by Alison Fell
‘Finally, I finished going over this last batch. What a mess! Frankly, if anyone but you had sent it to me, I’d have sent it right back – I never saw so many inexcusable errors, both in numerals, and, what is infinitely worse, in signs. You were once furious at me for saying you confuse certain signs – but you do, over and over again!’
Myres replied immediately by telegram, followed by a letter. On May 8th, a week before she died, Kober responded in a tone that was only partly placatory.
‘Yes, I am in a bad temper. I’m in considerable pain, and am writing under difficulties. Forgive me if I am less than tactful.’
She did not retract her criticisms, however – gravely ill though she was, Kober was not one to back away from intellectual fisticuffs. She concludes, ‘I apologise if anything I say is offensive. Forgive it and impute it to my health. The success of SM II and your reputation mean a great deal to me – I’m a terrific sentimentalist about people I admire and I cannot bear to have any imperfections that I can correct. You’ve put up with my bluntness so long now, perhaps you can condone it.’
Alice Kober died a week later, on May 17th, without ever having known just how ill she was.
It’s not, of course, the end. Ingrid can no more let Alice rest in such a barren grave than consign herself to the same fate. There will have to be a conclusion, a definitive summing up of how much the Ventris decipherment, two years later, owed to her groundwork. The tone, too, is wrong: Kober’s bitter frustration with Myres’ failings makes grim reading. Not to mention the final image of the invalid in bed with her Linear B jigsaws, still struggling to fit together the right pieces, still hoping against hope to come up with the unassailable solution.
61
Elsa has dug out the family albums, which as far as Ingrid can see go back to the birth of photography – none, noticeably, from the Laurie side, but generations of stiff Stewarts and Hendersons, poker-faced in sepia, as well as other antecedents Elsa hasn’t yet managed to identify. Greta needed visual stimuli, they’d decided, and here was a regular dynasty to hone her memory.
While Ingrid turns the pages Greta peers at the photographs, but listlessly, as if she can’t really see the point but has decided to play along.‘Who’s that, then?’ says Ingrid, pointing, but her mother seems impatient with crofting great-grannies and fresh-faced soldiers off to Flanders Field. Only the colour photos engage her – specifically, those she appears in: a Silver Wedding portrait, Greta in navy-blue satin cleavage with pearls. And of course the luminous Corfu snaps.
‘Don’t I look young, though?’ she says mournfully, to no one in particular.
Ingrid’s wedding pictures perturb her. Her finger hovers over the three tier wedding-cake, the young couple with hands clasped together on the hilt of the knife. There’s a model of the Parthenon on the top tier, made of white icing, someone’s bright idea at the time.
‘That’s you, is it?’
Ingrid cringes at the big 80s hair and shoulderpads. ‘Oh, indeed it is. Twenty-two going on fifty, if you ask me!’ She’s touched, suddenly, by the youth of the couple, by the unguarded happiness in Tim’s smile. ‘And there’s your favourite man.’
‘Tim?’ Greta runs an experimental finger over his face, like an archaeologist brushing the dust of millenia off a Bronze Age coin. She nods, beaming. ‘Aye, so it is!’ After a moment her face crumples with confusion. She glances agitatedly around the room, casing every corner. ‘But he didn’t come with you?’
‘He’s busy, Mum.’ Quickly Ingrid turns the page. If Greta has trouble recalling the marriage, why bother reminding her about the divorce?
Day by day Greta is losing weight, metamorphosing into a quick, aerial creature. She’s become sparrowlike, her blue eyes beady with alarm. Every morning, arriving at the Home, Ingrid and Elsa smoke on the front steps, procrastinating. Neither saying a word but both asking themselves the same question: what state will she be in today? Sometimes she’ll be scooting around the corridors with her wheelie, pursued by nurses: she’s taken to darting into the rooms of other inmates and swearing blue murder when admonished. Soothed by stroking, she slumps in her chair, earthbound again, drops off with the smile still on her face.
When was the last time she saw her mother well? Spring, it must have been. Daffodils dotted the lawn, and the azaleas were coming into bloom in the borders. Just before she flew off to the States. She remembers having to explain to Greta why it was necessary to go all that way for the sake of some old papers.
