Anna doesn’t understand her at first, but then her mother ties one end of the rope around her waist and passes the other to Anna. Feeding the line out behind her, she wades into the pool.
You just lean against that slab, there, she shouts, And hold on your end, and I’ll have a little paddle.
Anna ties the rope around her own waist and catches the end tight in her fist. She watches as her mother spreads her limbs, dipping up and down like a starfish on the surface of the water.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Lewis is shaving when he hears the knock on the door. He calls from the bathroom, but is surprised to find Marta already in the room, putting another tray down next to the one on the table. He wipes off the residue of foam with the palm of his hand.
Good afternoon, Mr Caine, she says, turning, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought you some lunch.
He’s conscious of the enforced closeness of them both, and of the small white towel he’s wearing around his waist. The sight of the trays cluttering the table, the smell of fried food, renders him mute. Marta straightens the edge of duvet, smoothing it as she ducks past him.
Mrs Calder and her daughter will be returning at the weekend, she says, So you will tell me—or Mr Savoy—if there’s anything else you need.
She turns back to the door, falters, and then decides to say her piece.
I notice you didn’t come down yesterday. If you prefer your meals up here, do let me know. And this evening? You’ll join us, I hope?
Her voice is light, appealing, and her manner is familiar. But looking at her face, Lewis sees she isn’t flirting with him.
Dinner parties aren’t really my thing, he says.
The corners of her mouth twitch. She shrugs again.
Of course, she says, Whatever you wish. By the way, it’s usual for me to clean the rooms up here—change the beds and so on—on Fridays.
Lewis looks about him, and down at himself, his bare feet on the rug. The room looked fine before she mentioned it, but now he imagines bolts of dust rolling under the bed, particles swimming in the air, and him, breathing in the slough of someone else’s skin.
You couldn’t do it today, could you? he says, lifting himself onto the balls of his feet.
Marta smiles at this.
What’s funny? he says.
She’s still smiling, but more uncertain now she’s heard his tone. She puts her hand on the edge of the door.
Forgive me, you’re not dressed. Today is Friday, Mr Caine.
When she’s gone, he goes back into the bathroom. A scurf of foam sits along the length of his jawline. He splashes water on his skin. His heart is racing, and he breathes out slowly, counting. In the mirror. He sees how tense his face is—how shifty.
Relax, he says to himself, baring his teeth over the word, It’s only a day. You’ve only lost one day.
TWENTY-NINE
Anna looks again at her watch. Her mother has been in the bathroom for over an hour. At this rate, they’ll be eating at midnight. She stares out over the balcony at the last smudge of sunset on the sea. Down in the building plot, she can just make out a corrugated iron arc, with the back half of the dog sticking out of it. It has been quiet since her mother started feeding it; Anna suspects it’s got a stomach ache.
Are you alright in there, mum? she calls. She thinks she can hear noises, but it could simply be a pocket of sound: waves crashing on the rocks, resonating inside her head.
I’m nearly—, her mother falters, I’m just coming.
When she opens the door, Anna sees at once what the matter is: her mother’s face is as shiny as a Maundy penny. She’s put white highlighter under her eyes, panda-fashion, and has scored two long brown furrows to mark the place where her eyebrows used to be. But there’s no lipstick; she’s wiping her mouth with a tissue.
Can you do it for me, love? she says, holding out the tube of lipstick for Anna, Only, I’m feeling a bit gippy.
She sits on the edge of the bed and closes her eyes. Standing over her, Anna has to compose herself before she dares put the colour on her mother’s mouth. She takes the tissue out of her fist and unfurls it.
Shall we just take a bit of this off? That bathroom light, it’s deceptive, she says, examining the slick of highlighter across her mother’s cheekbones, Was it the fish you ate for lunch, d’you think?
It’s those glasses, says her mother.
Anna concentrates, licking the tissue and dabbing at the make-up.
What is? she asks, peering into her mother’s face.
Those glasses! says her mother, opening her eyes and blinking at her, Can’t get your make-up on when they’re on, can’t see to put it on when they’re off.
