Page 71 of Days You Were Mine

From the first chord, I know it’s ‘The Man in Me’ by Dylan. The room shrinks as Jake seeks out my face and holds my gaze. And this song, which has broken my heart at times, becomes joyful in Jake’s rendition. I understand why he’s chosen to play it tonight: it’s his way of reassuring me that he’s going to be fine, we are going to be fine. Better than that. We are going to be golden.

At the end of the set, the audience roars its approval with cheers and catcalls and stamping of feet. Rick turns to me and says: ‘Prepare yourself, my love. They are going to be massive.’

Now

Luke

I take a taxi from Clerkenwell to Clapham, too wretched and confused to face the Tube or the office or anything apart from the confrontation that must come next. My head is filled with Rick’s words – ‘I’m not your father’– and then his refusal to tell me anything else.

‘Do you think she kept his identity from you for no reason?’

His frustration had returned, this man whom I’ve admired so much, first as art-loving bystander and then with what I believed was some biological claim upon him.

‘Well, if you won’t tell me, Alice will have to,’ I said, all bravado, though I don’t feel like that now.

It’s around 2.30, several hours before I am due home from work, and as I put the key into our front door, I wonder momentarily what I will find on the other side. I hear singing from the kitchen – oh God, that bloody song again, an anthem that penetrates right through to my core.

Alice has a lovely voice, and she sounds happy as she sings, happy and absorbed. When I enter the kitchen, for a moment she doesn’t see me. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with her sketchpad, Samuel in front of her in his bouncy chair. She has her head to one side, examining him, a small smile on her face. I feel as if I could watch them for hours, but perhaps I amsignalling something through the airwaves, for she glances up and gives a shriek of surprise.

‘Luke! Don’t creep up on me like that. You gave me such a shock.’

There’s something in her face here, something I can’t identify: guilt perhaps? As if I’ve caught her at something.

‘Why aren’t you at work? Are you ill?’

You could say that. Ill in the head, sick in the heart.

‘Why did you lie to me about who my father is?’ Less of a question, more of a rant. ‘Why would you do that?’

And here’s the thing: her face collapses instantly. She puts her hand across her mouth and stares down at the table, and I see the telltale tremor of her shoulders.

‘You asked me if I was ill just now and I’m beginning to think I might be. Hannah thinks I’m having a breakdown.’

‘She said that?’

‘In so many words. She thinks this reunion of ours has pushed me over the edge.’

‘Same here,’ Alice says with a small smile.

And something about that smile, her casualness, snaps the final string. My rage is volcanic, bigger than me, bigger than everything. I can do nothing but submit to it, shouting like a tormented child.

‘Who is my father? Tell me! TELL ME.’

Alice shrinks away from me; I see it, yet I cannot stop. I feel … violent. I slam my hand down on the table so hard it hurts.

‘Tell me who my father is. You have to.’

I’m wailing, I’m demonic, and Alice has her hands against her face.

‘All right!’ She’s shouting too. ‘Sit down, Luke. And, for God’s sake, please calm down. Think of Samuel, if not me.’

Through all this yelling, the baby has remained asleep. Andthe sight of him – I can just see the top of his head peeking out above his chair – soothes me. I sit down opposite Alice. I breathe in slowly and let the air out in a long rush.

‘Christ. Sorry. I lost control.’

‘You don’t need to apologise. I understand how hard this is on you. But I haven’t been able to talk about your real father for a long time. Twenty-seven years, in fact. Your lifetime. I haven’t said his name out loud in all that time. I’m not even sure that I can.’

‘Then write it down. Write me a letter. Just tell me the truth. Please, finally, can I know the truth?’

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