Invisible. Jonathan Buckley
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‘You could say that.’
‘Yes. You sound surprised,’ she confirms. There is a shade of an accent in her voice, ‘yis’ rather than ‘yes’.
‘Surprised and very pleased,’ he says. He stretches out a foot to push the door shut. ‘I thought I’d hear from your mother first.’
Stephanie gives a small grunt, perhaps of amusement. ‘Well, it’s me.’
‘After all this time.’
‘All this time,’ she copies.
‘So, how are you?’
‘I’m OK. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good.’
Having waited for her to say more, he prompts: ‘You didn’t sound altogether OK in your letter.’
‘I’m OK,’ she repeats expressionlessly, and again does not continue.
He makes a non-committal sound, hoping that she will speak. ‘You’re not, are you? Not really,’ he says at last.
She sighs loudly, then tells him: ‘We don’t get on. You spoke to her. You must have got the picture.’
‘Well, no. I don’t understand the situation. If the problem –’
‘The problem is that she’s who she is and he’s who he is and I’m who I am.’
‘Robert.’
‘The dentist. Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met the man.’
‘What, never?’
‘Not ever.’
‘Count your blessings. I’m telling you. He’s dull. Dull dull dull.’
‘Dull isn’t so bad. One can live with dull. I don’t see why –’ ‘He’s worse than dull.
He’s dullness to the power of ten. Dullness de luxe. And she’s awful. They’re driving me mental.’
‘She’s not awful. Stephanie. She can be difficult. I know she can be difficult. I can be difficult. We all can be. But I don’t think she’s –’
‘But you wouldn’t know, would you?’
‘Well, I think –’
‘No,’ she persists with the aggression of a prosecutor, ‘you wouldn’t know. More than ten years ago you two split up.’
‘Yes.’
‘And a lot can change in that time.’
‘Of course.’
‘You ought to try living here. It’s a police state. A cross between a police state and the Ideal Home Exhibition. That’s exactly what it is. Everything by the book. Everything in its place. All friends to be vetted, all homework to be signed off. Probably got my room bugged.’
‘Stephanie.’
‘Wouldn’t put it past her. She opens my letters –’
‘That wasn’t good. We had words about it.’
‘A fucking outrage is what it was.’
‘Stephanie, please.’
‘Please what?’
‘Don’t use language like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘No, come on. We’re talking about your mother. There’s no need –’
‘We’re talking about my mother and you’re starting to sound like her.’
‘No, just tone it down a little. I want to understand, but abusing her doesn’t help.’
‘It helps me,’ she retorts.
A silence fills the line between them. ‘So did you talk to her?’ he asks. ‘Did you talk to your mother about coming down here?’
‘Oh yeah. We had a talk, as recommended.’
‘And?’
‘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