I can tell he's surprised when she doesn't laugh. He looks unsure of himself and angry about it, the way he did when he and my mother were getting ready to tell me they were splitting up. I run along the line of huts and think of hiding in one so I can jump out at Kate. Maybe they aren't empty after all; something rattles in one as if bones are crawling about in the dark. It could be a snake under part of the roof that's fallen. I keep running until I come to steps leading up from the street to the top of the island, where most of the light is, and I've started jogging up them when Kate shouts, "Stay where we can see you. We don't want you hurting yourself."
"It's all right, Kate; leave him be," my father says. "He's sensible."
"If I'm not allowed to speak to him, I don't know why you invited me at all."
I can't help grinning as I sprint to the top of the steps and duck out of sight behind a grassy mound that makes me think of a grave. From up here I can see the whole island, and we aren't alone on it. The path I've run up from leads all round the island, past more huts and towers and a few bigger buildings, and then it goes down to the tunnel. Just before it does it passes the wall above the beach, and between the path and the wall there's a stone yard full of slabs. Some of the slabs have been moved away from holes like long boxes full of soil or darkness. They're by the wall where I thought I saw heads looking over at us. They aren't there now, but I can see heads bobbing down towards the tunnel. Before long they'll be behind Kate and my father.
Iannis is well on his way back to Elounda. His boat is passing one that's heading for the island. Soon the sun will touch the hills. If I went down to the huts I'd see it sink with me and drown. Instead I lie on the mound and look over the island, and see more of the boxy holes hiding behind some of the huts. If I went closer I could see how deep they are, but I quite like not knowing—if I was Greek I expect I'd think they lead to the underworld where all the dead live. Besides, I like being able to look down on my father and Kate and see them trying to see me.
I stay there until Iannis's boat is back at Elounda and the other one has almost reached Spinalonga, and the sun looks as if it's gone down to the hills for a rest. Kate and my father are having an argument. I expect it's about me, though I can't hear what they're saying; the darker it gets between the huts the more Kate waves her arms. I'm getting ready to let my father see me when she screams.
She's jumped back from a hut which has a hole behind it. "Come out, Hugh. I know it's you," she cries.
I can tell what my father's going to say, and I cringe. "Is that you, Hugh? Yoo-hoo," he shouts.
I won't show myself for a joke like that. He leans into the hut through the spiky stone window, then he turns to Kate. "It wasn't Hugh. There's nobody."
I can only just hear him, but I don't have to strain to hear Kate. "Don't tell me that," she cries. "You're both too fond of jokes."
She screams again, because someone's come running up the tunnel. "Everything all right?" this man shouts. "There's a boat about to leave if you've had enough."
"I don't know what you two are doing," says Kate like a duchess to my father, "but I'm going with this gentleman."
My father calls to me twice. If I go with him I'll be letting Kate win. "I don't think our man will wait," the new one says.
"It doesn't matter," my father says, so fiercely that I know it does. "We've our own boat coming."
"If there's a bus before you get back I won't be hanging around," Kate warns him.
"Please yourself," my father says, so loud that his voice goes into the tunnel. He stares after her as she marches away; he must be hoping she'll change her mind. But I see her step off the jetty into the boat, and it moves out to sea as if the ripples are pushing it to Elounda.
My father puts a hand to his ear as the sound of the engine fades. "So every bugger's left me now, have they?" he says in a kind of shout at himself. "Well, good riddance."
He's waving his fists as if he wants to punch something, and he sounds as if he's suddenly got drunk. He must have been holding it back when Kate was there. I've never seen him like this. It frightens me, so I stay where I am.
It isn't only my father that frightens me. There's only a little bump of the sun left above the hills of Crete now, and I'm afraid how dark the island may be once that goes. Bits of sunlight shiver on the water all the way to the island, and I think I see some heads above the wall of the yard full of slabs, against the light. Which side of the wall are they on? The light's too dazzling; it seems to pinch the sides of the heads so they look thinner than any heads I've ever seen. Then I notice a boat setting out from Elounda, and I squint at it until I'm sure it's Iannis's boat.
