The Day She Disappeared

by Christobel Kent

  “Can I borrow her for an hour or so?” she said, again. “Catch the tide.” High tide at midday, and she had to be at the Bird for one. Out here, though, it all fell away. All the worry.

  She came past the yacht, the Sweet Breeze, settled long since into the silver-gray mud on a tilt, and the sweep of the site came into view.

  How old was Paddy? She squinted up at the cloudless sky, feeling the burn on her cheeks already. Could be fifty. Older? More likely younger, given he’d worked outside his whole life. The back of his neck was burned dark, his eyes crinkled but nicely, the creases came out with his rare smiles. A thatch of hair, unruly. Only a sprinkling of gray.

  “Sure, sure,” he had murmured, “why not?” as he always did. Nat had felt a little prick of guilt then, feeling like she was taking advantage. Was Paddy too much of a gentleman to expect anything in return for the loan of his battered little boat? And as if he knew her thoughts: “She needs taking out,” he said vaguely. “Day like this.”

  He worked for Jim: that was what made Nat uneasy, taking advantage. Though Jim needed Paddy, a master craftsman who could replace a stanchion or patch a bit of decking in his sleep, more than he needed Jim. Jim had inherited the yard from his own father when Nat had been at college and had been out of his depth trying to make it work from the beginning, wanting nothing more than to be an apprentice himself, not responsible for paying business rates and drumming up business. He hadn’t been in the shed yet when Nat had come down to the front this morning for the boat. She didn’t know when he did get in, these days. No longer any of her business.

  Talking of gentlemen. Nat put in a tack and let the sail out to run down closer to the campsite: the tide was only half up so there was a hundred meters of mud keeping her at a distance. The grassy slope was pale from two dry months, the neat rows of mobile homes were on the eastward side, at the other end a patchwork of tents where it flattened upriver. The black clapboard hut. She could make out figures clustered around the door to a big trailer two up from Victor’s, women with arms folded, gassing.

  Had it all started when Jim had insisted on buying the flat? Waterside new-build, balcony, mod appliances, too much money. A mortgage he could only just afford with Nat paying rent too—she’d told him they’d be better off renting together, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he’d gotten into trouble borrowing more when a job went bad and the customer refused to pay, stuffing bills in the bin so she couldn’t see them. And when she found out, he’d gone out and gotten so pissed he slept in the shed.

  Nat had given him her savings to bail him out. But it had changed things: there’d been a grimness to it after that. He needed her. She had to stay. And then—it happened. She got pregnant. And then she knew she couldn’t stay.

  The boat Nat borrowed was called the Chickadee, and she was probably older than Paddy. Nat offered Beth a sail once, but Beth had made a face. “I get seasick on the dodgems,” she’d said. “Dunno how I ended up in a place like this.” Smiling, fond, like what she was really saying was that she was happy in a place like this.

  Nat was getting too close to the land. She still hadn’t spotted Victor, but she put in another tack and headed off downriver, the site behind her.

  The wind slackened and the boat turned heavy, the water gurgling lazily against the bow. The open sea and the chance of more of a breeze was five miles downriver; where the Chickadee drifted it was so still there was a heat haze across the far bank, dusting the familiar outlines of trees, a row of cottages, a big house with its veranda. The golden sweep of a cornfield. Behind her the estuary narrowed below the little tumble of the village’s roofs, hidden by trees as it wound its way inland.

  Would she have missed this, would it have been in her dreams? Should she have left, long ago, before Beth turned up at the Bird in Hand? Told Jim back then, I want to see the world?

  In the meantime, getting out on the water was compensation. Maybe one day she’d have saved enough for her own boat, though not any day soon on what Janine was paying. And she had rent to find now. A deposit, eventually.

  She wasn’t going to think about Jim, or the flat, the bedroom with the massive bay window, the tiny kitchen so small she could feel the warmth of his body if he came in while she was cooking, or vice versa. Nat shoved the tiller harder than she’d meant to and had to correct it. That was the trouble with getting out of the pub, out here under the big sky—it got more difficult to keep certain thoughts out. The boat swung and the campsite came back into view. She took a breath and scanned it for Victor. Her all-time favorite human being, full stop.

