Invisible. Jonathan Buckley
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the days she feels the beginnings of happiness as she looks at these things, because each of them seems to reveal a life that might be hers. Be patient, the shops seem to say to her: be patient, and work hard, and this life will be yours, in time. Resting her forehead on the cold glass, she stares into the delicatessen. On a small white table bulbous jars of fruits preserved in syrup glisten in the light from the street. Shelves recede into darkness, laden with plaques of Swiss chocolate, spices in bottles, dozens of different pots of honey and mustard, deep tins with labels that seem to have been drawn by hand. Stepping back, she looks up and down the street, to make sure that nobody has noticed her. The hands and numerals of the church clock are glowing bronze against the golden stone of the tower. A morning like this is almost enough to make her forget everything, she thinks, staring into the dazzle of the clock, then she sees the time that the hands are showing, and resumes her walk, taking her usual detour to avoid the police station.
She strides up the hill towards the gateway of the Oak, walking in the middle of the empty narrow road, in a tunnel of leaves, on a long avenue of leaf shadows. She passes through the gate, onto the shining white drive, where she stops by the big stone flowerpot in the shape of a lion. The sun is lifting off the horizon and some bits of mist remain in the lower part of the valley, clinging like cotton to the grass where the slopes are in the shade. Above the mist, dozens of cars are on the move, up and down the long line of the road. Nose to tail, two lorries climb the incline, slowly as a caterpillar. She surveys the ranks of roses in the flower beds, these English flower beds that meet the grass at borders as straight as the edges of a carpet. She looks at the hotel, at the place she has worked for so many weeks. The stone of the façade has been turned a sweet hay-like yellow by the early sun and the windows shine like little waterfalls. On the garden side the shaggy coat of ivy that hangs from the gutter to the ground is the black-green of river moss. She looks at the stone and at the ivy, and the beautiful colours seem to soothe the sadness that is falling over her, a sadness that is for herself but also a bit for Mr Caldecott. But she must get to work, she tells herself, counting the windows in which the curtains are closed, each of which is the sign of a job to be done.
Three cars are parked beyond the ivy, deep in the shadow of the building. Close to the wall at the far end is Mr Gillies’s handsome old car, with its thick chrome bumpers and wrinkled leather seats. On the other side of the bay, under the honeysuckle, sits Mr Harbison’s BMW. Beside it is a silver sports car, as slender as a speedboat, with a back window that’s the size of the slit of a letter box. Curious, she walks up to it, treading in the channels that its tyres have ploughed in the gravel. The windscreen is as big as a bath towel and is almost flat. It must cost more than she would earn in two years, or three years, she guesses, then she sees that a man is crouching in the passenger seat, bent double as he reaches for something in the glove compartment, which is nothing but a plain steel shelf. He sits up, holding a map, and notices her. He gets out of the car and leans on the low roof, his hands wide apart and arms locked. ‘Hi. How’s it going?’ he says, ruffling his uncombed hair. His voice is pleasing, like a newsreader’s, and he is handsome in the way that young American lawyers on TV are handsome, with a small straight nose and long jaw, and a brow that’s all straight lines. His white shirt, heavily creased and half tucked into the waistband of his vivid blue trousers, is unbuttoned to the breastbone, showing skin as smooth as a boy’s and the colour of her own skin, a colour that only rich people have in England.
‘Good, yes,’ she replies.
Glints come off the face and bracelet of his watch as he raises a hand to screen the glare of the sun. ‘Beautiful morning,’ he comments, blinking at the sky. ‘Real summer.’
‘It’s nice,’ she agrees.
They regard the unclouded sky for a moment. The man scrubs a hand across his hair again, making it even messier. ‘You work here?’ he casually asks.
‘Yes.’
He rubs his unshaven chin, seeming to consider an idea that has occurred to him. ‘It’s quiet,’ he adds, in a tone that could mean that quietness is good, or could mean that it’s bad.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Very quiet.’
‘Very quiet,’ she replies, and the man looks at her with narrowed eyes, as though she had said something unusual. Beginning to feel embarrassed, she is relieved to hear the clang of the hotel’s glass door. Mr Caldecott appears under the porch but, seeing her talking, at once withdraws with a backwards step. She points towards the building. ‘I have to –’ she apologises to the young man.
He looks at her and smiles again, and opens the door of the car. ‘Sure,’ he says, then lowers himself into the passenger seat and ducks down to attend to something on the floor.
Touching for luck the coin-shaped fossil embedded in the left-hand column of the porch, as she has done every morning, she goes into the hotel. There is no one at the desk, but a note from Mr Caldecott is lying on the register. A printing machine could not make writing as fine as Mr Caldecott’s: you could lay a ruler across the tops of his capital letters, and every loop is identical, like the eyes of large needles laid in a row. She scans Mr Caldecott’s handwriting, then reads what it says and goes to the storeroom for her overall and pinafore. In the kitchen she turns on the lights and the coffee maker. She removes the cutlery that will be needed, giving each piece a shine before setting it down on the large metal tray, which she then takes through.
In a corner of the dining room Mr Caldecott is sitting beside Mr Harbison, studying a sheet of paper that covers most of the table. Mr Harbison is looking out of the window, pursing his lips and grimacing, while with the fingers of his right hand he twists the too-tight ring that he wears on his left little finger. ‘Video games?’ she overhears Mr Caldecott ask sarcastically, at which Mr Harbison stops turning the ring and gives Mr Caldecott a look of glum sympathy, as if they had suffered a setback together. Pinning a finger to the sheet of paper, Mr Caldecott makes a remark she cannot hear. With one hand Mr Harbison makes a gesture of giving something away without a thought, then a frenzy of beeps starts inside his jacket. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he gets up from the table, plunging his hand into his inner pocket. He turns away, hunching over his phone like a man trying to light a cigarette in a gale. ‘Yes,’ he says, annoyed. ‘Yes. Yes. Good. Goodgood. Yes. Right. Good. Yes.’
Mr Caldecott signals to her, and orders a full English breakfast for both of them. Noticing her glance at the building plan, he raises an eyebrow, smiling resignedly.
‘And a bottle of mineral water,’ Mr Harbison whispers loudly, smothering the phone. ‘Still. Not fizzy. Thanks, Eleanor,’ he says, and then he does a peculiar wave, which she realises a second later is meant for the owner of the silver car, who is coming towards them and looking past her as if she is not there.
Annie has turned up now, and together they prepare the breakfast for Mr Caldecott and Mr Harbison, which Annie serves, leaving Eloni to set the tray for Mr Gillies and carry it upstairs. She returns through the dining room, expecting to see Mr and Mrs Sampson, who usually come downstairs at exactly half past seven, but instead she sees, by an opened window, the man who arrived yesterday – Mr Morton, says Mr Caldecott’s note. Tying the loose belt of her pinafore as she hurries to his table, she apologises for keeping him waiting.
‘Not to worry,’ says the man, directing a smile to the side of her face. He gives his order, blinking slowly at the table, as if he has not woken up properly, while his fingers stroke the folded napkin. Moving around the juice glass, his hand knocks it a tiny distance from its place, and it is then that she knows that he cannot see. ‘Pardon me for asking,’ he says, as she finishes writing, ‘but was it you upstairs when I arrived?’
‘I am sorry?’
His eyes flicker at her. They are very dark and not clouded at all, but the skin around them seems shrunken and lifeless, like a fruit that has begun to dry out. ‘When I was standing at the desk,’ he says, ‘before Mr Caldecott came, there was someone on the gallery, a woman. Up above,’ he gestures, pointing over his shoulder. ‘She spoke to me. “Hello.” I was wondering if it was you.’
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘I