The Missing World (20 page)

“Gaps?”

She ran her fingers up and down the doorframe. “Maybe I didn’t tell you, the accident made me lose part of my memory.”

“No, you didn’t tell me.” He put down the toolbox, as carefully as if it contained a dodo’s egg, and, reaching into his jacket pocket, drew out his notebook and pen. Turning to a clean page, he began to write.

“What are you doing?” said Hazel. “Did you have an idea?”

“Sort of.” He tore out the page and held it towards her.

After an uncertain moment, she relinquished the door and took the paper. “ ‘Freddie Adams,’ ” she read. “ ‘Twenty-one Mayville Gardens.’ ”

“My address, and my phone number.” He lowered his voice. “I know this is weird, but if you ever need anything, call me anytime. Even if it’s the middle of the night, or something stupid, like … like you want to go to the aviary in Regent’s Park. Just call me.”

A little line appeared between her eyebrows, and with her free hand she reached for the door again. He worried she was about to ask the impossible question—why was he doing this? Then the line disappeared and she smiled, not as before but hugely, brilliantly. “Thank you, Freddie.” She slipped the paper into her pocket.

He balanced the ladder through the side door and around to
the back. As he was heaving it into place, Littleton appeared from the bottom of the garden. “Got Mrs. Craig organised?”

“She wants me to wait until Thursday.”

“But we chose today because it suited her.”

“Something came up.” Although he too was irritated with Mrs. Craig, he couldn’t help defending her. “At least I’ll get a chance to check the work I do for you. This kind of job, with a lot of pointing, can be tricky.”

“Ridiculous,” Littleton said, and stalked off towards the back door.

Watching him go, Freddie heard his father again, no longer a resemblance but a growling complaint: there goes a plantation owner if ever I saw one. And buried under that, some other, deeper resemblance he didn’t care to examine. He tied the ladder to the fascia board and hooked the ridge-pole ladder into place. He still could not quite believe the events of the last few minutes, being so bold, writing out his name and address. As he began to cut through the first set of nails, he worried that Hazel might tell this man what he’d done. He had a vision of Littleton’s fists leaving their pockets. The slate came away and he caught himself. Just because a guy was an asshole over his roof was no reason to assume he’d go for the jugular. He was simply one of those anal Brits that Felicity complained about: too many cold showers and suet dumplings as a schoolboy. Besides, Freddie thought, remembering Hazel’s smile as she pocketed the paper, she won’t tell.

In his mind, Jonathan had gone over and over the details of the wedding: the registry office, with Hazel’s grateful parents and, perhaps, one or two of his colleagues; the meal, a quietly festive lunch at a local restaurant; the honeymoon, a weekend in Cambridge of walks by the river and a visit to Ely Cathedral. But he had entirely failed to consider what it would be like to sit
around the table with Hazel and Maud and hear Hazel say, “Jonathan and I have something we want to tell you.”

At once he was on his feet, bending to inspect the contents of the fridge: white, orderly, and absolutely no comfort. He studied the cheese, opened the vegetable drawer and, when he could not stay down a moment longer, retrieved a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The Orsini bomb was flying through the air, and all he could do was wait for it to land, harmless or fatal. Finally, sensing Hazel’s expectant gaze, he edged over to stand behind her, his free hand on her shoulder.

“Jonathan and I,” she said again, and with those three words Maud’s face underwent a terrible, subtle transformation, as if beneath the skin a host of tiny muscles were tugging and pulling in different directions, “are getting married.”

Maud was perfect. Her mouth split into a facsimile of a smile. She jumped up and flung her arms first around Hazel and then—he had stepped back slightly—Jonathan. As she came towards him, he braced himself to feel christ knows what and felt … nothing, neither temperature nor fragrance. He knew that Maud was hugging him, pressing her cheek to his, but no sensation reached him.

Then she was back in her chair and he was opening the wine and pouring them each a glass, even Hazel. “Here’s to you,” Maud said.

“To us,” they echoed.

Maud reached to lift her glass and instead, as if it were overly full, lowered her head to drink.

“Only a little for me,” said Hazel gaily. “I don’t want to end up on the floor.”

At the same instant he and Maud burst out laughing, raucous cries. Hazel watched, baffled. “It isn’t that funny,” she protested.

