Invisible

by Jonathan Buckley

  ‘It wasn’t an emergency.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But was there some reason you didn’t call back this morning? This afternoon? We had an agreement.’

  ‘I don’t recall an agreement.’

  ‘You were supposed to call me today, at the latest. Before Monday, we agreed.’

  ‘I was going to ring.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Malcolm. Later. I was going to ring later.’

  ‘Later today, later this week, later this month?’

  ‘Today or tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You can believe me or not.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Malcolm, what’s the point of this call? To give me a ticking-off? I’m sorry I didn’t meet your deadline. I didn’t understand that we had a legally binding contract. You’ve put me right. I’m deeply deeply deeply sorry.’

  ‘We’d agreed to talk at the weekend, as you know full well. The point of this call is to talk about Stephanie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s why I called last night, as you know full well.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We need to discuss the situation, to agree on an arrangement.’

  ‘Another bloody agreement. I feel like I need a lawyer, talking to you.’

  ‘Kate, can we talk about this properly?’

  ‘By all means. Any chance of you getting down off your high horse?’

  ‘I’m annoyed with you.’

  ‘You’re so bloody patronising, Malcolm. It’s like being called into the headmaster’s office.’

  ‘If that’s how I came across, I apologise.’

  ‘It is how you came across.’

  ‘Then I apologise.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So now will you be a little more co-operative?’

  ‘There you go again. Can’t you hear yourself? Naughty naughty Kate.’

  ‘Can we just get to –’

  ‘One day I’ll tape you and play it back. Might be educational.’

  ‘Yes, OK, you do that. Now, Stephanie. Has there been any progress?’

  ‘Any progress. Any progress,’ she murmurs, her voice declining, then comes a pause from which he infers that she knows about Stephanie’s call and is struggling to dampen her anger, or is stoking it. ‘Well now, let me see,’ she resumes, with ironic insouciance. ‘We argued on Friday night and again at breakfast next morning. All three of us involved in that one. And there was a row in the afternoon, just the two of us, and another one last night, which might have something to do with why I didn’t get round to calling you.’

  ‘Then you should have said. You –’

  ‘Another incident at breakfast today, but only a little one. No screaming, or hardly any, which is progress of sorts, I’d say.’

  ‘Is it really –’

  ‘And no ructions since breakfast, which is good. Then again, the reason it’s gone quiet is that she’s not here.’

  ‘She screams at you? Literally?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says blithely. ‘On a regular basis. Or we have fantastic sulks. Last week, Monday night, she locked herself in the bathroom for two hours. Didn’t have a bath or anything. Just locked herself in and ignored us when we knocked. Except she did suggest that Robert might abandon dentistry in favour of a career with the police. Sorry – the fucking police. Because he had the nerve to ask if he could brush his teeth and get to bed. And when she finally emerges it’s like the end of a hunger strike, the way she drags herself out. And it’s obvious she’s been smoking in there.’

  ‘But I did that when I was a kid. A surreptitious fag –’

  ‘Two hours barricaded in the bathroom is not surreptitious.’

  ‘But a teenage girl –’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this. This is not your standard teenage bolshiness. If every teenager was like this, suicide rates would be off the scale.’

  ‘So what’s –’

  ‘This isn’t about her hormones playing up. She hates us. It’s as simple as that. When you talk to her, you’ll understand soon enough.’

  ‘She says she hates you?’

  ‘She doesn’t have to.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Malcolm, don’t “Well –” me. You don’t know. You’re not here. I am. Every day I have to put up with it, and I’m telling you she hates us. That’s what it’s all about. She hates us. That’s a fact.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why? How long have you got? She hates us because we’re suburban fascists, basically. Her exact words. We’re fascists because we’d prefer it if she didn’t lie about where she’s been and who she’s been with. Because we’d like her to put a bit more effort into her schoolwork. Because we don’t like her going to pubs at her age. Because we’d like her not to squander her life. We’d prefer it if she didn’t waste half the day sprawled on the lawn, staring at the sky. We’d prefer it if she didn’t smoke, but of course that’s not because we’re concerned in any way about her health – it’s because we want to control everything she does, and because we don’t want cigarette burns on the precious furniture and the stink of smoke in the house, a house she hates because it’s so comfortable and not what she wants at all, though if you have the nerve to ask her exactly what it is she wants, what she intends to do with her life, she can’t tell you, or she won’t tell you, because you won’t understand, being smug, unimaginative, middle-class, middle-aged, materialistic bastards who don’t understand a bloody thing except what microwave to buy.’

