The Many Lives of John Stone

  Unusually for Edward, he continues to argue with him. “Doctors, like lawyers, know how to keep secrets. I respect your wishes, John, but I can’t agree with your reasoning.”

  “Edward,” says John Stone softly, putting his hand on his shoulder. “The subject is closed.”

  * * *

  John Stone promises to meet with Edward again before the end of August in order to discuss amending his will in Spark’s favor. Now, walking away from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he feels drained. It is as much due to a melancholy brought on by recent events as to physical fatigue. In recent days he has set himself two tasks to complete. The first—to finish writing the notebooks and deposit them with his lawyer—he has achieved. The second task, to go to Mansfield and introduce himself to Mrs. Park, fills him with dread. However, it is necessary to find out how the land lies. He also prefers to deliver Spark’s invitation in person rather than send a messenger. John Stone is not looking forward to making the acquaintance of the stranger who has brought up his newly discovered daughter. It will be a difficult meeting.

  He revives himself with a double espresso in a coffeehouse opposite Holborn station. As he stares out of the window, he witnesses a lovers’ argument on the pavement outside. He can’t avoid hearing every word. It ends with the young woman slapping the young man’s face. There’s something about the proud way the girl holds herself—her spirit—that puts him in mind of Thérèse. Of late she has often been in his thoughts: She did not fear confrontation, and could dazzle or scorch when so inclined. He had often heard her say that if she had been born a man, what could she not have done? But that was Thérèse’s tragedy: She was born in the wrong age, and, in her words, suffered a lifetime of fools. He had always supposed that she thought him to be one of them, yet her last letter to him implied otherwise. It turns out that John Stone—who has always prided himself on his clear-sighted observation of his fellow man—was blind when it came to his own wife. He is still shaken by this discovery—and full of remorse. He finds that he can even forgive Thérèse for her failed attempt to set fire to Stowney House, although he likes to think that had Jacob’s keen sense of smell not thwarted her, she would not, in any case, have gone through with it. Thérèse hated to feel trapped, without options. It was often enough for her to think that she could do a thing if she wanted to.

  At midday John Stone calls for his driver to pick him up. He does not listen to the voice that tells him he is too weary, but heads out of London, to the north, to a mining town in Nottinghamshire that his daughter—their daughter—regards as home.

  * * *

  He phones from the car. “As it happens, it was actually you I wanted to speak with, Mrs. Park. Would it be possible for me to introduce myself? I’m parked at the bottom of your street.”

  After a long pause John Stone hears what he presumes to be the rattle of an ashtray as Mrs. Park stubs out a cigarette. She exhales audibly. “Well, you’d better come in. Can you give me a minute to sort myself out?”

  “By all means! Shall we say a quarter past the hour?”

  He should have announced his intention of visiting her days ago, but he feared she might put him off. While he is waiting, John Stone climbs out of the car and surveys the street where Spark has grown up. A light rain is falling on Mansfield, although the sun is struggling to break through the clouds. He observes the line of redbrick terraces that stretches to the brow of the hill and beyond. The front doors open directly onto the street; most of them have white PVC windows that jar with the age of the properties. A car hurtles past, bouncing over speed bumps that are supposed to calm the traffic. In its wake, an unsettling silence resumes. His heart struggles with his head: This is not a land of plenty. John Stone might have wished for an easier start for his daughter. A widowed adoptive mother with two young children, moving to a coal mining town after most of the mines have closed. He gave the son an education, but if he’d have known earlier what treasure lay in this house, what wouldn’t he have done for the family? Instead, Thérèse made a cuckoo of their child—just as the Spaniard had made of him. And yet, look how Spark has flourished in this soil: She is affectionate and capable; she is unselfish and brave. A child has been playing hopscotch on the pavement in front of the house. As John Stone looks at the traces of chalk, he grieves for a childhood of which he had no knowledge. What wisdom might he have been able to pass on to his daughter? If his disease does not progress too quickly . . . If Spark will permit him to try . . . perhaps, even now, it might not be too late?

  The longer he paces up and down the street, the more uncomfortable John Stone becomes. In truth, he’d sooner face muggers in an alley than confront the adoptive mother of his own child. He takes in a deep breath of air and smells the rain.

