Invisible

by Jonathan Buckley

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Yes. You sound surprised,’ she confirms. There is a shade of an accent in her voice, ‘yis’ rather than ‘yes’.

  ‘Surprised and very pleased,’ he says. He stretches out a foot to push the door shut. ‘I thought I’d hear from your mother first.’

  Stephanie gives a small grunt, perhaps of amusement. ‘Well, it’s me.’

  ‘After all this time.’

  ‘All this time,’ she copies.

  ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘I’m OK. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  Having waited for her to say more, he prompts: ‘You didn’t sound altogether OK in your letter.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she repeats expressionlessly, and again does not continue.

  He makes a non-committal sound, hoping that she will speak. ‘You’re not, are you? Not really,’ he says at last.

  She sighs loudly, then tells him: ‘We don’t get on. You spoke to her. You must have got the picture.’

  ‘Well, no. I don’t understand the situation. If the problem –’

  ‘The problem is that she’s who she is and he’s who he is and I’m who I am.’

  ‘Robert.’

  ‘The dentist. Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met the man.’

  ‘What, never?’

  ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Count your blessings. I’m telling you. He’s dull. Dull dull dull.’

  ‘Dull isn’t so bad. One can live with dull. I don’t see why –’ ‘He’s worse than dull.

  He’s dullness to the power of ten. Dullness de luxe. And she’s awful. They’re driving me mental.’

  ‘She’s not awful. Stephanie. She can be difficult. I know she can be difficult. I can be difficult. We all can be. But I don’t think she’s –’

  ‘But you wouldn’t know, would you?’

  ‘Well, I think –’

  ‘No,’ she persists with the aggression of a prosecutor, ‘you wouldn’t know. More than ten years ago you two split up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a lot can change in that time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You ought to try living here. It’s a police state. A cross between a police state and the Ideal Home Exhibition. That’s exactly what it is. Everything by the book. Everything in its place. All friends to be vetted, all homework to be signed off. Probably got my room bugged.’

  ‘Stephanie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past her. She opens my letters –’

  ‘That wasn’t good. We had words about it.’

  ‘A fucking outrage is what it was.’

  ‘Stephanie, please.’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Don’t use language like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘No, come on. We’re talking about your mother. There’s no need –’

  ‘We’re talking about my mother and you’re starting to sound like her.’

  ‘No, just tone it down a little. I want to understand, but abusing her doesn’t help.’

  ‘It helps me,’ she retorts.

  A silence fills the line between them. ‘So did you talk to her?’ he asks. ‘Did you talk to your mother about coming down here?’

  ‘Oh yeah. We had a talk, as recommended.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It was brilliant. She wanted to know what I was doing writing to you, like I need official permission before putting pen to paper. So I wanted to know what she was doing snooping in my room, and since when has it been a crime to write to your own father? And then she throws a full-on berserk. “Robert is your father. This is your home. Why are you doing this?” Completely bonkers, chewing the carpet.’

  ‘She’ll calm down.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. The day she’s buried.’

  ‘I think you should let her know that we’ve spoken.’

  ‘Oh yeah. And have her go ballistic again. Top idea.’

  ‘It’s best if she knows.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen. She’ll go totally mental.’

  ‘Tell a white lie. Say I phoned you.’

  ‘Won’t work. She’ll find out in the end. She’ll check the phone bill and see your number. She always checks the bill, every time. Like she’s worried I’m going to be spending all night on the blower to Mongolia or something.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Look, I’m not going to say anything to her. There’s no point. I’m not doing it,’ she says, with such finality that their conversation stalls.

  ‘Perhaps I should ring her tonight?’

  ‘God, don’t do that. Friday night is social night. She wouldn’t want that ruined. This week’s special guest is Mr Dunne, the gum specialist. A man who’s devoted his life to gums.’

  ‘A valuable public service.’

  ‘And his wife’s an airhead. A Nazi airhead.’

