The Invisible Ones (7 page)

I don’t want to answer this question.

8.

Ray

According to Leon, the person who knew Rose best was her sister Kizzy. Kizzy Wood is now Kizzy Wilson, and lives with her family on a council-run site near Ipswich. We spoke briefly on the phone. She said she hasn’t seen or heard from her sister since the wedding, so there wasn’t much point in my coming. I said it was no trouble. She said, “Well, if you must.”

I haven’t been on a council site in years. This one is large—there are more than twenty trailers. Regular, neatly lined-up plots with hard standing. Tubs of flowers outside. A large amenities block. I am watched by curious faces as I tap on her door. It is opened by a small woman who looks older than her twenty-eight years. Her hair is pulled tightly back into a ponytail, revealing premature worry lines etched into her forehead. I search her face for any resemblance to Rose but find little: Kizzy Wilson is sandy-colored, almost shockingly freckled, with pointed, delicate cheekbones and a sharp chin. The only feature they seem to share is the mouth: full, even, symmetrical lips; very white teeth. She looks like she would have a good smile, but right now she is not smiling. I introduce myself.

“Well, come in, then. I was expecting you a bit earlier.”

The door is near the back of the trailer, next to the kitchen, where steel bowls sit on an immaculate countertop. There’s a gas stove, a fridge, but
no sink—that hasn’t changed since my grandfather’s day. The walls are lined with shiny cream-colored Formica, there’s a wood-burning stove— unlit—under a mantelpiece, and mirrors, chased with floral patterns, hang on every wall. On the U-shaped seating at the back, surrounded by flounced ivory curtains, sits another woman—and at the sight of her, my heart jumps briefly into my mouth.

“My other sister,” says Kizzy Wilson. “Margaret.”

Margaret Wood—or Mullins, as she turns out to be now—does look like Rose. Thick, straight, mousy hair and a round jaw. Dark, straight eyebrows. But—obviously, now I know—older than Rose would be, heavier. And without the birthmark.

“Kizzy said you were coming. I live here, too. I’m the eldest.”

She doesn’t extend her hand.

Kizzy ushers me toward the seats, and I lower myself onto slippery cream vinyl, planting my feet on the floor so I don’t slide off.

“You’ve a lovely trailer, Mrs. Wilson.”

“Thanks.” Kizzy tips milk and water into mugs and brings them over, tea bags floating like drowned mice.

“I’ll have to go and pick up the boys soon,” she says, with a nod toward a loudly ticking cuckoo clock. “I don’t have long.”

“Of course. This shouldn’t take long. I really just want to get an impression of what sort of person Rose was—and anything you remember about the wedding . . . or afterward.”

I direct my comments to both sisters. They’ve positioned themselves on either side of me, so I have to turn my head like a spectator at a tennis match. Kizzy speaks into her mug of tea.

“I said on the phone, I didn’t hear from her at all after the wedding. That was the last time I saw her, and the last time I spoke to her. People who travel . . . you don’t see them that regular, you know.”

“And you?” I turn to Margaret.

“Same. We were all at the wedding.” She shrugs, mouth downturned, as though it’s a matter of little concern. “And then . . . nothing.”

“You didn’t think it was strange, not hearing from her?”

“No. Not at first. She was married, wasn’t she?” Margaret looks at me, a hint of defiance in her eyes.

“And later, when did you first know that something was . . . not right?”

The sisters exchange a glance. Kizzy speaks.

“Grapevine. Someone had heard that Rose had upped and left. No idea who with.”

“But she’d gone off with someone?”

“Yeah. That was what they said.”

“And you had no idea that things were going badly before that?”

It’s like pulling teeth, getting them to talk. They feel that I’m accusing them of not caring about their sister. They insist that it is not unusual not to see family for long periods, that they were busy wives, busy with husbands, with children. They heard nothing. They knew nothing about Rose’s marriage. They didn’t try to find out.

“Could you tell me what sort of person she was when you knew her? You were close, weren’t you—growing up?” I smile at Kizzy.

“Suppose. She was my little sister. I used to look after her.”

“In what way . . . ?”

She shrugs.

“In every way. Walk to school with her. Play together . . . You know.”

“Did she have any other friends—at school or . . . otherwise?”

Kizzy shakes her head.

“Rose was quiet. Really quiet. Shy, you know? She wouldn’t speak to someone she didn’t know. She used to follow me round, like my shadow. I would’ve known if she had other friends, and . . .”

