The Missing World

by Margot Livesey

  “I’m afraid I’m not up to cycling,” she said coyly, “and I don’t want to leave the bike, because I need it in the morning.”

  “Oh, do what you want,” he said at last. “You know where everything is.” He turned away but not before he’d glimpsed, with pleasure, her shocked expression.

  chapter 9

  Charlotte lay back, enjoying the spectacle of her small breasts cresting the foam. A nymph, Walter had called her once, a wood nymph. No, think instead of herself and Bernie, aged eight and ten, standing at the ends of their beds, swinging their arms, chanting, I must, I must, develop the bust. This isn’t working, Bernie had declared after their third evening. You have to do it for ages, Charlotte had said, months and months. But she soon followed Bernie’s example and returned to bed. Later, to their mutual fury, their father had begun to refer to them as his nubile lassies. Old goat, thought Charlotte, closing her eyes and sinking beneath the surface.

  In the warm, underwater world a dull drilling sound reached her. She was running out of breath when she recognised it: her alarm clock reminding her that her two prospective tenants were due today, Renee at noon, Mike at one. She was out of the bath in a flash. No time for primping, just a squeeze of toothpaste and yesterday’s clothes. Then she turned on every possible light, unfurled the roll of black rubbish bags, and set to work.

  She had only herself to blame for this crisis. In the days since her supper with Bernie she’d thrown out the odd newspaper, sprayed Mr. Sheen on the bathroom mirror, but after five minutes, ten at most, she would put aside the duster, find her coat, and head for Kilburn High Road. Stupid even to start, she reasoned, until she had a stretch of time.

  From the moment Bernie had opened the door that evening, dressed like a normal person in jeans and a sweatshirt, and poured her a glass of wine without being asked, Charlotte had known that the wind was blowing from another quarter.

  “Cheers,” said Bernie. “By the way, there were some calls for you.” She pushed a notepad across the table.

  Charlotte started to apologise—at her wits’ end, she’d listed her sister’s number in the advertisement—but Bernie simply shrugged. “What can you do when your phone’s on the blink?”

  More and more mysterious. She put the pad aside and smiled cautiously. “Something smells wonderful. I hope you haven’t been slaving.”

  “Chicken cacciatore, like Mum’s.” Bernie moved the salt shaker half an inch to the left, an inch to the right. “You must be thinking I’ve lost my mind. Last time you were here you suggested we do a deal and I told you to piss off. Well, now I’m desperate.”

  Watching her unfurrowed brow, Charlotte thought, she could never be an actress. Look at the way she said “desperate.” Totally unconvincing. “What happened?” she asked.

  Bernie ticked off items: Rory was doing overtime; the woman who collected Melissa and Oliver from school had found a new job, plus a highly unsuitable boyfriend; and she herself had been offered a private job twenty minutes away. “So,” she gave a pinched smile, “how about you move in for three months. You’d promise not to make a mess or run up the phone bill. And you’d collect the children from school four afternoons a week and mind them until I got home.”

  “What about shopping?”

  A happy vision of herself buying trolley loads of goodies with her sister’s money was wiped out by Bernie saying she would take care of that. “I know we’re like chalk and cheese,” she went on, “but I do think we can help each other. In fact, I was going to suggest we write everything down and both sign it so there can’t be misunderstandings later.”

  Charlotte nodded. As if an agreement ever solved anything. But that was Bernie for you: brittle and bloodless. And she was the smelly old cheese. “Where will I sleep?”

  “Oliver’s room. He and Melissa can double up.”

  “That’ll make me popular.” She scrunched up her face in imitation of Oliver, and they both laughed.

  “Who’s this?” Wineglass in hand, she paced the kitchen, shoulders hunched, jaw jutting.

  “Rory, Rory to a T.”

  “He’s an easy one.” And then—the words flew out of her mouth—she asked why Bernie didn’t take him back. “He loves you, he loves the kids, his not being around is making everything complicated. I know he behaved badly, but he is sorry. I don’t understand why you can’t forgive him.”

  She stopped, horrified. At last Bernie was doing what she wanted, and here she was trying to talk her out of it. Not daring to see the effect of her words, she stared at a picture on the cabinet, a blue cow towering over a red house.

