Winterton Blue (25 page)

She could talk, says Anna, the lipstick poised between her fingers like a stick of chalk, Old Nonna, what did she look like?

That hair, nods her mother, Black as the ace of spades, and how old was she?

Seventy? guesses Anna.

It was boot polish, her mother says, pulling a grim face, That's why she wouldn't go out in the rain.

And
her
lipstick, chimes Anna,

Was the colour of pig's blood! Finishes her mother, and they both laugh at the memory.

Whereas yours, Anna says, gesturing her to close her mouth, Is as pink as a seashell.

It's called Crystal Coral. I won't tell you who chose it for me. It'll only put you in a mood.

You'll be wearing Crystal Coral on your nose if you don't shut up, says Anna.

That's what he says when he does it for me, says her mother, behaving now and offering up her face so that Anna can put a sweep of colour on both lips. Anna dabs off the excess with the tissue and stands back to examine her handiwork. Her mother presses her lips together with a quick squeaking noise.

We need our men friends, don't we, for more important things than sex.

Seeing Anna blink at what she's just heard, she rushes on,

Not that we
have
sex, you understand. I closed that gate, or door, or however it is you say it, when your father died.

Anna is looking at her mother but her mind is moving backwards. She's thinking of a closed door, and how, suddenly, and with no effort, there's one opening now. It will allow her to ask important things, it will allow her—if she's careful—back to the time before it was closed. Her mother has moved on, heaving herself off the bed and bending over the side. She's still talking, slightly embarrassed, and oblivious to the way Anna is standing still, hardly breathing.

But you see, Cabbage, now, he's good at make-up, her mother says, scrabbling under the bed and pulling out her sandals, He's got the theatrical backdrop.

Background, says Anna, tuning in again to what her mother has been saying.

That's what I said, deafy, she scolds, and then, in a puton, creaky old voice, she cries, Isn't it windy? No, dear, I think it's Thursday.

So am I, laughs Anna, adding the punchline, Let's go and have a cup of tea.

Her mother swings her handbag over her shoulder.

Did someone say G&T? she says.

Anna's deafness didn't go away when the infection cleared up. Her mother took her to the clinic. They were used to the mother and daughter by now, and kind, because they knew about their grief, how it had made them both ill in different ways. After the doctor had put the instrument back in its box, he turned to Anna's mother.

There's some scarring, but there shouldn't be any lasting effect. People with perforated eardrums can hear perfectly well, you know.

At her mother's insistence they were referred to an ENT clinic, to see a specialist. She attached Anna to a machine, and sat close, holding a pair of headphones.

When you put these on, you'll hear some noises. Just press that button as soon as you hear them, okay?

Anna did as she was told. She pressed the button when she heard a noise, and, unsure of herself, she pressed when she didn't. Sometimes the noises seem to meld into each other; they travelled over the top of her head in a swirling loop, and under her jaw like a chin-strap. It was quite monotonous until one particular noise made her straighten up with shock: someone was calling her name.

Afterwards, she waited while the doctor studied another machine. She was saying something: Anna could see her lips moving.

Can't hear you, she cried, pulling off the headphones. Anna's mother tutted at her daughter.

Of course you can't, with those things on, she said.

The doctor was talking about glue and grommets, and showed them a huge plastic model of the ear. When Anna got bored trying to follow their conversation, she played with the pieces, which fitted together like a jigsaw.

There's perhaps a very slight loss in the left ear, the doctor said, looking from mother to daughter, But it's not unusual at this age, especially after an infection. We'll just monitor it for a while.

Anna's mother was pleased with the news. As a treat, they went into the Sarsaparilla Bar on the high street. Anna's mother ordered a coffee, and the man came from behind the counter and crouched down and said to Anna,

Hello, little one. I'm Sammy.

He put his hand out to shake hers. Anna pushed her hands deep into her pockets, which made her mother laugh. Sammy laughed too, staring up at her mother and shaking his head. He looked like one of the men in the photographs on the wall behind him; they all had slicked hair and wide white grins. Sammy said they were actors, and her mother went across to look at the signatures on the photographs, exclaiming whenever she saw one she recognized. Watching how easily impressed she was made Anna feel even more uneasy: she hoped Sammy wasn't an actor.

Even though there was music playing and her mother and Sammy were talking and laughing, Anna blocked them out. She listened purely to the noises inside her head: soft scratches, like a mouse in the skirting, and faint bleeps, and echoes. She wanted to tell her mother that she could still hear them, could still hear her name being called. She watched her carefully: her mother had pulled her headscarf down around her neck, her hair burnished auburn under the spotlights. Her lipstick on the edge of the cup formed a blurred pink bow. When Sammy brought her another coffee, he slid onto the vacant stool next to Anna and did his smile. He had a thin stick between his teeth, which he moved from one side of his mouth to the other. Anna sidled off her stool.

I need to pee, she said, looking around her.

When she came back up the stairs, her mother was waiting by the door with her headscarf in her hands.

See you soon, I hope, Sammy shouted from behind the counter, which made her mother turn round and wave at him.

