The Invisible Ones

by Stef Penney

  “So it’s feasible that a woman who’d had a baby two or three months previously, say, could just run off and leave everything.”

  We’re sitting in the hospital canteen, discussing postnatal depression. Gavin can’t even take enough time off to leave the building. He shovels congealed pasta bake into his mouth as we talk.

  “You don’t have to be psychotic to do that. There could be all sorts of reasons.”

  “Her husband said that before she left, she pretended—maybe really believed—that the baby didn’t exist.”

  Gavin shrugs.

  “I can believe that. There can be all sorts of manifestations. Mental illness is a slippery bugger. Literally anything you can think of is possible.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Anything is possible. Glad I could help you!” He grins at us. “I’ll send you my bill.”

  He’s joking. And that’s not the real reason we came. I’ve described Christo’s symptoms as best I can. Gavin listened intently, total concentration on his face. When I’ve gone as far as I can, he looks up.

  “What do you think, Gavin?”

  “I’ve no buggering idea.”

  When I meet people like Gavin, I wish I were an expert in something. Even when you don’t know the answer, you inspire respect.

  “I’d love to have a crack at him, though. You say the father recovered?”

  He scrapes his plate clean.

  “Can’t believe I eat this stuff. Do you think you could get them both up to London—come to the clinic?” Gavin does his consulting on Harley Street. He’s very eminent, by all accounts.

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Ray will do his best.”

  “Thanks, Gavin. While we’re here, could you do us another favor?”

  Despite his reluctance—something to do with the Hippocratic oath, I believe; I stopped listening at that point—we get to see some office bod who looks up the records. I sense that if I was here on my own, I wouldn’t get anywhere, but Hen’s public-school accent and charm is a skeleton key in many instances—this is one of them.

  We stress that we don’t want to know any private medical details, just when he was there, and, Gavin having vouched for us, we get the information that a fifty-five-year-old man called Tene Janko (it seems unlikely that there are many others) was admitted to the spinal injuries depart-ment six and a half years ago, on December 18, 1979, having suffered a broken back in a car accident. He was in the hospital for eighteen weeks, and then discharged himself, against advice. There are no records of out-patient treatment.

  Hen says, later, “Maybe she did commit suicide.”

  We’ve ended up in an old-fashioned tea shop in the town center.

  “So where’s the body?”

  “Maybe she jumped down a disused mineshaft. Or a well. She could have walked into the sea.”

  All of these things are possible, and yet . . .

  “Ivo’s aunt, Lulu Janko, said that Rose had already gone when Tene had his accident, and they didn’t know about Christo’s illness then. ‘Long gone’ was the phrase she used. But Ivo and Tene both say Rose left after she found out the child was ill—that his illness was the reason for her going.”

  Hen shrugs.

  “They’re blaming her for leaving—less embarrassing than . . . admitting that you beat your wife, for example.”

  “So you agree that they’re lying? You agree with me?”

  Hen smiles. “Looks like it.”

  26.

  JJ

  I’ve been thinking a lot, ever since seeing Mum and Uncle Ivo together in our trailer. It makes me feel sick. Not that that was a wrong thing for either of them to be doing—I don’t even know what that was, for sure. But it’s as though someone has pulled the carpet out from under my feet; I’m trying to keep my balance but don’t know if I can. And since that night with Ivo doing his witch-doctor stuff, I’m even more off balance. It hasn’t had any effect that I can see, other than weirding me out: Christo seems just the same as before.

  One thing that’s happened, which I think is a good thing, is that Mr. Lovell came back to see us and suggested that Ivo take Christo up to London to see a specialist in children’s diseases. I didn’t even have to bring it up. Apparently, he knows a doctor who will do it for nothing. There was a big family meeting about that—or rather, there was a family meeting for everyone except me, because, although I have to clean up and do my own washing and generally be responsible—“Now that you’re fourteen, you’re not a kid anymore”—when it comes to decisions like this, it seems that I’m not an adult, either.

  I pointed this out to Mum, and she said, “Well you aren’t an adult yet, are you? You can’t drive, and you still go to school. Anyway, you should be glad you’re not an adult; there are things you don’t know, and you should be glad you don’t know them.” And I said, “What are you talking about? Maybe I do already know them,” and she said, “No, you don’t know about this, I know you don’t.” And I said, “You don’t know what I know,” and she said, “Yes, I do.”

  After that, I got even more worried, trying to think of what could be so awful that I’ve never heard of it (but she has). I mean, I already know about lots of awful things, like the Holocaust and war and rape and torture—how can it be worse than those?

  Then I wondered if she was talking about Rose. Something must have happened for her to vanish so completely. Why would she not want to come back and visit Christo? Even if she and Ivo fell out and couldn’t stand each other, Christo is still her son, and she would want to see him, I should think.

  Then I remember that my father didn’t want to see me.