Greta wasn’t convinced. Well I can’t see what’s so interesting about this Kober woman, she retorted. Why can’t you write my biography?
It’s the randomness that alarms her, the sudden frights and furies. The symptoms spring out from an invisible core, like radio signals that prove the existence of some far-off planet. She keeps trying to make sense of them, when perhaps there’s no sense to be made. Yet the effort feels oddly familiar, as though the script was written for her years ago, and all she has to do is reprise the role.
What were Greta’s interests? the Activities Leader had inquired.
Ingrid racked her brains. ‘Crosswords,’ she said at last. ‘She was always a dab hand at crosswords. Weren’t you, Mum?’
Greta’s nod was apathetic. Fingers laced together in her lap, she was literally twiddling her thumbs, as if waiting for the real action to begin. Ingrid was struggling. Greta needed something to occupy her, certainly, but the word rehabilitation implied that once upon a time there was something substantial which could now be rebuilt, and it was years, really, since she’d shown much interest in anything. ‘She used to go to whist-drives. And I think she liked country dancing when she was young. Didn’t you, mum?’
It didn’t sound much to be going on with, like trying to rebuild a house out of spun sugar, but it was enough to bring a beam of enthusiasm to Kelly’s face. ‘We’ll have to have a wee game of cards, then, won’t we, Greta.’
Although the weight of fat on Kelly’s hips and thighs rather belied her optimism, at least she was energetic, and keen to do good. For that she was more than thankful, if it brought pleasure or order into the toxic disorganisation of her mother’s days.
Every afternoon before they left, she and Elsa left notes for the nurses on Greta’s locker.
Greta would like her brassière on in the morning.
The silk scarf Greta likes seems to have vanished.
We have brought in 10 pairs of labelled jog-pants so far – where are they?
‘ ‘‘Care Home’’!’ Elsa snorted, ‘Careless Home’s more like it! One night in that place would drive anybody round the bend.’
Thanks to Elsa’s insider knowledge of State bureaucracies, an appointment with the hot-shot geriatrician at the Perth Royal had been brought forward. Dr. Fitzwilliam was a stocky, jovial thirty-something, with thick thighs and a pronounced limp which he was quick to dismiss as the after-effects of a tackle in the weekend rugby match. His hair was straw-blond, his prominent blue eyes framed by pale eyelashes.
Lipsticked and ladylike in her wheelchair, Greta assessed him coolly. ‘You are pretty,’ she said at last, pronouncing each word with care.
The consultant’s laugh boomed out. ‘Looks like we’ll have to send you for an eye test as well, Greta!’ His accent was Anglo-Scots. A top-notch public school, Ingrid thought: Fettes, Invergordon. ‘Eye for the chaps, has she?’
‘You could say that,’ Ingrid agreed ruefully. ‘She always did prefer the men.’
Fitzwilliam pulled Greta’s wheelchair towards his own chair, spreading his thighs so that his knees flanked hers. ‘Now then, Greta. Can you say ‘‘British Constitution’’ for me?’
Pursing her lips, Greta spat it out in one breath. ‘Brishconstitution!’
‘Excellent.’ He pulled a fountain pen from his top pocket and held it up. ‘Can you tell me what this is?’ Ingrid tensed, willing her to pass the test.
‘Pen,’ Greta replied. Her bemused look said that only an idiot would ask such a que
stion. Her eyes hadn’t left Fitzilliam’s face; she appeared to be quite at ease, fascinated, even, by his professional glamour. Ingrid watched in silence, envying his expertise.
Picking up a stethoscope, he dangled it in front of her. ‘And what’s this, Greta?’
For the first time Greta seemed uncertain. ‘Now I should know that, shouldn’t I?’ Her eyes appealed to Ingrid. ‘Scope? Telescope?’
‘Nearly there,’ Fitwilliam encouraged. ‘It’s a stethoscope.’
Greta tsked at herself. ‘Och, of course it is!’
‘Righty ho,’ he said cheerily. ‘So let’s see if you can recite the alphabet for me.’
Greta could, sailing all the way through to O, getting muddled on the PQR. Prompted, she picked it up again and finished off with a flourish on the Z.
