The Many Lives of John Stone

  Spark opens her mouth to speak but changes her mind. She wants to say that it wasn’t like that, that Mum had already told her she was adopted when Jacob turned up out of the blue. But how can she interrupt? Nevertheless, it strikes her that if it weren’t for Jacob, she would not have seen her father again—not even for this short time.

  “You forced the issue,” continues John Stone, “without telling me what you knew. Without thinking to ask my permission.”

  “What’d have been the sense in that, John, since you would’ve said no?” Spark feels her father’s grip tighten. “Who was it that went to Mansfield in the first place? All I did was relight a fuse you’d let go out.”

  Jacob aims a gob of spittle at the flower bed and Martha puts a restraining hand on his arm. “We were anxious about your health—and this long trip you’ve been talking about—”

  “Do I truly deserve to have decisions I’ve agonized over disregarded? As if I possessed neither judgement nor foresight?” Spark senses the deep well of his distress and is glad she remained silent. “Do you truly not see what you have done here?”

  “You’ll be glad I did it before your end comes,” says Jacob.

  Spark feels a tremor in her father’s fingers. Martha falls silent and glances at Jacob, who is still looking at the spot where his spittle fell. She lifts her head toward John Stone: “It’s because we love you that we acted how we did—”

  “Love does not impose its will on its object—”

  “L’amour!” cries Martha. “Je sais très bien ce que c’est l’amour!”

  Spark gives her father a sharp look.

  “Martha is rebuking me. She says that she doesn’t need me to tell her what love is.”

  Spark’s arm is returned to her as John Stone breaks away to walk over the lawn. A breeze enters the circle of tall trees that watch over Stowney House. The agitated leaves release a long sigh. No one speaks. Her father’s white shirt glows in the twilight. Presently John Stone turns and asks Martha if his bags have already been loaded into the car.

  “Yes, John,” Martha replies in a defeated voice. It seems to Spark that she has shrunk into herself. “The driver is ready and waiting in the lane.”

  “Come,” says John Stone, holding out his hand to Spark. She walks toward him and takes his arm. They walk away from the fountain and Spark cranes her head to look back at Martha and Jacob, who are staring after them. She looks up at her father but he presses determinedly on.

  * * *

  Her father walks quickly, taking long strides so that Spark is obliged to hurry to keep up with him. They pass through the deep shade of the drive, cross the little bridge with its sound of burbling water, and turn into the lane, where a stiff breeze ruffles her hair and makes her T-shirt flap against her midriff. Past the two parked cars they go, both empty, and, presently, come across the drivers, who stand smoking and talking at the edge of a reed bed. Behind them, a band of scarlet marks the horizon. John Stone acknowledges them with a nod but keeps on walking. Spark does not even try to respond to her own driver’s puzzled stare.

  “There, I have a signal,” says John Stone.

  Spark watches him touch the screen and wait. Finally he passes the phone to her.

  “I don’t trust my fingers today. Will you help me?”

  A cursor blinks on a blank screen. “Of course.”

  Spark awaits instructions, but she sees that he is staring at the glistening marshes, as if grappling with some inner argument. A gust of wind blows the hair from his forehead, revealing the thin stripe of white.

  “I’ve witnessed countless deaths in my time—of the young and old. And one thing I’ve noticed is how easily the very young leave this earth. Often, it is as if death merely blows out their life like a flickering flame. But when the old die, even those tormented by pain, they will mostly struggle to hold on to every last second that remains to them. And why? Because a lifetime has taught them how precious life is—”

  “Oh, please don’t! I can’t bear it!”

  John Stone’s eyes soften but he won’t stop. “Which is why I had decided to spare my friends the sight of it. I’ve loved the world and I don’t want to leave it . . . especially now.” He takes Spark’s hand and squeezes it. “No matter that I’ve had more than my fair share: It’s only made me love life more. I foresee a difficult end with precious little dignity. It is not something I would wish you to witness. The best of me you will find in my journals.”

  Her father’s gaze is so intense, Spark dare not take her eyes away. She tries to be brave, but her throat continues to constrict and, despite her efforts, a tear rolls down her cheek. John Stone wipes it away with his thumb.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Will you type my words now?”

  Spark nods. Her fingers tap as John Stone dictates. Letters appear on the tiny screen. As the words accumulate, Spark’s heart begins to lighten. Her father seems to be withdrawing his request for a safe house. At the same time, he appears to be accepting a previous offer of help with regard to access to a surgeon.

  Spark looks up at him round-eyed. John Stone takes back the phone and indicates the two options at the bottom of the screen: send or delete.

  “This is my gift to Thérèse, your mother, who thought of me as a considered and cautious man. I am giving you the decision. I will take that risk. Because I can see it’s what you would want me to do. I undertake to abide by your decision. You, of all people, must learn to trust your own judgement. Yours will almost certainly be a very long life.”

  John Stone holds out the phone for Spark. Her finger hovers over the send button and her eyes slide back up to her father’s. “Can I?”

  “If that’s what you judge to be the right thing to do.”

  Spark hesitates. “Is the surgeon trustworthy?”