  Victor, quiet in the corner of the pub, lifting his schooner of sherry with care. Victor, a steady presence, the old sloping shoulders under a ridiculous charity shop coat he wore with dignity. Beth had loved Victor. Everyone loved Victor. Victor, they all agreed, would live forever.

  What was that? She squinted, nudging the tiller with her knee so she could use the hand to shade her eyes. Something flashed in the trees at the top of the site, coming down the lane that wound off up and eventually reached the Bird, a mile on. Something catching the light. Her eyes traveled back down, to Victor’s caravan, door closed, she could even see the little table where he sat for his breakfast on a fine day, folded and leaning against it, the chair flat beside it.

  Victor had come into the pub the day after, when Nat was still sore in her belly, her legs still shaking with the shock of it, but she’d said to Janine she’d work because there was no way, no way on this earth she was ever going to tell anyone what she’d done. Bad enough that Jim had to know, that the nurses had to know, that doctor whose face now she had turned to a blur. Victor had looked up from his table and in some trick of the dim light of the saloon bar she had felt his eyes rest on her, and she’d wanted to cry. I didn’t mean to. Like a kid. Close on thirty and not grown-up after all.

  Beth had been in that day. Back in May, a beautiful day, maybe the beginnings of the weather that had stretched into August, but in May the air had been crystal clear and perfect. Nat blinked, trying to remember, and the campsite lost focus.

  Beth, coming out of the pub kitchen, humming to herself. Nat’s face so pale it was almost transparent in the mirror over the toilet in the back, but at first she thought Beth, coming in behind her, hadn’t noticed a thing. Her mind elsewhere. In fairness, Beth’s mind usually was. If she closed her eyes she could still remember what Beth had been wearing. Striped top she tugged down to show off her shoulders, high-waisted jeans that showed off her backside. She had breezed in then stopped, her face in the mirror beside Nat’s.

  Nat’s face, green and ill.

  “You sick?” said Beth sharply, and her hand was on Nat’s shoulder, pulling her around so she could see, not trusting what there was in the mirror, for once. Beth who loved her own reflection so much she turned in front of it, blowing kisses. “Hey?” Scrutinizing her. And that warning note in her voice, as if Nat was a twelve-year-old come off her bike and Beth, Beth of all people, her mum. Angry and fearful and something else, something that came unwillingly with the hand she put up to Nat’s cheek, sorrowful. “What’ve you done?”

  Nat rubbed at her eyes in the fresh wind, trying to see Victor’s back door, half a mile away across the gray water.

  He would have gone out for a walk. She swallowed. Victor didn’t like to just sit there: he’d said that to Nat probably the first time she served him. It was what had started her sailing again, a year ago, if she was honest. “When in doubt,” he had said, slightly out of breath as he reached the bar and she’d asked him if he was all right, “just get outside a bit.” He had looked just a bit down in the mouth then, as if he wasn’t so sure anymore, but the large sherry had perked him up.

  Not a big man but upright, and neat in his movements so that you couldn’t see until he got close how old he was. Very old. Janine said she thought he was ninety. Frowning, because that was the effect pity had on Janine, it made her uncomfortable. “Ninety and living in a caravan. I mean.” Although Vi
ctor never mentioned where he lived to begin with. He had asked her about herself, and against all the odds, Nat had found herself answering.

  Nothing big, nothing—she didn’t want to tell. Not that there was much, anyway, not then, just the underwhelming truth. Where she was from, family. Although she had the definite feeling he worked things out, from the way he nodded, or frowned, or winced. Victor came in regular as clockwork twice a week and they always had a conversation, but she only ever learned snippets about him. A widower, he’d worked in books somewhere, one daughter. A listener rather than a talker; the most unlikely people found themselves talking to Victor, she’d seen them. Tucked in his corner while he nodded, sipping his sherry.

  It only came to her then, why it seemed important to see Victor. She wanted to ask him about Beth.

  She didn’t know what it had been that had made her turn wordless in front of the mirror and butt her head, just for a second, into Beth’s neck. And Beth’s arms coming around her, firm and warm and steady. “’S’all right, darling.” Not letting go.

