Annie has turned up now, and together they prepare the breakfast for Mr Caldecott and Mr Harbison, which Annie serves, leaving Eloni to set the tray for Mr Gillies and carry it upstairs. She returns through the dining room, expecting to see Mr and Mrs Sampson, who usually come downstairs at exactly half past seven, but instead she sees, by an opened window, the man who arrived yesterday – Mr Morton, says Mr Caldecott’s note. Tying the loose belt of her pinafore as she hurries to his table, she apologises for keeping him waiting.
‘Not to worry,’ says the man, directing a smile to the side of her face. He gives his order, blinking slowly at the table, as if he has not woken up properly, while his fingers stroke the folded napkin. Moving around the juice glass, his hand knocks it a tiny distance from its place, and it is then that she knows that he cannot see. ‘Pardon me for asking,’ he says, as she finishes writing, ‘but was it you upstairs when I arrived?’
‘I am sorry?’
His eyes flicker at her. They are very dark and not clouded at all, but the skin around them seems shrunken and lifeless, like a fruit that has begun to dry out. ‘When I was standing at the desk,’ he says, ‘before Mr Caldecott came, there was someone on the gallery, a woman. Up above,’ he gestures, pointing over his shoulder. ‘She spoke to me. “Hello.” I was wondering if it was you.’
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘I thought I recognised you. My name’s Edward,’ he announces, pushing a hand towards her, for her to take.
‘Mr Morton,’ she says, as if his name were hers. Confused by herself, she backs away.
Through the window in the kitchen door she spies on Mr Morton as he eats his breakfast. His head never stops moving: he turns his face to the garden, to the room, to his food, to the ceiling, as if he did not know what to do with his eyes. Like crabs nibbling at seaweed on a rock, his fingers scurry over the basket of croissants, barely touching it. The sight of him gives her a feeling of unease, not just because of his strangeness, but because he brings to her mind the blind man at Sarandë, and now she can think of nothing except the blind man at his table. All day long he sat there, outside the café, drinking cup after cup of coffee, gulping the soup that the owner’s wife brought him, smoking his American cigarettes without a break. From the start of the day to sunset the blind man sat staring at the sea with his dead white eyes, as if plotting the most complicated plan that anybody had ever thought of. His jaws were moving all the time, clenching with anger, and nobody spoke to him, other than the owner’s wife, and she seemed scared of him too. All day he was there, staring into the sun, with the evil dog at his feet. The animal stooped under the weight of its greasy black fur and a wide scar of bald skin ran across the dog’s shoulder. Its ragged mouth, always grinning, swung back and forth like a scythe when the animal walked. Leaving the blind man at his table, the dog would swagger down to the beach, to root through the rubbish on the sand, and in the middle of the day it took shelter from the sun inside the boat that was stranded on the beach, creeping up the ramp of reddening sand to the breach in the hull. Like a drop of black oil falling into a pool of oil it disappeared into the shadows, and sometimes you would hear it barking at a rat in there, a horrible sound, booming out of the wreck. One day she sat on a chair she had found in the water, a cracked red chair. She was so near the wreck she could hear the scratching of the dog’s claws on the steel as it prowled through the hold. Pushing her feet into the hot sand, she looked out to sea, despairing of her life. She could see a brightly coloured sail against the hills of Corfu. She looked around her, at the tidemark of bottles and rope and seaweed and tins, at the miserable café where the blind man sat. Inside the café, Italian music was playing loudly on the radio. She watched the small waves gnawing at the rusty hull. The blind man’s dog began barking in the hull while she gazed with longing at the coast of the Greek island, thinking of life in Greece, in Italy, in England.
As soon as Mr Morton has gone out of the room she clears his table. He has left everything very tidy: the napkin folded to the side of the plate, no crumbs on the tablecloth, no drips of coffee either. It is odd that Mr Caldecott did not write in his note that Mr Morton is a blind man, she thinks; it is possible he did not realise that he is blind, but it is not very likely. Impossible, of course, because he spoke to him. Noticing that the window has been closed, she unfastens the catch and sees Mr Morton out in the garden, standing halfway down the drive, with his hand on one of the stone dogs.