Fitzwilliam clapped, and Ingrid joined in; even Elsa tilted her eyebrows, impressed. ‘Has she been geting any speech therapy?’
‘None at all,’ said Ingrid.
Her enquiries at Buncranna house had been met with blank looks. She’d conducted her own experiments with Elsa’s old scrabble game, sorting out 7 counters for Greta and 7 for herself, laying out the word STRONG in the centre of the board.
At first Greta had looked dully at the letters in her tray, as though she’d forgotten the rules. Leaning over, Ingrid saw an O and a T. ‘You can have GOT, Mum!’
Her mother had hesitated, frowning down at her counters. ‘Can’t I have INGOT, though?’
When Ingrid told Fitwilliam he slapped his thighs and laughed with what seemed like genuine pleasure. ‘Well, you’d beat me at it, Greta, that’s for sure!’
She’d felt vindicated then: intermittent her speech might be, but surely this was proof not only that sound and script were a world apart, but also that Greta was a woman who certainly hadn’t lost her marbles.
Delirium after stroke was the diagnosis – exacerbated, Fitzwilliam suspected, by a urinary infection. The dysphasia was already improving, he informed them, riffling through the heap of forms and photocopies on his desk – but it could take another month or so.
He signed referral forms in rapid succession, like a tennis star autographing Wimbledon programmes. CT scan, urine test, speech support, endoscopy. He shook hands with Ingrid and Elsa and then, ceremoniously, with Greta, and limped ahead of them to open the door.
‘To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised they didn’t have her in hospital straight away!’
*
The walls of the shed insulate her from outside noises: although she can see Elsa wheeling pots around in the enclosure, she can’t hear a thing. Her eyes are gritty with weariness; her mind stots about like a cricket in a belljar. Rotating her jaw to loosen the tension, she forces herself to check her emails.
There are two from Maxine, and one from the Institute, warning of predictable snarl-ups in next semester’s teaching timetable. There’s also a surprise update from Pamela D., who appears to have been soliciting information from far-flung cousins. None of the Gruber relatives has any recollection whatsoever of a break-up between Franz and Katarina. The consensus is that, at a time when millions were out of work, people took what employment they could get, and, as a janitor, Franz would have had to reside at the building where he worked.
Are they closing ranks, perhaps: protecting the family reputation?
About his downward trajectory, however, there’s no doubt. Before he married, Pamela says, Franz was a seminarist, in training for the priesthood. Education, she stresses, was always a priority for the Kober family.
This, surely, is a crucial clue. Or rather clew. The failed ambitions of the father forcing the daughter to carry the torch.
The bad news comes at the end of the email. Even as a relative, Pamela will not be given access to the cause of death. The confidential medical report filed with the Department of Health is unobtainable information ‘under almost any circumstances’, and only half a dozen times in the last few years has the regulation been overturned. Pamela reiterates that, at the time of Alice’s death, cancer was never mentioned as a cause, at least not to the children, who were told that her health gave out due to over-work, stress, and lack of proper food and heating on her visits to post-war England.
Pamela has done her best, and no more can be asked of her. So, short of lengthy court cases on the part of the family, that, presumably, is that. The bureaucracy of the State has slammed its doors, and the mystery will remain unsolved.
While she waits for Pamela’s email to print she stares at the words on the screen, trying not to dwell on the fact that there’s been no word from Yiannis.
Elsa’s shed smells of new paint and wood-glue. Like Dr.Who’s Tardis, the interior is far bigger than it appears from the outside. Apart from the work-station and photocopier, there’s room for a sink, a fridge, even a toilet hidden behind a door at the far end. Shelves groan with shiny trowels, Miracle Gro, and aphid sprays, and on a carousel hang packets which contain an entire A-Z of British flora, from Antirrhinum to Zinnia: Elsa’s time capsule holds enough seeds to colonise several unsuspecting planets with the offshoots of Mother Earth. If they survived the journey, that is – hasn’t she read somewhere that seeds don’t germinate in zero gravity?
Why can’t she just accept that limbo is where she lives right now; it’s no kind of time to be making decisions? She can take only one thing at a time; see no farther than the next day, the next visit to Buncranna.
