The Many Lives of John Stone Read online

  Suspended in his hammock, he senses the pull of the earth. The ropes creak and groan as he sways back and forth, back and forth. He swings faster. It began with his hands. After everything he has seen and done, after everything he has survived. A disease inherited from a parent he never knew.

  John Stone seldom used to consult Thérèse about his personal concerns—her visits to Stowney House were rarer than those of the dark-bellied geese who arrive here from Siberia every few years—but now that she is dead, who else can he turn to for advice? If his health were to fail, how could Martha and Jacob cope without him? Not from day to day, but over the months and the years. When he first brought them here they clung to Stowney House as if to a raft—and he did not bring them back from the brink for them to be cast adrift now. Absurd that he has never before doubted that he would always be there to help them.

  John Stone rolls out of his hammock and walks through the wood and then across the orchard. In the distance he spots Jacob, veiled by his beekeeper’s hat, walking purposefully toward the hives. Jacob will have seen him, but he is not a man to stop work for superfluous greeting. Now he enters the garden with its gravel paths and clipped box hedges. Closer to the house, through the open kitchen door, he hears the sound of Martha singing, her voice still as bright and clear as a girl’s.

  When he reaches the fountain, on the south side of Stowney House, he sits on the basin’s edge. It depicts a river god, and reminds him of a place he used to love. Foaming jets of water used to cascade over the figure’s garlanded head and flowing beard, although in recent years Jacob has diverted the water supply to irrigate the kitchen garden. An image bursts into his mind of a crowd of people, brightly dressed and laughing, and it seems to John Stone that he has entered a different landscape. He even fancies that he can hear the sound of splashing water and the excited yapping of small dogs. His eyelids close and a smile forms on his lips.

  When this memory fades, it strikes him that Stowney House is not the sanctuary that it once was. He flexes his left wrist cautiously and finds that he has mastery of himself once more. Like winter shoots pushing unseen through cold earth, he senses that change is coming, and John Stone, who has cared for Martha and Jacob for so long, determines to find a Friend for them while he still can.

  Your Little Life

  June, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire.

  Spark holds the small, fat envelope between ink-stained thumb and forefinger. She has sealed and taped it—just to be on the safe side. Stowney House. Suffolk. She looks around her. It’s high here. The postbox commands a panoramic view of row after row of redbrick terraces, which slope steeply down toward the town, and are so familiar she rarely notices them. But she noticed them when she came back from New York, and she notices them again now.

  Weeds struggle through cracks in the sun-baked pavement; she can feel the heat through her flip-flops. Turquoise ink was probably a mistake, although it seemed a good idea at the time. A handwritten letter seems so intimate compared with texting. And what conclusions will Mr. John Stone draw from the color of her ink, the length of her loops, the slant of her letters, the spaces between her words? Has she passed whatever test he might have set her? She contemplates the envelope and for a moment those instructions, transmitted from brain to arms to fingers, seem charged with mystery.

  “I’ve lost my guitar pick,” Spark lied when Mum caught her rummaging in the sideboard for envelopes. “The one I brought back from New York.”

  What was the point of upsetting her? She might not get the job. Mum looked unconvinced and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into a slant of sunshine.

  “No ciggies before lunch, you said—”

  Mum stubbed it out angrily in the potted palm and left.

  “I didn’t say it to make you feel bad!” Spark called after her.

  She covered five small pages in her wrist-achingly neat handwriting. The words spilled out and she had to rein herself in. Strange how you never know what to say until you’ve said it.

  But now, as the envelope slips from her fingers, Spark’s stomach lurches, as if it were she, and not her letter, who were falling into the black void of the postbox. Too late, it strikes her that there is no way that this rambling, personal account of herself is what John Stone had in mind. Idiot girl! She jams her hand into the narrow slot, trying to retrieve it. Her fingers flap about in the darkness. Tell me about yourself and how you view life. He didn’t mean it! What he actually meant was: Convince me that you’re reliable and that you’ve got a couple of brain cells to rub together. Why had she opened up like that to a prospective employer? Because he had kind eyes? Because the way he looked at the street woman in New York intrigued her? Or was it because there was no one else who said they wanted to know? But the trouble with writing about yourself and your little life is that once you start you can’t stop.

