The Missing World

by Margot Livesey

  Across the hearth rug, Jonathan was glad to see that the bump in Steve’s nose was still visible. “Would you mind if we talked about something else?” he said.

  “Of course,” came their parroting reply.

  In the awkward pause, Jonathan could almost hear them picking up and discarding subjects. He was doing the same himself. What did people talk about? What did he and Steve talk about? They’d been at York together and shared a house in London until Diane moved in, bringing with her a cooking rota and meticulous recycling. For years Jonathan had kept in touch, intermittently; then he met Hazel and played them as one of his trump cards. He might work in insurance, but look at his friends. Over Sunday lunches, she had laughed at Steve’s bicycle-shop jokes and shared Diane’s interests in the environment and women’s issues. That autumn Steve and Diane had gone to Vancouver Island to help his brother build an eco-house. When they returned, Diane was pregnant and the force lines were irrevocably altered. He and Steve met to play squash, Hazel and Diane to do whatever women did, but meetings of the four of them were rare.

  Now Jonathan found himself remembering why: he couldn’t stand his best friends. Steve’s everything-will-be-fine comment was simply a reflection of lifelong stupidity, and Diane’s expressions of sympathy were a little too practised. He was about to mention the leak in his roof, always a safe topic, when Steve volunteered that some neighbours had a fox den at the bottom of their garden. “They’ve tried everything short of murder to get rid of them: loud noises, the family dog. Then they discovered lion droppings. Apparently the smell frightens them away.”

  “Where on earth,” said Jonathan, “do you get lion shit in London?”

  “That’s the snag. They had a contact at the zoo—tiger droppings work, too—but demand is soaring. They’re looking for another supplier.”

  When this gambit faltered, Diane asked how Comet was responding to Jonathan’s absence.

  “They’re being terrific.” He reported his boss’s admonition to take whatever time he needed. “They sent the most gorgeous bouquet. Maud said it must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “That’s great,” said Diane. “Steve and I were worrying they might be a bit sticky. I mean, the situation is irregular.”

  Jonathan glared at his glass, at the green walls, at everything in the room save Steve and Diane. He saw himself careering amongst the toys, hurling stuffed animals into the air, grinding Lego blocks underfoot. As if to reinforce his vision, from the bedroom came a cry. Steve started to rise. “Give her a minute,” Diane said.

  They both sat forward in their chairs. After a brief crescendo Katie lapsed back into silence, by which time Jonathan had decided to leave. He’d always known they were less than partisan. Diane in particular was given to infuriating remarks. You have to try and understand Hazel’s point of view, she would say. Thank goodness he had not told them about the precious moment of recognition.

  “Well,” he said, getting to his feet, “one for the road.”

  He went over to the mantelpiece, refilled and drained his glass. As he set it down, he saw Steve and Diane exchange glances. Did no one, other than Hazel, ever forget anything?

  “Why didn’t you phone?” Bernadette’s lips tightened and even her ponytail seemed to grow rigid with annoyance. Melissa and Oliver stood on either side. Together the three of them filled the doorway not, Charlotte had to confess, like a welcoming committee but more like an army protecting its flanks. That they were all in uniform—school for the children, nursing for Bernie—intensified the military effect.

  Charlotte opened her own arms wide—look, no weapons—and smiled. “I tried,” she bluffed. “It was busy. And I found these books that I thought would be perfect for Mel and Oliver.” After years of Bernie’s squeamishness she knew better than to explain that she had quite literally found them in a box outside the Rumanian Relief Fund shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street.

  “They’re in the middle of their homework.”

  Bernie’s posture yielded not a centimetre, but Charlotte caught the slight shift in tone—her sister no longer sounded exactly like an answering machine—and rushed into the breach. “I won’t interrupt. I could supervise them, or maybe they need to be tested. That way you can get on with whatever you need to do.”

  “I suppose you want to stay for supper.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Oh, Mum,” Oliver exclaimed. “She always eats everything.”