  “One,” said Bernie, “it’s none of your business. Two, you may think you know the whole story but you don’t. Three, not everyone is a doormat. Four, I’m considering it. Your being here would mean I could see him without telling the kids.”

  A blue cow and a red house, thought Charlotte. I must, I must, develop the bust. She turned, doing her best to smile.

  “Charlie, I’m sorry. If you’re frustrated about me and Rory, then you’re getting a glimpse of how I feel about you and almost …”

  Some small, imploring gesture must have escaped Charlotte. Instead of launching into what was clearly an exhaustive list, Bernie went to check on the chicken and Charlotte excused herself. In the bathroom she scrubbed her hands and redid her eyeliner. Her fantasy about Bernie was coming true, so why did her heart, or was it some other organ, feel so heavy?

  What took time, she discovered, was sorting. By eight-thirty she had filled only two bags, and if anything the mess was worse. Sipping her second Nescafé, Charlotte reconsidered. She must streamline. The newspapers, every last one, would go into rubbish bags. As for the clothes, they too deserved to be bagged, a first step to the long-awaited encounter with a washing machine. Everything that wasn’t a newspaper or a garment would go into a third set of bags: miscellaneous.

  Only the threat of Renee and Mike—ten-ants, ten-ants—kept her from climbing back onto the futon and pulling the covers over her head. At ten o’clock, on her fourth Nescafé, she finally forced herself to enter the bedroom; she hadn’t so much as touched the doorknob in six months. Now what met her gaze was a pale, musty, utterly empty room. Not utterly empty; what was that little grey heap in one corner? Cautiously she approached, fearing something dead, and recognised, beneath a layer of dust, another of Walter’s socks.

  Back in the living-room, she seized the futon, dragged it into the bedroom, and dumped it on top of the sock. She piled on the duvet and pillows, swept the floor, and, choking on the swirl of dust, opened the window and swept again. A quick spray with Mr. Sheen and the air took on the plasticky smell that most people equated with cleanliness. Stepping back to survey her handiwork, she noticed for the first time that Walter had failed to take the curtains, which was somehow almost as upsetting as the sock.

  By eleven the floor was clear and Charlotte was surrounded by a flock of bulging bags. She tried lining them up against a wall in the hope they might pass for sixties furniture, but even to her biased eye they remained, obdurately, rubbish bags. Then, as if some hitherto forgotten storage space might reveal itself, she scanned the room. Her gaze stopped at the window. Grey sky, not actually raining. She picked up the nearest bag and headed for the stairs: rubbish to the left of the door, clothes and miscellaneous to the right. After a dozen trips she counted nineteen bags along the pavement.

  Upstairs, she wished she could experience triumph or at least satisfaction at the sight of the clean floor with the two rugs, the two armchairs covered with bright shawls, the row of posters, the bookcase filled with books, the several lamps, their scorched shades turned towards the wall. Instead, grief grabbed her. The place looked so nice, nicer than at any time since Walter left, and now here she was, handing it over to strangers and going back to live with her sister, like a child or, more precisely, an old maid. And what did it mean to have most of your possessions in rubbish bags on the pavement? You didn’t have to be Madame Curie to know it m
eant your life was not in tiptop shape.

  At five past twelve Charlotte opened the door to two immaculate, pale-skinned hand-holders, both dressed in black. Briefly she lurched again into the past: Walter and herself when they came house hunting years ago, although neither of them had ever been this small or this neat. Then she went into full hostess mode. “Charlotte Granger,” she beamed. “Welcome. I hope you didn’t have any trouble with directions.”

  Renee held out her free hand. In the clarion tones which on the phone had led Charlotte to expect someone taller and stouter, she introduced herself and her companion. “This is Ian,” she boomed.

  Ian mumbled something, certainly not hello, and kept his hand firmly in Renee’s. They had, Charlotte noticed, identical sandy eyelashes. “Come in, come in,” she said, flinging open the door in Merry Wives of Windsor fashion.