She shrugs, and then her shoulders droop again.

They exchange looks again.

I address Margaret. “You two seem to have stayed close.”

Margaret glares at me.

“We married cousins. Steve and Bobby work together.”

“Oh, I see. The Jankos weren’t close to your family?”

“No.”

“What did you think of Ivo Janko?”

Margaret snorts but doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t like him?”

Kizzy frowns, deepening the creases in her forehead.

“How well did you know him before the wedding—or any of the family?”

“We didn’t, really. No one knew them well. They were sort of private— different.”

She looks at her sister, for help.

Margaret says, “Kizzy means they weren’t well liked.”

“It was funny. Ivo really made a play for Rose—didn’t he, Marg? And lots of girls hung round him. Girls who didn’t care about the family. Rose seemed like the last girl he would ever . . .”

She looks down, as if she feels disloyal. Margaret takes over.

“Too pretty by half. You shouldn’t marry a man who’s prettier than you, was my feeling.”

“They didn’t seem like an obvious couple, then?”

Margaret shakes her head and tuts.

“Rose was so quiet. She should’ve chosen someone . . . sweet. Ivo wasn’t sweet. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”

She looks at her sister.

Kizzy looks miserable now, clutching her mug of tea. She chews her plump lower lip and speaks so quietly I have to lean forward to catch the words.

“I couldn’t believe it when they told me she’d run off—and I hadn’t heard a thing. I thought, where else would she go? Who else did she know? I kept waiting for her to turn up. But she didn’t. I was fed up. I thought she’d come to me if she wanted, but she didn’t want. I had two kids by then—what was I supposed to do?”

She looks at me again, the emotion animating her face, making her look younger, prettier. I feel a stab of pity.

“What do you think happened?”

“I dunno, do I? I wouldn’t be surprised if he treated her bad, but . . . I’m surprised she had the guts to go.”

She says the last sentence with a break in her voice, looking out the window.

“I’ve got to go and get the boys.”

“Kizzy, have you ever wondered if Rose was dead?”

Kizzy looks around, her mouth opening. She looks genuinely shocked.

“What? No! That’s a terrible thing to say! I’m sure she’s alive. She just had to . . . Maybe she went abroad . . . I don’t know.”

Margaret draws herself away from me in distaste.

“That’s a wicked thing to say.”

“Your father thinks she’s dead. After your mother died, he thought she would have heard . . . got in touch.”

Margaret mutters a curse under her breath.

“Dad . . . Jesus.”

Kizzy rolls her eyes and gets up. Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. “I’ve got to go. They’ll be standing around in the cold. She’s not dead.” On the Formica wall there are framed portraits of two stiffly smiling little boys with haircuts that make them look like miniature squaddies. One of them has the heavy jaw that is such a feature of Rose’s photographs. Her nephews.

Margaret stands up, too.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can tell you, mister. I hope you find her, though, and I hope Ivo Janko gets what he deserves.”

Kizzy Wilson picks up a leather jacket, and we file outside. I thank them for their help. Her sister stands like a stocky sentinel in the doorway of the trailer—in case I try to sneak back in? A few yards away, Kizzy pauses for a moment.

“If I think of anything, I’ll ring you.”

“Thanks. Anything at all, even if it seems stupid.”

She hunches her shoulders against the thin rain.

“We should’ve done this ages ago. Isn’t it too late?”

“No. No, it’s . . .” I search for some words of comfort. “I’ll do my best.” She nods, unhappy. Clearly I do not inspire her with much confidence. She turns without another word and trudges, head down, to her car.

9.

JJ

At last we’re at Lourdes. Everyone is tense, wondering what’s going to happen. We arrived last night, having got lost three times driving down little roads among green hills. Down here in the South of France, every single road is signposted to a place called Pau. So every time we thought we were on the road to Lourdes, we ended up heading for Pau instead. It was a bit funny, really, heading for a cartoon punch in the face. I thought so, anyway, but I didn’t say anything, as Gran was getting cross. It was so late when we finally found Lourdes that it was dark, and we drove about looking for a place to pull on, blind as bats. There aren’t any streetlights outside the town, so we pulled onto a dark field that seemed quiet and where we thought we wouldn’t bother anyone.