  “I do not.” Charlotte glared, though it was true that on her last visit she had inadvertently taken a massive second helping of stew that precluded anyone else, including Oliver, from having more. But Bernie was already moving away, and she hurried inside to cut off further unwelcome disclosures. As she hung her coat on the rack, she noticed a row of milky splotches running down the front of her blouse. Bugger it, just the sort of thing that drove Bernie berserk. Had she any idea what a stick she looked in that nurse’s uniform? Charlotte draped her scarf across her chest and planned a visit to the bathroom at the first opportunity. Sometimes it seemed impossible that she and Bernie were related, but then one of the few things they did agree on was how ill-suited their parents were, battling through forty years of marriage as if Henry VIII had never existed.

  In the kitchen, Bernie was chopping onions to the chatter of Radio 4. “Can I help?” Charlotte said. She made a great show of rolling up her sleeves. Without even glancing up, Bernie shook her head.

  “Fine.” God, she could be a drag. “Give a shout if you change your mind.”

  Melissa and Oliver were huddled in the living-room, goading each other about homework. Bernie had some stupid rule that the television couldn’t be switched on until they both had finished. Still, it gave Charlotte an opportunity to show what an excellent addition to the household she would be. “Can I help?” she asked again, settling herself in an armchair.

  “I’m done,” Melissa said.

  Oliver brought over his notebook. “We’re doing sums.”

  “And very nicely, too.” Charlotte nodded at the numbers lurching across the page. Was Oliver growing up to be Mr. Aziz?

  “Have I got the right answers?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’t you know?” he said, sounding like his mother.

  “Of course I know. I was just being polite, unlike some people.” But she had another look. If she was going to see the children every day, she’d have to be more careful. It was not enough to burst into their lives, be wonderful, and trust that any errors would be forgotten by the time she reappeared. Meanwhile, sitting in a warm, clean room with a single newspaper lying on the table was remarkably pleasant.

  Alone with Bernie, Charlotte said she’d make the Nescafé and stood humming nervously over the kettle. She’d been waiting for the rug-rats to retire to mention her plan. Now the important thing was to stress that in three months Aunt Charlotte would be history. And she would pay for her keep by babysitting. God knows how much Bernie was shelling out these days. At the same time, the children would be spending time with one of their nearest relatives, which had to be a plus. As they trailed off to bed, she had offered to read them a story, to which their mutual response—polite in Melissa’s case, less so in Oliver’s—was that they preferred tapes. She set the mugs, still frothy, on the table.

  “Thanks,” said Bernie. “Forgive me for cutting to the chase, but I have an interview at a nursing agency first thing tomorrow. So if there’s something you want, you’d better spill it out.”

  “I just wanted to see all of you,” Charlotte said reflexively. “Why are you going to an agency? Are you quitting the hospital?”

  “Not unless they give me the sack. This would be in addition. People are always telling me how lucrative private nursing is. Even a couple of afternoons a week would help.”

  “Doesn’t Rory send money? That would be typical, stiffing you all the way to kindergarten.”

  “The children are in primary school. Actually, he’s pretty good about paying his share, but I h
ave lots of expenses—babysitting, treats, you know.”

  Charlotte blew on her Nescafé. With anyone else this would’ve paved the way for her request; Bernie though would think she was taking advantage and become even more acerbic. “You’re a terrific mother,” she said bracingly. “You should see my neighbours’ kids. Real brats. They’ve never heard of ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ ”

  “Oh, I hate that. No, Oliver and Mel are good about manners. Their school may be a bit free-form, but it’s excellent on the basics.”

  “Brilliant.” Christ, the inexhaustible subject. From bitter experience she knew Bernie could hold forth for hours about Melissa tying her shoelaces or Oliver’s numerical skills. Panic-stricken, she plunged. “I went to see my accountant last week.”

  “Your accountant?” Bernie wrinkled her nose. “What on earth does he or she account for?”

  “Not much so far. But Mr. O’Grady—he’s Irish—is helping me get things sorted. We’re drawing up a five-year plan.”

  “Maybe that will include getting a job.”

