Page 38 of Putting Down Roots

After tidying the tools away, I walk up to the house. I call for Luca as I enter, but there’s no answer. He’ll be somewhere about—I’ll find him later. First, I want to be clean. I spend a little longer than normal in the shower, my thoughts ever turning to Luca. After towelling dry and dressing in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, I call for Luca again.

“Up here.” A voice from the second floor. I haven’t been up there before. As far as I know, there are just a few bedrooms, mostly used for storage—I track him down in one of them. He’s kneeling on the floor, looking under one of the beds.

“Hi.” I bend down and plant a kiss on his lips, before sinking down to sit on the bed

“Hi. You smell nice.” He smiles at me.

“I certainly needed a shower, it’s a scorcher out there.”

“I know, I’m trying to find a hammock that Aunt Frances had. We used to string it up between the oaks on the front lawn.”

“That sounds like a great way to spend a summer evening.”

He grins at me. I’m sure his thoughts are heading in the same direction as mine—to being in the hammock together.

“Can I help look?”

“Sure, it’s blue-striped. Can you look in the next room, on the right?”

I leave the room. I don’t know why—maybe I was eager and didn’t hear properly—but I went to the left not the right. The door I open is clearly a bedroom, with a narrow bed on one side, a wardrobe and desk along one wall, and a large window looking out over the garden and up to the folly. But it isn’t the view that has caught my attention—it’s the pictures.

Sketches and paintings cover all the walls. I suspect these are Luca’s from his childhood. They’re mostly of the garden, and of his aunt, from what I can tell from photos I’ve seen of her. There are several of another lady, as well as a few abstract ones which seem to have a darker theme.

I’m roused from my staring by a noise behind me. Luca is standing in the doorway. He looks so different from the man I left a few minutes ago. Gone is the easy smile. The mask I haven’t seen for days is back and his eyes look wary.

“What is it?” I ask tentatively. He doesn’t say anything, he just crumples down onto the bed, tears streaming down his face.

CHAPTER 34

Luca

I didn’t wantJackson to see this room—not yet. Maybe never. Though in my heart I knew he must see it at some point. I’m pretty sure he’s never been up here, so I don’t think he entered it on purpose, but now he is here I don’t know what to do. I see the look in his eyes, the excitement of him seeing a piece of me. But his expression changes to concern when he looks at me. It breaks me and I can’t hold back the tears.

Within seconds, he’s next to me, folding me into his arms. After a minute I stop crying, and he wipes his thumb across my cheek, his face furrowed into a concerned frown.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter.

“What for?” He asks tenderly.

“Crying.”

“Hey.” He pulls me closer. “There’s no need for any of that. I’m sorry I stumbled in here by mistake.”

I shake my head slightly to let him know it wasn’t his fault. “It’s just too painful.” His hand rubs up and down my back—it’s soothing. I feel safe, and know that if I don’t tell him all now, I might never have the courage to do so again.

“I spent my school holidays here.” He nods. I’ve already told him that much.

“I didn’t go home because . . .” I pause. He continues with his hand up and down my back. “Because my father . . . he beat me.

“He used to beat my mother too, I’m sure of it. Once Aunt Frances found out, she insisted I come here. I went to boarding school during term time. It started when I was about ten. He’d always been an angry man and he used to pull me about, but he didn’t hurt me until then. Aunt Frances had come to visit me one weekend while I was at school—she often did. She had no children of her own, so she said she looked at me as her grandson. It was the week after I’d returned to school and I had a bruise on my face. I told her I’d got it playing rugby, but she saw through that. I was always a terrible liar.”

“So she arranged for me to come here. That was when I was twelve. I’d been suffering his beatings for two years. She allowed my mum to come and visit. She did her best to convince her to stay as well, as she knew that my mum bore the brunt of it, especially after I left.”

I can’t stop the tears from falling again. The failure of not being able to help my mum is a pain that will never go away. Aunt Frances had said that we could only provide her with the means to leave, but we couldn’t make her—she had to do it herself.

“On one visit from my mum, when I was thirteen, I told her I thought I might be gay. I don’t know why I did. I know now thatI shouldn’t have. I should’ve realised that my father would find out.” Along with the tears, I start to shake.

“You don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.” His hand never wavers.

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