  ‘How long has this been –’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t make a note in my diary.’

  ‘But months, years?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘I wish I’d known.’

  ‘You know now. And it’s our problem, not yours. It’s for me and Robert to sort out, OK? You have to know now because you’ll be seeing her, but there was no reason for you to know before. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing,’ she says, with a gulping sound at which he realises, belatedly, that she is crying.

  ‘Kate?’ he says, and waits.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies at last, firmly, as though in answer to a banal question that had required a simple negative or positive response.

  ‘You all right?’ he asks.

  ‘Obviously not. But thank you for asking.’

  ‘It sounds bad.’

  She takes a couple of steadying breaths. ‘It is bad,’ she says, in a tone that seems to indicate her acceptance of his sympathy.

  ‘Shall we set a day?’ he proposes. ‘For Stephanie to visit? I don’t know if I told you, but the hotel is closing.’

  ‘I know. I read about it.’

  ‘You read –? Oh, I see,’ he says, with a dry, forced laugh.

  ‘Tuesday,’ says Kate.

  ‘This Tuesday?’

  ‘This Tuesday,’ she confirms, as though committing herself to a difficult choice. ‘I’ll bring her down in the morning. We’ll arrive around midday. That OK with you?’

  ‘You’re going to drive her down?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to drive her down. That’s what this morning’s skirmish was about. I know you might not want to see me, but that’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘It’s not that. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but I’d assumed she’d come on the train.’

  ‘So did she. But no, I’m bringing her. Personal delivery. If she’s going to see you, I should be there too.’

  ‘Fine. We can all have lunch in the hotel.’

  ‘Let’s not make that a firm date,’ she says. ‘Anything could happen, believe me.’

  ‘You could stay over. Both of you. At the hotel. I’ll pay for the rooms. It’s quite a place. Take a look at the brochure I sent Stephanie.’

  ‘We’ll see. We’ll have to play it by ear,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  There is a pause, ended by his saying: ‘I was looking at a picture of Stephanie, i
n Amsterdam.’

  ‘Malcolm, don’t start,’ she tells him.

  ‘I’m not starting. I was wondering if I’d recognise her if I passed her in the street, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll recognise her. It’s not that long ago.’

  ‘It feels it.’

  Again there is a silence, and then, instead of bringing their conversation to an end, as he was expecting her to do, she asks: ‘Which picture?’

  ‘In front of the station. She’s standing on a bench, wearing the red top with the elephants on it.’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘We were going to the sea. She’s holding the gold ball. You bought it on the way to the station. From Gertie Geyl,’ he reminds her.

  ‘Right,’ she says, with no conviction.

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘I remember Gertie. Of course I do. Golden Gertie,’ she says, as if quoting a line from a tedious song.

  ‘Probably gone now. Buried under a golden tombstone.’

  ‘Probably,’ Kate replies automatically. ‘I’ll see you Tuesday.’

  ‘Do you need directions?’

  ‘I’m forty years old, Malcolm. I can read a map, thank you. See you Tuesday.’