  Here it comes, thought Charlotte, not fooled for a second by the seemingly casual tone. Her sister was of that antlike tribe for whom the mere prospect of a less-than-forty-hour work week was anathema. “Bernie, acting isn’t like nursing. There’s no point in my pulling pints at three quid an hour and not being able to go to auditions. Parts for someone my age, no longer an ingenue, are as common as lunar eclipses. I have to be ready when they come along.”

  “In fact, lunar eclipses may be a sight more common.” Bernie shook her head. “Listen to yourself. If parts are so scarce, then it’s even stupider not to have a job. I haven’t seen you in anything since that play in Battersea. When was the last time you even went to an audition?”

  “I sent my resumé out on Monday to the Royal Court.” Charlotte drew herself upright, the picture of wounded dignity. She remembered, distinctly, finding a photograph in the rubble on her floor; she was almost sure she’d put it in the post. “All that’s going to change. I’m getting a new agent, someone who appreciates the sort of work I do, and then, you’ll see, the auditions will start pouring in.”

  “But meanwhile,” said Bernie, “you do need a job, don’t you? I’m not crazy about bedpans, but …”

  Stupid cow, thought Charlotte. With her neat ponytail, her tidy gold earrings, Bernie really did exemplify the phrase “po-faced.” No wonder Rory had bolted. A few weeks ago Charlotte had run into him in a pub off Dean Street. “Hey,” he’d said, “if it isn’t the sister-in-law from hell. What are you drinking?”

  For half an hour they had a fine, bantering conversation. Then Rory grew maudlin. He’d already been well oiled, Charlotte realised, before the two pints he drank with her. “Your sister’s a pain,” he said, “but I can’t help missing her.”

  “You were the one who was a pain,” Charlotte said. “Bonking your way through the entire office.”

  “One small misdemeanour is not the entire fucking office. I know I shouldn’t have. She tempted me and I fell. My big mistake was telling Bernadette. I hated the thought of deceiving her. And she went nuts. This from the woman who made us exchange a list of lovers on our second date.”

  “She did what?” The poor bloke was so far gone he was confusing Bernie with some bimbo.

  Rory nodded. “She made us each write down who we’d slept with. Said it would clear the air.”

  “Clearing the air” was one of Bernie’s expressions; still Charlotte doubted. “You mean Bernie had a list? I thought you were it, besides her weedy nursing-school boyfriend.”

  Rory laughed. “What an innocent you are. While you were poncing around doing Romeo and Juliet, your sister was carving a swathe of safe sex through the hospitals of North London.”

  “I’m gobsmacked,” Charlotte said, and she had been, though not so much as she was now, sitting opposite Bernie in that awful uniform. Who on earth would want her neat, dull sister?

  As if reading her thoughts, Bernadette stood up.

  Charlotte realised she was about to be shown the door. “Bernie,” she blurted, “I need a favour.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” She carried her mug to the sink and turned, arms folded, to face Charlotte. “Well?”

  “I need to rent out my flat, just for a few months, and I was hoping I could stay with you. As you said, parts are scarce. And even with a new agent, it’s going to take a while for the tide to turn. I’ll collect the children from school, babysit, shop, whatever you want. Mr. O’Grady”—she dwindled—“thinks it’s a great idea.”

  Throughout the day she’d been acting out scenarios in her head, but the basis for all her scripts was her superiority to Bernie: the artist versus the drone. Suddenly Charlotte understood that her sister was an opponent to reckon with. Sweat trickled between her breasts at the prospect of rejection.

  “Who would rent your flat?” Bernie said. “It’s a pigsty.”

  “Students. I’ll tidy it up. I’m sure I can get seventy pounds a week each. Sixty, anyway.”

  “I suppose people are desperate.”

  “Exactly,” said Charlotte, overlooking the insult. “So I’ll spruce it up, rent it out for three months, get caught up on my bills, and really focus on my career.”

  “That sounds fine, so long as you can find somewhere else to stay.” She stepped over to seize Charlotte’s mug, still half-full, and put it in the sink.