Like strangers who meet on a plane, they made no promises. If she hasn’t emailed him herself, mustn’t that mean she has nothing of substance to say?
62
Between call-outs, Yiannis laboured on his deposition. Wiltraud and Manoli Dimeros were both in custody, awaiting trial; the Magistrate had not granted bail. Wolfgang, Margrit and the others continued to maintain that Kruja had left the commune two months before, while Prys had expounded so persuasively on the ethical disposal of mobile phones that the Magistrate, no doubt thoroughly bamboozled, had dismissed them on the basis that there were insufficient grounds to proceed.
To pass muster with the Public Prosecutor the police case would have to be unassailable; anything less would be shot down in flames before it even reached the court.
Elena Lambrou, aka the scourge of ELAS, was old school, and followed the constitutional principle of objectivity to the letter. Rumour had it that, after treatment for cancer, the Prosecutor wore an auburn wig which she had a habit of removing at odd moments, a gesture guaranteed to intimidate obstructive witnesses or stop logorrheaic lawyers in mid-flow.
Lambrou would see it as her duty to investigate the clues and circumstances that favoured the accused, as well as those that went against them: to ferret out the truth, rather than secure a conviction at all costs.
Although he doubted that even Lambrou would be able to shed light on Ivo Kruja’s fate, he couldn’t help wishing her luck. Perhaps Ingrid, so far, had come closest to the truth. Perhaps mere theorising wasn’t enough for Kruja: he’d wanted to experience prehistory for himself, plug into its ecstatic practices. For all Yiannis knew, the kid had seen himself as an explorer of unknown spiritual galaxies, like some cosmonaut sacrificing himself for the advancement of science.
Not that any of this mattered now. The facts were what mattered, not the extrapolations from the facts, nor the wild and wishful speculations which bore more relation to the beehives skulking in his own brain than to any demonstrable reality – sworn statements, forensic evidence, the damning call made to Manoli’s cellphone.
As if by some tacit agreement not to dwell on procedural failures, the dispiriting question of the still-unidentified DNA had been dropped. Which didn’t mean it had escaped the notice of a press determined to undermine police credibility, and spurred on, as usual, by Hourdaki the gadfly, who made it her business to sting at every opportunity.
*
Crossing the dancefloor to the table where the others were already seated, Yiannis felt Aglaia’s eyes burning into his back. Understandabl
y, her greeting had been less cordial than usual – a cool nod from the kitchen doorway which he had answered in kind – but Aglaia Dimeros was a businesswoman first and foremost, and clearly wasn’t about to risk a spat with a long-term customer.
Theo spotted him first and hailed him with a wave. Everyone except Irini stood up for handshakes and kisses, scattering napkins to the floor. A beribboned bouquet of roses and tall scented lilies lay on the tablecloth, but somehow he didn’t think Aglaia would be bringing a vase to put it in.
As he embraced Tassos, whose domed forehead already bore the proud sheen of paternity, he saw with relief that the seat saved for him wasn’t the one beside Dora’s. Dora herself gave him a tight smile and an awkward peck on the cheek; she looked handsome, he thought, in something modest and midnight blue.
Ouzo was poured for him, and toasts drunk to the mother-to-be, who glowed decorously as she sipped her sparkling mineral water. He looked round the table, wondering if they were all thinking what he was thinking: this would be the last year of carefree get-togethers, and from now on there would be buggies and curfews, and smoking bans, as the focus shifted – quite rightly, he reminded himself – to the next generation.
Theo slid a video cassette across the tablecloth. It was Pasolini’s Theorem. Yiannis couldn’t even remember lending it.
‘Sorry, pedi-mou, must have had it for ages. Not my cup of tea, as they say.’
‘Not even the bit where the maid levitates?’ Yiannis shook his head reproachfully. ‘You’re a barbarian.’
Theo’s eyes were on a young couple Aglaia was showing to the next table. The girl was bronzed and bosomy in a tight scarlet dress, while the boy wore faintly nautical white. Both had wraparound shades pasted to the tops of their heads, which meant they could only be Italians. As they took their seats Yiannis noticed the logo RICH embossed in brilliants on the stem of the boy’s sunglasses. He also registered that the girl’s cleavage was nothing short of spectacular.