This morning, we were woken up at six o’clock by a giant groaning, roaring noise. I leaped out of my bunk and looked out the window—and it turned out we had pulled onto a bit of land right next to a factory, and all the machinery was starting up for the day. We all got up really quickly, and sure enough, in a few minutes a man came over from the factory to shout at us. I’m not sure what he said, but we kept saying “Lourdes” and pointing to Christo and Great-uncle’s wheelchair, and eventually he calmed down and went away.

Lourdes is kind of a weird place. The shrine seems quite separate from the town proper. For a while we drove around, not sure where to go; then I realized that we had to follow the signs to “Sanctuaires” to get to the grotto, where it all happens. There are lots of churches, and there are a lot of people. Lots of coach trips and people in uniforms. Most of the people are old. Some of them really old. I watch this one coach spewing out its load of passengers, and it takes ages. The ones who aren’t in wheelchairs can hardly walk, and cling on for dear life as they clamber down the coach steps. They’ve all had plenty of life. Between them, there must be a couple thousand years in that one coach alone. Literally. Christo’s had only six years, and all of them with the disease. I think he deserves a miracle more than any of them. I hope God takes note of this.

We park in a coach park and set off for the grotto first, as that’s where Mary apparently appeared to Saint Bernadette many years ago. Ivo carries Christo, and I push Great-uncle. It’s funny. Now that I’m here, I’m quite excited. I really feel that something might happen, even though I’ve been secretly doubtful up until now. I mean, Bernadette was this girl who had special needs—a retard, in other words. And she was my age. I can’t imagine anyone appearing to any of the girls I know at school. Most of them are incredibly stupid or really tedious, or both. Helen Davies, for example, who is supposed to be such a devout Catholic, would love it if something appeared to her, as she could be even more high and mighty than usual. But she’s totally prejudiced against Gypsies. Then I wonder what Saint Bernadette thought of Gypsies. Great-uncle is always saying how in all parts of Europe people have persecuted us, usually much worse than they have in Britain, so actually we’re quite lucky. Like, during the Holocaust, Gypsies were gassed like Jews. But if you were only a quarter Jewish, you counted as not Jewish and were allowed to live. But if you were only one-sixteenth Gypsy, then you were still a Gypsy and they would gas you. That’s how much they hated Gypsies. And in Romania, for centuries and centuries Gypsies were actually slaves, bought and sold like cattle. They don’t teach you that in school. But Great-uncle tells me. He knows a lot about it. So maybe Bernadette was prejudiced against
Gypsies, too. Maybe no one’s ever asked. I did wonder at first whether we shouldn’t go and ask for a miracle from Saint Sara—who is the patron saint of Gypsies, after all. Her shrine’s not that far from here—and we could all go to the seaside at the same time. But no one listens to me.

There’s a railing along the side of the road, next to a cliff, and Bernadette’s grotto is up above our heads. You can’t actually climb up to it because of the railings. People wander past, quite casually, as if it’s no big deal. I wonder if they all really believe in how holy it all is—they don’t look that bothered, most of them. There’s a big candelabra thing at the bottom, also behind the railings. It’s pretty. I prefer it to the statue of Mary that’s in the grotto—which is rather plasticky, in my opinion. I shut my eyes, though, like Gran, and try to pray. She has her eyes shut, and her lips are moving silently. When I open my eyes, Christo is gazing up at the statue with a look of total calm. I wonder what he’s thinking. At this point, Great-uncle suddenly swings his chair around and starts pushing himself off as if he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t say anything to any of us. I start to go after him, but Ivo puts his hand on my arm.

“Leave him,” he says. Gran opens her eyes and looks furious.

After we’ve looked and prayed, Ivo takes Christo off to the bathhouses. This is where the afflicted are bathed in the holy water—presumably where the miracles take place, if they’re going to. Before we got here, I was a bit worried about whether I would manage to explain things to people here, but there are lots of helpers here of different nationalities—in fact, most of the young people you see seem to be helpers rather than supplicants. That’s what we are—supplicants. Ivo has found one who speaks English, although he’s actually a French-Canadian called Balthazar (cool name!), and he goes to the bathhouses with them. Ivo doesn’t look him in the eye, as though he’s embarrassed about the whole thing. I wish he’d make a bit more of an effort. I ask Ivo if he wants me to go with them, but he says no. He has a towel around his shoulders, although it’s really warm and sunny, so I don’t think he needs to worry about Christo getting cold. I’m sure Lourdes will have thought of that, anyway. Maybe they have hair dryers.