What the Eye Doesn't See Page 19

  ‘Well, there we are,’ I say. ‘Very well done. Game, set and match to you. So finally you’ve got your story. All that time invested has paid off. Your grand scoop. Publish it in as many newspapers as you want. Write it in your book. Why not?’

  He comes towards me but I push him away.

  ‘Don’t try to make it as though it’s all right. I’m a liar. I admit it. Like father, like daughter … I lied on a police statement. That’s what you wanted to know. Now you know it, so now why don’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Maggie. Listen to me. Only one thing is important …’

  ‘Adam, don’t be stupid. You don’t love me. You love your image of me. It’s the same with Dad. You only admired an image of him …’

  Suddenly anger lights his eyes. I have never seen it in him before. ‘Maggie, will you stop talking about your father. Will you just stop talking about him? You don’t get it, do you? You’ve never got it. This is about you …’

  His anger shakes me but still I form words. ‘Like father, like daughter.’

  ‘No,’ he shouts. ‘No. That’s where you’re wrong, totally wrong.’

  Silence falls on the room with a strange finality. Both of us are played out. I feel as tired as if I’d been fighting him with my bare hands. My throat is so thick that I can’t speak any more. My eyes scald with tears. He comes towards me and puts his hand on my arm. He pulls me to him and I rest my head against the familiar smell of his linen shirt, feeling his ribs underneath it, the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘Listen, Maggie. Listen. There’s something important you’ve got to understand. What happened isn’t your fault. Anyone else in your position would have done the same. It’s not your fault.’

  He sits me down on the bed and holds me against him. His shirt is suddenly wet with my tears. But inside me relief is unfolding like a luxurious morning stretch. It wasn’t my fault. Anyone else would have done the same.

  He runs his hands through my hair. ‘Poor Maggie,’ he says. ‘Poor Maggie. It must have been so very difficult for you.’ He goes to his jacket and gets out a handkerchief. I dribble and splutter into it. He takes the handkerchief and tries to wipe my face.

  ‘You know, actually it was terribly easy.’ My voice is broken by gasps of breath. ‘It’s only later as the net begins to close …’

  ‘Poor Maggie.’ He touches my face with his finger, smudging my tears.

  He rings the hotel reception and asks for some tea although it’s really too late. Then he unpacks my bag and finds my nightdress, passes me a clean handkerchief. I undress slowly and get into bed. He passes me my cardigan and I put it around my shoulders. Still I’m crying, wiping tears from my eyes with his handkerchief. The pale room, the white sheets of the bed, make me feel like an invalid. When the tea comes I drink some of it although it’s lukewarm and made with powdered milk. He undresses and gets into bed, pulling me close to him. I put the lamp out but the lights of the city and the moon still shine in at the window. The sheets are smooth and cold. We lie cocooned together, like twins returned to the womb.

  ‘It would be good if we could just go back to before, wouldn’t it?’ I say. ‘You coming to see me in Brussels or me coming to London. Or put the clocks back even further. Go back to a time before the fire.’

  ‘It can still be like that,’ he says.

  He wipes my face again with his handkerchief and kisses my lips. I hide from him, burying my face against the front of his T-shirt. ‘You want me to go to the police, don’t you? That’s what you want me to do.’

  ‘It isn’t about what I want, Maggie. It’s about what you need.’

  ‘I know, but Dad …’

  ‘This isn’t about him …’

  He turns over, lies straight and pulls my head up so that our faces are close. ‘You know, before all this I was going to ask you something. And I suppose I might as well ask it now … Nothing has changed. I’ve got more sure about what I feel, not less. I was going to ask you … You know what you said … about relationships and boxes … well, I was going to ask you if we could move ours to a different box. I had been going to ask you not to renew your contract in Brussels, to come back to London, to live with me …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure? Even now?’

  ‘Even more now.’

  ‘Yes, I know – but living together …’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know. It’s a bit of a compromise, isn’t it? I know it’s sometimes better, clearer … not to have halfway houses. So we could – I mean, if you want. We could – get married, or something.’

  My body has gone stiff. I want to look away but he’s holding on to my eyes.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought of it …’

  ‘Yes, I know …’

  I realise that I must take care of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you very much. I’m flattered, of course.’

  My words are too small. What he’s saying will not sink into my mind. So he does love me. He really does love me. I hadn’t understood. It’s hard to think about this and do it. Voices in my head are babbling, already telling this story to someone else. I force my scattered mind together. What if I got married to him? Then I’d really be in a foreign land. I think of my mother’s house – the iron grilles, the striped shadows that they cast.

  ‘Adam, listen. I think you’re right. I think I should come back to London. But to be honest I just can’t think about it properly. Not while all this other stuff is going on. I don’t want us to go into this thing when I’m only half-focused on it. Sorry, I know that sounds all wrong. But do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes. I know, of course – it isn’t quite the right moment to ask. But I just wanted you to understand …’

  ‘Yes, of course. I do. I do.’

  ‘Probably you should just think about it for now. Keep it in mind.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’

  An awkwardness is upon us. I turn over and watch the fan creaking above us.

