The Missing World

by Margot Livesey

Sanctimonious bitch, he’d muttered, and, turning on the cooker, held the note to the flame. Now, watching Hazel uncover the eight of spades, he cursed Mrs. Craig all over again. This was what always happened. Everything was fine between him and Hazel until something, someone intruded from the outside world; then difficulties sprang up like varroa mites, devouring the sweetness between them.

  “Poor Katie,” Hazel said and, to her cards, “Pathetic.” She flipped them face down and swished them into a pack. Although the drugs made her fingers clumsy, her knack for shuffling had returned. “I had this idea,” she went on, “we could make a timeline for the last three years. If you give me the main facts, I can learn them, like swotting for exams. And other people, Maud, Steve, and Diane, people at work—” she faltered—“will help to fill in the blanks.”

  Instantly he was on his feet, muttering about the hives, and out of the room. He had never left her alone; now, not bothering with the smoker or the veil, he strode through the kitchen and out of the back door. His blood rushed with doubts. He’d been living in a fairy tale of second chances. Things were surfacing beyond his control. Hazel was surfacing. He stood beside the hives, too miserable even to bend down and listen. Instead he found himself remembering Suzanne. How carefully she’d helped him check the supers for extra queens, how good she was about straining the honey. One of his hives that year was particularly docile. On an early date he drew out a frame and showed her how to stroke the bees, gently passing her hand over their many downy backs as if they formed a single beast. Do they enjoy it, she asked. Who can tell, he said. For the first time he wondered if he might have treated her badly. To be honest, he had known all along that she was in love with him.

  And then, when Hazel learned the truth, her lips had turned pale. She had been in the study using his computer and, for reasons that remained murky, flipped through one of his old cheque books and discovered the monthly stubs marked S.B. Why didn’t you tell me? she shouted. It isn’t important, he repeated. Your having a child isn’t important? Well, you didn’t tell me about all your old boyfriends.

  She kept bringing it up for days, weeks. If anyone had deceived anyone, he explained, Suzanne had deceived him. He’d never made any secret of his feelings about her, or about children. What if it had been the other way round, if I’d forced her to have a child? You’d think I was Genghis Khan.

  You could still love the child, Hazel said. I send money, he protested, and knew at once that in her eyes this diminished him yet further.

  In the corner of the garden by the wall he caught a flash of purple and gold, crocuses pushing up through the mat of drab grass. He turned to see Hazel walking towards him. She’d slipped his leather jacket on over her dress and was carrying something white. “Here,” she said, holding out his veil. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Jonathan, please.”

  And, wasn’t this the miracle he always hoped for, his anger was gone, a red mist blown away. He had her, that was all that mattered. Looking down at the veil, it came to him: a way to secure his ownership. “I’m not angry. I had an idea, too, but I’m worried you won’t like it.”

  “Try me.” She smiled. A drop of water—a tear, he supposed—ran down her cheek.

  He passed the veil lightly from hand to hand. “Let’s get married?”

  For a moment he thought she was having a seizure. She gave a small gasp; he felt her tremble. He started to say she didn’t need to answer this minute but she was grabbing his hands, all over him. She had been so afraid he was losing patience; that was why she sometimes pushed herself. Now she’d be more careful. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents. “They’ll be beside themselves. We must fight off my mother’s grand schemes. I can bake a cake. And Maud will do the flowers.”

  Maud, Jesus. Briefly he was back again on the living-room floor, the carpet scratching his thighs. Then Hazel was asking about the bees. Was he finished? Did he need to feed them?

  “They’re fine so long as we don’t have another cold snap. They’ve been on a roller-coaster these last few months.”

  “Like us.”

  Seeing her smile, he risked, “We’ve had our rows.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about them. We’ll put them on the time line. Come on, I want to phone my parents.”

  She was already tugging him in the direction of the house when he spotted movement at the entrance to the middle hive. Two workers had emerged and were perched on the sill. How bright the world must seem after the winter darkness. “Look,” he said. “The first bees of the year.” Together they bent down.

  Watching the bees air their wings, Jonathan recalled a long-forgotten fact. This was not the first marriage proposal to pass between him and Hazel, nor the first acceptance. The second year they lived together was a leap year, and on February twenty-ninth, over dinner, Hazel had proposed. He had said yes and that same night woken her to say he couldn’t; the word “husband” made him feel like he was drowning. Hazel had shushed him. No pressure, she said. Just an idea. Later, of course, his refusal had become another rod to beat him with. He’d had his chance. You didn’t want me, she said tauntingly, triumphantly. Now, seeing her face as she watched the bees, he began to urge her inside. They should call her parents. Let the die be cast.