He's coming early to fetch us. Even that frightens me, because I wonder why he is. Doesn't he want us to be on the island now he realizes how dark it's getting? I look at the wall, and the heads have gone. Then the hills put the sun out, and it feels as if the island is buried in darkness.
I can still see the way down—the steps are paler than the dark—and I don't like being alone now that I've started shivering. I back off from the mound, because I don't like to touch it, and almost back into a shape with bits of its head poking out and arms that look as if they've dropped off at the elbows. It's a cactus. I'm just standing up when my father says, "There you are, Hugh."
He can't see me yet. He must have heard me gasp. I go to the top of the steps, but I can't see him for the dark. Then his voice moves away. "Don't start hiding again. Looks like we've seen the last of Kate; but we've got each other, haven't we?"
He's still drunk. He sounds as if he's talking to somebody nearer to him than I am. "All right, we'll wait on the beach," he says, and his voice echoes. He's gone into the tunnel, and he thinks he's following me. "I'm here, Dad," I shout so loud that I squeak.
"I heard you, Hugh. Wait there. I'm coming." He's walking deeper into the tunnel. While he's in there my voice must seem to be coming from beyond the far end. I'm sucking in a breath that tastes dusty, so I can tell him where I am, when he says, "Who's there?" with a laugh that almost shakes his words to pieces.
He's met whoever he thought was me when he was heading for the tunnel. I'm holding my breath—I can't breathe or swallow—and I don't know if I feel hot or frozen. "Let me past," he says as if he's trying to make his voice as big as the tunnel. "My son's waiting for me on the beach."
There are so many echoes in the tunnel I'm not sure what I'm hearing besides him. I think there's a lot of shuffling, and the other noises must be voices, because my father says, "What kind of language do you call that? You sound drunker than I am. I said my son's waiting."
He's talking even louder as if that'll make him understood. I'm embarrassed, but I'm more afraid for him. "Dad," I nearly scream, and run down the steps as fast as I can without falling.
"See, I told you. That's my son," he says as if he's talking to a crowd of idiots. The shuffling starts moving like a slow march, and he says, "All right, we'll all go to the beach together. What's the matter with your friends, too drunk to walk?"
I reach the bottom of the steps, hurting my ankles, and run along the ruined street because I can't stop myself. The shuffling sounds as if it's growing thinner, as if the people with my father are leaving bits of themselves behind, and the voices are changing too—they're looser. Maybe the mouths are getting bigger somehow. But my father's laughing, so loud that he might be trying to think of a joke. "That's what I call a hug. No harder, Love, or I won't have any puff left," he says to someone. "Come on then, give us a kiss. They're the same in any language."
All the voices stop, but the shuffling doesn't. I hear it go out of the tunnel and onto the pebbles, and then my father tries to scream as if he's swallowed something that won't let him. I scream for him and dash into the tunnel, slipping on things that weren't on the floor when we first came through, and fall out onto the beach.
My father's in the sea. He's already so far out that the water is up to his neck. About six people who look stuck together and to him
are walking him away as if they don't need to breathe when their heads start to sink. Bits of them float away on the waves my father makes as he throws his arms about and gurgles. I try to run after him, but I've got nowhere when his head goes underwater. The sea pushes me back on the beach, and I run crying up and down it until Iannis comes. It doesn't take him long to find my father once he understands what I'm saying. Iannis wraps me in a blanket and hugs me all the way to Elounda, and the police take me back to the hotel. Kate gets my mother's number and calls her, saying she's someone at the hotel who's looking after me because my father's drowned; and I don't care what she says, I just feel numb. I don't start screaming until I'm on the plane back to England, because then I dream that my father has come back to tell a joke. "That's what I call getting some tongue," he says, leaning his face close to mine and showing me what's in his mouth.
End Of The Line (1991)
"Pook."
"Is this Mrs Pook?"
"Who wants to know?"
"My name ... My name is Roger and I think you may be interested in what I have to offer you."
