The Many Lives of John Stone

  “It is probable, Sire,” I burst out. “But I cannot know for certain. It is what I have been told.”

  “Queen Mariana implied as much. It is also what Juan Pedro told her—and it pleases me that you are a truthful young man. But your discomfort is eloquent. Perhaps you were advised against admitting the possibility of doubt?—”

  “No, it is just that—” What a poor liar I was in those days.

  “I thought as much,” said the King. “Nevertheless, we will proceed as if you will be as long-lived as your father and grandfather. If it transpires that you were a poor bet, well . . .” The King shrugged his shoulders and smiled serenely. “However, my gambling instincts are rarely wrong. I shall think of you as my unicorn. For what other sovereign can count among his subjects that rarest of creatures, a man who can outlive an oak tree?”

  His description disturbed me. We walked in silence for a while, and when he rested a royal hand on my shoulder, the sensation chilled me. The realization grew that I was locked, henceforth, inside a secret.

  “I am a gardener, Jean-Pierre, but I am no longer at an age when I create a garden for myself. I plant for my heirs, and it is for them that I should like to cultivate you. I can offer you royal protection and privileges while I—and my heirs—live. In return there is something I would ask of you. I want you to become my witness. We will talk, and you will note down my thoughts and opinions on kingship, and on other matters as I see fit. Then, long after I have departed this earth, you shall continue to be my mouthpiece.”

  It seemed to me that I could hardly say no to the arrangement he proposed, though I had not the least notion of what would be entailed. The King said that my father’s insights had been of great help to Queen Mariana, and he hoped that I, similarly, could aspire to a similar role.

  “You are young, Jean-Pierre, and will therefore learn far more from me than I could ever hope to learn from you. But the day will come when you will be able to speak of my reign to those who will rule France after me, and, in so doing, you will be both a comfort to them and a great source of wisdom.”

  It goes without saying that the Sun King left his mark on the world without any help from me. Yet only a hundred years later I watched a revolutionary tide wash away a monarchy its people had grown to hate. An oracle, or a philosopher, would have been far more use to him than a boy destined to live a long life. But any notion of the horrors (deserved or no) that would befall his successors before the next century was out would have seemed absurd to those two figures who strolled, so very long ago, along the grassy banks of the Yvette River.

  “So Jean-Pierre, will you pledge allegiance to me and to my heirs?”

  He made a gesture with his hand that I was to kneel before him. The Spaniard’s words came back to me, and I had to acknowledge the mesmerizing force of the King’s will. Who was I to withstand him? I stared down at the muddy turf strewn with buttercups, and once more caught the scent of the eau de cologne used to rub the royal skin clean every morning.

  “Give me your right hand, Jean-Pierre.”

  I removed the handkerchief and lifted my hand, and the Sun King pushed the signet ring onto my finger, forcing it over the knuckle and into the flesh—swollen on account of the hornet sting—until it would go no farther. The oak tree with its tiny rubies glittered. The stretched, red skin bulged over the gold band. Monsieur Bontemps had done as he had said, and had arranged for the ring to be tightened. The King bid me swear allegiance to him, and him alone.

  “Repeat these words,” he commanded, in a tone that caused my heart to miss a beat. “In me the past lives—for this shall be the rule by which you shall live your life.”

  “In me the past lives,” I repeated.

  He then placed his hands on my head in a blessing. “In you, Jean-Pierre, the past shall survive in a future that I shall not see. We were both marked at birth to live extraordinary lives: I to rule, and you, God willing, to outlive many generations of men.”

  The sound of hooves announced the arrival of the postilion rider, who carried a muslin cloth containing a poultice for my hand. The King summoned his carriage. As he climbed up—as energetically as a much younger man—a thought seemed to occur to him, and he told me to expect a visit from his tailor. My waistcoat, he said, was in execrable taste and it was not right that his brother should be subjected to such vulgarity.