  As they crossed the threshold, the phrase “pied-à-terre” died on her lips. She saw the flat for what it was, a tip. All the more reason to sparkle. “My humble abode, but I think you’ll find it has everything you need.” She pointed out the TV, the kitchen area, the armchairs, the lamps.

  “Where do you eat?” asked Renee.

  Pizza Hut, Charlotte wanted to say, the Trumpet, then realised Renee was enquiring about the lack of a table. “I loaned it to a neighbour, for his daughter’s birthday party. He’ll bring it back this evening.”

  “And … where … you …?” said Ian.

  “Mostly in Gloucestershire. I’m doing a film for the next few months. Otherwise I’ll be with my sister in Barnsbury. She’s a single parent, and I’ve promised to help out when I can.”

  Like the woman at British Telecom, Renee seemed impervious to the word “film.” “So what exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to sublet from this Sunday until the end of June. I’ll pay the utilities, except for the phone.” She faltered and went on to detail rent, security deposit, and the importance of forwarding mail and messages.

  “We need a few minutes.”

  “Of course.” Charlotte settled back in one of the armchairs only to catch Renee’s pointed stare. Already they were taking over. She huffed into the bathroom and leaned on the edge of the bath, absentmindedly arranging bottles of shampoo and bubble bath, blue and pink, amber and snow. Now, who could she borrow a table from? Maybe Louis would lend her one from the Trumpet.

  “Ms. Granger,” called Renee, and dutifully she trooped back to her own living-room.

  “We’ll take it,” said Renee. “It’s a bit primitive, but the dates are perfect.” She got out her cheque book. “Who shall I make it payable to?”

  Hastily Charlotte explained that given how soon they were moving in, she would need the security deposit and at least part of the rent in cash. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she said, and it wasn’t. For Renee to bounce a cheque was as unthinkable as for Bernie to wear an unironed blouse, but offering a cheque to her overdraft was like spitting into the Thames.

  So it was decided. Charlotte put on her coat and walked with them to the hole in the wall, where they each received enviable wads of fresh notes. Whoopee, thought Charlotte. She was slipping the money into her purse, already planning lunch, when Renee asked for a receipt.

  “A receipt?” She seemed to be surrounded these days by people who believed in pieces of paper. “I was going to do that on Sunday, but of course if you’d be more comfortable, I can scribble something now.”

  “We would,” said Renee. Ian murmured a few words which she translated as a suggestion to go into the nearest pub.

  While Charlotte leaned on a sticky table, Renee dictated a monotonously explicit account of their agreement. Each of them signed and Renee pocketed it, claiming she’d make a copy for Charlotte. Outside on the pavement, another murmur from Ian interrupted their handshakes. “About the phone?” said Renee.

  And there was half the money gone as Charlotte assured them that it would be back on by Monday. “The whole street’s complained, but you know British Telecom.”

  Walking home, somehow she had lost her desire for lunch, Charlotte caught sight of the row of rubbish bags and, pacing beside them, a tall, thin man in a bobble cap and anorak. Of course, Mike, the other would-be tenant. She stopped, wondering whether to introduce herself and buy him a consolation drink. He could be sex on legs, from this distance it was hard to tell, though the bobble cap was not encouraging. Just as she rehearsed her opening lines—“The daughter of a friend, I couldn’t say no”—he bent to prod one of the bags. Charlotte turned and fled.

  “Lovely,” Hazel said. “If it’s not too …”

  From the landing Jonathan assumed she was talking to herself, perhaps practising a conversation she planned to have later, with Maud or with him, but as he crept down the stairs, hoping to hear more, the rhythm of her remarks alerted him to another possibility. He hurried into the living-room and found Hazel holding the phone. Since the hospital it had been an unwritten rule that she did not answer calls.

  “No, no one can say for sure if it’s permanent. I do get …”

  Not Maud, not Nora. Diane, perhaps, or a colleague? An editor named Lucy had called twice in the last week. He strode across the room, hand outstretched. “Who is it?”

  “So you’ll come about four,” said Hazel. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  She replaced the receiver and, misunderstanding his gesture, reached for his hand. Her lips parted when he snatched it away, then she grasped the arms of the chair and said nothing.

  “Who was that?” he insisted. “Who’s coming at four?”

