Something Invisible (8 page)

“So?”

“Well … I don't know, it feels peculiar. Then you'd be my stepfather.”

“I am already.”

“But legally.”

“I don't think it makes much difference, legally. You're still Jim's son, from the strictly stickleback point of view, if you see what I mean, and your ears will never stick out quite as well as mine do.…” He stopped here for Jake to laugh and, in spite of himself, Jake did give a small smile. “But I've been your dad for as long as you can remember, Jake. It doesn't matter who's married to whom.”

“If it doesn't matter,” Jake said, “why bother?”

“It doesn't matter to you and me, I mean,” Dad said. “It matters in other ways. Your mother and I would like to be married.”

“Because of Daisy.”

“Not only because of Daisy, Jake.”

“It didn't matter when it was just me.”

“Jake, I know it must seem like that.”

“Because it
is
like that.”

“No!” said Dad. “We always intended doing it, but, well, we just let it drift … and then Daisy coming along just sort of
reminded
us.”

Jake stared at him, a long, cold stare. Dad stared back. He looked very uncomfortable, but he kept staring anyway, as if willing Jake to agree.

“Oh, do what you like,” said Jake at last. “What does it matter anyway? I don't care what you do.”

CHAPTER

29

The weather had improved dramatically, which was lucky because they were having the wedding-cum-christening in the garden. At least, they had the actually getting married and getting christened part in the local church, and then they had the party in the garden, in the sunshine.

It all happened very fast. Jake hardly had time to think about it.

“So that's the proof, Father,” Jake's mum was saying to the priest who'd done the marrying and christening, as she served him his wedding lunch. “Salmon and raspberries just couldn't be in season at the same time by a quirk of evolution, it's too divine a coincidence.”

“So that means there's a God?” said the priest, looking startled.

“Mmm,” said Jake's mum, grinning at him.

“Well, it's not a proof known to theology,” the priest said, “but it's pretty convincing, I must say.”

“You could write a paper on it in a theological journal and send it to the Vatican and they might make you a bishop,” Jake's mum suggested, waving her fish slice in the air. “I'd never let on I told you. It'd be our little secret. Have some more champagne.”

“So does this mean we'll be seeing more of you at Mass?” the priest asked slyly.

“Oh, now!” said Jake's mum noncommittally. “You never know your luck.”

“You're drunk,” Jake hissed at her as the priest moved off with his plate of salmon and his glass of champagne, chuckling to himself.

“Only the teeniest bit, Jakey,” she said.

Her eyes were shining. She looked lovely, in her pearly-colored dress and with her hair all caught into a flowery headdress, though it had begun to work itself a bit loose by now and was drifting around her head in its usual wild way.

“It's not every day you get married,” Jake's mother was saying. “And champagne doesn't make you drunk, you know. It only makes you merry. Have a Coke, why don't you, Jake?”

“I'm full of bubbles already, thanks,” Jake said. “And I know when I've had enough. I hope Daisy doesn't get drunk. Can you imagine, a baby with a hangover? Ugh!”

“Jake, I've only had two glasses. Stop lecturing me. It's my wedding day!”

Jake shrugged. “I hope you don't think I'm going to change my name,” he said.

“What?” asked his mother. “Why would you change your name?”

“Well, boys usually have the same name as their fathers. Isn't that why people get married?”

“Or their mothers, Jake, as you have had all your life.”

“But you will be changing your name now. ‘Mrs. Burke.' Ugh! It sounds so
old,
Mum.”

“You just think that because it's your granny's name. But anyway, I have no intention of changing my name, Jake. It's not obligatory, you know, and I haven't a notion of it, so you see, there is no problem.”

“So you and I will still be Cotter?”

“Of course.”

“And Dad will still be Burke?”

“Yes.”

“And what about Daisy?”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. Burke, I suppose.”

“You see! It's different for her. Because of your stupid wedding. That's why you did it, so she could be a proper Burke.”