"That's what you say. You don't know a thing about me."
"Don't you wish you could see what I look like?"
"Why, what have you got on?"
"I mean, don't you wish you could see my face?"
"Not if it looks like you sound. Mum, there's some weird character on the phone."
"Hang on, I thought you said you were Mrs—"
"He's saying would I like to watch him."
"Who's speaking, please? What have you been suggesting to my daughter?"
"My name is Rum, that is, my name's Ralph, and I think you may be interested in what I'm offering."
"I doubt it. Don't I know you?"
"My name's Ralph."
"I don't know anyone called Ralph, but I'm sure I know your voice. What's your game?"
"He said his name was Roger, Mum, not Ralph."
"Did he now. Charlie? Charlie, pick up the extension and listen to this."
"Mrs Pook, if I can just explain—"
"Charlie, will you pick up the extension. There's one of those perverts who like to hide behind a phone. He can't even remember his own name."
"Who the fuck is this? What do you want with my wife?"
"My name's Ralph, Mr Pook, and perhaps I can speak to you. I'm calling on behalf of—"
"Whoever he is, Charlie, his name isn't Ralph."
"My name isn't important, Mr Pook. I should like to off—"
"Don't you tell me what's important, pal, specially not on my fucking phone. What do you want? How did you get this number?"
"Out of the directory. Can I take just a few minutes of your time? We'd like to offer you a way of avoiding misunderstandings like this one."
"It's we now, is it? You and who else?"
"I'm calling on be—"
"Charlie, I think I know who—"
"Tell you what, pal, I don't care how many of you there are. Just you say where I can find you and we'll settle it like men."
"Just put it down. Just put it down."
"What are you mumbling about, pal? Lost your voice?"
"Mrs Pook, are you still there?"
"Never mind talking to my fucking wife. This is between you and me, pal. If you say another word to her—"
"That's enough, Charlie. Yes, I'm here."
"Mrs Pook, would your first name be Lesley?"
"That's it, pal! I'm warning you! If any fucker says another fucking word—"
"Just put it down," Speke told himself again, and this time he succeeded. The long room was full of echoes of his voice in voices other than his own: "I'm speaking on behalf...", "Don't you wish..." During the conversation his surroundings—the white desks staffed by fellow workers whom he scarcely knew, the walls to which the indirect lighting lent the appearance of luminous chalk, the stark black columns of names and addresses and numbers on the page in front of him—had grown so enigmatic they seemed meaningless, and the only way he could think of to escape this meaninglessness was by speaking. He crossed out Pook and keyed the next number. "Mrs Pool?"
"This is she."
"I wonder if I could take just a few minutes of your time."
"Take as much as you like if it's any use to you."
"My name is Roger and I'm calling on behalf of Face to Face Communications. I should have said that to begin with."
"No need to be nervous of me, especially not on the phone."
"I'm um, I'm not. I was going to ask don't you wish you could see what I look like."
"Not much chance of that, I'm afraid."
"On the phone, you mean. Well, I'm calling to offer—"
"Or anywhere else."
"I don't rum real um realura really under—"
"I could have seen you up to a few years ago. Do you look as you sound?"
"I suppum."
"I'm sorry that I'm blind, then."
"No, it's my fault. I mean, that's not my fault, I mean I'm the one who should be sorry, apologising, that's to sum—" He managed to drag the receiver away from his mouth, which was still gabbling, and plant the handset in its cradle. He crossed out her name almost blindly and closed his eyes tight, but had to open them as soon as he heard voices reiterating portions of the formula around him. He focused on the next clear line in the column and, grabbing the receiver, called the number. "Mr Poole?"
"Yes."
"This is Mr Poole?"
"Who, you are?"
"No, I'm saying you are, are you?"
"Why, do you know different?"
"Yum, you don't sound—" To Speke it sounded like a woman trying to be gruff—like Lesley, he thought, or even his daughter, if hers had been the voice which had answered the Pooks' phone. "My name is Roger," he said hastily, "and I'm calling on behalf of Face to Face Communications. I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes of your time."