  In the living-room, Hazel stopped and pointed at the window. Following her gesture, Jonathan saw the Tourette’s boy in his blue anorak and dark trousers, circling in the street outside. He turned once, took a hesitant step, and, as if some spring in the mechanism had broken, circled again. His spectacles were tied to his head with a thick black cord. Someone—the boy himself, or his mother?—must put them on every morning and take them off at night. The effect was that of a headband, making his thick dark hair stand up, like a cock’s comb.

  “He frightens me,” said Hazel.

  Jonathan put his arm around her. “He’s quite harmless. In all the years he’s been around, I’ve never heard him say a word to another person.”

  “Years?”

  Once again he’d crossed the threshold into that world without echoes or shadows. “Come,” he said quickly, “let’s tell George and Nora the good news.”

  He installed her on the sofa, dialled the number, and was about to leave the room when she reached for his hand. Presently he was talking to his future parents-in-law.

  “We couldn’t be more delighted,” Nora said, and promptly burst into tears.

  “Splendid,” said George. “A spring wedding.”

  He passed the phone back to Hazel and made his escape. In the hall he leaned against the radiator—in spite of numerous drainings, it had never worked properly—and allowed her remarks to flow over him. “As soon as possible,” he heard her say. The floor was a mass of footprints; he really must wash it this week. “I don’t care about a big wedding.… Of course I have something to wear.… No fuss, just family.”

  For a moment, picturing Nora’s gentle smile and George’s blustering common sense, Jonathan was abashed; how much he owed to their kindness. He was tempted to rush back in, retrieve the phone, and thank them profusely. Instead, he held tight to the tepid radiator and fixed his gaze on a fragment of wallpaper that had escaped the steamer, a white flower, right at eye level.

  chapter 11

  By ten-thirty, in spite of slowing at every crosswalk, letting taxis and delivery trucks cut in at every intersection, Freddie was inexorably approaching Littleton’s. He couldn’t understand the nature of his unease any better than he had been able to describe it to Mr. Early, but something about Hazel and her situation—sick, alone with a man whose eyes snapped at the least provocation—haunted him. He turned into the street and, just his luck, there was a parking space two houses down from 41. I’m fixing the roof, he thought as he undid his seat belt, not playing Robin Hood.

  Littleton answered the door, wearing a shirt that had to be expensive, the dark blue fabric fell so softly. Freddie was suddenly aware of his baggy jeans, cement-spattered sweatshirt, and Reds
jacket. The way Littleton’s eyes flicked over him, as if a piece of garbage had landed on the doorstep, did nothing to help.

  “At last,” he said, although no definite time had been set.

  To his own disgust, Freddie began to dribble out excuses. “The builders’ supply was nuts. I don’t keep Welsh slate on hand. And the traffic … I’d better let number thirty-nine know I’m here. Can I ask how you’ll be paying?”

  “I suppose you’re going to say cash only?” Littleton said, and launched into a tirade about workmen on the fiddle. “You pretend to do me a favour, letting me off VAT, actually you’re none of you registered. All I’m doing is helping you to cheat on your income tax.”

  Freddie listened calmly. Abuse was far preferable to the cold shoulder. In fact, just for a second, Littleton reminded him of his father, ranting about the city council. When he could get a word in edgewise he said a cheque would be fine, that he’d been asking about how the bill would be divided with number 39.

  “Mrs. Craig. She gets her own bill. Separate roofs, separate bills.”

  “But I didn’t give her an estimate. What if she refuses?”

  Littleton blinked and, for an instant, his expression acknowledged the blunder. “I did speak to her when we had to reschedule. If she wanted an estimate, she could’ve told me then. Well, maybe you should have a word with her before you start. Let me know if there’s a problem.” He closed the door, not quite slamming it.

  If this were home, Freddie thought, eyeing the ugly orange wood, I’d call him a bigot. He walked round the dividing wall to 39 and, good news, Mrs. Craig had the original door, the stained glass set in curved wooden panels, and a perfectly acceptable wreath knocker. The door opened and Freddie found himself engulfed by a pair of yellow eyes. The cat craned into his hand, purring.

  “This is Lionel. As you can see, shameless. I’m Mrs. Craig. You must be the roofer.”

  Freddie’s gaze travelled over bare feet, up flowing purple trousers and a purple tunic to a long, mobile face of the kind he unthinkingly classified as very English. Mrs. Craig’s silvery hair, piled on top of her head, matched the cat’s. He guessed her age at between thirty-five and fifty-five. “Freddie Adams. He’s cute. Is he something fancy?”

  “A long-haired silver, not pure-bred.”

  “Maybe all the better,” said Freddie, recalling the indignities of lineage and pedigree to which Agnes had been subjected.

  “Do come in. Would you mind taking off your shoes?”

