The Missing World

by Margot Livesey

  “We are. I was just telling Hazel about a play I’d been in.” Did her salary depend on so many pages per hour?

  He withdrew again and this time, seeing the door ajar, she stood up and, without checking, closed it. Together, they sketched the farm. In Melissa and Oliver’s company Charlotte had rediscovered a knack for drawing, and now she happily followed Hazel’s directions to mark the stone farmhouse with its orchard on one side of the road and the farm proper on the other. “What was here?” she asked.

  “An old Land Rover, where we put the hens when they were sick or broody.”

  “And here?”

  “The bier where we kept the cows. The muscovy ducks used to roost in the manger.”

  “You know,” said Charlotte once several sheets were full, “you remember an astonishing amount, at least compared to me.” She recalled a radio programme she’d done on the rise and fall of memory palaces. Had Hazel heard of them? “It was a trick the Roman orators used. You stored the paragraphs of a speech in a familiar house. Then, when you had to give the speech, you walked through the rooms and there were your sentences, all nicely lined up in atriums and frescoes, waiting to be uttered.”

  “What if you were poor and didn’t have a house?”

  “You had to find one. Apparently young men used to wander the Forum, memorising it column by column. The farm would make a terrific memory palace. You’d put first love in the duckhouse, your first job in the midden.”

  “India in the stable. Running away from home in the granary. Boris in the water trough.” Hazel was gesturing at the pages as if moving the events of her life to the different locations when, suddenly, mid-sentence, she fell silent.

  “Are you all right?” said Charlotte.

  With a small shake of the head, Hazel leaned against the sofa. Charlotte spotted a rug on one of the armchairs and spread it over her. She could see the tendons standing out in Hazel’s neck. “Should I fetch Jonathan?”

  Somehow, again, she understood no. Hazel indicated a book on the sofa, a guide to India’s flora and fauna. After five dreary pages about irrigation in Goa, hard even for Charlotte to read eloquently, the door opened and Jonathan appeared with a tea tray. “Refreshments,” he announced.

  “Good timing,” she said.

  As he approached, his eyelashes were fluttering. He’s nervous, she thought, absolutely on tenterhooks. She turned to Hazel, who was smiling up at him, broadly, fiercely. The ground had shifted. Who’s in charge here, thought Charlotte.

  “This is the stable where we kept Ginger, the gelding,” Hazel said. “And this was where the cats lived, far too many of them. Sometimes they ate their own kittens.”

  “Here’s the tractor shed,” said Jonathan, pointing to a shaded area along one side of the bier. The actress—she’d left an hour ago, smiling coquettishly as he paid her—had done a surprisingly good job with the map. “The farm was one of the first places you took me,” he added.

  “Have I ever been to your home?”

  “No.” In the last week or two he’d stopped worrying that such questions, either in the asking or the answering, would precipitate a landslide of memories. “We talked about going when we went to Edinburgh, but Denholm isn’t really on the way. And there’s absolutely nothing there.”

  “Except your mum and dad.”

  “We’ll visit them one day, after we’re married.”

  “Won’t they come to the wedding?”

  Jonathan had a sudden, appalling picture of his parents in London, his father in his baggy, old man’s trousers and worn cardigan, gasping like a fish, his mother in her apron, constantly offering to help. “It’s too far for them to travel. My father can’t go anywhere without an oxygen cylinder. What’s this?”

  “Two old carts. They had wooden shafts and wheels with iron rims. I used to climb on them and pretend I was going places.”

  “Prophetically. What did you think of your reader?”

  “Nice. More fun than her sister. Bernadette is okay, but it’s always clear I’m just a job. She told me about memory palaces.”

  “Cicero. Fancy her knowing that. Did she mention Simonides?” He described the early Greek poet who had first understood the link between spatial order and memory. Hazel nodded happily; she’d always relished his stories, those random bits of information which—apart from his affection for her, for his bees—seemed to occupy most of his brain. Seeing the smooth curve of her ear, he wanted to say your body is my memory palace. At last he knew what he must do. No wonder things were messed up when they still weren’t lovers. She was well enough now; the seizures had dwindled and, of course, there would be no more nonsense with Maud. That had never happened.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Hazel, “does Maud seem different to you? She was so odd about us getting married. And I often have the feeling she’s avoiding me, even though she’s here every evening. Did I do something when I was ill?”