  ‘A bit strong, Stephanie.’

  ‘No, really, she is. She opens her mouth: a torrent of crap comes out. Lesbians, the Irish, the French, students, anyone to the left of Pinochet – you name them, she hates them.’

  ‘You’ll be having a fun evening, then.’

  ‘Too right. I’m out to the movies.’

  ‘To see what?’

  ‘Dunno. Whatever’s on. Can’t be worse than Mr and Mrs Gums.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he laughs insincerely. ‘Look, if she hasn’t phoned by Sunday evening, I’ll ring her, OK? Let’s not waste any more time. When would you like to come down, ideally?’

  ‘In about half an hour would suit me fine.’

  ‘Come on. When would be best?’

  ‘Whenever.’

  ‘All right. We’ll say as soon as possible, OK?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever. OK.’

  ‘Did you look at the brochure I sent?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘You’ll like the pool. You saw the picture?’

  ‘Yeah. It looked nice.’

  ‘And there’s a fantastic garden, with a tennis court. Do you play tennis?’

  ‘No. Haven’t got the build for swinging a racquet,’ she adds, with a mirthless chuckle.

  ‘Well, I can’t play tennis either,’ he says, then he notices the light for line one is flashing. ‘Sorry, Stephanie, can you hang on, just for a second? I have to take a call.’

  ‘No, you go,’ she tells him, perhaps taking offence at the interruption.

  ‘I’ll be just –’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says impatiently. ‘I’ve got to scoot.’

  ‘One minute. There’s one –’

  ‘Really. I’ve got to go. See you.’ And then, as an afterthought, snatching the phone back from its cradle, she says airily: ‘Nice to talk.’ The light for line two goes dead, and then the light for line one.

  He had imagined that something like joy would be what he would feel when he came to speak to Stephanie again, but instead what he feels is a light-headedness, and a measure of disappointment, not at her attitude towards him, but at her rancour towards her mother, a rancour that was audible in almost every word. He takes her letter from his pocket and reads a sentence or two, but it is irrelevant now, superseded by their conversation, a conversation he almost wishes had not happened, because it has tainted his anticipation of her arrival. Instantly brought closer to his daughter by the sound of her voice, he has been left somewhere that feels no closer at all.

  He puts the letter back in his pocket and goes out of the office. About to enter the Randall Room, he sees Mr Morton seated in a wicker chair at the open door, alone, facing the garden, his face raised to receive the mildness of the breeze. He touches the door and Mr Morton turns his head.

  The briefest expression of worry passes over the blind man’s brow and then comes a smile of comprehension. ‘Mr Caldecott,’ he says, raising a hand.

  Arr
ested by the certainty with which Mr Morton has spoken his name, he stops at the table in the centre of the room. ‘Mr Morton. Could I bring you something?’ he asks. ‘Tea, perhaps? We have fresh scones and home-made preserves.’

  ‘Thank you, but no, I don’t think I will,’ says Mr Morton. ‘Later, possibly. For now, this will suffice,’ he says, gesturing towards the garden.

  ‘Another very pleasant day,’ he comments, preparing to withdraw.

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Morton agrees. His fingers play chords on the tape recorder that lies in his lap.

  ‘We have some tapes you could borrow, if you’d like. Some Mozart symphonies, a bit of Haydn. We use them as background music at receptions. I don’t know if that’s your taste –’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ says Mr Morton. ‘I may take you up on that offer later. Perhaps this evening.’

  He retreats a pace. ‘I’ll let you enjoy the afternoon in peace, then,’ he says, but as he reaches the door he hears the wicker crack. Turning round, he sees that Mr Morton has twisted in the seat to face him, as if suddenly remembering something he had intended to say. ‘If it’s not any trouble, a spot of Mozart would be welcome,’ he says.