  When Mrs. Park’s head finally appears on the doorstep, which is painted red to match the bricks, he is surprised to find that he recognizes the way that the woman smiles. She is slim, with fair, cropped hair and wears a coral-colored top and blue jeans. Before John Stone can offer her his hand, she leads him into her neat front room. It is small, low-ceilinged, and smells of cigarette smoke and air freshener. Pine, he thinks. Mrs. Park motions for him to sit down on the squashy leather sofa; she draws up an armchair opposite him. Between them a low coffee table is laid for tea; a ring of chocolate digestive biscuits has been arranged on a green pottery plate. John Stone had anticipated a woman embittered by the premature death of her husband and the struggle to bring up a family alone, but if there are traces of pain and resentment in the set of her face, he reads warmth there too. The love of her children must have been a great consolation.

  “Will you have a cup of tea?” asks Mrs. Park.

  “Thank you, yes,” says John Stone, who is not fond of tea. He watches her pour the dark, stewed liquid into a small cup.

  “We drink it strong at our house. Help yourself to milk.”

  His hands feel cold. He interlaces his fingers on his lap and puts a bright smile on his face. “It’s good to meet you in person, Mrs. Park. Your children are a credit to you.” She nods suspiciously; accepting compliments gracefully is not, he notes, a skill she has acquired. He continues: “I was sorry to learn about Dan’s health problems—”

  “We don’t know if there is a problem yet. Daniel’s still having tests,” she replies.

  “Let’s hope there’s not. But if it comes to it, and you need any help with his medical care, I hope you will contact me—”

  “No! Thank you. It’s very kind of you, Mr. Stone, but the NHS are doing us proud.”

  The shrillness of her response startles John Stone. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Which is not to say that we aren’t grateful for everything your charity has done for Daniel.”

  “He’s taken advantage of the opportunities he’s been given. You must be proud of him.”

  “He was always a bright lad. Though it’s a shame his work has taken him so far away from us.”

  Through the lace curtains, John Stone sees someone walk past barely an arm’s length from the window. It makes him start; Mrs. Park notices. “You get used to it. I can see the world going by. I dare say it’s a bit different to Stowney House.”

  “Stowney House is quiet. Too quiet for many, I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t like it in Suffolk. It might be pretty but I was relieved to get back to Mansfield.” Mrs. Park sits on the edge of her chair, gripping the arms. “What brought you here today, Mr. Stone? Is it about Stella?”

  “Yes,” he says. “It is about Stella—and her reasons for leaving Stowney House.”

  Stella. Not Spark. Daniel. Not Dan. Mrs. Park clearly does not feel John Stone has earned the right to be on informal terms with her children.

  “You do know that she’s not going back? She didn’t hit it off with your other staff. That, and there was no one else her own age to talk to.”

  “Is that what she said?”

  “Look, Mr. Stone, if Stella doesn’t want to go back, that’s an end to it—I’m not
going to make her.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says quickly. “Whether or not she chooses to stay on at Stowney House is for her to decide. Might I ask you, though, if you would be so good as to give Stella a letter on my behalf?”

  “A letter?”

  John Stone unbuttons his jacket and takes an envelope from the inside pocket. He pushes it across the low table toward Mrs. Park. “Stella did a wonderful job organizing my archives, but I never had the chance to explain to her what she was working on. I feel I owe her an explanation. It’s an invitation to read what you might call a historical document. I believe she would find it of great interest.”

  Mrs. Park takes the envelope, gets up from her chair, and balances it on top of the mantelpiece above a gas fire. It sits between a postcard of the Statue of Liberty and a framed photograph of a man holding up a champagne glass to the camera. He’s smiling; he looks like an older version of Dan.

  “I’ll give it to her when she gets in.”

  Mrs. Park does not sit down again; her body language indicates that the meeting is over. John Stone searches desperately for a way to broach a difficult subject. If he says nothing, the moment will have passed and it will be awkward to arrange a second meeting.

  “I should like to admit something to you, Mrs. Park. Now that I’m here. I’m keenly aware of the delicacy of this matter, but, you see, I was close to Stella’s birth mother—”

  John Stone instantly realizes he has said too much too soon. He may as well have lobbed a grenade into the sitting room as reveal he knows the secret Mrs. Park has guarded for seventeen years. She flinches perceptibly.

  “You knew her?”