I think I follow you, says Anna, her tongue on her lip, But this isn’t eyeshadow, is it, mum? What is it?
Brighteyes, says her mother, Cabbage got it for me, off the net. It’s like Tippex, she grins, Obliterates everything. Makes me look about eighteen.
In your dreams, says Anna, Now, come on, pucker up.
Her mother closes her eyes again and makes a moue, before breaking into a smile.
I used to do this for you, when you were small.
Yes, mum, keep still.
Her mother smiles wider. Anna takes a step back, waits.
You were a right little nag, she says, ‘Now do me! Now do me!’ And whatever it was—lipstick, eyeliner, nail varnish—you had to have some too. Old Mrs Farrugia was appalled. She’ll be trouble when she’s older, she used to say. But you just wanted to be like me.
She could talk, says Anna, the lipstick poised between her fingers like a stick of chalk, Old Nonna, what did she look like?
That hair, nods her mother, Black as the ace of spades, and how old was she?
Seventy? guesses Anna.
It was boot polish, her mother says, pulling a grim face, That’s why she wouldn’t go out in the rain.
And her lipstick, chimes Anna,
Was the colour of pig’s blood! Finishes her mother, and they both laugh at the memory.
Whereas yours, Anna says, gesturing her to close her mouth, Is as pink as a seashell.
It’s called Crystal Coral. I won’t tell you who chose it for me. It’ll only put you in a mood.
You’ll be wearing Crystal Coral on your nose if you don’t shut up, says Anna.
That’s what he says when he does it for me, says her mother, behaving now and offering up her face so that Anna can put a sweep of colour on both lips. Anna dabs off the excess with the tissue and stands back to examine her handiwork. Her mother presses her lips together with a quick squeaking noise.
We need our men friends, don’t we, for more important things than sex.
Seeing Anna blink at what she’s just heard, she rushes on,
Not that we have sex, you understand. I closed that gate, or door, or however it is you say it, when your father died.
Anna is looking at her mother but her mind is moving backwards. She’s thinking of a closed door, and how, suddenly, and with no effort, there’s one opening now. It will allow her to ask important things, it will allow her—if she’s careful—back to the time before it was closed. Her mother has moved on, heaving herself off the bed and bending over the side. She’s still talking, slightly embarrassed, and oblivious to the way Anna is standing still, hardly breathing.
But you see, Cabbage, now, he’s good at make-up, her mother says, scrabbling under the bed and pulling out her sandals, He’s got the theatrical backdrop.
Background, says Anna, tuning in again to what her mother has been saying.
That’s what I said, deafy, she scolds, and then, in a puton, creaky old voice, she cries, Isn’t it windy? No, dear, I think it’s Thursday.
So am I, laughs Anna, adding the punchline, Let’s go and have a cup of tea.
Her mother swings her handbag over her shoulder.
Did someone say G&T? she says.
Anna’s deafness didn’t go away when the infection cleared up. Her mother took her to the clinic. The
y were used to the mother and daughter by now, and kind, because they knew about their grief, how it had made them both ill in different ways. After the doctor had put the instrument back in its box, he turned to Anna’s mother.
There’s some scarring, but there shouldn’t be any lasting effect. People with perforated eardrums can hear perfectly well, you know.
At her mother’s insistence they were referred to an ENT clinic, to see a specialist. She attached Anna to a machine, and sat close, holding a pair of headphones.
When you put these on, you’ll hear some noises. Just press that button as soon as you hear them, okay?
Anna did as she was told. She pressed the button when she heard a noise, and, unsure of herself, she pressed when she didn’t. Sometimes the noises seem to meld into each other; they travelled over the top of her head in a swirling loop, and under her jaw like a chin-strap. It was quite monotonous until one particular noise made her straighten up with shock: someone was calling her name.
Afterwards, she waited while the doctor studied another machine. She was saying something: Anna could see her lips moving.
Can’t hear you, she cried, pulling off the headphones. Anna’s mother tutted at her daughter.
