The Many Lives of John Stone

* * *

  Slowly, as London is left behind and they join the traffic heading east on the M11, Spark’s emotional fog lifts sufficiently for her to realize that only one thing matters now. She has to find John Stone before it’s too late, and she has to ask him if he’s her father. The rest can wait.

  Spark sits up, dries her eyes, and catches the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. He slides open the partition and enquires if she’s feeling any better. She is, she says, though she’s getting a bit thirsty. Not that that’s important. What is important (she says this as matter-of-factly as she can manage) is that if they don’t reach Stowney House before John Stone’s driver does, she will regret it, every single day, for the rest of her life. She’s not asking him to break the law—though she doesn’t mind if he does—but could he please drive as fast as he possibly can?

  The driver roots around in the glove compartment and passes back a bottle of mineral water over his shoulder, still chilled. Spark takes it with thanks and presses it to her cheek.

  “Always happy to put my foot down,” the driver says. “Though, if you like, I can make a call. Mr. Stone usually asks for me but, as it happens, it’s my mate who’s picking him up today. He won’t mind taking his time, so we can get there ahead of him. Not if I ask nicely.”

  A Sky Without Light

  John Stone has planned a guillotine departure: If he is to sever himself from this sanctuary, he wants a clean cut. Presently a car will collect him and remove him forever from Stowney House. He thought he had prepared himself well for his final exile. But now that it comes to it, he recognizes that it was always an impossible ambition. He does not feel old, although he knows he is; he does not feel wise, although he knows, by rights, he should be. All he is sure of is that the throb and mystery of life lure him on—even now, in this pitiful condition. A heron wades toward him through the shallows of the muddy bank, and regards him down the length of his long beak, as if astonished to find him here.

  John Stone has fled his house: The sight of his luggage, neatly stacked in the hall, was proving too painful. Unexpectedly, it has been Thérèse’s example that has given him most courage these last days. He accepts that a part of him has doubts, and that another part of him threatens to kick and scream, and cling on with bloodied fingernails. But he will release his grip all the same. The best he can hope for is that he finds the strength to deliver his farewell with love and dignity.

  The preparations for his imminent “long trip” have unsettled Martha and Jacob. There have been tender words and angry words, and today, as the time of his departure is almost upon them, there has been a kind of withdrawal. The last time he saw them, they were both tree walking. Later, he hopes, they will come to understand how these past days have been one long good-bye.

  * * *

  He came to the boathouse an hour ago. Here, on the veranda, he sways in his hammock. The water laps beneath the rotting wood. John Stone hooks his fingers over the edge of the canvas and pulls it down so that he can see his beloved marshes. The river beckons to him; the clouds and the wind soothe him. A tune comes into his head. He recognizes it. It is the song of the Swiss Guards. He starts to sing quietly to himself, for comfort, under the shivering leaves. The song describes a journey through winter and night. It speaks of finding your way under a sky without light. There is something in the words that makes him want to weep, and he tells himself that the recent discovery of a daughter has made him sentimental.

  Soon the car will be here. It is time for the endgame to start. John Stone removes his gaze from the luminous landscape and swings his legs over the hammock. He sets off for the house without looking back.

  Sensitive to the tiniest jangle of his nerves, John Stone registers a twitch in his little finger and an accompanying pang of fear in his chest. Not now! By the time John Stone reaches the formal gardens, he is certain that an attack is building. He hears a vehicle coming to a halt in the lane. A car door closes with a dull thud. Why hasn’t the driver parked in the yard? There are far too many suitcases to lug them up into the lane. He would have asked for his usual driver, but it seemed more fitting that a stranger collect him.

  Pausing under the yew arch, he hears the crunch of footsteps on gravel and, in the greenish shade at the end of the drive, he spots a slender figure in jeans heading toward the house. A slanting golden ray of sunshine pours onto the yard. One more step and the light catches in her hair like a flaming beacon. It is Spark! It is his daughter! A cry rings out from the house, and Martha’s voice echoes over the lawns: “Jacob! She’s come!”