“Jake, this is ridiculous. Can we have this conversation some other time, some other place?”

“No,” said Jake. “I think this is a good time.”

“You can be Burke too if you like, darling, if you want to be the same as Daisy. I'm sure you can fill in a form or something. It's no big deal and we can discuss it
another time,
Jake.”

“I just told you, Mum, I
don't want to
change my name.”

“All right then! Don't!” his mother yelled at him. “That's just what I've been saying all along. You
don't have to!
There IS no
issue,
Jake.”

Jake's mother never yelled at him, but now she was shouting and her two fists were clenched in the air in front of her, and she was rocking back and forth, as if she wanted to shake him. He was so startled he let out a loud gasp and burst into tears. It was the shock, more than anything, of seeing his mother so exasperated with him. They never fought. And he never cried.

“Jake, Jake, I'm sorry!” His mother hunkered down with the crinkling sound of her wedding dress folding around her as she sank, and opened her arms to him.

He longed to run into those outstretched arms and hug her, but something made him hang back. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe it was embarrassment at his own tears, or maybe it was just the thought of the starchy texture of her dress crunching against his face. But he stood there and shook his head, and fought to push back the tears.

CHAPTER

30

Jake was invited to Stella's for tea on the day after the wedding. He was glad to get away. His parents had announced that morning that they were on their honeymoon, and they had no intention of doing anything for the whole weekend except staying late in bed reading the papers, and watching some crime thing on the television. Jake was to help himself to leftovers from the wedding party and not interrupt. His mother would have to feed Daisy, of course, but that was the only thing they were definitely doing all day.

The kitchen was in chaos. No wonder his parents didn't want to get up and face it. Jake found the cornflakes easily, but he had to wash a cereal bowl that someone had clearly eaten raspberry pavlova out of. He scrubbed the bowl hard and tried not to think about the person who'd last eaten out of it, but his heart wasn't in it, and he only ate half the cornflakes.

When Stella rang to invite him to tea, he was thrilled to accept. He told his stunned parents that he expected to see some order in the kitchen by the time he got home, and left early, because he'd decided that he would visit Mrs. Kennedy before presenting himself at Stella's.

Mrs. Kennedy was surprised to see him. She hadn't heard about the wedding.

“That's nice,” she said, when Jake told her the story. “You must be pleased.”

“Why?” asked Jake. “What's it got to do with me?”

“Well, I don't know, but you must be pleased for your mother.”

“I'm not,” said Jake. It felt good to be able to tell someone this, someone who wasn't going to get upset about it.

“And it must be nice to know that your dad is, you know, legally your stepfather.”

“Not really,” said Jake.

“Do you feel bad about your other father?” Mrs. Kennedy asked. “Is that the problem? Do you miss him?”

“No,” said Jake. “I don't miss him, exactly. But I wish he hadn't just disappeared. It's not a nice feeling to think that a person left because you were born.”

“Oh, I'm sure that wasn't the reason.”

“I think so,” said Jake. “That's more or less how Mum explained it, anyway.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “all families are different, aren't they?”

“No,” said Jake. “Most families are the same. Anyway, I don't want to talk about families.”

“You're right,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Very dull.”

“Like Hull,” said Jake.

“Not in the slightest,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “I'll tell you what. I have something to show you, only you'll have to get it yourself.”

“OK,” said Jake.

“You know where my room is, don't you? Well, go into the room beside that, it's the study, if you don't mind.”

“We have a study,” said Jake. “My mother works there.”

“Well, my daughter-in-law does nothing at all. Anyway, there is a thing in there called library steps. Do you know what those are?”

“Yes,” said Jake. “Like a little ladder.”

“That's it. Now, take this little ladder thing and go into my room, and climb up to the top of the wardrobe.”

Jake laughed.

“No, I mean, just so you can see the top of the wardrobe.”

“All right,” said Jake.