Edward bends to touch the object that his cane has struck and his hand comes into contact with a steeply curved brow and high ears, above a long pointed muzzle that must be the mouth of a greyhound. Lilies are growing nearby. He walks towards the scent, crossing turf until his shins press against a chain barrier, where the smell of bare soil now mingles with the perfume of the lilies. He turns back to the path and follows it to the iron gate, where he turns right, along the perimeter wall. There is indeed a narrow road here, but a road of tarmac rather than the scrubby track he walked with Charlotte. On the opposite side of the road there is a stand of trees which may be the wood through which they climbed. Standing in their shade, he turns his face into a billow of soft warm air and thinks about where he is. What are the contours, the colours of this terrain? How far is the horizon? He extends a hand to the trunk of a tree. His fingers ruffle a ragged patch of bark, like a piece of frayed satin. It is a silver birch: Betula pendula. He repeats the name, Betula pendula, a name that has given him pleasure since he was a boy, for the melody of it and for its assertiveness and silvery delicacy, a combination perfectly befitting this obdurate wood and its clothing of feathery bark. And there was always pleasure in the sight of the birch, however obscurely he might have seen it. Amid a vagueness of greenery, in the sea-grey twilight that his eyes put over everything, the monochrome birches, the black gashes against the bright white trunks, stood distinct almost to the end. He cannot recall, though, if he saw silver birches on that afternoon with Charlotte.
Excited by the slightest of breezes, the birch leaves sweep themselves. A car horn blares on a road below, the road his taxi must have taken from the station; and farther away there is a continuous low noise of traffic, so low that the leaves erase it with their whispering when the air moves. It is an English sound, this mingling of trees and distant traffic. In England there are cars within hearing wherever you are, and this diffident breeze, carrying a modest scent of grass, is English too. He hears a tractor’s growl, far off; in the trees there is a fluttering of wings – pigeon’s wings, they would be. This is England, he tells himself; this is the voice and the air of England. But then the breeze expires and for an interval the world is emptied of everything except the texture of birch bark and the tenuous roar of traffic far away. Another bird sets off in a shaking of leaves, and now the sound signifies nothing more than a bird taking wing. For all he knows from what his senses tell him, he could be standing on the hill above Gengenbach, the town in which his friends were strolling towards the abbey and taking photos of each other outside the half-timbered buildings. Held by both arms in the centre of the group, like a mascot, for a picture in front of the famous Rathaus, he had abruptly become morose and had removed himself to the wooded hill, where he stood with his hand on the trunk of a birch, in the breeze that flowed over the invisible forests and the rooftops and the vines that grew on the slope of the valley. The valley is called the Kinzigtal, and the cars that he could hear were on the road to a town beginning with Off – Offenburg. Of Gengenbach itself he remembers narrow alleys with plants climbing and hanging on both sides, and small cobbled squares in which fountains dribbled water from high spouts. That was Gengenbach, and this hill he will remember as the hill near the Oak, the hill where he thought of Gengenbach.
Skimming his fingertips on the wall, he retraces his steps to the garden. He strolls off the path, across a lawn that ends at a high hedge. It is hornbeam, he decides, stroking the serrated leaves with a thumb, running a finger across the troughs between the leaves’ prominent vei
ns. And this car will be Charlotte’s, he is almost certain. The last dab of the throttle before turning off the ignition is Charlotte’s trick; the crack of the door sounds like Charlotte’s crumbling Citroën. He brushes the leaves with his hand once more.
‘Edward?’ Charlotte calls, leaving the gravel. ‘Edward? What on earth are you doing?’
‘Talking to the trees, Charlie.’
‘Daft bugger.’ She cradles his face gingerly in both hands. ‘Hello, bro,’ she says.
He receives a kiss of gluey lipstick and inhales a scent which he does not recognise. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘The perfume.’
‘Joop.’
‘A whole bottle?’
‘Fuck off, Edward. I like it.’