“Sorry.” He caught Maud’s eye, and they both fell silent. As
she asked about dates and plans, he excused himself. What the fuck, he thought, am I doing? In the bathroom that question, along with Maud and her eerie embrace, gave way to an image of Hogarth. Picturing the doctor tapping his fingers, talking about the long climb back to health, he realised here was another person he would prefer not to know about the marriage. Once or twice he’d caught the neurologist glancing at him suspiciously. Had he guessed that Hazel and Jonathan were not quite the happy couple Jonathan advertised, or had she said something during one of her seizures? The faint braying of a car alarm brought him back to the present. Quickly he completed his business and returned downstairs.

In the kitchen, the situation seemed unchanged. Maud’s cheeks were still burning and her glass was full again. Hazel was talking about the nurse. “She’s nice. Our age, with two kids. Not scary.”

“Anyone for pudding?” said Jonathan.

“Pudding,” said Hazel. “You didn’t tell us.”

From a box on the counter he produced a Linzer torte and served them each a slice. Hazel tried a mouthful and asked where he’d got it.

“At the bakery near the office, Patisserie Jacques.”

A tremor passed over Hazel. “It just opened a couple of years ago,” he said gently.

She gripped the table. “Sometime soon I’d like to come to your office. Bernadette suggested I should revisit the important places in my life, make a kind of map.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Maud. Seemingly by accident her gaze fell on Jonathan. “You can start with my flat.”

Abruptly he reached to refill her glass.

All this, though, was easy compared to what came next. Hazel went off to bed, and he was alone with Maud. He dived into the washing up. She dried and put things away. Go home,
he thought. Please, go home. But she had no intention of leaving. Quite the contrary. He could feel her purpose filling the room. He washed a plate, rinsed it, held it to the light, and, catching the slightest smear, began again. Finally, when not even a teaspoon remained, he drained the sink and sat down. Maud scraped a chair over the floor to sit opposite.

“May I get you something?” he asked. “Tea, coffee, more wine?”

“No thanks.” Chin in hand, she studied the table.

In his confusion Jonathan adopted the same position while his thoughts leapt from one possibility to the next. Should he apologise, throw himself on Maud’s mercy, beg her to keep quiet? Let them talk, Alastair, his boss, always said about their clients. They’ll hang, draw, and quarter themselves if you only let them. But this time, he thought, emptying the glass before him, his or Hazel’s, he was the one approaching that desperate trinity.

“What about Daniel?” Maud said at last.

“Daniel?”

“Hazel’s tenant.”

So that was how she was coming at it. Not their faux pas on the living-room floor, not him taking advantage of Hazel being ill, but the simple fact that a few months ago she’d been so determined to get away from him that she’d rented her own flat. A sudden crack and a flare of pain made him jump.

“Oh, my god,” Maud cried.

Blood sprang up across his palm. Unwittingly he had crushed the glass he was holding.

She was by his side. “Let me help. Do you need a bandage?”

Ignoring her, he stood, swaying slightly, light-headed, and walked to the sink. Cold water, he thought, remembering his mother’s homely remedies. His hand numbed while the water flushed and ran clear.

When he was again seated and Maud had stopped asking if he was all right, she announced she would have that drink. She left the room and returned with a bottle of Scotch and two squat tumblers. “Now don’t break this one,” she cautioned, and poured the whisky as if it were wine.

“It just isn’t very sensible,” she went on, “to try to keep such a large secret. Even apart from her memory coming back, there are too many ways she could find out: George and Nora, friends, people at work.”

“Well …” He stole a glance at his beekeeper’s veil, the white folds slightly soiled, hanging on its hook by the door. “What would you recommend?”

“I think”—her voice gathered speed—“you should tell her. Tell her more or less what she told her parents, that you had a row and she moved out, temporarily, to give you both space while you came to your senses.”

“And what would the row be about?”

Maud drank some Scotch. “I’ve been pondering that. At first I wondered if a version of the truth might be easiest.” She raised her eyebrows and the yellow walls seemed to fall towards him. She knows, he thought, my god, she knows everything: Suzanne, my slip-up. He dipped a finger in the Scotch and ran it along the cut, craving the sting of pain.