  John Stone retreats through the arch and cries out in desperation, for his arm is already jerking violently. He cowers against the hedge until Spark disappears toward the house. At the first opportunity, John Stone lollops across the lawn, skirting the fountain and pinning his bad arm to his side. He enters the house through the breakfast room and slips into the long gallery.

  The attack is a bad one—they are always bad nowadays. To distract himself, he drags himself along the full length of the gallery, past all the portraits of his Friends, until he reaches his first. It is as Jean-Pierre that he looks into Isabelle’s storm cloud eyes and, with his good hand, blows her a kiss, as he always does. As he retraces his steps, each face becomes a kind of bridge to a previous life. When John Stone arrives in front of his sometime wife’s portrait, it occurs to him that Spark is now a bridge that leads him back to her mother. Thérèse wears red; her hair is loose. For a moment he lets his forehead rest on hers.

  * * *

  There is a window at one end of the long gallery, which has a view of the intersection between lawn and yard. John Stone positions himself here while he waits for the attack to pass and tries to decide what to do. Using the curtain to shield him, he peeps out, hoping to catch a glimpse of Spark—the heel of a shoe, a wisp of golden hair, her moving shadow. No doubt she’s gone to the boathouse with Martha.

  These attacks weaken him and he sinks to the floor, pulling on the curtains. He takes in frequent, shallow breaths. As much as he is able, he thinks of nothing and attempts to be indifferent to his situation.

  The Long Gallery

  A quiet knock on the door wakes him. It is still light: He can’t have been asleep long. No one ever disturbs him in the gallery. The hinges creak open and it is his daughter’s voice he hears from behind the door.

  “Mr. Stone?”

  “Spark?”

  He raises his head a fraction from the cold limestone floor where he is still slumped. His lower back aches; his good hand is numb; his bad arm lies limply at his side. The attack is almost, but not quite, over.

  “I couldn’t leave without speaking to you. Jacob saw you come into the gallery. The car you ordered has arrived. . . . Can I come in?”

  He cannot permit her to see him like this. Even if she does not know it yet, her last memory of her father must not be this one.

  “I’m sorry—I’m not myself at the moment—”

  “You want me to go away?” Spark’s tone reveals an intense disappointment. Anger even. Why has she come here today? After the fight in the marshes, surely she cannot wish to resume her holiday job! Has Mrs. Park complained to her about his unwanted visit? John Stone stares at the gap in the door. Somehow it reminds him of the confessional.

  “I honestly think it would be best, Spark—”

  “I’ve been to see your lawyer,” she says. “I’ve read your notebooks.”

  John Stone’s gaze burns into the back of the door; he lets out a groan as he tries to heave himself up with his good arm. “You’ve read them!”

  “Please don’t send me away. You owe me that much—”

  The tips of Spark’s fingers are curled around the door as she holds it ajar. Where will he get the strength to leave if he see his daughter’s face?

  “Tell me, does your mother know that you’re here?”

  “My mother’s dead. And I’m told my father’s dying.”

  “What did you say?”

 
“Mum told me I was adopted after you paid her a visit. The rest I’ve worked out.”

  Spark enters the gallery. John Stone tries to get up but is as helpless as a beetle on its back. Spark’s eyes betray her distress as she sees him laid out by the window.

  “Should I fetch Martha? Can I help you up?”

  “No! No. Thank you. Could you just give me a moment?”

  Averting her gaze from his sprawled figure, Spark walks to the opposite end of the gallery. John Stone observes the back of her golden head as she examines the paintings. She stops in front of his portrait of Thérèse. “My mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you my father?”

  He draws a breath. And another. “Yes . . . Yes!”

  “And am I a sempervivens, like you?”

  “I think you must be. Though I cannot say for certain.”

  Spark utters a small, strangulated cry. John Stone supposes he should comfort her, but cannot move.

  “How did you find out?” he asks.