  “Mrs. Craig.” She looked deliberately past him.

  He felt his eyeballs grow hot. “This afternoon isn’t convenient.”

  “Did I forget something?”

  Her gaze swung back to him, defiance gone, and again he thought, this is easy. He noticed her hair straggling over her shoulders. “You’re having your hair cut,” he said.

  Before he could elaborate a time and place, Hazel was on her feet moving towards the door. Well, it wouldn’t be hard to get an appointment on a weekday. His hand closed around the still-warm receiver and, to his surprise, Mrs. Craig’s number appeared in his head. He had phoned her once from the hospital, to ask if she could take in some files the office were sending, and blurted out the plans for Hazel’s convalescence. Poor Hazel, Mrs. Craig had said, but is that wise, after last year? Furious, he had explained that her return was her parents’ suggestion and hung up.

  Hazel reappeared. “It’s not on the calendar.”

  “What’s not?”

  “The hairdresser. Maybe I didn’t forget after all. Maybe you forgot to tell me.” Her smile was somewhere between appealing and accusing. As Mrs. Craig’s answering machine came on—“You have reached the Golden Road”—she shook her head. “If you’re calling Mrs. Craig, she’s doing massage this afternoon. We can rearrange the hairdresser. Anyway, I might like to let my hair grow. I could braid it again.”

  Massage, christ. He gave up and went over to the window. The sky was the colour of the pavement, bitter grey, and so was everything in between. Hazel had said rain was forecast, but no rain fell. Who knew what Mrs. Craig’s jibe about last year referred to—he wouldn’t put it past Hazel to have told her everything—yet, as their immediate neighbour, she was certainly privy to the crucial fact: Hazel had moved into her own flat. He had done so well with her parents, with Maud. Were his hopes about to founder on some indiscreet middle-aged woman? He stared at the pavement, fissured with dead grass, wondering if he could intercept her. But Hazel might catch him. And you couldn’t dodge a visit from someone next door indefinitely.

  A red trolley rolled into view, followed by the postman, a spindly, ginger-haired boy racing through the second post. That was it. He could write Mrs. Craig a letter and slip it through her door, even better than talking; no interruptions, no contradictions. He turned from the window meaning to be jolly, apologetic—“You know how she gets on my nerves”—to find Hazel gone.r />
  The light was off in the kitchen, but he walked down the hall to be sure. The yellow walls, normally so welcoming, had succumbed to the universal gloom. The new calendar lay on the table. Under today’s date, Hazel had scrawled, Mrs. Craig—4 o’clock. She must’ve gone upstairs, another bad sign: Hazel venturing the stairs alone.

  The bedroom, too, was empty. He touched the sheet, as if it might hold a trace of her. Then he checked the bathroom, chilly from an open window and smelling faintly of sandalwood soap and shit, Hazel’s. How startled he’d been, when they first lived together, by her lack of embarrassment about such matters. Give it a minute, she would say. Gas-mask time. In the spare room, the bed was neatly made save for the hollowed pillow. For one dreadful moment Jonathan thought she had gone outside. Scratching his palms, he stepped back into the hall. And there she was, in the study, sitting on the floor, a book open on her lap.

  “Hazel,” he said gently. “What are you doing in the dark?”

  “Oh,” she shrugged, “wandering. Sometimes I feel so cooped up. Were you reading this?” She held up the book about memory.

  Odd how one became inured to danger, like a fireman whom only a raging inferno can startle into fear. He nodded. “I thought it might give me ideas how to help you. Anyway, shall we go for a walk? We could stop at the bakery and get something for tea.”

  “Crumpets,” she closed the book. “We haven’t had those in ages. Crumpets with honey.”

  Dear Mrs. Craig,

  I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you phoned. Much though we’d love to see you, I would certainly have said that Hazel isn’t up to visitors yet but I know she’ll be disappointed if you don’t come in for a quick cup of tea.

  I do want to explain that her condition is precarious. She still has frequent seizures and stress is a major factor. In view of this we (her doctor, her parents, and I) have been at pains not to bring up our difficulties of the last year. Like many couples, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I can confidently say our affection for each other is stronger than ever.