“Then,” she continued, “I thought, better to be more ordinary. Perhaps you were busy at work, the threat of redundancy, you couldn’t give Hazel the attention she needed. This flat came along for a few months, a sublet, and it seemed like a break would be best for both of you.”

“Will that wash? Moving out is pretty serious.”

“Which is precisely why we don’t want to attribute the motivation to Hazel. If we say it was her decision, then she’ll try to figure out what would drive her to that. Whereas if it was your idea, you’re the obvious person to ask. Of course”—again
something odd happened to the muscles of her face—“I’ll back you up.”

Of course? thought Jonathan. Am I losing my mind? He wanted to lean across the table and shake her. He understood his own behaviour: however convoluted, he had one clear and radiant motive. But why would Maud aid and abet him against her best friend? What had Hazel done to deserve such treachery?

“Maud,” he said. His tongue thickened. Instead he found his uncut hand sliding towards hers. She stood, kissed him open-mouthed and open-eyed, and went into the hall. He followed, hopeful, only to see her putting on her bicycle helmet.

“Not tonight,” she whispered. Then she was out of the door, her bicycle clicking down the pavement.

chapter 12

The only solution, thought Charlotte, gazing bleakly at the saucepan dappled with baked beans, the slice of bread, one small, crooked bite gone, the plates and cups, cars and crayons, was to pretend she was in a play. Mother Courage does the dishes, or that downtrodden woman in
Look Back in Anger
. After a prolonged struggle Melissa and Oliver had retired to bed, leaving the house looking more like her home than Bernie’s, a change for which, Charlotte knew, she would be held solely responsible. Since the afternoon her sister had returned early to find the kitchen awash and herself asleep in front of the television, she had made a rule to use only one set of dishes a day, but serving first tea, then supper to the children seemed to have dirtied every piece of crockery Bernie possessed.

With an imaginary audience and a male lead—You no longer love me. Of course I do. Look how beautifully you washed that plate—cleaning up proved less intractable. Might this strategy work, Charlotte pondered, tackling the frying pan, in other areas? If she invented scripts about earning money, going to auditions, would she suddenly be able to accomplish these tasks? Meanwhile, Bernie could not have come home at a
better moment. By the time the key scraped in the lock, she had finished the dishes, wiped the counters, and was sweeping the floor.

“Charlotte,” Bernie exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“Ace. Doing a spot of housework.” She moved the chairs to make a final pass under the table and manoeuvred the little pile of crumbs, cereal, apple fragments, green beans, and baked beans into the dustpan. “There,” she announced. “All done.” Arms akimbo, she turned to examine her sister. As usual, even in civilian clothes, Bernie gave the impression of being ready to wield a thermometer at a second’s notice. I should never have let her wear that beige cardigan, thought Charlotte. “How’s Rory?” she asked.

Instantly Bernie lost some of her starchiness. “It’s hard going on dates with your husband,” she said, slumping against a pristine counter. “We say good night and don’t know what to do with ourselves.”

She sighed, and Charlotte saw their mother at the end of a long evening, the last drunken customer newly departed and their father staggering around singing “Over the Sea to Skye.” She had always regarded Bernie as the opposite of their parents, firmly keeping chaos at bay, but it never worked, did it? “Would you like something?” she said. “Tea? Cocoa?”

“I don’t think we have cocoa, unless you bought some.”

Still in her domestic role—one of those Irish matriarchs, perhaps—Charlotte made tea, rinsing the pot as she had at Mr. Early’s and using two of the nicer mugs. “So,” Bernie asked, “did everything go all right?”

At first Charlotte didn’t get it. What was there to go on her part? She’d been here the whole evening. Oh, of course, the rug-rats. “Fine,” she said firmly. “Oliver did his homework and Melissa laid the table and they went to bed within sight of the usual time. I did lose the battle of the bath, though.”

“We can fix that in the morning.” Bernie swallowed a yawn. “Listen, I wanted to ask you—Hazel, my private patient, was saying she’d like a reader. Especially if she’s tired, she finds focussing tricky. I told her about you, your being an actress, and said you’d phone tomorrow.”

“Why did you do that?” Already her life had dwindled to childcare and housework, and now her sister planned to add reading to the sick to that scintillating list.