Of course you can’t, with those things on, she said.
The doctor was talking about glue and grommets, and showed them a huge plastic model of the ear. When Anna got bored trying to follow their conversation, she played with the pieces, which fitted together like a jigsaw.
There’s perhaps a very slight loss in the left ear, the doctor said, looking from mother to daughter, But it’s not unusual at this age, especially after an infection. We’ll just monitor it for a while.
Anna’s mother was pleased with the news. As a treat, they went into the Sarsaparilla Bar on the high street. Anna’s mother ordered a coffee, and the man came from behind the counter and crouched down and said to Anna,
Hello, little one. I’m Sammy.
He put his hand out to shake hers. Anna pushed her hands deep into her pockets, which made her mother laugh. Sammy laughed too, staring up at her mother and shaking his head. He looked like one of the men in the photographs on the wall behind him; they all had slicked hair and wide white grins. Sammy said they were actors, and her mother went across to look at the signatures on the photographs, exclaiming whenever she saw one she recognized. Watching how easily impressed she was made Anna feel even more uneasy: she hoped Sammy wasn’t an actor.
Even though there was music playing and her mother and Sammy were talking and laughing, Anna blocked them out. She listened purely to the noises inside her head: soft scratches, like a mouse in the skirting, and faint bleeps, and echoes. She wanted to tell her mother that she could still hear them, could still hear her name being called. She watched her carefully: her mother had pulled her headscarf down around her neck, her hair burnished auburn under the spotlights. Her lipstick on the edge of the cup formed a blurred pink bow. When Sammy brought her another coffee, he slid onto the vacant stool next to Anna and did his smile. He had a thin stick between his teeth, which he moved from one side of his mouth to the other. Anna sidled off her stool.
I need to pee, she said, looking around her.
When she came back up the stairs, her mother was waiting by the door with her headscarf in her hands.
See you soon, I hope, Sammy shouted from behind the counter, which made her mother turn round and wave at him.
They went to the Sarsaparilla Bar after each appointment at the clinic. It had become a regular event. Anna had dandelion and burdock and her mother had coffee and a conversation with Sammy. Once the usual preliminaries were over—Sammy asking if there was any improvement, and offering commiserations—he always did the same thing: he sat close to Anna and conducted his own experiments, talking behind his hand, or pulling his sweater up over his face and whispering into his chest. Anna had to guess what he was saying, and even though he was funny, speaking like Donald Duck or mumbling rude words, she dared not laugh. She understood how she was caught; if she laughed, they would know she could hear him, and he would be her new father; and she’d never go back to the clinic. Anna couldn’t allow that to happen, not now that she knew. At first, she couldn’t identify the voice calling her, so she tried to ignore it. But gradually, it took on a familiar tone. The pattern was always the same: it would start with just the bleeps and taps, until she could hear a faint whisper just behind them, getting closer, closer in her ear. It was her father’s voice. He would call her through the machine: Anna, Anna, gentle but clear, until the voice faded, and all that was left was an echo, the ghost of him in her ears. What Anna wanted was a way to answer him, but she didn’t know how. She thought he might be lost. Or that she was lost, and he was searching for her.
There’s no discernible damage, said the doctor, at their next visit, And the tests are—she searched for the word—Unambiguous. As far as they can be.
Anna sat quietly with the headphones round her neck. The sun shone like gloss on the window.
So what do we do now? asked Anna’s mother. She was wearing a black coat this time, and held a black headscarf in her hands.
We can continue to monitor the situation, said the doctor, With conversion deafness—
Anna’s mother interrupted,
With what, did you say?
Conversion deafness—it’s possibly—um, there’s no physical cause, at least none that we can find.
She paused, looked steadily at Anna’s mother,
I can refer you to a counsellor, someone who can help you with your loss.
It’s not me who’s deaf, said Anna’s mother, flipping the headscarf over her hair and tying it tight under her chin, Thank you for your time, doctor.