  ‘Around midday.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘Yes. See you.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  He puts the phone down. He tries to imagine how Tuesday might be, but he cannot foresee it. Excited by anticipation, clouded by the sediment of the past, his mind will not settle. He stares into the sky in the photograph of Stephanie, as one might stare through a window at nothing. For a minute or more he looks into the pale blue Amsterdam sky, and composure begins to come from it. His vision attaches itself to the ball in his daughter’s hands. An image is forming, the image of Gertrude Geyl’s shop, the backstreet bazaar where one large alcove was given over to golden things. They took the ball from a net overhead, a golden net strung above the rack of scarves and sandals and blouses and swimming costumes, all of them gold. At Gertrude’s shop you could buy golden cups and saucers, golden pan scourers and ballpoint pens, golden torches and cigarette lighters, golden bags of leather or plastic, golden picture frames, candles, lampshades, toilet brushes and toothbrushes, wrapping paper, dog collars and dog bowls. Though she was nearing seventy when they met her, Gertrude wore golden nail varnish and spangly gold ankle socks, and cycled to her shop every morning on a gold-painted bicycle. It was by learning the names of the items in Gertie’s shop that Kate improved her Dutch, and by listening to Gertie’s tales about her four useless husbands, whose rings she still wore, stacked on the same finger. Sometimes Kate would leave Stephanie to sleep in Gertie’s back room while she went to the shops, and on Stephanie’s first birthday Gertie made a cake with golden icing. But by then, it seems now, whenever Kate mentioned that she was going to Gertrude’s shop, it was as though it had become an obligation. And one day, in the playground by the flat, she referred to her as the cranky old woman. The only friend she’d made in this city, she told him, looking over his shoulder as they sat on adjacent swings, while Stephanie played alone in the sand. Four or five blocks away there was a better playground, which was always busy, but Kate preferred this one. It was nearly always empty, and was empty on the day he decided to resign, he remembers. He went straight to the playground from the hotel, expecting to find them there, because that was where Kate took Stephanie in the late afternoon. He sat on a swing and waited, but they did not come. A woman with twins arrived, which prompted him to leave. Kate was at home. When he told her that he would resign, that they could soon go back to England, she accepted the news as though he were merely reporting something that had happened at work. ‘That’s good,’ she said, and she gave him a smile that he can still see, a smile that was soft and affectionate, but the sort of smile you might give your husband when you see him again, a decade after you parted.

  He forces other scenes from his memory from the years when they were happy, but whatever he sees – the holiday in Ireland, the electric storm on her birthday, the Sunday in Utrecht – is suffused by the mood of those last months in Amsterdam. He leafs through the Sunday paper, failing to find a story that might distract him. Neither the television nor music gets rid of the gloom of Amsterdam. He pours a glass of whisky, and then Jack Naylor calls, telling him that something has happened to Mr Morton.

  seven

  I am in my new accommodation, a comfortable if close-fitting room wedged under the attic, at the terminus of a corridor. Formerly staff quarters, it seems. It has been used only once in the past two years, Malcolm told me. I’d have guessed as much: it smells slightly damp, with a spice of dust and a faint perfume of plastic from the wrappers that have been covering the furniture. I’d say it’s about a quarter of the size of my previous residence, but it suits me better – in the huge room downstairs I felt as if I were working in a corner of someone else’s apartment, whereas here I am the occupant. I shall be the occupant for a little longer than intended, because I have had an accident. A minor and ludicrous accident.

