Futh was expecting his great-uncle to look like his granddad. Futh had been eight when his granddad died and only remembered him as an ill man, faded and shrunken. But the man who stood in front of them was unexpectedly large and solid.
‘Ernst?’ asked his father, and the man nodded. His father spoke German — a greeting, an introduction — and Ernst, although frowning, stepped away from the door, inviting them inside.
Ernst took their coats, their matching kagouls, and showed them to the living room which was up a flight of stairs. He shooed the cats off the chairs and went to fetch coffee, and a glass of milk for Futh. He was gone for quite a while, and the cats crept out from underneath the furniture, climbing back onto the chairs, settling themselves in the guests’ laps.
Ernst returned, giving Futh his milk and pouring out the coffee and speaking with Futh’s father in German. Futh could not follow the conversation, did not understand much of what was said until afterwards, on the journey home. When Ernst turned to Futh to tell him in German, ‘You look like my brother did at your age,’ Futh looked blank. Ernst said to Futh’s father, ‘Doesn’t he speak German?’ Futh’s father said no, he did not. ‘He should learn German,’ said Ernst.
‘It was your brother,’ said Futh’s father, ‘who said we should come and see you.’
‘Did he give you anything for me?’ asked Ernst.
Futh’s father took a swallow of coffee and said, ‘No.’
Ernst shook his head. ‘I doubt you know,’ he said, ‘the circumstances of his leaving home?’
Futh was looking around the room, taking an interest in the few small photographs displayed on the sideboard, which included one of himself. So, he thought, his granddad had written home, had at least sent pictures, and he was heartened by this because he supposed, therefore, that his mother might too. Looking, though, at the picture of himself, he felt that something was wrong, perhaps his hair. Then he realised his mistake — this was an old photograph, next to which there was a similar portrait of a little boy who was Ernst, and Futh understood that the boy in the first photograph was not himself but his young granddad.
‘There was a girl,’ said Ernst. ‘There was always a girl, he ran from one to another. Well he got this girl into trouble. You know what I mean. He left because he thought he was going to get a beating from her brothers.’
The reason for his leaving was, apparently, no great surprise to his family. The surprise was his theft of his mother’s few valuables. These, in fact, were returned by post soon afterwards, with the exception of a perfume bottle in a silver case.
‘He must have given it,’ said Ernst, ‘to your mother.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Futh’s father. ‘But it was in my father’s possession, intact, in his eighties. It was given to my wife.’
‘It shouldn’t have been,’ said Ernst. ‘That was my mother’s, and mine to inherit. It has value. It ought to be returned.’
An insect crawled over the tabletop towards Ernst who, leaning forward, crushed it carefully with the back of his teaspoon, wiping the spoon on his trouser leg before using it to stir his sugared coffee.
‘My wife and I are separated,’ said Futh’s father. ‘I don’t even have an address for her.’ After a moment he added, ‘The bottle got broken anyhow.’
Ernst sat back in his chair and looked at Futh, watched him drinking his full-fat, room-temperature milk. Futh, looking back at Ernst, was feeling a bit sick. Ernst, turning again to Futh’s father, said, ‘If it can’t be returned, my brother should pay me for it.’
‘I’m afraid your brother died,’ said Futh’s father, ‘a few years ago.’
Ernst took a long look at Futh’s father and then at Futh, perhaps considering whether someone else should be made to pay. He shook his head then and drank his coffee but every time Futh glanced up it seemed that Ernst was looking at him.
After a while, his father put down his empty coffee cup and said, ‘Well, we should get going,’ and he stood so that the cat fell from his lap. Futh, trying to do the same thing but doing it awkwardly, got scratched.
Ernst led the way down the stairs to the front door, on the back of which his visitors’ kagouls were hanging on a hook. He took them down, handing the big one to Futh’s father and the smaller one to Futh, who tried to take it, and Ernst, looking hard at him before letting go, said, ‘You are just like my brother.’
Futh followed his father out onto the street, turning back to wave, to see whether he was still being watched. It seemed a very long way to the car, and the lighthouse, feeling huge now inside the little secret pocket of his kagoul, banged against his chest as he walked.
Futh finishes his second enormous beer and orders another. By the time that is gone, he is feeling pretty drunk. He stands up carefully and steps away from the table and into the street. He walks towards his hotel, trying to hum a tune which was a favourite of his mother’s, but he can’t get it. He concentrates on keeping his feet in the middle of the pavement, but every now and again his right shoulder scrapes against the wall, or the kerb falls away beneath his left foot.
Entering the hotel, he concentrates on walking in a straight line to the bar and then stands there swaying very slightly. There is a smell of damp dishcloths and dry-roasted peanuts which is making him feel ill. He sits down on a stool, thinking that he should have dinner.
He thinks of Angela sitting down to her dinner in their house, the house to which he will not be returning. When he gets back to England he will be moving straight into a flat. All those self-assembly boxes will be there, with all his things inside waiting to be unpacked. Angela will eat in what will now be her home and he will eat in his, and he wonders if they will still retain the habits of their marriage, sitting down to eat at the same time, having their main course at the table and their pudding on the sofa, watching the same television programmes while they eat. He imagines messaging her from his bedroom window — flash-flash-flash — before they each get into their separate beds and go to sleep.
There is a half-drunk beer in front of him. He does not remember buying it or speaking to anyone. He does not appear to have ordered food. He does not even have a menu. No one else is eating and the bar looks like it is closing. He stands up and goes to his room and it occurs to him that he forgot to pay for the beers he had in town.
He goes first to room six, before remembering where he is. Letting himself into his room, he thinks how much he would like a bedtime snack. He used to ask Angela, if he came home hungry after drinking, to make him a sandwich or something, and she used to say, ‘I’m not your mother.’
He puts on his pyjamas and climbs into bed, wishing that there were someone who would bring him a little supper.
CHAPTER EIGHT. Charms
Ester has been lying awake for half an hour, watching Bernard sleeping beside her, watching him breathe. He is lying on his back with his face turned slightly away from her, but she sees his eyes open; she hears his breathing change as he wakes. Rolling onto his side, he reaches for his watch on the bedside table, looks at the time and sits up. Ester looks at his broad, naked back. She can feel the warmth of his body, the warmth in the sheets on his side of the bed; she can smell yesterday’s camphor.
Bernard stands, walks over to the window and draws back the curtains, looking out at the fine morning. Only as he turns away from the window does he look back at the bed, at his wife who is lying there looking at him. He rubs his bleary face with both his hands and grunts by way of acknowledgement, and then he goes into the en suite bathroom and shuts the door. Ester stays where she is for a while, listening to the bathwater running and then hearing the sloshing and splashing as Bernard gets into the tub and begins his ablution.