Now they’re both sulking for England. Ivo smokes and stares out the window. This despite Gran’s having asked him four times to put it out or go outside. Great-uncle is staring into space and smoking his pipe. He’s allowed to smoke indoors, since he’s in a wheelchair and there has to be some compensation. But it smells horrible. I can hardly breathe. He breaks the tense silence with a sigh like a gust of wind.
“You break my heart, you do, kid.”
This to Ivo, who ignores him, other than by sucking his teeth in an insulting way.
“Ivo, for Pete’s sake . . . We’re about to eat.”
That’s five. See, I can keep count, assess everyone’s bad moods, and cook at the same time.
“Open the window.”
“You could think of your son!”
This is absolutely guaranteed to wind Ivo up. He pretty much does think about Christo all the time.
“Jesus Christ, Kath—”
And this is guaranteed to wind Gran up.
“So help me . . . we’re going to bloody Lourdes! Sometimes I really wonder about you.”
She says this in a really low voice, although we’re all crammed around the table, so it would be hard for anyone to miss it. Ivo looks daggers at her. Great-uncle taps out his pipe.
“Come on, now. JJ is about to dish up. Smells delicious, kid.”
“Here it comes, here it comes. Bacon bacon bacon bacon. Come on get your lard on. Come on get your lard on! Get your lard on while it’s hot . . .”
I can keep this sort of thing up for hours. Just switch my brain off and let my tongue go on automatic. It’s a good way of annoying everyone so much that they stop having a go at one another. Gran, who appreciates this, even if no one else does, smiles in encouragement.
“Thank you, my darling. Doesn’t that smell good. It smells different from at home, doesn’t it?”
Ivo finally puts his fag out.
I slosh the Joe Gray onto everyone’s plate, and they’re off, eating like starving dingoes. Ivo, though, eats only a few mouthfuls, then pushes his plate away and gets up. He goes out of the trailer even though it’s still raining. He leaves a sort of hollow vacuum behind him—it sucks your good mood into it. Sometimes, I swear, I don’t know what gets into him. I know everyone gets depressed from time to time, but with him it’s different.
. . .
I’ve been thinking about luck as we drive south, and France gets warmer and hillier and covered with trees. I wonder if it’s true that some people are born lucky and some unlucky. I reckon it is. Apart from the obvious thing of some people being born rich and others poor—and I know you can argue about money not being necessarily a good thing—there are people who seem to suffer more than is fair. Take Great-uncle, for instance. He had two brothers who both died of the family disease. He was the only boy of his generation to survive—like Lon Chaney Jr. in Hawkeye and the Last of the Mohicans, which we used to watch together. Then he married and had two sons who died as babies—Mum says it’s because Great-aunt Marta was also his first cousin, so they probably both had the disease in some way. Then he had a daughter and a son—the son was Uncle Ivo and the daughter was my aunt Christina. At first they thought Ivo was all right, but then he began to get ill. Then Great-aunt Marta died of cancer. Ivo was only fourteen when she died—the same age as me—so that was awful, too. Then, two years later, they came to Lourdes and Ivo had his miracle and got better. But at the same time, my auntie Christina—who was only seventeen at the time—was killed in a road accident. It was almost like she had to die so that Ivo could live, or something. I think that’s an awful lot of deaths for one family—I mean, I really don’t think that’s normal. Unless you’re in Africa, maybe. And as if that wasn’t enough, after Ivo’s wife ran off and left Ivo with Christo, Great-uncle had his own car accident and lost the use of his legs. Still, despite his luck, which has got to be unusually bad, Great-uncle is pretty cheerful. Ivo, though, who has also had lots of bad luck (although he never knew his brothers, who died before he was born, so presumably he doesn’t miss them), is not cheerful. Gran says that he and his sister were very close—they were what she calls Irish twins, which means they were born less than a year apart—and he was never the same after she died. Although I imagine that having your mother die, and then a miracle cure, would also change you. Maybe he feels guilty about being the one to survive. Whatever the reason, he’s not an easy person to live with. He’s got a terrible temper. I sometimes think of that when Great-uncle curses Rose for running off. Uncle Ivo’s said some nasty things to me, even when I was little and it wasn’t really fair. I used to get upset by him, but I don’t mind so much now. Mum once said that it must cut him up to see me—who was basically a mistake—healthy, when his own son and the only heir to the Janko name is so ill.
Later that night, I’m lying in the drop-down bed in Gran’s trailer. She sleeps at the end, on the big bed, and there’s a vinyl curtain that draws across between us. There’s only the two of us in this big trailer, while the other three are in Great-uncle’s smaller one. I suppose they’re used to being together. But I can’t sleep. After dinner, as I was taking Christo to put him to bed, Great-uncle said something to Gran about children, and the curse, and before the door shut, I heard her shush him and tell him not to be so stupid. But you do wonder, when so much bad stuff has happened. I found Ivo sitting in the other trailer, smoking and staring into space, although he pulled himself together when he saw me and Christo.
“All right, then?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“You not hungry?”
“No.”
“You looking forward to tomorrow?”
He shrugged. I can’t understand why he isn’t more excited about Lourdes. After all, he is living proof that it can work. He just smiled at Christo.
“You know, we’ve got to be careful. They bathe you in holy water.”
“Yeah . . . So?”
“We have to be careful he doesn’t catch cold. They wet your hair and everything. We’ve got to make sure he’s dry and warm immediately after. Bring some towels or something.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Ivo was kneeling on the carpet, getting bedding out of the drawer.
“Is that why you were in a mood? Because you’re worried?” I knew this was pushing it a bit. “He’s going to be fine. Look at you.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
The rain has stopped and a bright moon is shining on the window nearest me—it lights up the edge of the curtains, and a sickle of moonlight lies across my chest like a claw. And then one of Great-uncle’s gruesome stories swims into my mind—one of the saddest, most awful stories— called “The Illness Demons.” It says there are nine demons who cause all the diseases in the world—colds, stomachaches, eczema, everything. I can’t remember what all the demons are called, but I remember the one called Melalo, because he scared me the most. Melalo was the oldest child of the demon king and the fairy queen; he is a two-headed bird with sharp claws who tears out your heart and puts madness and violence in its place. Melalo is what causes people to murder and rape. I’ve broken into a sweat. I shift the curtain so that the claw shape becomes more of a blob. There’s another demon called Minceskro, who causes diseases of the blood, like the one Christo’s got. Maybe we should all be praying to her. Maybe I could pray to her, secretly.
I wonder whether—like the last time—one person has to die in order for someone else to get better. I don’t think that would be very Christian—although I know an eye for an eye is in the Old Testament. But Lourdes isn’t Old Testament, is it? It’s Mary, who’s definitely, I think, New Testament. And I don’t think Mary would demand a life for a life.
But if she did, say . . . I wonder, who would it be?
Would it be Great-uncle? Would it be me? Would I be prepared to die for Christo?
I don’t want to answer this question.
8.
Ray
According to Leon, the person who knew Rose bes
t 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.