  He stood up and walked around the room, twitching the curtains, straightening a card on the mantelpiece. This was like the old days: Hazel glimpsing the shape of his thoughts almost before he did. Steady. Here was a chance to reinstate one small piece of the truth and to be less at Maud’s mercy; he mustn’t waste it. “When you recovered consciousness you didn’t recognise her. She found that upsetting.” He eyed the cheese plant. Barasingha. “Also, I’m not sure she entirely approves of me, of us.”

  “Why not?” It was her journalist’s voice, curious but dispassionate.

  “Partly—” he pretended to consider—“chemistry. You know, I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, but why it is I cannot tell. Partly she thinks I’m a bit stuffy, a claims adjustor, that I don’t appreciate you sufficiently. You used to go out with these arty types.”

  “Like Boris and Paul.”

  “You remember?”

  She nodded. “I don’t need a memory palace for everything. Boris thought he was Sartre. Unfortunately I wasn’t de Beauvoir. And while Paul was sweet, he turned me into Boris. I suppose, in the final analysis, I wasn’t in love with either of them.”

  What happier words? He bent to nuzzle her cheek.

  Hazel gathered up the drawings. “Isn’t it time for my pills? Should we start supper?”

  Not until he heard Maud saying “Plantworks” did he realise he couldn’t simply tell her not to come round. Quickly he blurted out the first excuse that occurred: he and Hazel were going round to Steve and Diane’s. Oh, said Maud, that’ll make a nice change. Back in the kitchen, he confessed what he had done, another step towards veracity.

  “Jonathan—” Hazel was sorting vegetables for a salad. “You said Katie had chickenpox.”

  He apologised, even offered to phone Maud back, and she relented. “Actually I’m glad. I could do with a break from her.”

  As he put on water and peeled garlic, he told her about his visit to the registry office the day before. A boxy room in the Town Hall, the tall veiled windows overlooked Rosebery Avenue. “What I didn’t expect was all the babies.”

  “Of course,” Hazel exclaimed. “It’s where you register births too, isn’t it?”

  “And deaths. But everyone seemed pretty cheerful.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “We show up and say ‘I do.’ I filled out a form with our particulars, ages, occupations, etc., and handed over the money. We’re all set: eleven-thirty on Tuesday, March nineteenth.”

  He lifted the lid off the saucepan and studied the barely steaming water. There had been babies, half a dozen of them, but what he remembered was the woman who’d interviewed him, opening Hazel’s passport and saying, “Oh, she’s lovely.” At the sight of the passport in her hands—he’d retrieved it from Hazel’s flat on his way—he had felt like a thief twice over, stealing first the document, then its owner.

  He didn’t know how to do it. That pullover really brings out the colour in your eyes, he said. I like your hair this way. When she announced she was going to bed, he wanted to say me too, but the prosp
ect of refusal stopped him. He took her upstairs and returned to the kitchen to drink a whisky, then another, before daring to make his approach. In the bedroom doorway he stood listening, until the soft sough of her breathing reassured him. He retreated to the spare room, undressed, and padded down the corridor. Hazel did not stir as he slid in beside her. He lay shivering, checking himself for warmth.

  Recalling her map of the farm, he began in his own mind to make a map of Denholm. Here was the house where they lived, 8 Riverside Drive, beside the Teviot; there the primary school and, beyond, the village green with its monument to some war—Crimean or Boer or maybe the Great War? In all his years there, he’d never looked. Nearby was the playground. From the swings, the shops around the green were visible, including the newsagent’s run by Stephanie’s father.