They went to the Sarsaparilla Bar after each appointment at the clinic. It had become a regular event. Anna had dandelion and burdock and her mother had coffee and a conversation
with Sammy. Once the usual preliminaries were over—Sammy asking if there was any improvement, and offering commiserations—he always did the same thing: he sat close to Anna and conducted his own experiments, talking behind his hand, or pulling his sweater up over his face and whispering into his chest. Anna had to guess what he was saying, and even though he was funny, speaking like Donald Duck or mumbling rude words, she dared not laugh. She understood how she was caught; if she laughed, they would know she could hear him, and he would be her new father; and she'd never go back to the clinic. Anna couldn't allow that to happen, not now that she knew. At first, she couldn't identify the voice calling her, so she tried to ignore it. But gradually, it took on a familiar tone. The pattern was always the same: it would start with just the bleeps and taps, until she could hear a faint whisper just behind them, getting closer, closer in her ear. It was her father's voice. He would call her through the machine: Anna, Anna, gentle but clear, until the voice faded, and all that was left was an echo, the ghost of him in her ears. What Anna wanted was a way to answer him, but she didn't know how. She thought he might be lost. Or that she was lost, and he was searching for her.

There's no discernible damage, said the doctor, at their next visit, And the tests are—she searched for the word—Unambiguous. As far as they can be.

Anna sat quietly with the headphones round her neck. The sun shone like gloss on the window.

So what do we do now? asked Anna's mother. She was wearing a black coat this time, and held a black headscarf in her hands.

We can continue to monitor the situation, said the doctor, With conversion deafness—

Anna's mother interrupted,

With what, did you say?

Conversion deafness—it's possibly—um, there's no physical cause, at least none that we can find.

She paused, looked steadily at Anna's mother,

I can refer you to a counsellor, someone who can help you with your loss.

It's not me who's deaf, said Anna's mother, flipping the headscarf over her hair and tying it tight under her chin, Thank you for your time, doctor.

Her mother was wearing her best black because it had been a whole year since Anna's father died. After the clinic, instead of going to the Sarsaparilla Bar, they went to visit his grave. Anna wanted to wear black as well, but she didn't have any black. She wore her school uniform, which was grey, with a white blouse, and they bought a bunch of yellow flowers in paper wrapping from a stall outside the cemetery. They spent a long time walking the path between the graves, so in the end, Anna thought her father might really be lost, the way her mother kept saying his name, and wandering from place to place, and turning back on herself. When they'd walked nearly the whole way round, her mother let out a yelp and fell to her knees. She put the flowers on a flat stone; Anna understood that her father was beneath it.

We'll get a headstone, she said to Anna, And put some words on it. That'll make us both feel better. Better than any counsellor.

Is it a headstone because it's on his head? asked Anna, trying not to cry.

No, pet, his head will be fine. It's so we can find him again, when we next come to visit.

Will Sammy be coming too? Asked Anna, staring at the splash of colour marking the grave.

Who? said her mother, and taking a sharp breath, No. No Sammy. You must understand this, Anna. There'll be no more doctors, and—listen to me—definitely no Sammy.

Lewis sits on the bottom step of the Nelson memorial. It has been cordoned off with red and white tape, which flutters with the rhythm of a kite on a line. It reminds him of a crime scene, but the notice printed on an adjoining piece of hardboard announces a restoration project, and the name of the firm. There's the gusting wind again at his back, blowing off the sea. He smokes a cigarette, cupping his hand around the tip to make it last. He keeps the guest-house in full view, afraid that were he to shut his eyes, it might simply vanish. He fixes on his window at the top. If Marta took a look out through the nets, she would see him sitting there, like a dog waiting to be let back in. To the casual eye, he would appear fairly relaxed. In fact, his blood is so quick with excitement that he can feel himself shaking. And it's all down to Marta and one word.

She was standing in the hallway, talking in a foreign language on the telephone, when he came down the stairs. He was just about to pass her when she caught his eye, and put her finger in the air to indicate she wanted to speak to him.

Mr Caine, she breathed, flushed from her goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the line, Are you going out? I could make up your room?

He thanked her and opened the front door.

And dinner? she asked, bending round him to catch his eye, Only my son Kristian will be joining us tonight—he's
an engineer just up the road here, you know, on the Velsters project, and he finds Mr Savoy a little—here she dropped her voice and tried not to smile—A little concentrated?

You'd like me to dilute, said Lewis. He could feel his heart racing beneath his jacket, felt the words thicken on his tongue, but he smiled, as casually and unshiftily as he could, before skipping down the steps.

And he is still strangely elated. He'll wait on the steps, and when he's given Marta enough time to do his room, he'll wander back in. He'll be in a clean room, with a definite way forward. In his mind, the evening is shaped as a Venn diagram, one overlapping circle is the Velsters project, the other is Sonia; in the centre, just where he wants him, is Carl.

It's hot inside the restaurant, and perilously dark, each table lit by a tealight in a shallow bowl. Seated behind the plate-glass window, Anna and her mother share the view of the harbour, a petrol blue sky gradually turning navy. They watch as people drift along the promenade. Anna's mother makes wry comments about the clothes, the hairstyles, the fake tans on show. The maître d' stands outside, trying to tempt them in to eat; it's late season, every potential punter is treated to an abundant and showy welcome. Anna's mother is fascinated by the goings-on; as they wait for the drinks to arrive, she observes everyone closely.