“You will see a hatbox there. It's a pink-and-white striped cylinder. Behind the hatbox is a shoebox. That's the thing I want.”

“All right,” said Jake again, wondering what could be in the shoebox. Jewels maybe. Or money.

He went up the stairs, past all the paintings. He winked at the beautiful girl with the candle.

Or a letter from a famous person to another famous person, he thought. Like from Napoleon to Florence Nightingale. Or a will. Or bomb-making equipment. Or the title deeds to a castle in Transylvania. Or the plans of a dungeon where Mrs. Kennedy's ancestors were buried. Or a skull.

He found the library steps. He climbed up to the wardrobe. He sneezed. He moved the pink-and-white hatbox to one side and sneezed again. It was very dusty on top of the wardrobe. He found the shoebox, white with black writing on it.

Carefully he lifted it down and put it on the bed. Then he returned the library steps to the study, and went back into the bedroom for the shoebox.

It couldn't be anything alive, he thought, because it would die of hunger and thirst and lack of air in the shoebox. But it might be an egg. A dragon's egg. Or an ostrich egg. On the whole, an ostrich egg was more likely. It felt a bit heavy for an egg, even a big one, but he held it carefully all the same and carried it downstairs.

“Why do you keep it on top of the wardrobe?” he asked as he came back into the sitting room. “You must have an awful job getting it down.”

“To keep it safe,” said Mrs Kennedy. “I can get it down easily enough by poking at it with my stick. A stick has many purposes, you know, apart from holding you up when you get wobbly on your feet. Also, I'm taller than you.”

Jake thought it must be something pretty precious if she put it away so carefully.

“Postcards!” he said, when she took the lid off.

“Yes,” she said. “Lovely ones.”

“Oh!” said Jake.

“You sound disappointed,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Are postcards not exciting enough for you?”

“No,” said Jake. All this honesty was going to his head.

“Oh, they're not holiday ones,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “They're ones of paintings.”

That sounded marginally better, but not as good as the castle in Transylvania or the dragon's egg.

“But the house is full of real paintings. Why would you want postcards of paintings?”

“To send to my friends,” she replied.

“Like the one you sent me,” he said, slightly shamefaced at his lack of enthusiasm. “But even so…” he said.

“The thing is, the paintings in the house are all ones I have bought over the years, and I love them all, but I don't have any truly great paintings, by the Old Masters. They cost thousands. Millions. You only get to see them in art galleries, and then you buy a few postcards of them as a souvenir. Like a consolation prize.”

“I've never been to an art gallery,” Jake said. “I thought they'd be boring.”

“Like Hull?” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Well, they are like Hull—not as dull as you'd expect, as long as you are prepared to look hard. And if you want to be a fish painter, I'd say you should go and look at a few fish paintings, don't you think?”

“Are there others? Apart from the one you sent?”

“Of course. Oodles.”

“You mean, lots of other people have painted fish?” asked Jake, surprised.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Come on, I'll show you.”

It was the strangest thing. Mrs. Kennedy had a whole shoebox full of fish paintings. Jake was in heaven. Well, actually, there were a few other things as well in the paintings. Not absolutely every one had fish. Some had dead pheasants. Some just had apples and pears. Some had a Bible and a globe and a tablecloth. Some just had a group of jugs. But they were all pictures of things on tables.

“But do you know something queer?” Mrs. Kennedy said, as they examined the postcards. “People don't like pictures of dead fish. They must give them the creeps, or something. The thing is, if you have a picture of, say, grapes or watermelons or something like that, and let's say it's by an important painter, and it's worth, oh, let's say half a million euro—it's mostly dead painters whose paintings are that expensive, by the way—well, now, if you have a picture by the same artist only it's of a dead fish, it's probably worth only about half that. Isn't that the oddest thing?”

“Why?”

“Well, people don't like looking at dead things, I suppose. They don't want to have them on their walls. So the paintings aren't as valuable.”