  Spark clutches the hem of her T-shirt as she speaks. “With a little help from Ludo. And Jacob.”

  “Ludo? Jacob?”

  “Ludo took a photograph of us that day. His app picked up the connection.”

  John Stone shakes his head in disbelief. “I see. . . . But Jacob—he doesn’t know.”

  “He made this for me.” Spark unzips her bag and hands over the double portrait.

  Did Jacob know, John Stone wonders, or was he guessing? He turns the object over and flips it back again. It is very fine. How easy it is to underestimate Jacob.

  “When did he give you this?”

  “Last week. He came to Mansfield—”

  “He went to Mansfield!” John Stone thinks back. It must have been while he was still in London. The cunning fox!

  “Mr. de Souza has told me you’re going away. For good. And he says you won’t see a doctor. . . .” Spark struggles to rein in her emotions. John Stone hears her voice crack. “I love Mum very much, and life’s been hard on her. But she’s sometimes made some poor decisions, and it’s been me that’s had to pick up the pieces—”

  “You’ve been a good daughter to her. I know that.”

  John Stone finally succeeds in levering himself upright. He grabs hold of a chair back for support.

  “And now that I discover I’ve got a father who’s at least three hundred and fifty years old, it turns out that nothing’s changed!” She’s beginning to sob.

  “Spark—”

  “How could you let me read your notebooks and then plan to disappear? How could you walk away without telling me to my face that you’re my father?”

  John Stone walks unsteadily toward Spark and offers her both hands, even the trembling one. Spark takes a step backward.

  “I don’t understand why everyone had to lie to me. Didn’t I have a right to know?

  “It was for your adoptive mother to tell you—I did what I thought was best for your family.”

  “But you knew I was probably a sempervivens! Didn’t it occur to you that I might deserve a bit of help? Didn’t you think it might be tough to lose a mother and two fathers?”

  John Stone stands next to Spark and tries to offer her his handkerchief while she perseveres with a rolled-up ball of tissue.

  “Spark, I wish with all my heart that I’d known sooner—”

  Spark bursts into tears. He guides her to an armchair.

  “And why won’t you see a doctor?”

  “I’m trying to protect you—”

  “Do you think I care if you shake?”

  “This is a cruel disease. I wanted to spare you—”

  “And do you think going off to die alone is sparing me?

  “I don’t believe there’s a doctor alive whom I could trust with my—with our—secret.”

  Spark listens calmly, dabbing her nose.

  “Your mother died from the same affliction. She wouldn’t take the risk of seeing a doctor. I won’t allow her to have made that sacrifice in vain.”

  Gripping the damp tissue, Spark bangs down her fist onto the table. “You’re going to orphan me so that my mother didn’t die in vain! You think keeping all of this a secret matters more to me than spending time with my father! Who else can advise me? Who else can tell me who I am?”

  Tears prick at John Stone’s eyes. “And twenty years from now, when your life is an unending circus, you will curse the day you let the world know you were sempervivens—”

  “At least I’d have known my father—even if only for a short while. You didn’t.”

  No, he thinks. I didn’t. “My dear Spark, they’d show you no mercy. They would tear into you like hyenas. It would be a vile existence. How can I let that happen to my own daughter? Besides, you have more faith in the medical profession than I do. I don’t believe there’s anything they could do for me. No. The risk is unacceptable—”

  “But it’s acceptable for you to disappear because you can’t bear for anyone to see you ill!”

  Spark realizes she’s gone too far, and hangs her head. But she’s not ready to apologize. The line of golden frames gleams in the soft evening light. Outside, Martha and Jacob are walking across the lawn toward the fountain.

  “You are your mother’s daughter. You have a passionate nature. I can see how frustrated you are with me.”

  Spark walks to the window and leans her shoulder against the pane. He observes her while endeavoring to regain his own composure. That profile, that hair, that strength of purpose. What turmoil she must be in. With her last gift, Thérèse surpassed herself. There’s a change in her demeanor. Spark turns to look at him.