  “You mean, if he found out that a patient under his care had lived hundreds of years, would he take that piece of information to the grave with him? What do you think, Spark?”

  “He might not find out.”

  “True. I’ve never permitted myself to be examined, so I could not say.”

  “Why would you leave that decision up to me? How am I supposed to know?”

  “I was about to disappear and abdicate all decisions. Where’s the difference? At least I am able to stand at your side while you make this one.”

  Spark turns away from him and stares at the marshes. If she were a doctor she knows what she’d do.

  “And just suppose the doctor did find out you were different, would it really be so bad?”

  John Stone looks at her. “I don’t know what would happen. I can only imagine. Just like you.”

  She closes her eyes, and imagines. She thinks of the Spaniard, and Martha, and Jacob, and everything her father, and all his Friends, must have done over the course of the centuries to keep his secret safe. Then she imagines her father dying alone in a strange place. She wonders if anything could be done to help him.

  “I can see why you haven’t ever taken the risk.”

  “It’s your decision, Spark.”

  She turns and bends over the phone, then, glancing at her father for a moment, brings down her finger firmly onto the screen. “Send,” she says and continues to look at the screen as if following its path into the ether.

  John Stone’s face falls; he brings his hand to his heart.

  “I deleted the sentence about the surgeon.” She looks up at him. “But I’ve said you won’t be needing the safe house.”

  Spark hands him back his phone and watches him sway slightly. She links her arm through his, sensing the rawness of the many emotions that scud, one after another, across his face. How can she presume to understand what he must be feeling, but she thinks—she hopes—she can discern a trace, at least, of relief.

  “I don’t want to lose you. Whatever that might mean.”

  In the wood, an owl hoots. Men’s voices are carried to them by the marsh wind. Presently Spark’s father says: “I’d better tell my
driver he can head back to London.”

  The Silence of Fountains

  Only a few minutes of light still remain. On the lawn next to the fountain, four sempervivens stand in a circle, heads bowed, silent and attentive. Spark feels her father’s and Martha’s arms draped around her shoulders. She feels their warmth. How many thousands of times must this simple ritual have taken place? It is a shared moment of intimacy, a statement of kinship and intent. “Nothing,” says John Stone, “is as important as this day.”

  Once they break apart, Jacob announces he has something to show them. He disappears behind the yew hedge and presently runs back cupping his hands to his ears.

  “Listen,” he says.

  Water glugs along pipes buried beneath the lawn. Closer it comes, the pressure building, the gurgling increasing. Martha, Spark, and her father exchange glances and look expectantly at the fountainhead. All at once foaming jets of water shoot upward and gush over the garlanded river god until the garden, almost dark now, is filled with the sound of splashing water. Spark laughs out loud at the sight of it. John Stone claps his hands for, as he has told Jacob enough, he could never abide the silence of fountains.

  “Well, it’s taken you long enough, Jacob,” says Martha. “But I think it was worth it.”

  There is a movement among the weeds. It is the ghostly white koi carp, whose name no one can any longer remember. It surfaces for a moment and flicks its strong tail.

  “Bravo, my friend,” says John Stone. “Thank you.” And he plucks an imaginary hat from his head, steps forward, and bows low, as gracefully as only those who have bowed before the Sun King can bow. And Spark can almost see his stockings and his red-heeled shoes, can almost see the boy who was father of the man, who is, in turn, father to her, and she can almost hear the words that Louis himself gave to him: In me the past lives.

  Abundant Harvest

  Late September, Stowney House.

  “A penny for your thoughts—”

  “Martha! I didn’t hear you.”

  Martha places an enamel bucket on the grass and sits down with Spark next to the fountain. They have to raise their voices above the splashing water.

  “Is everything ready? Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, everything’s done, thank you. I’m just waiting for Edward to arrive. He won’t be long. He’s a punctual man. But I came to ask you if you could tell your father that I’ll be serving at one o’clock. Be sure to tell him there’s no hurry, mind. We’ll wait on him. We’re having cold cuts and I’ve made a pork pie. . . . There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Dan’s invited me to visit him when he starts his new job. I can’t decide what’s best to do.”

  “You like New York, don’t you?”

  “I love it.”

  “So?”

  “Ludo will be there.”

  “Ah.”

  “He’s not as bad as you think.”

  “I can’t advise you on that. Why don’t you sleep on it? You’re a clever girl. You’ll know what to do for the best.”

  “The thing is . . . I can’t stop thinking. . . . Because of who I am, it can’t go anywhere—”

  “Bless you, you can’t work out life before it’s happened! The only sure way to protect yourself from hurt is to protect yourself from living. There never have been and there never will be any easy answers.”

  “Are you saying I should go?”

  “No. I’m saying only you can tell if he’s worth it.”

  “Do you think there are any other sempervivens, Martha?”

  “Your father thinks there must be. He’s always searched among the vagrants and the beggars, people who’ve lost their place in society. It’s where he found me and Jacob, after all. But I’ve always tried not to think about it—you could send yourself mad.”