"It'd be hard for me to spare anyone else's."
"Well, qum. Dum. Um, don't you wish you could see my face?"
"What's so special about it?"
"Not just my face, anyone's on the phone. I'd like to offer you a month's free trial of the latest breakthrough in communication, the videphone."
"So that you can see if I'm who I say I am? Who did you think I was?"
"Was when?"
"Before I was who I said I was."
"Forgum. Forgive me, but you sound exactly like—"
"Sounds like you've got a wrong number," the voice said, and cut itself off.
It seemed to have lodged in his head, blotting out the overlapping voices around him. He returned the handset to its housing and made his way up the aisle to the supervisor's desk, feeling as if his feet were trying to outrun each other. The supervisor was comparing entries on forms with names and addresses in her directory. "How's it coming, Roger?" she said, though he hadn't seen her glance at him.
"A bit hit-and-miss this evening, Mrs Shillingsworth," he managed to say without stumbling. "I wonder if I should vary my approach."
"It seems to be working for everyone else," she said, indicating the forms with an expansive gesture. "Have you any customers for me?"
"Not yet tonight. That's what I was saying."
She ticked a box on the form she was examining and raised her wide-eyed placid flawless face to give him a single blink. "So what did you want to suggest?"
"Maybum, jum, just that maybe we could use our own voices a bit more, I mean our own words."
"I'll mention it next time the boss comes on-screen. Have they installed yours yet, by the way?"
"They were supposed to have by now, but we're still waiting."
"It's important to you, isn't it?"
"I didn't think seeing people's faces while I'm talking to them was, but now I know I can..."
"Customers have priority. I'll speak to the engineers anyway. As for your calls, you can play them by ear to a certain extent. Just don't go mad." She looked down quickly, clearing her throat, and pulled th
e next form towards herself. "Give them another half an hour, and if you haven't had any joy by then I'll let you go."
The conversation had left Speke feeling locked into the formula, which sounded more enigmatic every time he placed a call. "My name is Roger and I'm speaking on behalf of—"
Only half an hour to go ...
"My name is Roger and I'm speaking—"
Only twenty-eight minutes ...
"My name is Roger and I—"
Only twenty-six ...
"My name is Roger—"
Twenty-four minutes, twenty-two, twenty, one thousand and eighty seconds, nine hundred and fifty-seven, eight hundred and forty-one, seven hundred and ...
"My name is Roger and I'm speaking on behalf of Face to Face Communications."
"Really."
"Yes, I wonder if I can borrow a few minutes of your time. I expect that at this very moment you're wishing you could see my face."
"Really."
"Yes, I know I am. I'd like to offer you a month's free trial of the latest breakthrough in communication, the videphone."
"Really."
"Yes, you must know people who already have one, but perhaps you think it's a luxury you can't afford. I'm here to tell you, Mr Pore, that our technicians have brought the cost down to the level of your pocket, even my pockum. If you'll allow us to install our latest model in your home for a month at no obligation to you, you can see for yourself."
"Really."
"That's what I said."
"Well, go ahead."
"Sorry, you wum— You're asking me to arrange a trial?"
"I thought that was why you were calling, Roger."
"Yes, of course. Just a mum, I'll just gum—" Speke had been growing more and more convinced that Pore was making fun of him. He snatched a form from the pile beside the six-inch screen, on which electrical disturbances continued to flicker as though they were about to take shape. "Let me just take a few details," he said.
Pore responded to his name and address with no more than a grunt at each, and emitted so vague a sound when he was asked what times would be best for him that Speke suggested times which would be convenient for himself, not that it had anything to do with him, When he returned the handset to its nest his half an hour had almost elapsed, but he couldn't call it a day now that he might have made a sale. He pushed the form to the edge of his desk to be collected by the supervisor and found his gaze straying up the column in the directory to Pook, Charles. He crossed out the listing until it resembled a black slit in the page, and then he wished he'd memorised the number.
The Collected Short Fiction Page 114