  For a moment he fears that she is either about to faint or attack him. She becomes defensive and her voice wavers. “Are you family? Was it on Spark’s account you helped Dan?”

  John Stone has no wish to lie but nor does he wish to answer. His hesitation speaks for him and she shakes her head bitterly. “I should’ve known! I should’ve known not to believe her. She said she’d tell no one.” Mrs. Park makes a strange clicking noise with her tongue. “That cottage. So close to Stowney House. A charity that happens to select my Dan for an educational bursary . . .”

  John Stone leans forward and holds up his hands in an effort to stem the flow of her words, but Mrs. Park will not stop now.

  “If it weren’t for Dan, I’d have put my foot down when Spark told me who she was working for. I had a bad feeling about it from the start—”

  “Please, Mrs. Park. If you could listen to what I have to say—”

  “No, you listen to me! Stella doesn’t know she’s adopted. I’m her mother—in every way that matters. It was me that brought her up. You don’t come between a mother and her daughter!”

  John Stone feels sweat pricking at him. Is that what he is doing? “No. Of course not!”

  “Then why have you come here? Out of the blue? Interfering with something that’s nothing to do with you? Say one word to our Stella about this—one word—and I’ll get on to Social Services.”

  John Stone stares at her, appalled. “Who do you take me for? I’ve come to offer you—”

  “What?” The wretched woman’s cheeks have lost all their color and she grips the back of the armchair. He notices that she still wears her wedding ring. “You’ve come to offer me what? Who do you take me for? I’ve got rights. I don’t want your charity!”

  “Mrs. Park, I did not mean to offend—”

  “I want you to leave.”

  John Stone stands up but his feet won’t move. How can he put this right? How can he make amends? What can he say? He opens his mouth in the hope that the right words will come out.

  “Get out!” Her voice is so shrill, it’s practically a scream.

  There’s a banging from the neighbor’s wall and a muffled shout: “You all right, love?”

  John Stone retreats from Mrs. Park’s burning gaze to the front door: “You have nothing to fear from me,” he says. “Quite the contrary. I am sorry to have caused you distress.” He lets himself out and walks unsteadily to the car. He glances back through the tinted window. Mrs. Park is on her doorstep, an expression of pure anguish on her face. Her elderly neighbor, too, carrying a plate and a tea towel, stands in solidarity at her own front door.

  John Stone sees himself through Mrs. Park’s eyes: a posh man in a suit who wants something from her, who’s not being straight with her. A man with money to burn, getting into his rich man’s car, threatening to break up her family. And what else does she have? Her precious son. Her loving daughter. And John Stone feels suddenly ashamed that he comes from a race of cuckoos.

  The Anti-Slavery Society Convention

  Mum has been impossible to deal with these last few days—either flying off the handle over nothing, or staring vacantly into space. And this despite the good news that the results of all Dan’s tests to date have been reassuring. He’s even been seeing a new—and apparently top—consultant who has volunteered to look at his case. Though all Mum could think of saying was: “Why the sudden interest in Dan?”

  In need of a break, Spark has treated herself to a day return ticket to London and has caught a ride to the station. Andy was driving Dan to Nottingham Hospital this morning, in any case, so he didn’t mind. It’s while Andy is filling up the car with gas that a text comes through on Dan’s phone.

  “About time,” he says.

  “What is?”

  Dan is in the front passenger seat. He twists around to look at her. “Ludo’s sorted himself out another smartphone. He’s left Paris and now he’s in Florence.”

  “Lucky Ludo.”

  “He says hi. Shall I forward his number to you?”

  When Spark doesn’t immediately reply, Dan asks if she is still mad at him.

  “A bit. He should have told me about his app before we went to Stowney House.”

  She and Ludo had both agreed to play down what happened that afternoon. As far as Dan was concerned, Ludo had got himself into a bit of a scrape. He laughed at the thought of his cool American friend being chased into the marshes by the gardener for taking pictures without permission. Not to mention dropping his precious phone in the marsh.

  Spark asks Dan if he’s seen the painting that, according to Ludo, depicts one of John Stone’s ancestors.

  “No. But he’s shown me his app. It’s a bit on the crude side, if you ask me. But what do I know?”