  A crush, people called it, meaning something light and ephemeral, not realising how utterly weighed down he’d felt as he followed her home from school, made excuses to go into the newsagent’s, sent her elaborate cards for Valentine’s Day and Christmas. Once Stephanie had dropped a glove, and he slept with it under his pillow, until his mother threw it out. In eighteen months they spoke barely a dozen times, banal exchanges about the weather, a teacher being ill. When her father sold the shop and the family moved to Glasgow, Jonathan expected to plunge into an abyss. Instead he found himself whistling as he walked to school; he missed her, but he wasn’t entirely sorry to be weightless again.

  Hazel sighed in her sleep, and he reached towards her. If only he’d thought to put out a nightdress. Now he faced the intricate aggravation of pyjamas. He unbuttoned the top and fondled her breasts. Another sigh. He kissed her neck and whispered her name, then held back. He didn’t want her awake, not yet. Clumsily, carefully, he removed her trousers, easing them down her legs and over her feet. She would wake up with him inside her, surrounded by his love, and they would be inseparable, soon to be married. She would never leave him again.

  He stole from the bed and found a tube of lubricant in his washbag. Diminished by the cold, he was back beside her, heart racing. Hazel, he thought, I’m coming home. In the same meticulous way as he had removed her pyjamas, he edged her legs apart.

  For one ineffable moment everything made sense. His head swam with happiness, and the fragrance of honey filled the room.

  A cry rent the air.

  He tried to tell himself it was pleasure, a shriek of pleasure.

  “Stop. Get off me.”

  “Hazel, I love you. Don’t be afraid.”

  Her screams rose. He lowered his weight, pressing down against her breasts, her hips, her thighs, to keep her safe. If only she wouldn’t keep tossing her head, he would slip his tongue into her mouth to taste the sweetness. He wanted this to last forever—to keep moving slowly, inexorably, inside her—but the more she struggled, the fiercer his own movements became.

  The first time she bucked beneath him, he didn’t know what was happening. The second, he understood: she was having a seizure. Now he was fucking her at the deepest level, like the Pythian and her priest. The electricity that ran through her was coursing through him, too. As Hazel bucked once more, he came.

  chapter 13

  In what respect, Freddie wondered, was Thursday better. The day was chilly in that sneaky London way, windy but not enough to justify cancelling; cars lined both sides of the street; and worst of all, number 41, when he drove past, was dark. His excuse for seeing Hazel, checking their side of the roof, might easily come to nothing. After circling the block twice, he pulled over to dump the ladder and supplies on Mrs. Craig’s doorstep—if someone wanted to steal them, fine—and resigned himself to parking around the corner. And they hadn’t even agreed on a price, he remembered as he stumped back. Well, no favours on this golden road. He was going to do everything by the book: so much for materials, so much per hour.

  Some of his crankiness faded at Mrs. Craig’s warm greeting. “Oh, good, Mr. Adams. You know, I realised last time we didn’t even check whether I had damage inside.”

  “And do you?”

  “I was waiting for you to take a look. No point in rushing to meet bad news.”

  “That I can understand,” he said, bending to unlace his boots and fondle the cat. She led him upstairs to a room the mirror image of Littleton’s study but so different that it took him a moment to recognise the similarity. The only furniture was a canvas chair and a long padded table. “My massage room,” she said. The walls were lined with posters of the body and with wooden shelves holding books and bottles of oil: rosemary, lavender, jasmine. He could see why she hadn’t noticed the problem. The room was softly lit and the leak was hidden by the shelving. When he removed the bottles the damp patch was markedly larger and wetter than next door.

  “Tut tut,” said Mrs. Craig. “The gremlins have been at work. You’re here in the nick of time.”

  Downstairs, she shut the cat in the living-room and told Freddie to shout if he needed anything. He carried the ladder through the side gate and, breathing hard, propped it up against the wall. Of course she would have a beautiful garden. A large herb bed was already green; clumps of lavender grew along the path and green spears—daffodils maybe—were shooting up. He stared at Hazel’s windows, dark on this side too. She hadn’t actually said she was too sick to go out; he’d simply wanted to believe her a princess in a tower.