  * * *

  After the King’s departure, I stood for a while on the riverbank nursing my swollen hand. It seemed to me that I was not the same person who had arrived here an hour before. My life was no longer my own. When I unpeeled the cooling poultice, the beautiful signet ring that bound me to the Sun King was covered in white paste. It dug into my flesh. In me the past lives? But my own life was barely begun! I found myself tugging at the gold band, for it hurt me, and I told myself that the King had not said that I must wear it all the time.

  Like Father Like Son

  Spark wakes up to find Mum stroking her hair. “You were dead to the world. I thought I’d better wake you up before it’s lunchtime. The chicken’s been roasting half an hour.”

  Spark has been sleeping on the leather sofa, buried under a couple of jackets, face squashed into a cushion. She groans and raises her head. “What time is it, Mum?” Her hair is sticking to her forehead.

  “Gone eleven. It amazes me what you can sleep through. Your phone’s gone off a couple of times. Didn’t you hear it?”

  “No. Pass it to me, can you?”

  Spark props herself up on her elbows and blinks at it. “Unknown number,” she says, reaching out to push the phone back onto the coffee table with her fingertips.

  “Shove up,” says Mum, squeezing onto the edge of the sofa. “Well, this is a turn up. I’m bracing myself to be on my tod for a month and by the weekend the whole family’s back for Sunday lunch!”

  “I know,” says Spark. “It wasn’t exactly planned—”

  “So, is everything going all right with your job, then?”

  Spark hasn’t worked out her story yet. “Oh yeah, I just—”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist coming back to see Dan—”

  “How are you, anyway, Mum? Has everything been okay this week?”

  “Well, I’ve kept myself busy—which is a good thing. I seem to have spent half the week cleaning and shopping. You know how your brother can eat!”

  “Are they up yet?”

  “Dan’s having a shower, and I’ve sent Ludo down to Morrison’s for a few bits and pieces.”

  Spark sits up, clutching the coat to her chin. “Oh, Mum! You sent Ludo shopping! You should’ve asked me, or Dan—”

  “He didn’t mind! I’m sure he’s not too grand to buy some spuds. Anyway, he’s dressed—which is more than I can say for you. If you get a move on you can get changed in your room before Ludo gets back.”

  * * *

  With Ludo’s stuff everywhere, Spark’s room looks like the inside of a cupboard. Damp from the shower, and smelling of Dan’s shampoo—an unfortunate fragrance choice, in her opinion—Spark pulls on a clean pair of jeans and finds a T-shirt that doesn’t look too crumpled. As she perches on the foot of her bed, patting her hair dry with a towel, she receives a text. She glances down through strands of wet hair. Same number as the two missed calls this morning. Now she drops the towel and brings the phone to her face, giving the text her full attention. The sender is John Stone. How did he get her number? She never gave it to him. He must be back at Stowney House. Spark pictures him pacing up and down the lane under a wide sky, the wind whistling through the rushes on the marsh. The last thing she wants to think about right now is Stowney House and its inhabitants: This is an intrusion into her world. She considers deleting his text. Droplets of water fall onto the tiny illuminated screen and roll over John Stone’s words, which, inevitably, she reads.

  My dear Spark, I hope that you will forgive me for contacting you in this manner, but I need to be certain that you are safe. The last thing I would wish to d
o is to worry your mother, but if I have not heard from you by one o’clock, I feel that I must contact her. Spark goes hot and cold. Suddenly she sees her actions from John Stone’s point of view. He must have arrived home to find Martha upset, Jacob angry, and no sign of the useless intern whose safety he will have felt to be his responsibility. For all he knows she could be dead in a ditch—and she did not even leave a note to explain where she was going. Oh, heck. He goes on to mention Jacob’s outburst: He hopes that Spark can try to forgive it; he also apologizes for his own, unexpected departure; above all, he asks her to consider returning to Stowney House—if only to be able to leave on better terms. If, on the other hand, you wish me to have your luggage sent on, he writes, I will, of course, make the necessary arrangements. He ends his text with: Affectionately yours, John Stone. Spark smiles despite the heavy guilt: This is not a man who is accustomed to sending texts.

  Downstairs she can hear Mum opening the front door for Ludo. Spark quickly taps out her reply with two thumbs. Sorry to have worried u. Arrived safely home last night. Can I let u know what I’m doing later?