  A small boy walks past, shooting a glance at her assault on the postbox. Spark pulls out her hand with difficulty. The flesh above her wrist hurts like someone has given her a Chinese burn. The boy throws a pretend ball for his yappy little terrier, who chases after if anyway. There was no way, Spark tells herself, that John Stone was going to give her a job in any case. She dawdles home in the strong sunshine, convinced that she’s wasted a morning and that a door to one of life’s possibilities has just slammed shut.

  The Good Stuff

  37 Hawthorn Avenue

  Mansfield

  Nottinghamshire

  Dear Mr. Stone,

  You told me that if I was still interested in a summer job I should write to tell you something about myself and how I view the world.

  I live and go to school in Mansfield, which is a mining town in the East Midlands, though most of the coal pits have now closed. We moved here when I was still very young, after my father was killed in an accident. My parents met when my mum got a job as a waitress in the restaurant he ran in Suffolk. She says he always worked too hard and would never allow himself a day off. Coming home one night, he had a heart attack. He lost control of his van and drove it into a tree. My father originally came from Corsica. He even changed his name from Pecora to Park, which didn’t go down well with his family, apparently. We don’t see them—Corsica is too far away and they don’t speak English. “Pecora” means “sheep” in Italian, so I’m relieved he didn’t go in for a literal translation.

  Mansfield is Mum’s hometown, and after my father died she brought Dan and me back to live there. There is a photograph of Dad on our mantelpiece. When I think I am remembering him, it could be his photo that I am remembering and not my dad, which is upsetting. But I do remember the funeral: Dad’s coffin behind the shiny windows of the hearse, and strangers dabbing their eyes and telling me I was a brave girl.

  Mum coped until my nan—my Mum’s mother—passed away four years ago. It coincided with Dan going away to university, and she became depressed. She is much better now—otherwise I would not be applying for a job that takes me away from home. For a long time the running of the house fell to me, which means that I’m used to organizing things and planning ahead. I’m good at handling numbers, filling out forms, using computers, and dealing with people. I don’t have a lot of time for hobbies, but I love photography and am learning to play guitar.

  I am about to sit my A-levels (art history, English lit, and French) and am hoping to read art history at university. Dan attended private school (I know how grateful Mum is to your charity for arranging his scholarship), but I went to a state school and am happy that I did. I’ve done well at my school and I don’t feel different to the people I grew up with—which Dan definitely does.

  You also asked me to tell you how I view the world. That is a difficult question to answer because how I see things is always changing. I used to think Nottingham was a big city until I saw New York. Now I feel that I’ve got to see as much of the world as I can. Often things aren’t what they seem at first sight, so I try not to come to conclusions too soon—about people, places, music, or whatever—to a
void missing out on what could be there. Even difficult situations can have their compensations. Coping with Mum was sometimes hard, but we’re definitely closer because of it.

  One of my favorite photographs is a black-and-white picture of a tsunami. At first all you notice is destruction: a beach covered in debris and, behind it, most of a flattened village. But then a shape at the center of it all draws your eye in. You see that, surrounded by all this tragedy, a baby is lying on the sand, kicking her legs in the air. Stranded on the beach all by herself, you can tell that something is making her happy—maybe it’s the sound of the sea or the feel of the sand. I’ve stuck it to my wall to remind me that no matter how bad things get you’ve got to be open to the good stuff.

  I have a rule: I don’t allow myself to be scared of anything or anyone. My dad showed a lot of courage coming to another country and making a success of his own business. I’m still thinking about what I want to do for a living—something creative, I hope—but I’d like to think that I could be as brave and determined as him. One thing I know is that I don’t want to be stuck at home with a couple of kids and no future.

  I’m sorry if this letter isn’t what you had in mind, but if you feel that I might be a suitable candidate, would it be possible to tell me a little more about the position? If there is anything else you need to know about me, please ask.