  Martha gets to her feet and picks up her bucket. She lifts off the lid, revealing scraps of vegetables, and shows it to Spark.

  “So your brother can feed Bontemps. I think he’s smitten with that tortoise.”

  Spark watches Martha set off for the orchard.

  “Martha!”

  “Yes?”

  “I do understand that I’ve got to be careful now. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  * * *

  As Spark sets off for the boathouse, a car pulls up in the yard. It is Edward de Souza. He waves to her and Spark jogs back to the house to greet him. She notes that he’s wearing jeans—neatly ironed, naturally. He extends his hand formally, but at least he has started calling her by her first name.

  “I hear you’ve turned down your university place.”

  “I wanted to be with my father.”

  “I think you’re very wise. John tells me that you won’t let him forget that he educated your brother and not you!”

  Spark laughs. “He deserves it. I’m trying to drag him into the twenty-first century!”

  “I’m glad I’ve caught you on your own. I wanted to congratulate you on getting a prescription for your father—I gather the drugs are having some effect. You’re a miracle worker! He’s never listened to me.”

  “They’re not a cure, but it’s something. The neurologist we contacted said that if he refused to undergo any tests these might be worth a try.”

  “Well, if he’s more comfortable, that’s wonderful news.” Edward de Souza smiles. “I also wanted to take the opportunity to invite you to come to see me in my offices when you can. I’m accumulating quite a pile of papers for you to sign.”

  It’s so weird, she thinks, that along with everything else, she seems to have acquired the services of Mr. Edward de Souza.

  “So, are you my lawyer?”

  “The short answer—and there is a much longer one—is: I am.”

  “Can I afford you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You certainly do.”

  Spark looks at him and thinks that he is a nice man, and that she can trust him.

  “Listen, Spark, I know this is a day of celebration, but I wanted to say to you that, sooner or later, you’re going to have to make certain decisions regarding your future. And I believe that the kind of things you will face, won’t have been faced by your father.”

  “You mean because it will be so much more difficult to conceal things?”

  “I mean precisely that.”

  “And I can’t live in Stowney House forever—”

  “You could, but I can see that you might not want to—”

  “But we’ve got to keep it going for Martha and Jacob.”

  “Absolutely. It goes without saying—it’s their home.”

  Spark finds half-articulated thoughts rushing to the surface; she hesitates, then decides she may as well say what she thinks. “If it’s at all possible that there are other people like me, I want to do everything I can to find them.”

  “If I were in your position, I’m sure I’d be thinking along the same lines.”

  Spark looks at him, surprised. “Oh?”

  “Naturally your priorities aren’t going to be the same as your father’s. The only thing I would say is that perhaps now is not the time.”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that I don’t want to be trapped inside this secret. I want who I am to open things up—not close me in. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A floating seed, a tiny gossamer parachute, drifts in a current of air between them. The lawyer tries to catch it but misses. Spark brings the palms of her hands together and captures it before opening up her hand again and blowing the seed away.

  “You’ve got a lot to consider. But you’re not alone, Spark, and you can always count on me. Use me as a sounding board. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to protect your interests and help you adapt to change on your terms. Remember that as well as being your lawyer, I am your Friend.”

  Spark steps forward and kisses him
on the cheek. “Thank you, Edward.”

  * * *

  “Dad. Dad. . . .” John Stone wakes to the kiss his daughter plants on his stripe of white hair. He blinks, dazzled by the light on this warm September day. He shades his face with his hands.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep again.” The hammock rocks from side to side as John Stone stretches out.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better, I think. Rested.” He regards Spark with one eye and gives her a wry smile. She is backlit by the noon sun so that her hair, stirring in the breeze, has become a halo around her head.

  “Martha says lunch is ready when you are. She’s made the table look so pretty. And she’s let Bontemps out of his cage to roam free.”

  “Jacob will be pleased!”

  “I think she’s teaching him a lesson for disappearing when Mum asked him to show her the kitchen garden.”

  “Jacob hasn’t offended her?—”

  “No, no—she knows what he’s like. Cantankerous, she calls him. I think she’s got a soft spot for him.”

  John Stone laughs.

  “Will you tell her?”

  “One day I’ll tell Mum—and Dan. But not yet. . . .”

  “Do you mind if I lie here a moment longer? I’m still a little groggy.”

  “Take as long as you like,” says Spark. “Martha says there’s no rush. Can I wait with you?”

  She lowers herself onto the edge of the veranda, dangling her legs above the water. The rippling river slides by; along its margins, tall reeds swish and sway.

  “I can see why you come here,” she says. “I love it too. You must never let this old boathouse fall down.”

  “I could build you a new one—”

  “No! I love the peeling paint and the rickety decking.”

  “It’ll collapse eventually.”

  “I don’t care.”

  They sit peaceably. Spark tells her father that she’s decided to go to New York, after all, when Dan starts his new job. Just for a few days—if he doesn’t mind.

  “Of course,” says John Stone. “I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls down the canvas with one finger to look at her. Silhouetted, against the marsh, all blues and greens, she’s shading her eyes, and looks upward.