  Mum says it’s different for men. It just is. I wonder why I never put the two things together before: Rose and my father. Rose had a baby with a Janko and disappeared. My father had a baby with a Janko . . . and disappeared. For a wild moment I must admit that I thought something crazy—that Ivo was my father, and that Mum was Christo’s mother— before I remembered, with relief, that I had met Rose. She really existed. And I would have noticed if Mum had had another baby, wouldn’t I? I may have been seven, but I wasn’t a total idiot.

  Even without exams to worry about, my head is exploding.

  My investigations start with Gran. Mum was living with them—although in her own trailer—when she got pregnant.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Gran looks at me from the kitchen of trailer number two. “You just did.”

  “Did you ever meet my dad?”

  Gran puts down the carrot she is peeling.

  “Have you been talking to your mum again?”

  “She won’t tell me anything.”

  “Well, it’s up to her.”

  “No, it isn’t. I have a right to know where I come from!”

  “Oh, you have a right, do you? The only right you have is to do what your mum tells you.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “No, I didn’t. We never knew him, not even his name. God knows we tried to get San to tell us, but she was that scared Dad would go and break his legs, she never did. She was right, too.”

  Gran snaps her mouth shut, looking grim and angry.

  “He ruined your mum, that gorjio. Is that someone you want to talk to?” “Didn’t say I wanted to talk to him . . . I just want to know. It’s like . . .” I don’t know what to say. Like I only half exist?

  I poke my finger behind a button that’s coming loose on the upholstery. When I look up again, Gran has gone back to her carrots.

  I don’t feel like asking Ivo just yet—I think I should get everyone else’s version first. So next I try Great-uncle. Unsurprisingly, he’s not much help.

  “You know what they say, ‘It’s a wise child that knows his own father.’”

  “What?”

  Great-uncle twinkles his eyes at me.

  “My kid, you should count yourself lucky. You’re the son of the
Gypsies, and every one of us looks out for you, you know that.”

  Sometimes he drives me up the wall. This is one of those times.

  “You always say family matters more than anything. ‘Family first. Family first!’ But I don’t know who half my family are. Half my DNA comes from somewhere else—and I don’t know anything about it! You don’t know what that’s like! It’s . . . horrible!”

  “Be careful what you wish for, my kid; you might get it. And then you might wish you hadn’t have got it.”

  He looks more serious now.

  “JJ, you’ll have to ask your mother. When the time is right, she’ll tell you.”

  “She won’t know when the time is right.”

  He wags his finger at me now.

  “Don’t you be disrespecting your mother. Your mother knows more than you will ever know.”

  “’S not surprising if no one tells me anything.”

  Great-uncle throws his head back and laughs, but there’s an element of “watch it” in the laugh.

  “Oh, no one ever tells you anything, do they? You’re going to that fine school, getting your gorjio education. You’ll know it all one day.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean . . . things about us.”

  “What things about us? What don’t you know?”

  I shrug.

  “Lots of things. Like what happened to Rose.”

  “Oh, Rose, is it? You been talking to that detective fellow again?”

  “No. So? I remember her. She was nice. She played with me. I was sorry she went.”

  “So were we all. And you know as much as I do about that one.”

  “But you were there! You must remember something about who she went off with, or why . . . or what had happened just before . . .”

  Great-uncle frowns at me, drawing his great furry eyebrows together in that way that he has, so that his eyes seem to peer out from under a bush.

  “People can just go. Like your dad. He just went. And maybe they don’t want to have anything to do with the people they leave behind. And maybe you’re better off when they leave—have you thought of that?”

  “Was Ivo better off when Rose left? Was Christo?”

  I expect him to get angry. But he doesn’t. He looks . . . sad.

  “I don’t know, kid. She wasn’t . . . right in the head.”

  I stare at Great-uncle, openmouthed. I’ve never heard anyone say this before.

  “What do you mean ‘not right’ . . . Is that why . . . Christo?”

  “We don’t know. Maybe that’s one of the things we’ll find out from this doctor fellow.”

  “So . . . she didn’t go off with someone else?”

  “I don’t know. She may have. We God-honestly don’t know. JJ, when people don’t tell you things, it may not be to hide things—it may be we don’t know ourselves. Only God knows everything. And listen . . .” He leans as far forward as he can go in his chair, and sticks his finger in my face. “Don’t go bothering Ivo about this. He’s got enough to worry about. I want you to promise me. Promise!”

  “Yeah. All right. I won’t.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Swear on your mother’s—”

  “Yes!”

  Not very helpful. This is a fairly short example. You can talk to Great-uncle for hours and hours and come away with absolutely nothing. It’s an amazing talent of his. Practically a superpower.

  27.

  Ray

  Persuading Ivo was easier than expected. I drove down and found him talking to his cousin Sandra. They are chalk and cheese: where Ivo is dark and sullen, Sandra is blond, slightly plump, and friendly. I warm to her. It was probably down to her that they agreed to Christo’s consultation. Ivo said they would have to think about it, but it was only a day later that Sandra rang the office to say they would love it if my friend would see Christo. That was the word she used: “love.”