  Once he got the ladder and ridge ladder in place, he could see the extent of the damage: the flashing had lifted in half a dozen spots and several slates had slipped. He barely needed the dog to pry out the cement; in no time at all he was levering up the old flashing and measuring for the new. He was getting better at this business, if he did say so himself. The idea was both pleasing and alarming. He didn’t want to be a roofer all his life, for Pete’s sake. Though when he thought about the jobs his classmates had—lawyer, broker, consultant, internist, junior professor—there wasn’t one he coveted. Better to earn an autonomous living by the sweat of his brow than to take orders and meet schedules eight days a week.

  He worked steadily for almost two hours, then came down to beg a cup of tea and cut the slates. The first broke in his hands—so much for his newfound skill—but there was enough left to make an eaves slate and the others parted sharp and clean. A thrush, seemingly unfazed by his activities, was trundling a snail along the path. Following its passage, he noticed a light had come on in the kitchen of 41. Back up the ladder he began to hammer noisily, a message. Ha-zel, I’m here. Since giving her his address, he jumped every time the phone rang.

  He was dressing the new flashing, cutting and bending the lead, when he heard a tapping sound. Hazel was at the study window. Through the glass her face shone even paler than before, though white people often did strike him that way, blanched as if they lived underground and never saw the sun. “Hi,” he called. “How are you?”

  She shook her head. What did that mean? “I’m coming to check your roof later.”

  Again the small shake. Suddenly her hands went to her face. Littleton appeared behind her. Freddie waved cheerfully. “Sorry about the noise.”

  It was like watching a pantomime. Hazel turned her back to the window, Littleton scowled, and they both disappeared, leaving Freddie alone with the flashing.

  He measured the next section, notched and cut the lead. The more he thought about it, the more worried he felt. On his previous visits Hazel had seemed ill at ease in Littleton’s company; just now she had looked genuinely afraid. If there was any chance of seeing her, he’d ring the bell at once, but the curmudgeonly Littleton would only have her hidden away. No, he must bide his time. Later, when he’d finished Mrs. Craig’s roof, then he would make an attempt. Back up the ladder, he wedged the flashing between the bricks and was moving to the next section when he ran out of cement. A yard to go, and not so much as a scraping left.

  Inside, Mrs. Craig appeared from the living-room. Briefly he thought of telling her what he’d seen, then realised how intangible it was: Hazel looked pale, she
acted surprised when Littleton appeared—so what? He confined himself to the cement and she suggested the DIY shop on the Holloway Road. “Or there’s a builders’ supply place five minutes up from the tube station.”

  An hour later, he was done. Mrs. Craig offered him a tofu sandwich and asked if he would mind checking the front bay. “I’ve had my eyes on other matters.” She showed him the cracks along the cornices and Freddie said probably due to subsidence caused by the recent hot summers, but he’d be happy to take a look. The sandwich was totally tasteless. Had Felicity’s curries ruined his palate? Mrs. Craig ate hers with every sign of pleasure.

  He was up the ladder at the front of the house, pulling clumps of leaves from the gutter, as he’d suspected no sign of a leak, when a woman—all he could see was her neat ponytail and dark coat—rang the bell at 41. She disappeared inside. Five minutes later, he was on the other half of the bay, the door opened again and Littleton stepped out, wearing a suit, overcoat, paisley scarf, and, quite unnecessarily, sunglasses. He stopped to stare darkly up at Freddie. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. I’d like to check on your side before I leave.”

  “I suppose,” Littleton grunted, “as you’re here. The key to the side door is under the nearest geranium.”

  You’d have thought I was offering to rob him, Freddie thought, not do him a favour. As soon as the car rounded the corner, he was down the ladder and on the doorstep of 41. The woman, now wearing a neat cardigan and skirt, oddly like a uniform, answered. He explained his presence. “Whatever Mr. Littleton says,” she said.

  “How’s Hazel?”

  Her manner grew less brisk. “Tired. She was ill last night and it’s left her shaken.”

  “I’m sorry. Will you tell her I was asking for her? My name is Freddie.”

  She assured him she would. Again he got the ladder around the back and up. He was standing near the top, hammering at the flashing just to make a noise, feeling like an idiot, when below him the study window slid open. He climbed down a few rungs.