  “But you haven’t even thought about it,” Charlotte said above the noise of water. “Only a minute ago you were saying how hard it is being a single parent. Of course I’m not a parent, but I could help. Think how much you’d save on babysitting.”

  “I’m going to bed now,” Bernie said, drying her hands.

  “I don’t expect you to answer right away. Just please say you’ll consider it.”

  Bernie left the kitchen and returned with Charlotte’s coat. “Did you know there’s something on your blouse?” Her finger pointed at the trail of splotches.

  Demon nurse, thought Charlotte, tyrant. She could see Bernie taking positive pleasure in gouging a needle into someone’s veins. And that surge of anger prevented her from pleading further or from asking to borrow the bus fare home. Forget Mr. Aziz, she’d sooner starve. She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and set out to walk. Barnsbury to Kilburn couldn’t be more than a couple of miles, maybe three. Crossing the Caledonian Road, she remembered visiting a squat here; the walls of the living-room had been lined with geraniums, row upon leafy row. Where did you get all these? she’d asked. Cuttings, her friend Una replied. One big incestuous family. Too bad she didn’t know any squatters now.

  She was waiting at a red light, the wind whipping through her threadbare coat, when a taxi pulled up in front of her, FOR HIRE sign glowing, and she opened the door to ask if the driver would take a cheque. A moment later she was being borne through the streets of London, discussing the importance of children studying foreign languages. The driver’s daughter was in her third year of French and his son had started Russian—not as useful as a few years ago, but still a major language.

  Charlotte confided that she’d spent the evening babysitting her nephew and niece. “We decided to have a French night. We made crêpes and spoke French all evening.”

  “What a great idea. I wonder if the wife and I could manage.”

  “You don’t need to be fluent. The children enjoyed correcting me.”

  The driver said he could see that and she was welcome to babysit for him anytime. Reluctantly, he agreed to drop her at the corner. “I hate to leave a young lady on the streets this late.”

  But she insisted there was no place to turn around, and wrote the cheque with a flourish, adding a pound tip. “Thanks, love. Hope to see you again.”

  For a few seconds watching his taillights dim, Charlotte felt buoyed by the ease and comfort of her journey. As she started walking, however, her spirits sank. Though the driver wouldn’t know her exact address when the cheque bounced, what the hell was she going to
do? What did people do when they had no money? She opened the door of her flat and stumbled over the red cushion, still propped against the wall. Several unpleasant answers presented themselves.

  chapter 4

  “Think of her,” Dr. Hogarth suggested, “as having fallen off a mountain. In the Himalaya, for example.” He nodded towards the photograph of white peaks and blue skies which hung beside a certificate from the London School of Neurology. “Or even a hill in your Lake District. The descent is swift, the climb back proportionately arduous.”

  From his seat near the door of the office, Jonathan followed the doctor’s gesture. Julian Hogarth had appeared at Hazel’s bedside the day after she opened her eyes. No relation, he had said cheerfully when he introduced himself, as if a Kashmiri neurologist might easily be mistaken for a descendant of the polemical printmaker.

  “The good news,” he said, smiling at the three of them in turn, “is that the subdural hematoma has gone down. We hope to see steady improvement to the point of full recovery.”

  George and Nora were bobbing, but Jonathan scratched his palms. Hogarth was so indefatigable, always another drug, another test, and so cheerful, that only the bitter experience of Hazel’s continued seizures had enabled Jonathan to discern the guarded nature of his predictions. Wasn’t hope a matter for him and for her parents?

  “As you’re well aware,” Hogarth continued, “Hazel’s memory has been affected. Some degree of amnesia is fairly common in the case of head injuries. Often it proves to be temporary, passing off by degrees. Hazel, as far as I can determine, has lost the last three years. Like a large suitcase, she just put it down and walked away. Or, more precisely, she put it down and a thief came by.” Again a smile for each of them. Other things, he went on, were missing too—her parents, for instance, and Maud, though clearly she was fond of these people who hovered over her bed. She remembered the emotion if not its origin.