  When he returns with the tape, Mr Morton’s demeanour has changed. His face, turned down towards the machine in his lap, betrays a darkening mood, a distractedness like that of a reader whose book has led him to a dispiriting thought. ‘Very kind,’ Mr Morton repeats, and there is a sense of absence in the smile with which he takes the cassette.

  ‘Is there anything else I could get you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Well, if you think of anything, there’s a bell here,’ he tells him, placing on an adjacent table the small brass bell he has brought from the reception desk. ‘There’ll be somebody right outside all afternoon, in the hall.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to Mozart and the weather,’ he says, but he remains by Mr Morton’s chair, looking at the cassette, which the blind man is holding as if it were an object of unknown purpose.

  Mr Morton adjusts his posture, grasping the arms of the chair to straighten his back, blinking at the garden, like someone mustering his concentration at the recommencement of a concert. ‘Please don’t let me detain you, Mr Caldecott,’ he says, and the request in his voice is unmistakable.

  ‘I’m not exactly rushed off my feet.’

  Mr Morton’s lower lip presses outward and he tilts back his head. ‘To tell you the truth, if you could spare me a couple of minutes, there are a few things I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘By all means,’ he says, pulling a chair closer.

  Mr Morton bends his head right back and turns to left and right, as if taking the measure of the space around him. ‘We’re in the room with the paintings, yes?’

  ‘We are. The Randall Room.’

  ‘The Randall Room. The greenhouse,’ Mr Morton remarks, with a nod of amusement. ‘The friend who made the booking for me, he saw a picture of it on a website,’ he explains. ‘He said it made him think of a mad millionaire’s greenhouse.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I suppose it could be.’

  ‘The ceiling feels high.’

  ‘It is. Twenty feet.’

  ‘And there’s a chandelier? A large chandelier? Behind us?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘OK,’ says Mr Morton, and the skin round his eyes tightens.

  ‘You knew there was a chandelier?’

  ‘I had an idea. When you walk underneath it, you can tell there’s something hanging above you. And the breeze is making something scrape up there.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. Listen,’ says Mr Morton, lifting a forefinger like a conductor preparing to give a musician his cue.’

  He listens, and hears nothing but the leaves shuffling in the wind.

  ‘There, you heard that?’

  ‘I heard something,’ he equivocates, and Mr Morton lowers his hand, gratified.

  ‘Now, this room,’ Mr Morton goes on. ‘A ballroom, would that be right?’

  ‘It was the Assembly Room, when the hotel opened.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘At the end of the eighteenth century. It was called the Angel, originally. Concerts were held here, and dances. Then, when the Angel became the Oak –’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘1870. Then the new owner, Walter Davenport Croombe, he converted the Assembly Room into a winter garden and commissioned the paintings.’

  ‘From Randall.’

  ‘From Randall, precisely. William Joshua Forster Randall of Devizes.’

  ‘Not a name I know.’

  ‘I don’t think his fame ever extended much beyond the county.’

  ‘And what about the paintings? What do they depict?’

  ‘There’s a wedding in the country on one wall, and workers in the fields on the other side, sowing seed and tending livestock. The third wall is a landscape, with herds of cows and a lake, and distant mountains above the door.’

  ‘And the style? How do the people look?’

  ‘Modern folk in medieval costume. Ladies in conical headdresses, men in colourful stockings, with Victorian whiskers. The peasants are all impossibly healthy looking. We had an art teacher staying here, a couple of years ago. She said that Randall’s work was just an anthology of Pre-Raphaelite quotations. A bit of Millais, a bit of Rossetti, a bit of Burne-Jones.’

  ‘I don’t have a very clear idea of what that might mean, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need. For all you know, I might once have been an aficionado of Burne-Jones. Do you like Mr Randall’s work?’

  ‘It’s not great art, I know that much, but I like what it does for the room. Gives it a certain gaiety.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I like it because it has a story.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Mr Morton, laying his hands on the arms of the chair to denote attentiveness.

  ‘Quite a long story.’