  ‘Maggie,’ Adam says. ‘I’m not going to tell you what you should do – about your father. All I can say is that I don’t think you can keep living like this – and you shouldn’t have to either.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know …’

  ‘And I’ll help you. To actually do it – to tell the truth, that will be difficult. But you know once it’s done everything will be better.’

  The clean white world – that’s what he’s offering me. A place where some things will be certain. And I do want to go there. I wrap my arms around him again. ‘You will help me?’

  ‘Of course. Yes.’

  We lie awake, waiting for sleep. Pale lights from distant cars pass across the ceiling. I pull my pillow further under my head. The linen is crisp against my face. I look at Adam’s clothes, neatly folded on the wooden chair. My rucksack lies on the floor, returned now to its innocence. I am too hot so I pull back the sheets. I look at Adam to see if he’s still awake. His eyes stare up at the ceiling.

  ‘Adam, could I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you think my father could do this to me and still love me?’

  He turns to me, his face eyeless in the half-dark.

  ‘No, I don’t really think he could.’

  Max

  Why do women always have to create domestic projects? And more importantly why do their domestic projects always have to involve me? Here I am at Brickley Grange. Beautiful summer afternoon, roses in bloom along the front of the house, air heavy with the scent of flowers and grass. Just the day for a walk. And instead what am I doing? I’m helping Fiona to clear out the cupboard under the stairs. And why are we doing that? Because some friend of hers is coming to stay with a baby. And, of course, babies are well known for spending a lot of time in cupboards under the stairs, aren’t they?

  Fiona is standing with her hands on her hips giving a stuffed deer one of her Lady Bracknell stares. The dee
r, which is largely bald, returns her stare through its one glass eye. ‘Skip,’ Fiona says.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Max, we do not need Bambi.’

  ‘Yes we do.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This house is overflowing with your junk. You’re as bad as your mother.’

  ‘If I want to fill the house with junk I think I should be allowed to.’

  Fiona gives me a look which reminds me that this is no longer my house.

  ‘Max, I’m in the mood for clearing things out.’

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. I take Bambi out of the back door, hide him in the garden shed. Then I lurk on the terrace with a newspaper and a packet of fags. Of course, this bickering has got nothing to do with the cupboard under the stairs. It’s about the trial. She knows about that now. I told her last night, when I got back from Brussels. It was a pretty bloody conversation. I wish she’d shout, or threaten me. That would make it easier. But she was very calm. Her main concern seemed to be about Maggie.

  ‘You must think very carefully,’ she said.

  I said nothing.

  ‘It’s not that I doubt you. You know that I don’t. And I’m not worried for myself. I’m quite prepared to put up with anything. You and I are married, and that’s what it means. And of course Maggie loves you, and she’d do anything for you, without a question.’

  I nodded my head. We were sitting in the kitchen, at the table. The supper Fiona had cooked going cold in front of us.

  ‘I know that you’ll put her first,’ Fiona said. ‘She may have this seeming ability to cope with anything, but really she isn’t like that. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would try to help her but she’s never had much time for me. It’s you she wants.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence again.

  ‘There’s no reason why she should worry,’ Fiona said. ‘There’s no reason why any of us should worry. This trial is much for the best in my view. It will simply show that there’s no truth in all those stupid rumours. It will clear your name.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. My voice sounded thin.

  Fiona started to serve the supper although we didn’t finally eat much of it.

  ‘I’m sorry that this has happened,’ I said.

  What else could I say?

  When Maggie was a child she used to ask – Daddy, where would we be if we weren’t here? I generally used to give some distracting answer. In my view, it’s not a good idea to encourage eight-year-olds to go in for metaphysical speculation. But it was an odd question for a child to ask. As though she was already aware of parallel lives. The implications of choice.

  Often I think of that question. Roads taken, choices made. I can’t help looking back and wondering what brought me here. Other lives go on in parallel. So often a choice hangs on a thread. A slight move one way, or another, and the course of a life is changed. All day, every day, there’s a risk. Amazing that anyone gets out of bed really.

  Fiona and I nearly didn’t marry. Because of Rosa. I think back to that moment when our futures dangled on a thread. The weekend before the wedding. I’d been travelling all week and hadn’t seen Fiona. It was Friday evening. She’d taken an earlier train down to her parents’ house. Stately pile in Hampshire, avenues of trees, a trout lake. I took a later train. Her parents were away that evening and when I arrived Fiona didn’t come out to see me.

  I found her in the sitting room. All green willow patterns. Looking out over the lake. The evening was cool and the lake was grey. There was no light in the room. Fiona was sitting on the sofa, straight as a nail. She didn’t turn around when I came in. On the table was a piece of paper. Rosa. A careful little picture of a starfish. Yellow paper, green ink.

  I went to stand beside her. She said nothing. Her parents’ house was out in the sticks, and I’ve never heard silence like there was then. I picked up the note, tore it up into tiny pieces, like confetti, scattered it into the bin. Time went on, although it seemed to have stopped. A creak of shoes, a rustle as I sat down at the other end of the sofa. She was shivering so I struck a match and lit the fire that was laid in the grate. Then I poured her a whisky because I needed one myself. The clunk of the glasses on the table. The tap of the bottle against the lip of the glass. My eyes followed the willow pattern on the sofa over the distance between her legs and mine. Outside it was getting dark and rain came down across the lake in grey sheets.

