and he supposed it had come in useful. Had Kit been a Boy Scout? Could he tie knots? Whistle through his teeth?
He wouldn’t know where to begin
.

Leaning forwards, he lit the candles, and when he’d blown out the match, he said, “Things were strained between Vic and me. We hadn’t been … sleeping together much—”

“It only takes once,” Gemma interrupted with a grin.

“Well, yes.”
Christ, this was awkward
. There
had
been an argument, and a passionate reconciliation, some weeks before Vic left. He had forgotten.

“Was she unusually emotional those last few weeks? The hormonal changes at the onset of pregnancy are powerful enough to—”

“What you’re saying is that Vic might have walked out—which was irrational and totally unlike her—
because
she was pregnant?” There was no room to pace. He forced himself to sit on the foot of the reclining leather and chrome chair he called the torture cradle. “I should have seen it. You’re quite right.”

“That’s not the way I meant. And she might not have known herself—”

“But I failed her then as well.”

Gemma slid from her chair and came to kneel at his feet so that she could look up into his face. “Bollocks. You can’t change what happened. There’s no point indulging in that sort of thing. What you have to decide is what you’re going to do now.”

“What can I do?” he protested. “Kit’s life has been disrupted enough as it is. He thinks Ian is his father—”

“Do you really think Ian is going to be much use to him, even if he should come back? And Kit’s prospects with his grandparents are worse than dismal.” Removing her hands from his knees, she sat back on her heels but kept her eyes fixed on his face. “I think, love, that it’s
your
life you’re afraid to disrupt.”

CHAPTER
14

And because I,

For all my thinking, never could recover

One moment of the good hours that were over.

And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.

R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from “Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening”

Cambridge
3 September 1965
Darling Mummy
,

You are so sweet to be concerned for me, but as much as I’d love to have you here, I’m fine, really. (Though I must admit it’s rather amusing to have you and Morgan conspiring treats behind my back, and I feel rather like the heroine in a Victorian novel, propped up in bed having my boiled egg and toast on the tray you sent.) You have enough to deal with just now, with Nan ill, and Morgan makes a gloweringly tender and surprisingly competent nursemaid
.

But although this most recent miscarriage has been relatively easy, I’ve decided not to try again. I’ve schooled myself not to want it so desperately, but still the cycle of hope and disappointment is wearing, and it keeps me from getting on with my work. It’s been difficult for Morgan, too, and he says no child is worth my health and well-being. So I’ll soldier on, and try to count my blessings
.

I find I can’t bear all the radiantly fecund young wives of our married
friends, but Daphne’s been a comfort, and visits often. Morgan seems to be prepared to tolerate her for my sake
.

There is wheat among the chaff, darling Mummy. I’ve had an offer from a small press here in Cambridge to publish my latest collection of poems. They mean to specialize in the avant-garde, and I’m quite set up to be considered so. It will mean some work, to revise and finish the collection, but I look forwards to it. Just think, a book, at last! It will be a child of sorts, I suppose
.

We were right, you know, Morgan and I, in deciding that our art must come from experience. It’s the daily stuff of living, bloody as it sometimes is, that gives the photos and poems the sting of truth
.

Morgan’s been approached by a London gallery to do a solo exhibition! They want all of the Welsh miner series, and anything else he can get ready. You’ll have to come up to London for the opening, and we’ll make an evening of it
.

So try not to worry—I promise I’ll have shocking roses in my cheeks by the time you see me next
.

Love, Lydia

The smell of coffee teased Kincaid up through the layers of consciousness like a hooked fish. Finally, he could no longer deny wakefulness, but lay with his eyes still closed, trying to figure out who could possibly be making coffee in his flat.