  I had a fall, and I fell because I was not wholly sober – for which lapse I blame the latest family conclave. I shall spare you the details. Suffice it to say that we all met for lunch, and when it was over I felt the need of a drink. I persuaded Charlotte to accompany me to a pub out in the countryside, a place she discovered at some unseemly age, thanks to a boyfriend called Frank, of whom I remember little more than that he was far too old for her, had a handshake like a gorilla and drove a car that could be heard at a range of ten miles. Anyway, the pub was so congenial that we ended up staying for quite a while. For three pints, in my case. Too much, as was proved by the ridiculous episode that ended the evening. After Charlotte left me at the hotel, I decided to wander around the garden, to clear my head. I strolled back and forth across the lawn, steadily enough, or so I thought. I did five or six lengths of the lawn and was about to go indoors when I heard some animal snuffling about in the undergrowth. A hedgehog, most likely. It came very close to my feet before realising that I wasn’t a tree, then it ran off. For some reason I took it into my head to follow the beast, and as a result I tripped. I toppled sideways, off the lawn and onto a brick path. Failing to get my hands into the optimum bracing position, I received a hefty whack on the forehead and a lesser knock to the nose. When I’d recovered from the impact, I managed to hobble back onto the lawn, but the pain and the alcohol soon brought me down again. One of the hotel staff spotted me rolling around on the grass and raised a rescue party. Very humiliating. I was borne to my room for treatment. The damaged brow was wrapped in a great quantity of bandaging, while the foot was dunked in a bucket of iced water. Malcolm appeared, bringing me a dressing gown, as my shirt had to be dispatched to the laundry and the trousers required repairs. Overnight the ankle has swollen impressively. I’m certain that nothing is broken, but Malcolm has arranged for one of his staff to shuttle me to the local accident department for an X-ray this morning. As I write I have a pack of frozen peas on my ankle and a plaster on the cut above my eye, which is trivial, though it’s the epicentre of a headache that’s been ripening since I woke up. As I’m not fully mobile, I won’t be leaving for another day or two.

  The only problem with the room is that there’s no socket I can use for e-mail, but Malcolm has said I can use a terminal in one of the offices. I’ll send this message when I get back from the hospital. I know you’re angry, but do write to me, please. I’ve brought some of your letter tapes with me: I listened to the crab hunt –

  ‘Come in,’ Mr Morton calls, and Eloni opens the door to see him sitting on the bed, wearing a yellow dressing gown that is too small for him. His computer is open on his knees.

  ‘I have your breakfast,’ she says, manoeuvring the trolley into the space between the foot of the bed and the wall.

  ‘Good morning, Eloni,’ Mr Morton smiles. He seems pleased that she is the one who has come to his room.

  ‘Go
od morning,’ she says. She unhooks the hanger from the rail of the trolley and holds up the laundered shirt and trousers. ‘And your clothes. I have your clothes,’ she tells him. ‘I put them here, on the chair?’

  Mr Morton closes the collar of the dressing gown, showing knuckles that have been scraped. With the marks on his chin and the big plaster on his forehead he seems more helpless than before, as if he has been attacked by someone. She lays the shirt and trousers on the chair, and notices that there is a streak of dirty blood on the pillow. ‘Does it hurt?’ she asks him.

  He hoists his injured foot, balancing a wet plastic bag on the ankle. ‘Not much, but I think my peas are melting,’ he laughs, leaning forward to hold the bag in place. The skirt of the dressing gown slides off his knee, revealing a bruise the colour of blackcurrants.

  ‘I mean your head, does it hurt,’ she explains.

  ‘A little,’ he says, touching the plaster, as if to check that it is still there. He presses one of the computer’s keys and the screen goes dark. ‘You heard?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows so the plaster creases like plastic skin.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she replies.

  ‘About what I did. Falling over.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Caldecott said to me.’

  ‘Really dim,’ Mr Morton grins, shaking his head.

  He looks towards her, expecting her to make some comment. ‘No,’ she responds, embarrassed because he does not know of her plan. Lifting the tray from the trolley, she says: ‘I will put the breakfast on the table. That is OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You have coffee and orange juice and cornflakes, and also two pieces of toast and honey and butter,’ she tells him, nudging the cassettes aside with the edge of the tray. ‘That is right?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Thank you.’ He closes the computer and folds his hands on the lid. As still as a statue he sits, facing a curtain and a corner of the room, but it does not seem that he is waiting for her to leave. It is as though he has forgotten she is with him and is contemplating something that only he can see.

  Carefully she unwraps the napkin from the spoons and knife. She pours the coffee, letting the liquid trickle noiselessly down the side of the cup. The whirl of milk turns slowly on the coffee, becoming brown. She straightens the scattered cassettes, and just inside the frame of her vision Mr Morton raises a hand to his brow. She sees his eyelids clench. ‘I can get a tablet,’ she says, in a low voice. ‘For your head. I could get something.’