  Finally Fiona and I never talked about that note. The next weekend we were married. So that was that. But I always remember one thing she said. ‘Marriage seems like backing a horse. But how can you know, when the race is so long?’

  Fiona is clearing away the supper. I have the impression she might be banging a few pots around a little more loudly than she needs to. Of course, she’s angry with me. With just cause. But at the moment all I can think about is my survival. I can’t be concerned with anyone else.

  We are alone. James has gone to a party at a friend’s house. And he’s staying overnight. I wish he was still here. For the purposes of distraction, if nothing else.

  ‘I thought you were going to see your mother some time this weekend,’ Fiona says. ‘We won’t have time tomorrow, you know.’

  ‘I’ll have to go when I’m home again.’

  ‘How is she anyway?’

  ‘Oh, all right, I think. Apparently she’s been a bit peaky recently but she’s on the mend.’ Fiona isn’t really interested in Nanda. She’s just bringing all that up because if anyone can create a tension between Fiona and me, then Nanda certainly can. Fiona has never found Nanda easy. Don’t suppose anyone does. Except, oddly, Rosa.

  ‘Have you talked to Maggie about this situation? About this trial?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘Not yet. But I will do.’

  ‘Because if you don’t tell her then somebody else will. You must at least be straight with her,’ Fiona says. ‘Is she still going out with that journalist?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s nice for her. It’s about time she settled down.’

  Fiona, Geoffrey. They’re both the bloody same. You can never be quite sure whether they’ve genuinely completely missed the point. Or whether their comments are carefully judged. I go to her, where she’s standing propped against the dresser, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Sorry for being grumpy earlier.’

  Immediately, she softens. And that’s what I wanted. But at the same time I’m annoyed that she’s so easily won.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, and puts a hand out to me. ‘We must try not to fight.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And perhaps we will hang on to Bambi. After all, one never knows when one may need a stuffed deer with one eye.’

  I laugh at her, kiss her cheek. Half of me is touched by her faith, half of me doesn’t want the burden of her goodness. She’s a little bit like Gus. Part of her enjoys this situation. It gives her the opportunity to be good to me. What would happen if I became the good man who she so much wants me to be?

  ‘Early night, I think,’ Fiona says. I help her to clear up the last of the pots. We put out the light and cross the hall. I follow her up the stairs. On the landing she stops. I hover. She takes hold of my hand. Gently does it. Before she’s even noticed I have guided her back to the marital bed. She even comes to kiss my cheek as I’m taking off my cuff links.

  What frightens me is that the extent to which you are loved has got nothing to do with being good or being nice. In fact, one is inversely proportional to the other. The people who deserve love don’t get it. But the less I deserve, the more I receive.

  We lie in bed, sexless as children. Waiting for sleep that will never come.

  ‘Have you seen Maggie since she got back from Spain?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘Yes, briefly …’

  ‘Did you take her out somewhere nice?’

  ‘No, no. In fact it wasn’t like that.
I just saw her in the street actually. And it was stupid because I couldn’t stop. I was between two meetings. The car was there, people were waiting … You know how it is.’

  What I don’t say is that she was holding up her hair. It was a steaming hot day and she was holding her hair up to cool her neck. Just as her mother used to do. It was lunchtime and she was hanging around at a street corner. Always there’s something of the Dickensian orphan about her. Grey and black. Even in the heat. The skin around her fingernails bitten raw. Of course, I couldn’t see that but I know. I could almost smell Spain on her skin. If she wasn’t my daughter I’d be desperate to go to bed with her.

  Always she’s so determined not to charm. Sporting one of those rather ghastly trailing hippie dresses she’s inclined to wear. Her hair hanging down to the curve of her waist. She was a darker shade of brown than usual. And always she looks so calm, so much part of the scene, whatever it is. Yet also she looks angry, as though she might fire off in a violent temper at any moment. If this were the Middle Ages she’d be burnt at the stake. No doubt about it.

  I couldn’t stop watching her. Camp followers were trying to bundle me into the car. The sun blazing down. Too hot in my suit. Then two other girls came along and Maggie went with them. All very normal. Any three girls, anywhere. Somehow I expected all this to have left more of a mark on her. It’s tricky. A father wants to be worshipped by his daughter. But Maggie has always been hard to impress. Even as a small child she was merciless in the clarity of her vision. There was always a rigid certainty in her. Impressive and unnerving. Why are women so much better than men?

  I should have pushed those unctuous minions aside. I should have told the car to wait. Or cancelled the meeting. I should have crossed the road and gone to talk to her. I should have tried to explain. Why didn’t I do that? Because I’m ashamed. That’s the truth of it.

  I dream. One of those dreams when you know it’s a dream. But that doesn’t help. Tiffany’s face is close. Magnified but flickering, like cine film projected onto a white wall. Her pouting mouth screwed up, her blonde hair hanging ragged around her face. The rims of her eyes red, mascara smudged down her face. She’s shouting at me. Lurching towards me. Staggering.