  ‘All the better,’ Mr Morton laughs, smacking the wicker arms. ‘I have an insatiable appetite for stories. So please, take as long as you like.’

  ‘OK. Well, our Mr Randall was something of a ladies’ man in his youth, until well into his forties, it appears. Then, finally, he was enticed to the altar by Elizabeth Drummond, the sole offspring of a local magistrate. Croombe commissioned these paintings seven or eight years later. Though then in his fifties, Randall was still a handsome man, slim and with a roguish glint to his eye. His self-portrait is in the wedding procession. He appears as a friar, walking next to a somewhat muscular nun.’

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, when Randall was here, a rumour began to spread that he had become involved with a local farmer’s daughter, a girl by the name of Lily Corbin, who was around twenty at the time. Tongues started wagging when Randall included a portrait of Lily in his painting: she’s a serving girl at the banquet table. Not only that. The friar – Randall – is holding a book in his left hand, and if you continue a line from the index finger of that hand it leads you straight to Lily. For some people this was a clear sign that something was going on. Elizabeth certainly thought something was going on, because one afternoon she stormed in here, accused her husband of being a heartless adulterer and a corrupter of young women, and proceeded to stab him with a knife she’d taken from the kitchen. It’s said that as Randall staggered back some blood from his hand got onto the wet plaster, and that he later disguised the stains by painting a bank of poppies around them. There was something of a scandal, and Randall’s wife never let him out of her sight after that. Every day she followed him to the winter garden, and sat in the middle of the room all day long. As for Lily, she protested that nothing improper had occurred between herself and Mr Randall. She always insisted on their innocence, but the taint of sin remained with her, and she never married.

  ‘Now, our night porter, Mr Naylor, his father was a grocer down in the town, and Jack, Mr
Naylor, used to go with him when he made deliveries to the outlying villages. This was after the war. One of their customers was an old lady who lived in a cottage on what had once been her parents’ farm. And of course this old lady was Miss Corbin. Some Sundays, Jack and his mother would cycle out to visit her. Jack would play outside while the women chatted in the kitchen. By this time Lily lived almost entirely on the ground floor of her cottage. She had her bed in the parlour, and her bathroom was downstairs. But one day there was a rainstorm and water started dripping through the ceiling of the landing. It was Jack who noticed the water coming through, and he took a bucket from the outhouse and went up the stairs to put it under the leak. Being just eight or nine years old, an inquisitive age, he couldn’t resist having a look around. He pushed at a door, and what he found was a dusty, cobwebbed room that had nothing in it – nothing, that is, except pictures. Dozens and dozens of pictures. Leaning against the wall there were paintings that had gone baggy in their frames. Albums full of drawings were heaped on the floorboards, with loose sheets of paper strewn all over the place.

  ‘That night Jack told his mother what he’d seen. It was through Jack’s mother that we learned more about Randall’s last years. It was known that Randall had returned to the Oak towards the end of his life, in 1895, after Croombe had installed electric lights in the hotel. The new lighting caused a sensation, but it didn’t flatter the paintings, Croombe thought. On the contrary; the colours looked wan and flat. He made enquiries, and discovered that Randall was still alive, living in Bristol, still painting, but Elizabeth had died a decade before and he was alone now. He was almost penniless, and in poor health, so when Croombe invited him to the Oak to retouch the murals, it was like a gift from heaven. He came back, spent a month as Croombe’s guest, worked on his paintings, and then returned to Bristol.’

  Mr Morton has eased himself lower in the chair. His eyes have been closed for some time, but from small movements of his lips it had been clear for a while that he was attending to every phrase. Now, however, there is no sign that he is listening. He may even be asleep.

  He leans gradually towards the blind man, who now sits up and faces him, frowning. ‘Is that the end?’ asks Mr Morton.

  ‘Not quite,’ he replies, backing off, like a shoplifter accosted on the point of pocketing something.