Invisible

‘And what?’

‘What did she say?’

‘It was brilliant. She wanted to know what I was doing writing to you, like I need official permission before putting pen to paper. So I wanted to know what she was doing snooping in my room, and since when has it been a crime to write to your own father? And then she throws a full-on berserk. “Robert is your father. This is your home. Why are you doing this?” Completely bonkers, chewing the carpet.’

‘She’ll calm down.’

‘Yeah. Sure. The day she’s buried.’

‘I think you should let her know that we’ve spoken.’

‘Oh yeah. And have her go ballistic again. Top idea.’

‘It’s best if she knows.’

‘It’s not going to happen. She’ll go totally mental.’

‘Tell a white lie. Say I phoned you.’

‘Won’t work. She’ll find out in the end. She’ll check the phone bill and see your number. She always checks the bill, every time. Like she’s worried I’m going to be spending all night on the blower to Mongolia or something.’

‘But –’

‘Look, I’m not going to say anything to her. There’s no point. I’m not doing it,’ she says, with such finality that their conversation stalls.

‘Perhaps I should ring her tonight?’

‘God, don’t do that. Friday night is social night. She wouldn’t want that ruined. This week’s special guest is Mr Dunne, the gum specialist. A man who’s devoted his life to gums.’

‘A valuable public service.’

‘And his wife’s an airhead. A Nazi airhead.’

‘A bit strong, Stephanie.’

‘No, really, she is. She opens her mouth: a torrent of crap comes out. Lesbians, the Irish, the French, students, anyone to the left of Pinochet – you name them, she hates them.’

‘You’ll be having a fun evening, then.’

‘Too right. I’m out to the movies.’

‘To see what?’

‘Dunno. Whatever’s on. Can’t be worse than Mr and Mrs Gums.’

‘I suppose not,’ he laughs insincerely. ‘Look, if she hasn’t phoned by Sunday evening, I’ll ring her, OK? Let’s not waste any more time. When would you like to come down, ideally?’

‘In about half an hour would suit me fine.’

‘Come on. When would be best?’

‘Whenever.’

‘All right. We’ll say as soon as possible, OK?’

‘Sure. Whatever. OK.’

‘Did you look at the brochure I sent?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘You’ll like the pool. You saw the picture?’

‘Yeah. It looked nice.’

‘And there’s a fantastic garden, with a tennis court. Do you play tennis?’

‘No. Haven’t got the build for swinging a racquet,’ she adds, with a mirthless chuckle.

‘Well, I can’t play tennis either,’ he says, then he notices the light for line one is flashing. ‘Sorry, Stephanie, can you hang on, just for a second? I have to take a call.’

‘No, you go,’ she tells him, perhaps taking offence at the interruption.

‘I’ll be just –’

‘It’s OK,’ she says impatiently. ‘I’ve got to scoot.’

‘One minute. There’s one –’

‘Really. I’ve got to go. See you.’ And then, as an afterthought, snatching the phone back from its cradle, she says airily: ‘Nice to talk.’ The light for line two goes dead, and then the light for line one.

He had imagined that something like joy would be what he would feel when he came to speak to Stephanie again, but instead what he feels is a light-headedness, and a measure of disappointment, not at her attitude towards him, but at her rancour towards her mother, a rancour that was audible in almost every word. He takes her letter from his pocket and reads a sentence or two, but it is irrelevant now, superseded by their conversation, a conversation he almost wishes had not happened, because it has tainted his anticipation of her arrival. Instantly brought closer to his daughter by the sound of her voice, he has been left somewhere that feels no closer at all.

He puts the letter back in his pocket and goes out of the office. About to enter the Randall Room, he sees Mr Morton seated in a wicker chair at the open door, alone, facing the garden, his face raised to receive the mildness of the breeze. He touches the door and Mr Morton turns his head.

The briefest expression of worry passes over the blind man’s brow and then comes a smile of comprehension. ‘Mr Caldecott,’ he says, raising a hand.

Arrested by the certainty with which Mr Morton has spoken his name, he stops at the table in the centre of the room. ‘Mr Morton. Could I bring you something?’ he asks. ‘Tea, perhaps? We have fresh scones and home-made preserves.’

‘Thank you, but no, I don’t think I will,’ says Mr Morton. ‘Later, possibly. For now, this will suffice,’ he says, gesturing towards the garden.

‘Another very pleasant day,’ he comments, preparing to withdraw.

‘Indeed,’ Mr Morton agrees. His fingers play chords on the tape recorder that lies in his lap.

‘We have some tapes you could borrow, if you’d like. Some Mozart symphonies, a bit of Haydn. We use them as background music at receptions. I don’t know if that’s your taste –’

‘Very kind of you,’ says Mr Morton. ‘I may take you up on that offer later. Perhaps this evening.’