  * * *

  Dan has bought Mum a good bottle of wine to drink with Sunday lunch and, with help from Ludo, has been regaling her with New York stories. Mum has sat entranced, sipping her rosé, listening to Dan’s jokes, nudging Spark with her elbow, and wiping the corners of her eyes with a tissue. Dan could always make Mum laugh. With lunch finished, everyone helps bring the dirty plates and the remains of the Sunday roast into the kitchen.

  Spark should have known that it was a mistake to scold Mum for sending Ludo to the shops. Now, on principle, she’ll allow him no special privileges. Mum throws the tea towel at him. “Here, I’ll wash, you can dry.”

  Ludo’s face is, as Mum would say, a picture. Dan rolls his eyes dramatically toward the heavens.

  “Less of your cheek, Daniel Park,” she says, and flicks soap suds at him. Maybe it’s worth the embarrassment to see her in such high spirits. Spark plucks the tea towel from Ludo’s grasp.

  “Here, let me.”

  Ludo, for once, looks awkward, unsure how to react. You’ve got to be careful with other people’s mothers. Mum washes, Spark dries, Dan puts away, and Ludo watches. Spark notices a meaningful look pass from Ludo to Dan. In response, Dan shakes his head. There’s something about this exchange that makes Spark’s heart skip a beat and presently she nudges her brother. Is something up? she mouths at him. He shakes his head. She doesn’t believe him.

  “By the way,” Spark says out loud, “you didn’t give John Stone my cell number, did you?”

  “Me? No. Has he been in touch, then?”

  “He texted me this morning—he wants to know if I’m going back.”

  Mum stops washing up. Soap suds drip off her yellow rubber gloves. “Are you thinking of quitting, then?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Well, if you’re not happy, love, no one’s forcing you to go back.”

  “I’ll need to pick up my things in any case. You’ve got to promise not to say I told you so, if I don’t stay on.”

  Mum resumes washing up. “As if.”

  Spark aims a conspiratorial look at Dan: There’s no way that Mum will be able to resist. But Dan doesn’t connect with her—he’s miles away. Ludo, however, does, and gives her a sympathetic smile. It is a smile that sets all her alarm bells ringing. “Dan?” she says. “What’s up?”

  Mum turns around and Spark lowers her tea towel. Dan looks from one to the other. Spark does not like the set of his face. “Sit down, Mum,” he says. “You, too, Spark.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” asks Ludo.

  “No, you’re all right,” says Dan. “You’ve come all this way. Stay.”

  Ludo leans against the kitchen sink, staring fixedly at the wood-effect doors of the kitchen cabinets. Dan, Spark, and Mum sit around the blue-topped table, the same table she and Dan stood around dipping their fingers into cake mix, and where she learned to read her first words. Spark watches Mum: She looks as if all her fears are rising up from the kitchen floor like phantoms.

  “Well?” Mum says. “Spit it out, Dan.” The tendons in her neck are taut as wires.

  “Okay. I went for an interview for a translator’s job—in the financial sector—and they liked me.” Oh, thinks Spark, with relief, it’s about a job!

  “That’s wonderful, Dan! Congratulations!” says Spark.

  “Well, good for you,” says Mum. “If I were in New York, in your shoes, I don’t suppose I’d want to come back to Mansfield either—”

  Spark gives an inner cheer. Well said, Mum.

  “Thanks—but it’s not that. I had to have a physical. For insurance purposes.”

  Spark stops breathing. Mum puts her hand over her mouth and speaks through her fingers. “What did they find?”

  “They found . . .” Dan must have rehearsed this scene but, now that it comes to it, he stalls. Spark wants to hug him. “They found what they think is a heart abnormality. But, and this is why I’m asking you—please, Mum—not to not overreact, the results weren’t conclusive. They need to do more tests to be sure—either way. They wanted to know about my family history, and when I told them about Dad, they said I should really get myself checked out by a heart specialist. Because if it’s what they suspect it is, I could have inherited the condition—”

  “You can inherit a heart condition?” says Spark.