Her mother was wearing her best black because it had been a whole year since Anna’s father died. After the clinic, instead of going to the Sarsaparilla Bar, they went to visit his grave. Anna wanted to wear black as well, but she didn’t have any black. She wore her school uniform, which was grey, with a white blouse, and they bought a bunch of yellow flowers in paper wrapping from a stall outside the cemetery. They spent a long time walking the path between the graves, so in the end, Anna thought her father might really be lost, the way her mother kept saying his name, and wandering from place to place, and turning back on herself. When they’d walked nearly the whole way round, her mother let out a yelp and fell to her knees. She put the flowers on a flat stone; Anna understood that her father was beneath it.
We’ll get a headstone, she said to Anna, And put some words on it. That’ll make us both feel better. Better than any counsellor.
Is it a headstone because it’s on his head? asked Anna, trying not to cry.
No, pet, his head will be fine. It’s so we can find him again, when we next come to visit.
Will Sammy be coming too? Asked Anna, staring at the splash of colour marking the grave.
Who? said her mother, and taking a sharp breath, No. No Sammy. You must understand this, Anna. There’ll be no more doctors, and—listen to me—definitely no Sammy.
THIRTY
Lewis sits on the bottom step of the Nelson memorial. It has been cordoned off with red and white tape, which flutters with the rhythm of a kite on a line. It reminds him of a crime scene, but the notice printed on an adjoining piece of hardboard announces a restoration project, and the name of the firm. There’s the gusting wind again at his back, blowing off the sea. He smokes a cigarette, cupping his hand around the tip to make it last. He keeps the guest-house in full view, afraid that were he to shut his eyes, it might simply vanish. He fixes on his window at the top. If Marta took a look out through the nets, she would see him sitting there, like a dog waiting to be let back in. To the casual eye, he would appear fairly relaxed. In fact, his blood is so quick with excitement that he can feel himself shaking. And it’s all down to Marta and one word.
She was standing in the hallway, talking in a foreign language on the telephone, when he came down the stairs. He was just
about to pass her when she caught his eye, and put her finger in the air to indicate she wanted to speak to him.
Mr Caine, she breathed, flushed from her goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the line, Are you going out? I could make up your room?
He thanked her and opened the front door.
And dinner? she asked, bending round him to catch his eye, Only my son Kristian will be joining us tonight—he’s an engineer just up the road here, you know, on the Velsters project, and he finds Mr Savoy a little—here she dropped her voice and tried not to smile—A little concentrated?
You’d like me to dilute, said Lewis. He could feel his heart racing beneath his jacket, felt the words thicken on his tongue, but he smiled, as casually and unshiftily as he could, before skipping down the steps.
And he is still strangely elated. He’ll wait on the steps, and when he’s given Marta enough time to do his room, he’ll wander back in. He’ll be in a clean room, with a definite way forward. In his mind, the evening is shaped as a Venn diagram, one overlapping circle is the Velsters project, the other is Sonia; in the centre, just where he wants him, is Carl.
THIRTY-ONE
It’s hot inside the restaurant, and perilously dark, each table lit by a tealight in a shallow bowl. Seated behind the plate-glass window, Anna and her mother share the view of the harbour, a petrol blue sky gradually turning navy. They watch as people drift along the promenade. Anna’s mother makes wry comments about the clothes, the hairstyles, the fake tans on show. The maître d’ stands outside, trying to tempt them in to eat; it’s late season, every potential punter is treated to an abundant and showy welcome. Anna’s mother is fascinated by the goings-on; as they wait for the drinks to arrive, she observes everyone closely.
The evening has already taken flight; a party of lobster-coloured tourists across the aisle talk loudly over each other, posing for pictures and clinking glasses together. Before she’s even tasted her drink, Anna is asked to take a group photograph. Her mother is up from her seat immediately. She yells instructions at them, organizing the party into a grinning semi-circle. Above the din, Anna tries to make out what she’s shouting. It sounds like ‘say fantastic,’ but there’s a roar of laughter, which makes Anna think it must be something rude. Her mother slumps back in her seat, steadying herself by gripping the edge of the table.
Winterton Blue Page 17