  A week later: I offer to collect Ivo and Christo from the site and drive them up to London, but Ivo insists on taking his van. I worry about them being late for the appointment—or not turning up at all—but when I arrive at the café where we arranged to meet, around the corner from the clinic, I find Ivo and Christo ensconced in a corner, several cigarette butts in the ashtray. Christo smiles at me when I walk in. I smile back.

  Ivo is visibly nervous, pulling hard on another cigarette, his eyes constantly darting to mine, then sliding away.

  “What’s he going to do, this doctor?”

  “I imagine he’ll just ask questions, to start with. Maybe do some blood tests. This is just a preliminary meeting, and he might refer Christo to someone else if he thinks they’ll be more suitable.”

  “Someone else? Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Another specialist. It depends on what he finds.”

  Ivo nods determinedly but seems to be quelling his nerves only with an effort. Christo, sitting on the seat and leaning against him, doesn’t seem either nervous or unhappy—but it’s hard to tell.

  “Gavin’s a good man. Very straight. He really does want to help. And he’s a top guy in children’s medicine; we’re really fortunate.”

  Ivo looks down at his cigarette, clenched almost flat between narrow fingers. A slight tremor there. His mouth moves as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a chat.”

  “He’s going to want to know stuff?”

  “Well, stuff about the disease, yes. He’ll need to get a picture of what’s happened in the family, I imagine.”

  As usual, he doesn’t look me in the eyes.

  “And . . . it’s not going to cost us anything?”

  “No, absolutely not. Don’t worry about that.”

  I smile in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, although Ivo doesn’t look at me, so doesn’t see.

  Ivo carries Christo to the clinic. Once we’re through the heavy glass doors to the lobby, which swish closed behind us with a sucking sound, all outside noise is cut off as if with a scalpel. Footsteps are muffled by a thick, dense carpet. It even muffles voices. The hush that—in London—only money can buy. I go up to the receptionist—a perfectly made-up middle-aged woman with a shining helmet of hair—and explain who we are. Ivo stands in the middle of the carpet, looking uneasy and out of place.

  I find myself wishing he’d made a bit of an effort with his appearance— instead of which, his greasy cap is pulled down over his eyes, and he wears the same buttoned-up waistcoat and maroon handkerchief . . . In fact, I have yet to see him without them. While we wait, in a room full of cream-colored armchairs and beige carpet—even I glance down to see if I’ve left footprints—I try to engage Ivo in conversation. But he either is too nervous or is incapable of small talk. He responds with grunts or mumbled monosyllables, fussing with Christo’s hair, combing it with yellowed fingers. He smells of cigarettes and fear. His fingernails are bitten to the quick, cuticles rimed with black. Despite my frustration, I feel a stirring of sympathy for this difficult young man. He’s had a lot to put up with in his short life. Something my dad used to say comes to mind: that the Gypsies are genuinely hard done by, but, by God, they don’t half make it hard for people to sympathize.

  The receptionist tells us that Gavin is free. I offer to come in with them.

  “No. It’s all right . . . thanks.”

  I read a National Geographic article about a doomed attempt on Annapurna. The silence in the waiting room is so absolute, it makes me wonder if the world has been wiped out in a stealthy nuclear attack. A clock ticks. After half an hour the receptionist puts her head around the door. She looks put out.

  “Is your friend here?”

  “No. Why?”

  She gives a tight little smile.

  “We don’t seem to be able to find him.”

  “He’s probably having a cigarette outside.”

  “We’ve looked. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the vicinity.
”

  I stare at her.

  “And the boy?”

  “Oh, his son’s still here, in with Dr. Sullivan. Perhaps you could . . . ?”

  I hunt for Ivo on the block, around the corners, then on the neighboring blocks, the nearest place you can buy cigarettes, in the café where we met . . . I can’t imagine where else he might have gone. Or why. When I come back to the clinic, the receptionist, and then Gavin, have searched the entire building, including the cellar.

  There’s absolutely no sign of him.

  28.

  JJ

  Mum has always been really cagey on the subject of my dad. She said since he went off and left her before I was even born, good riddance to bad rubbish. Which is basically what she says again, this time, over dinner.

  “I just want to know who he is,” I say. “I don’t even know his name. You know . . . I have the right to know where I got half my DNA.”

  “The right?”

  She glares at me over our plates of stew. Then she sighs.

  “I know he’s your father, sweetheart. But he broke my heart. I don’t want him to break yours as well.”

  I can tell she’s considering giving in, so I say nothing.

  “You’d have to find him first, before he could break your heart. And I wouldn’t know where to start, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’m not saying I want to find him,” I mumble. It’s an alarming thought. Knowing about someone is one thing. Seeing them in real life is quite another. “If you had a photograph or something . . .”

  “Well, that’s easy. I don’t have any photographs, so I can’t show you one. You don’t look like him; you’re a Janko through and through.”

  My heart skips a beat. What does she mean by this?

  “Just tell me his name, Mum. Please.”

  She sighs again, and stares at her plate for ages. My heart is thumping. My mouth is dry. I wonder if it’s too late to back out. What if she says something terrible, and once I know it, I can’t ever unknow it?