‘It’s nice,’ he says, putting his hands on her waist.
‘Thank you. Rude pig,’ says Charlotte, brushing something from his shoulder. ‘Dust, not ’druff,’ she explains. ‘Snazzy kit you’re wearing.’
‘Wouldn’t want the folks to think I can’t look after myself.’
‘You’re looking well.’
‘As are you, I’m sure,’ he smiles, squeezing her hips. ‘But a bit too skinny for Mum, I’d say. Bet she’s force-feeding you. How are they?’
‘Bumbling along. They’re well.’
‘And the house?’
‘They like it. It’s the right size for the two of them. But the garden’s too small for a shed, so Dad’s taken over one of the bedrooms.’
‘That’ll be fun for Mum.’
Prompted by a nudge, Charlotte links arms and leads him towards the car. ‘Mum’s hurt that you’re not staying with them. I’m warning you.’
‘And where exactly would I go? Burrow in the sawdust? I mean, you’ve got the sofabed –’
‘They don’t actually have a sofabed. Just a settee and a load of cushions.’
‘Well, there you are then. Ridiculous.’
‘I know. I’m just warning you she’s narked. They were going to borrow a camp bed for you.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Edward, I know.’
‘And I couldn’t get any work done there, could I?’
‘No, Edward. I understand.’
‘And they’d drive me bananas inside a day.’
‘They’re already driving you bananas. Head.’
‘What?’
‘Head,’ she repeats, and her hand falls onto his hair to guide his stoop under the car’s roof.
Charlotte’s car smells of her perfume and warmed plastic and crackers. His hand, sweeping the seat around his thighs, finds some sharp flat crumbs and a cellophane wrapper. ‘This is the same old heap, isn’t it? The Citroën?’ he asks as Charlotte inserts the ignition key.
‘Don’t be rude, Edward. It’s a reliable car, and it’s friendly.’
‘Done sixty in it yet?’
‘Would you like to walk? That can be arranged.’
‘No, but it’s about time this thing was put out of its misery. It must have half a million miles on the clock by now.’
‘Exactly. It’s reliable. And I can’t afford a new one.’
‘But –’
‘Shut up, Edward. Zip it.’ The car begins to turn.
‘Hold it,’ he shouts, putting up a hand. ‘One last thing before we set off.’
‘What?’ she snaps, braking.
‘Does this place seem familiar to you at all?’
‘What? This hotel?’
‘Yes. I thought we might have been here once, when we were kids.’
‘When?’
‘You would have been around seven. I seem to see a picnic and a big building with a garden in front of it. I thought it might be this one.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘You sure? Have a look.’
‘I’ve had a look.’
‘Have another. Just a quick one. A quick little peek.’
The car moves off at walking pace. ‘Nope,’ she states.
‘Not in the slightest bit familiar?’
‘Never seen it before.’
‘Positive?’
‘Bleeding hell, Edward. Positive.’
‘A false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain.’
‘What?’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s OK. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Edward. Don’t criticise my car and don’t be a smart-arse.’
‘OK. Fair enough. Onward,’ he declares, smacking the dashboard. He opens the window and puts his face into the rushing air.
‘Big kid,’ Charlotte mutters, patting his knee playfully, but she sees nothing playful in the expression that is fixed on her brother’s face: rather, there is anger in the furrows above his eyes, as if she has let him down by not giving him the answer he wanted. She gives him her news about the children, about Lucy’s prize for gymnastics and Sarah’s school trip to Wales. Simon might be in line for promotion, she tells him; her job at head office might be axed, though, and then she’d be back at the Gloucester branch. Edward smiles, nods his head, frowns concernedly, but he is thinking of something else. He seems to have decided that today will not be easy, but she can never tell any more what he’s thinking. It used to be like looking into a darkened cage, looking into his face. In his room, at his desk, he would put down the big lens and wince at her under the glaring light, straining to see. Now he has closed his eyes; he has the appearance of looking inward, making up his mind about something. ‘Try to be patient with Mum,’ she says, and he nods and puts his face back into the rushing air.
