Your Mark on Me

Chapter 42: A Tiny Ring (part I)

I drive through the big iron gates wondering whether I typed in the wrong address in the sat nav. The gates are part of a large fence which seems to stretch far away; I can't see how far, but it must enclose a few acres of land. Around the cobbled driveway, beds of flowers and rose bushes sprinkle color to the vast green of the lawn. Tall oaks, apple trees and yews shade the ground from place to place. An imposing Georgian house towers above the surroundings, in front of it a big fountain. I can see the shapes of some statues surrounding it, but can't make out what they are from the distance.

I check again: it's definitely the address that Mom gave me. 

I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive her. As for him, my mind still can't process the information. He was alive, moving and existing in the same world as me, for these whole tenyears in which I would have given anything to see him, even if only once. This is where he lived during these ten years in which the two of them have been keeping in contact, sharing news about my life. Quietly shaping its course, without my knowledge.

Just when I thought my brain couldn't possibly become more messed up than it is.

I park the car on the cobbled square in front of the house, and get out. I can see the statues now: six nymphs posing in different positions and Pan playing the flute, his knees bent, his posture leaning forward, luring the nymphs. The air is fresh; it smells of grass and flowers and, when stronger breeze blows in my direction, a musty smell of stagnant water — it must be the lake he mentioned once.

There's no one in sight. I linger for a while, pretending to admire the intricate iron decorations and wooden sculpted ornaments on the big front door. For a second, I'm tempted to turn around and leave. What good can come out of it? At least I have the memories. I don't want to ruin them.

But I've already come too far.

I finally knock. I do it a few times before noticing the red button of the doorbell. I guess my mind somehow filtered it out; it seemed too out of place in this setting worthy of a Jane Austen book. I know it's silly, but I find it just as unfitting that the young woman who opens the door is wearing jeans and a baggy hoodie. I decide instantly that she can't possibly be his wife. I pray she's not the nanny either.

"Hi. Does Mr. Mark Crawford live here?"

She confirms in a correct English, spoken with an accent I can't place, and invites me in. We walk through a big hall at the sight of which I involuntarily let out a gasp. It's not just the sheer size of it, because, I'm proud to say, my own house is pretty big too. But there's something about this place: the colors, the antique furniture, the high ceiling decorated with Renaissance-style stencil patterns, the twin staircases flanked by beautifully ornate railings, the impressionist paintings on the walls. Everything is exactly the way I used to imagine my dream house. He was right: I would have loved living here.

It's funny how I ended up living in a monochrome minimalist setting with contemporary art on every wall, that Roy always pesters me to change.

We're now on the first floor, halfway through a long spacious corridor. On the wall in front of me a cluster of framed pictures hang and I stop briefly to look at them. There's a family picture with Mark's father, himself, Jane and her mother, I assume, by the crooked nose. There are lots of other people around them, extended family members the names of which I'll never know, or need to care about. Next to it, a picture of a young woman, alone, wearing a white long dress against the background of a garden. She's incredibly beautiful — the kind of angelic, ethereal, otherworldly beauty, enhanced by a pensive smile immortalised on her face. I know instantly who she is, and where Mark got his looks from.

"Mr. Crawford should be in here. Just a moment."

I nod and wait while she knocks, then opens the door and pokes her head in. "Mr. Crawford? You have a visitor."