  Yours sincerely,

  Spark (Stella Park)

  Nothing Is More Important Than This Day

  June, Suffolk.

  John Stone stands at his open window, happy to let birdsong and chill, damp air drift over him. Already the horizon is streaked with pink and gold. Like Martha, he rises early, though not as early as Jacob, for whom sleep is no longer a refuge. He watches the mist rising where the river bounds his land. A new day. Ah, thinks John Stone. Not so angry this morning. That is good. He examines his hands—the dry, tanned skin, his knuckles, the half-moons of his thumbnails, the pink palms—then he makes a fist and slowly uncurls his fingers, stretching them sideways as far as they will go, and holds them for a moment. There is no trace of a tremor. Against his better judgement, hope starts to rise up in him.

  In the galleried landing he examines his face in a mirror. Strands of hair hang over his broad forehead and he pushes these away, scraping a thumbnail down an unshaven cheek. What a ruffian! He runs his fingers down the length of his nose as if to straighten it. People tell him it gives his face character, though he does not need such reassurance: His broken nose pleases him. His complexion, however, is ash pale. He plucks out Spark’s letter from his robe pocket, stares at it, and pushes it back in again, hoping that a night’s sleep will have delivered a decision. Both Spark’s response and his own hesitation have taken him by surprise. That he’s preferred not to dwell on their encounter in New York means that time is not on his side: He cannot now keep the girl waiting. John Stone wonders how he will feel if his suspicions about Spark’s identity are confirmed. He’ll know more after he goes to see Edward, his lawyer. He descends the staircase, fingertips skimming the long sweep of the banister. Could he have imagined the resemblance in New York? It is clear from her letter that the girl is wholly ignorant of any connection.

  The smell of Martha’s home-cured bacon reaches him. Presently she will call for him, stretching his one-syllable name into two in that singsong, Irish way of hers: Jo-ohn! Then she will bang on a frying pan at the back door to alert Jacob, who, at the prospect of breakfast, can be depended upon to trot down the kitchen path at a sprightly pace. Martha has taken on the role of mother of the house and there are times when John Stone wishes that this were not so, because she is apt to hide behind it like a shield. A picture forms in his mind of his curious family, the two of them sitting expectantly at the table, their knives and forks held poised, waiting for the head of the house to start his meal. Guilt quickens the beat of his heart: Martha and Jacob have grown to love him. He knows that. Was he wrong to have let them depend upon him in this way? How will they cope without him when the world has roared ahead, leaving them isolated in this remote backwater? He must not delay: The task of securing a Friend for them is becoming more urgent by the day.

  * * *

  “How are you today, Martha?”

  “I’m right as the mail, John. And yourself?”

  John Stone considers how to reply, so Martha answers for him.

  “You look liverish. Did you not sleep well?”

  “I’m fine, Martha.”

  “If you say so.”

  John Stone holds her skeptical gaze. Martha’s eyes are black and shining, and put him in mind of a clever bird. Her neat hair is pushed back behind her ears. She wears an apron over her gray dress, which reflects the current image that she has of herself. It is made from red-and-white-checked linen and is the sort that ties behind the neck and again around the waist. John Stone is still in his nightclothes, for he likes to feel at ease when he is in the country. Besides, he knows Martha likes to disapprove of his slovenly city ways.

  “Martha, I’d like to have a word with you after breakfast, if I could.”

  John Stone catches a flicker of concern as Martha smoothes down her starched apron with the flats of her hands. “Well then, John, perhaps you could help me with the last of the apples while we talk. I will peel and you can chop. I can surprise Jacob with an Eve’s pudding for his supper.”

  They become aware of Jacob’s progress down the path; they hear the crunch of gravel and the encounter of boots with a mud scraper. The back door creaks open and Jacob enters backward, pushing up the latch with one elbow. He carries with him the odor of the outdoors, of compost heaps and cut grass, and things you wouldn’t care to know about. His coarse, sun-bleached hair grows vertically, like cropped wheat. It seems to John Stone that Jacob is as unknowable as the ancient earth he tends and, like his beloved garden, never more than a season away from encroaching wildness.