  “They’ll have to wire me up to a machine to monitor my heartbeat, and I’ll need an MRI scan, and I don’t know what else. The thing is, this firm’s health insurance won’t cover me if I’m high risk. They’ve promised to hold the job open for me, but they need a medical report that proves I’m fit before they’ll sign the contract—”

  “Oh, Dan,” says Mum.

  “Yeah, I know. So, anyway, I telephoned from New York, and the GP’s surgery has fixed me up an appointment with a heart consultant in Nottingham. It’s tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And I thought you were here for a nice holiday,” says Mum.

  “If you have inherited something, did they say what that means?” asks Spark. “I mean, what will they do? What can they do?”

  “That’s what I’m about to find out. I’m not convinced anything’s wrong—I feel absolutely fine.”

  Mum has fixed a lopsided smile to her face, which is fooling no one. “It’ll turn out to be nothing. Anything to do with insurance, they’re always cautious. They’re happy to take your premiums, but the last thing they want to do is dish out any cash.” She scrapes back her chair. “I’ll put the kettle on. Thanks for waiting to tell me until after the meal.”

  Spark grabs hold of Dan’s arm from across the table and squeezes it. “You’ll be fine,” she says.

  Dan doesn’t respond. He’s observing Mum’s back and how it is starting to heave over the kitchen sink as she holds the spout under the tap.

  How can Dan have anything wrong with his heart? He runs, and plays cricket, and you’ve only got to look at him to see how healthy he is. Mum’s head is drooping now and water is cascading from the spout. Ludo steps forward and gently takes the kettle from her hands and puts it on its stand. Spark wills Mum not to make a scene. For Dan’s sake. Please, please don’t lose it. He hates it so much. Distraction tactic. Say something. Anything.

  “So if it’s an inherited weakness, should I be tested, too?” Spark asks.

  Dan meets her gaze and frowns. “D’you know, I’d not thought—I suppose it does—”

  Mum swings round, her cheeks glistening with tears, and glares at Spark. “It’s always got to be about you, hasn’t it?” she thunders. “This is about Dan and his health!”

  Mum’s words are like a slap. “We’re all upset, Mum—but there’s no need to—”

  “You won’t have inherited it—you’re from different stock,” snaps Mum.

  “Different stock! What are you talking about?” cries Spark.

  “I mean you’ve only got to look at you to see you didn
’t take after your dad. Not like Dan. . . .” There’s a pause and suddenly Mum collapses into breathy sobs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s brought it all back.”

  “Great,” says Dan. “Just great.” He turns to Ludo. “Now do you see why I wanted some masculine support?”

  Spark excuses herself, and slips out of the kitchen door and into the back alley. She stands as far away as possible from the stinking dustbins and stares, glassy-eyed, at the dandelions growing through the gravel, distress rooting her to the spot. After a while Ludo appears at the back gate. He wraps his arms around her and gives her a hug.

  “Dan is going to be all right,” he says. “You are going to be all right.”

  Ludo smells of warm skin and soap. But Spark doesn’t want to be held by him under these circumstances. To allow herself to be comforted is to admit that there could be something wrong with Dan, and she can’t do that. So she pulls away, allowing Ludo to keep one arm draped lightly around her shoulders.

  “Dan says he wants to spend time with your mom. I guess it would be a good idea to give them some space.”

  Spark nods. “If that’s what Dan wants.”

  “You know,” says Ludo, “if you need to go back to Suffolk to pick up your stuff, we could go this afternoon. I could drive you.”

  Spark disengages herself to look at him. She sniffs. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Sure you can. It would be my pleasure.”

  “Have you any idea how far it is?”

  “It can’t be that far—you can fit the whole of England into New York State.”

  “That can’t be right! Is it?”

  “Yep. Andy told me.”

  Spark smiles. “It must be true, then!”

  “And I’d like to see Suffolk and your Stowney House. You can give me the full tour.”

  Spark thinks about it. Well, she can’t stay at Stowney House now. She may as well pick up her bags and get it over and done with. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Shall we go?”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  Bad Dog