  * * *

  On the South Bank, with the Thames before her and the National Theatre at her back, Spark finishes the last mouthful of her egg roll. It’s a relief to get away from Mum for a while. Last night, while she was drying the dishes, Mum asked her if she was positive she wanted to take out a student loan. University fees, she said, were criminal. Yes, Spark had replied, a thousand percent sure. “Well, it’s your choice,” said Mum, pursing her lips. “Your life.” There are times when Spark wants to shake her. Why can’t Mum see that if you risk nothing you get nothing? If you’re too frightened to leave your burrow, all you’ll ever know is darkness and dirt.

  She’s picked a good spot: This panorama is spectacular. The Millennium Wheel, Cleopatra’s Needle, and the Hungerford Bridge all crowd into her vision, while to her right, red double-decker buses snail over Waterloo Bridge and, beyond that, the pale dome of Saint Paul’s rises up, which is, she thinks, a thing of great beauty. It’s breezy here in the bright sunshine, almost like the seaside. She pulls out the pocket map she picked up when she arrived at King’s Cross and squints at it. From here to Tate Modern it shouldn’t take her longer than ten or fifteen minutes. She slips her backpack over her shoulders and adjusts the padded straps. An edgy-looking couple stroll by, the man speaking in a New York accent that makes her heart skip a beat. Can’t she go anywhere without noticing black jeans, or floppy hair, or a runner’s gait? When Ludo gets back from Italy, or whichever country he’s “doing,” she won’t make a fool of herself a second time. Earlier, she caught sight of her reflection in a sho
p window, only instead of seeing her own features, somehow, it was Ludo’s face that she saw. This vague ache won’t leave her. It hurts, though she’s not sure she wants it to stop.

  The smell of the river reaches her as she leans against the railings and watches sunlight dancing on the murky water. A tourist boats chugs by and floating seagulls bob up and down in its wake. Below her, a small beach has been exposed by the low tide. Pigeons peck at the water’s edge and, bizarrely, four boys stand on the sand juggling oranges. She’s alone, but not lonely; she observes everything through her camera lens, makes it hers. Suddenly Spark has a change of heart about Tate Modern. Instead, she’ll head back across the river to the National Portrait Gallery. She decides to judge for herself if Ludo has found one of John Stone’s ancestors.

  * * *

  Trafalgar Square is heaving with crowds that strike Spark as astonishingly diverse. How she would love to be a part of this city, to beat with its pulse, scratch her name on its rich patina. How can she stay at home forever, even for Mum? Not when there’s all of this waiting for her. Past Nelson’s Column she walks, past the great lions and the National Gallery and up into Saint Martin’s Place. In the entrance hall of the National Portrait Gallery she plucks up the courage to ask two women in uniform if they know where she might find a large canvas whose title is something to do with the abolition of slavery. She’s sorry to be so vague. It was painted in the 1840s, she thinks. The women confer. “Room twenty. But do come back if it’s not what you’re looking for.”

  Spark does not need to go back. This has to be the one. Light spills down onto room twenty from glass panels in the roof. Set against a peppermint-green wall, a huge, golden-framed canvas dominates the right side of the gallery. Spark stands to one side of it, surrounded by whispered conversations and the squeaking of shoes against polished wooden floorboards. The Anti-Slavery Society Convention, she reads, painted in 1840 by Benjamin Robert Haydon. There are many hundreds of faces in the great gathering that the painting portrays and she has not yet come across a single one of them that resembles John Stone in any way. Spark concludes that either it is the wrong picture (which she doubts), or that Ludo’s app isn’t up to much. She sits back down on the padded black bench and contemplates Henry Beckford, an emancipated slave and delegate of the Anti-Slavery Society, watching an impassioned gray-haired man make a speech in the grand conference hall. The latter raises his hand in the air to emphasize his point. Unlike most of the audience, Henry Beckford has his back to the viewer, though Spark can see his profile and the handsome luster of his skin. The faces of the delegates in the first few rows are painted in some detail, but as the rows recede into the hazy distance, the faces lose their definition. There is a scattering of women but, for the most part, the hall is swimming with Victorian gentlemen with florid faces, stiff black jackets, and white neckties. The painting must be easily four meters wide, and high enough for Mr. Haydon to have needed to perch on a ladder in order to paint the top half of the canvas. It is indeed, as the gallery notes comment, a monumental work of art.