  “Boots!” calls Martha.

  Jacob levers them off without untying the laces and pushes them into the corner of the quarry-tiled floor with his big toe. A large, dead rabbit dangles by its ears from one fist. Whatever Jacob has in his other hand, he conceals it behind his back.

  “Rabbit,” he says in a voice that is deep and rasping.

  “In the sink, if you please,” Martha says.

  Jacob draws out several stems of blush-pink roses, the first of the season, which he thrusts at Martha. She buries her face in them.

  “Now, isn’t that better than any perfume money can buy? Isn’t it the very smell of summer? Thank you, Jacob.”

  Satisfied, he nods. Now Jacob’s ice-blue eyes swivel in John Stone’s direction. His wrinkled skin is the color of walnuts. “John,” he says, as if it were a statement.

  “Jacob. How are you this morning, my dear fellow?” John Stone knows better than to expect a reply. He points, instead, to the rabbit, now draped over the draining board, its head lolling to one side. Dark, sticky blood oozes from the back of its skull. “Did you catch it in one of your new snares?” Jacob shakes his head and takes a stained flint ball out of his pocket. He mimes throwing it. Jacob has far and away the best aim John Stone has ever come across.

  Martha picks up the animal and weighs it in her hands appreciatively. She strokes the gorgeous fur. “Will you skin it for me later, Jacob?”

  “Aye.”

  “And what have you got for me to put in a rabbit stew?”

  “Onions,” he offers. “Thyme.”

  “That’ll be grand.”

  It is understood that the first meal of the day will be peaceful. In companionable silence the three inhabitants of Stowney House drink sweet tea, eat bacon and eggs, and spread butter on Martha’s brown bread. Through the half-open door bees buzz around bronze wallflowers that are past their best. Jacob eagerly chews and slurps his way through breakfast. Martha and John Stone watch him wipe the egg yolk from his plate with a morsel of bread and stuff the last piece into his mouth with relish. There’s a pleasure to be had in observi
ng the satisfaction of another’s appetite.

  John Stone’s appetite, on the other hand, is failing him. He tosses a piece of bacon to a small tabby who sits in front of the stove vigorously washing the pale fur on her chest. John Stone acknowledges Martha’s thrifty disapproval with a wink and a smile. It doesn’t matter that she could dine off caviar three times a day if she was so inclined. That is beside the point, for if there’s one thing Martha cannot abide, it is waste. The same cannot be said about John Stone, whom life has taught different lessons, the pleasures of occasional excess being among them. The cat leaves off washing to lick the salty meat, somewhat disdainfully, with her clean, pink tongue.

  “She’s a mouser,” scalds Martha. “If she’s not hungry she’ll not hunt.”

  “Fresh, warm blood is what she craves,” adds Jacob in what strikes John Stone as a refreshingly long sentence for him at breakfast time. “It is her nature.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” says John Stone as the cat loses interest and slopes off into the sunshine, stretching out her back legs languorously as she does so. “I merely wanted to please her.”

  “And that,” comments Martha, “is your nature.”

  * * *

  Since the weather is fine, they say their daily vows outside. They stand as one, arms around one another’s shoulders and heads touching. John Stone feels the sun on his back, the warm flesh of his companions beneath his fingers, the coolness of the blades of grass between his toes. There is a robin close by, and its song, bright as glass, echoes across the orchard. Encircled by the peace of Stowney House and the love of his friends, John Stone forms the words in his mind and holds them there: There is nothing more important than this day. The simplicity of the ritual, which he instigated so long ago, fills him with a sense of belonging, and shields him from the biting loneliness that used to beset him. When he is away from Stowney House these words link him so strongly to his friends that he often fancies he can hear them breathing. They break apart. Jacob returns to his chores, pulling his cap from his pocket and jamming it on his head. His arthritic dog, who is no longer allowed in the house, gets up from the shady spot where she has been dozing and limps after him. By the time John Stone has walked back to the kitchen to speak with Martha the knot in his stomach has returned. I am myself, he says under his breath. In me the past lives.