  She led the way into a room that reminded him of an ashram he once visited in Santa Cruz. The walls and ceilings were a deep rose, the floor thickly carpeted, with large cushions and low chairs scattered around. Two small drums and a sitar stood in one corner. On a table by the window, a vase of white tulips paid homage to a photograph of a man in a white turban. Cool, thought Freddie. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last week,” he said. “I got railroaded by Mr. Littleton.”

  “That can happen,” she agreed, sinking cross-legged onto a cushion. “The main thing is there’s a problem and you’re going to fix it.”

  He took an adjacent cushion and, seeing an opening, headed towards it. “Have you been neighbours for long?”

  “A decade. He’s ideal in practical terms—knows all about houses and how to take care of them—but no warmth. First there was him, then him and Suzanne, then him, then him and Hazel, then him. And now she’s back again.”

  “She’s been sick. I mean ill.”

  “Yes. I took round some ginger and some beetroot. I hope she’s using them.” She nodded in the direction of the photograph, as if invoking the guru’s aid.

  “I’m very fond of Hazel,” she went on, “though our friendship has had its phases. When she moved in she’d been living in India, so we had lots to talk about.” She spread her arms, whether an exercise or a gesture he couldn’t tell. “Later she got busy with her journalism, putting her energies into that, and we drifted apart. It can happen more easily than you’d think, living side by side. The last time we spoke was the day she moved out. She couldn’t even say his name. I tried to tell her she had to let go. That kind of anger only hurts you.”

  “But she’s living there again?”

  Mrs. Craig flexed her toes. “Illness brings you to a new place. Marianne Williamson talks about that. Have you heard of her? Friends tell me she’s extremely popular in America.”

  “I haven’t. I don’t spend much time stateside these days.” The cat, who had been rubbing against his cushion for several minutes, suddenly keeled over. Freddie obediently patted its stomach.

  “You have a strong body,” said Mrs. Craig, “yet you sit badly. You’re impeding your natural flow. That makes it hard to get things done.”

  “You’re right about that.” She was sitting straight as a plumb-line. “Look at me, fooling around with Lionel when I ought to be up a ladder.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She shook her head. “If you want to correct the problem, I can help. I give classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sliding scale.”

  From somewhere she produced a card and handed it over. The Golden Road, he read. Let me help you walk part of the way. “I teach a combination of yoga and Alexander technique which many people find helpful. You don’t have to believe to benefit.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” His concern about Hazel had been replaced by an odd contentment. If he wasn’t careful, he could spend the whole day chatting to this supple woman about ley lines and energy fields.

  “Now”—she dipped into a full lotus—“if I understand correctly, you need access to the back of the house and you’ll be working on the roof fairly noisily, for several hours.”

  Freddie explained that he’d have to cut away the old slates, fit the flashing, then hammer in the new slates. “You’ll know I’m there.”

  Mrs. Craig listened attentively. “This is a nuisance,” she said. “Since I spoke to Jonathan something’s come up. I simply can’t have you working today. What about Thursday?”

  The question had only one answer. What about an estimate, Freddie asked. She made a humming sound, low and sweet, and said if she trusted him to do the work, she’d also trust him to charge a fair price. “Thursday,” she repeated. “In many respects it’s a better day.”

  “Fine with me, but Mr. Littleton might get bent out of shape. His work is useless until yours is done.”

  “And vice versa. If he can comprehend that.” She smiled brightly. “Today is no one’s fault. Thursday, you’ll see, it will all come together.”

  In one fluid movement she stood before him. Freddie, trying to emulate her, stumbled. She was right, he did use his body badly. With a final obeisance to the cat, he pulled on his boots and was back on the sidewalk. Get a grip, he thought. Slate, flashing, pointing. Toolbox in hand, he again approached number 41. Looking towards the bay, he saw a face at the window.

  “You’re back,” said Hazel, when she opened the door. “Freddie?”

  “That’s right. Finally we got an okay day for the roof.” Her eyes widened, exactly as he’d hoped, and her hair, clean now, was the flaxen colour he’d guessed. She was dressed more formally than last time, in black trousers and a dark green sweater. “How are you feeling?” he said.

  She gave a lopsided smile. “Better. The seizures seem to be slowing down”—she patted the doorframe—“touch wood. I haven’t had one for nearly a week.”

  “That’s great. I was just talking to Mrs. Craig. She hopes you’re taking the beetroot and ginger she brought you.” He was about to say more, about Hazel living in India and Mrs. Craig’s guru, when he caught himself. “Where’s Mr. Littleton?”

  “In the garden. He said you were to go round.”

  “Finish telling me how you are.” He spread out his attention like a mantle on which she might walk.

  “I’ve been making a chart with Jonathan and my nurse, filling in events for the last three years. There are still gaps, but I get glimpses.”

  “Gaps?”<
br />
  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.