In the garden, sitting in the high-backed chair, he is as grim as a judge. Grasping the arms of the chair he tells her: ‘I might go. I might not go. There’s no point getting into a state when she hasn’t even got the job yet.’
‘But I worry, Edward.’
‘As do we all, Ma.’
‘How you’ll cope, I mean.’
‘It’s Italy, not the Siberian tundra. It’s really quite civilised. I’ll cope there the same way I cope here, if I go.’
‘I don’t know, Edward. I saw a story in the paper. Some American boy was kidnapped.’
‘Where, Mum? Where was this?’ Edward demands, almost shouting.
‘In the papers.’
‘Yes, I gathered that. But where in Italy?’
‘Somewhere, Edward. I don’t know. It was awful. Cut off his ear, they did.’
‘Believe me, I am not going to be kidnapped.’
‘Rome, I think it was. Or Naples.’
‘Naples,’ their father confirms.
‘Miles and miles and miles away, Mum. Another country. And I bet your American boy was the heir to a fortune. Not a random impecunious foreigner.’
‘I don’t know, Edward, but it was horrible.’
‘What a catch I’d be. One disabled translator. Any reasonable sum accepted. No cheques. Will consider part exchange. It’s not going to happen, is it? Be sensible, Mum.’
‘He’s right, Mary,’ says their father.
Their mother makes a gesture of woebegone appeal to her husband, miming his name. Looking wearily at Edward, she tallies the beads of her necklace. ‘But it’s a big step,’ she says, passing him another sandwich. ‘You have to think carefully.’
‘Believe it or not, Mum, that’s what I’m doing.’
‘It can so easily go wrong.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ Edward moans, putting the sandwich down before he has taken a bite. ‘Here we go. This is the intro to Ethel, isn’t it? Ethel going bonkers in Winnipeg.’
‘You shouldn’t make fun, Edward. She had a shocking time, she did. Thought she’d be all right, but she needed her friends and her family more than she thought.’
‘Enough, please,’ Edward interrupts. ‘So Ethel went to Canada and became an abandoned wife with a brood of uncontrollable brats and a vicious addiction to sleeping tablets. From this you deduce not t
hat an excitable young woman would be ill-advised, on the basis of a two-week romance, to follow a feckless womanising boozer to a godforsaken dump in the middle of a zillion acres of wheat, but that separation from the home soil brings inevitable ruin to any Brit. It doesn’t follow, Mum, so spare me the heart-rending tale of hapless Ethel and her Canadian purgatory. She is not germane to the case,’ he pronounces, using his words to push her away, and so she never says what she means to say, and what Edward knows she means to say, which is simply that she will miss him if he goes away, and is afraid that she might never see him again. ‘So, Mum, what’s been happening, then?’ he asks when he has finished the sandwich, but there isn’t much to say, because of course nothing much has been happening. They are nearing their seventies; they don’t go out very often; their friends have started to die. Edward knows this, but still he asks that stupid question, as if he were talking to a friend down the pub. If he could only see how he looks, she thinks. If he could only see their mother’s helpless face.
‘You all right there?’ his father asks him. Assured that Edward is content to bask in the sun and listen for a while, he excuses himself for a minute or two, to go to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, declining her help, Edward goes to find him.
Following the hum and whine, Edward climbs the stairs. He knocks and opens the door, as a chisel shrieks on spinning wood. ‘Is it safe?’ he shouts. ‘May I come in?’
The lathe winds down with a slumping sound. ‘Hello, son,’ says his father, as though Edward still lived at home and had casually wandered into the room. ‘Careful there,’ he says, as his toe comes into contact with the foot of the bench, but he stays where he is. ‘Clear on your right. Chair just beside you.’
‘So this is the shed?’ he asks, moving crabwise across the hardboard floor until he touches the chair. ‘That’s it.’
‘You’ve got the bench set up, then?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Must be really popular with the neighbours,’ he says, and his father makes a soft snorting sound that may signify a smile. ‘What are you making?’
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