recurrent popular revivals in the middle passage of my career. She even had money, eventually, when her dad upped and died one bounteous Christmas Day. Yes, we were a pair, a two-hander, a team. And now, red-eyed and crapulent, standing in my drawers at the window of my boyhood bedroom, above the morning-empty square, in bewilderment and inexplicable distress, I wondered when exactly the moment of catastrophic inattention had occurred and I had dropped the gilded bowl of my life and let it shatter.
Barefoot I made my shaky way downstairs and went into the kitchen and leant infirmly at the table with aching eyes and a frightening pressure in my head. The whiskey bottle, three-quarters empty, stood alone on the table with its shoulders set in what seemed a pointed rebuke. The room in sunlight was a luminous taut tent held down by studs of light reflecting at many corners, that bottle top, the rim of a smeared glass, an unbearably glaring knife blade. What had I said to Quirke? I remembered describing the night the animal made me stop on the road and I knew I must come back and live here. I had recounted to him my dream of being a child on Easter morning; I had even described the plastic chicken, and asked him if he knew what was the difference between a chicken and a hen. This last conundrum he gravely considered for a long moment, without result. Then I heard myself telling him of those afternoons when I would creep off to cry by myself in suburban picture-houses. Under the loosening influence of the whiskey it all came spilling out of me, another version somehow of those very storms of inexplicable sorrow I used to suffer there in the humid darkness, crouched under those vast, shimmering screens. And now in the pitiless light of morning I stood canted by the table with eyes shut fast and felt myself go hot with helpless shame at the thought of that blurted confession. The telephone began to shrill, giving me a fright. I had not known it was still connected. After a flustered search I found it in the hall, on the floor behind a disembowelled sofa. It was an old-fashioned model made of Bakelite; the receiver had the osseous heft of a tribal artefact, shaped and polished by long and murderous use. I took a moment to register Lydia’s voice on the line. I heard her dry laugh.
“Have you forgotten us already?” she said.
“I didn’t know the telephone still worked.”
“Well, it does.” A beat of breathing silence. “And how is the hermit?”
“Hungover.” I could see through into the kitchen; the window there had a flaw in one of its panes, and when I made the tiniest movement of my head a tree in the garden seemed to ripple, as if refracted under water. “I was drinking with Quirke,” I said.
“With what?”
“Quirke. Our so-called caretaker.”
“Much care he’s taken.”
“He brought a bottle of whiskey.”
“To launch you on your new life. Did he break it over your head?”
I could see the scene, the morning light like heavy pale gas and Lydia standing in the living room of the big old dark house by the sea that had been part of her inheritance from her father, with the receiver wedged between shoulder and jaw, a trick that I have never been able to master, talking sideways into it as if it were a sleepy infant cradled beside her face. There is the briny smell of the sea, the far cry of gulls. It all seemed so clear and yet so far away it might have been a vision of life on another planet, unimaginably distant from this one, yet similar in every detail.
“Cass called again,” Lydia said.
“Yes?” Slowly I sat down on the sofa, sinking so low my chin almost touched my knees, the sofa’s horsehair guts spilling out from underneath and tickling my bare ankles.
“She has a surprise for you.”
She breathed a brief laugh.
“Oh?”
“You’ll be amazed.”
No doubt I shall; a surprise from Cass is a formidable prospect. The tree beyond the flawed pane in the kitchen window rippled. Lydia made a sound that to my consternation seemed a sob; when she spoke again her voice was husky with reproach. “I think you should come home,” she said. “I think you should be here when she arrives.” I had nothing to say to that. I was remembering the day my daughter was born. She sprang into the world, a smeared and furious fingerling, bearing the generations with her. I had not been prepared for so many resemblances. She was my mother and father, and Lydia’s father and dead mother, and Lydia herself, and a host of shadowy ancestors, all of them jostling together, as in the porthole of a departing emigrant ship, in that miniature face contorted upon the struggle for breath. I was present for the birth—oh, yes, I was very progressive, went in for all that kind of thing; it was another performance, of course, inwardly I quailed before the bloody spectacle. By the time the baby came I was in a sort of daze, and did not know where to turn. They put the infant in my arms before they had even washed her. How light she was, yet what a weight. A doctor in bloodied green rubber boots spoke to me but I could not understand him; the nurses were brisk and smug. When they lifted Cass away from me I seemed to hear the twang of an umbilical cord, one that I had paid out of myself, severing. We brought her home in a basket, like some precious piece of shopping we could not wait to unwrap. It was winter, and there was an alpine sting to the air. I recall the pallid sunlight on the car park—Lydia blinking like a prisoner led up from the dungeons —and the cold fresh fragrant breeze coming down from the high hills behind the hospital, and nothing to be seen of the baby but a patch of vague pink above a satin blanket. When we got her home we had no cot for her, and had to put her in the open bottom drawer of a tallboy in our bedroom. I could hardly sleep for fear of getting up in the night and forgetting she was there and slamming it shut. Triangles of watery light from the headlamps of passing motor cars kept opening across the ceiling only to be folded smartly again and dropped, like so many ladies’ fans, into the drawer where she was asleep. We had a nickname for her, what was it? Hedgehog, I think; yes, that was it, because of the tiny snuffling noises she made. Bright, innocent-seeming days, in my memory of them, though the clouds were already massing behind the horizon.
“I am talking to myself here,” Lydia said, with a tight, exasperated sigh.
I allowed my eyes to close, feeling the rims of the inflamed lids hotly touch. My head ached.
“When is she arriving?” I said.
“Oh, she won’t say, of course—that would be too simple.” Lydia’s voice always takes on a bridling tone when she speaks of our difficult daughter. “She’ll probably just appear one day out of the blue.”
Another silence then, in which I could hear the rustle of my own breathing in the mouthpiece. I opened my eyes and looked out to the kitchen again. What struck me first about the image, vision, hallucination—I would not have known what to call it, had I thought to call it anything—that I glimpsed out there was the ordinariness of it: the figure of a woman, tall, young, turning from the range, abruptly handing something, it looked like, to what seemed a seated child. Slowly I set the receiver down on the arm of the sofa. No sound at all, except for a faint, a very faint hissing, that might have been no more than the sound of my own self, blood, lymph, labouring organs, making its low susurrus in my ears. I was given only that glimpse—the woman, if it was a woman, turning, the arm extending, the child unmoving, if it was a child—and then it was gone. I squeezed my sore eyes shut again, trying to retain the image. It was all inexplicably, achingly familiar.
I walked softly out to the kitchen and stood and looked about. No one was there. Everything was as it had been a minute ago, before the phone rang, except for a sense of general suspension, as of things holding themselves in stillness, not daring to breathe. I returned to the hall and sat down again on the sofa, a sort of collapse, and exhaled a shuddery sigh. Lydia was still on the line.
“What?” she said snappishly. “What did you say?”
I felt a piercing cold.
“I said, the place is haunted.” I was laughing now, unmanageable, feathery gasps of laughter burbling out of me.
Another silence.
“You are your own ghost,” Lydia said, with angry haste, and I heard the receiver drop with a crash into its cradle an instant before the connection broke, she too all at once become phantom, fading into air and distance.
It was not the first time I had seen a ghost in this house. One day, when I was a boy, in the dreamy boredom of a summer afternoon I climbed up the unlit steep stairs to the garret, drawn there at who knows what behest.