  “As you intend to go away today, from now on, it will be up to me to make my own decisions. Perhaps I shan’t want to live a lie. Perhaps telling the truth would be the right thing to do. After all, just think of the good my DNA could do. Maybe my privacy is something mankind can’t afford. I could go into the lane and announce my secret right now! And it’s not like Versailles; the whole world could know by tomorrow morning. What’s to stop me?”

  Spark makes as if to get up and leave.

  “You’re not serious!”

  “I am. If the world already knows about us, I shan’t need your protection. You’ll have nothing to lose by going to see a doctor.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I want to keep my father alive!”

  John Stone stares at his defiant daughter’s face and it is Thérèse that he sees. And a pulse of hope and pride, like a comet shooting across the blackness, stirs him into action. Spark, sensing a shift in him, takes a step backward. My daughter, he thinks, is a risk-taker.

  “Come with me,” he says and, taking Spark firmly by the arm, leads her out of his gallery of dead Friends.

  Send or Delete

  John Stone pulls his daughter through the house to the front door. Spark does not resist. The speed of his recovery astonishes her. As does his strength: He grips her arm tightly as if frightened to let her go. This grip, and the determined set to his jaw, provokes in her a vague dread. She wants to ask her father what he intends to do but does not dare. When they reach the threshold he stops abruptly and it occurs to Spark that he could be saying a last good-bye to Stowney House. It’s dusk. From the orchard comes the sound of songbirds marking the close of day. Swifts swoop low over the lawn, harvesting insects in the fading light. There is a smell of earth and newly mown grass. At first, the two figures in the garden do not notice them. Martha sits primly on the rim of the fountain basin. In her black dress (for once, she has taken off her apron), she holds herself rigid, steeling herself for what is to come. Spark looks from John Stone to the still figure patiently awaiting her fate. She cannot begin to imagine what Martha has endured in her life. John Stone still hesitates on the threshold as if once he crosses it there will be no going back. She tries to extricate her arm from her father’s grasp but he won’t let her go. This is unbearable. How can Martha and Jacob survive without John Stone
? Jacob flanks Martha; he stands puffing on his pipe, resting his weight on the handle of a long broom. All at once John Stone steps over the threshold onto the gravel path. The sound alerts Martha to their presence and she immediately gets up. Jacob, too, stands to attention, scrutinizing his friend’s face, while barely acknowledging Spark’s presence. John Stone asks her for Jacob’s medallion. Then, without releasing her arm, he walks them up to Jacob and dangles the double portrait from its cord in front of his nose. Tobacco smoke laces the cooling air.

  “John,” says Jacob. His tone is cool, his back straight as a soldier’s. Maybe he used to be a soldier. Jacob’s life appears to Spark as a deep, dark mystery. Those pale blue eyes of his are not old, they are ancient.

  “How long have you known that Spark is my daughter?”

  In this company Spark feels absurdly young.

  “The day we caught her biting the dog’s nose I reckoned the pair of you smelled the same.”

  Spark does not know if she should be offended.

  “And you didn’t care to mention it?”

  “I was biding my time.”

  “And you shared your thoughts with Martha?”

  “No, John. He did not,” says Martha. “Not then.”

  “If the girl was who I thought she was,” says Jacob, “there’d be plenty of time. If she wasn’t, I had to protect Martha from herself.”

  The girl, thinks Spark. I have a name! She’s not the only one to be offended: Martha, too, glares at Jacob before turning back to John Stone.

  “Jacob told me what he suspected after all the shenanigans with the boy.” Now Martha turns to Spark, her face softening. “I always thought there was something special about you.”

  Spark reaches out her hand to Martha, who holds it briefly in her own cold fingers.

  John Stone continues to address Jacob: “So, while I tried to protect the ties that bind Spark to her family—because I judged the time was not right to do otherwise, and because these matters are delicate and precious—you took it upon yourself to go to Mansfield and shatter the illusion?”