  Holding on until she knew Nat was safe. Without her it would have been like falling into a deep dark hole, Nat not knowing where, who, what she was. What kind of person has an abortion? What kind of cold bitch leaves the boy she’s known since he was a kid, leaves him alone to cry? “It’s all right,” Beth said into her hair, as if she knew what Nat was thinking. “Sometimes you got to do something horrible, sometimes you got no alternative.”

  Five months ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

  Had it been a week later, or more? Nat had sat down beside Victor at his usual spot and together they had contemplated Beth up there behind the bar, big gold hoops swinging and an inch of belly exposed as she reached for a jigger, Janine eyeing her from the other end of the bar. They had been talking about home: coming home. She had told him about London.

  “When you’re young,” Victor said thoughtfully, “yes, of course. You need to see a bit of the world.” Pulling his hat straight, the way he did when he was thinking, and watching Beth exchange glances with Janine. “I think it’s rather nice to find a place to stop, though, too. A home, if you like, wherever that is.” And Beth had smiled across at them.

  Nat came about again and headed for the jetty that ran off the far end of the campsite, because with a bit of luck there would be enough tide by now for her to get there. She was so focused on the tide, though, and the rickety little jetty and how high the water was that it wasn’t until she was pulling down the sail to drift the last few meters that she saw it. Standing there trying to see around the canvas as she took it up in her arms, although all her life Nat had felt safer in a boat than out of one, suddenly the boards under her feet felt unsteady and she had to grab the mast.

  An ambulance was parked at the top of the site, its blue light revolving, and a small crowd gathering.

  Chapter Four

  Nat ran, jerky, up the spiky stubbled grass between guy ropes and trailers, and holidaymakers turned to see her go. They stepped back to let her past. A toddler let his ice cream cone drop, top-heavy, into the dust.

  Why should it be him? It could be any of them, a kid fallen from a tree, a dad hit his thumb with a hammer, asthma attack. She felt sweat drip from her forehead. She knew it was Victor.

  Something to do with wanting to ask him if Beth had said anything to him about leaving—but mostly because Victor was ninety, after all. Over ninety. Not that he gave any sign of being afraid of anything—always merry, always interested, asking her about her mum in Spain and how she managed for marmalade—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. So there were nights when Nat saw the pub doors close behind Victor as he set off on that dark walk back to the site, the vulnerable look to the back of his old neck below the bobble hat, like a tortoise’s, and the thought popped into her head that, at ninety, it’s right there. Death is right there, not a surprise, long overdue. It’s going nowhere.

  And it was him. Stretchered out, two ambulancemen in fluorescent jackets were loading him into the back of the ambulance. She could see his proud beaked nose, dark nostrils, hands folded on his chest.

  “Can I, can I—” Nat was out of breath. She kept going almost till she could reach out and take one of his hands but the near ambulanceman already had a warning hand on her arm.

  “You related?” he said.

  “Victor?” Ignoring him, she leaned closer. “Victor? What happened?” His mouth moved, lopsided, but no sound came out. Alive. Alive.

  “He can’t talk.” Another voice, from behind her.

  A paramedic was inside the ambulance, stooped over some machine or other, as they continued to slide him in. Nat turned to see who’d spoken. It was a stocky man in shirtsleeves, dusty colorless hair sticking up. “What happened?” she said, and as he opened his mouth, she did know who he was, he had been into the pub once or twice. Owen something: Victor had told her. Had stuck up for him, even, a graceless man, no eye contact as he ordered his drink. Owen Wilkins, manager of the campsite, sandy-haired and short-tempered.

  “He collapsed,” said Wilkins. “They found him beside the telephone box.” Impatient.

  A bookish man, Victor had said, an exile from the modern world, that’s Mr. Wilkins. I sympathize, he’d said, though Victor was in fact very interested in the modern world. His one wish to have the funds for a mobile phone, one day, when the pension allowed. He took the bus to the library to use their computers once a week.

  All this raced through her head. Victor Victor Victor. Don’t go. I need to ask you. Because Victor would know. He had the vigilance, which went along with having someone—something—at his shoulder waiting. He noticed, all sorts.

  Victor was inside the ambulance.

  “I’ll come with him,” said Nat, but Wilkins shook his head, his pale mouth set in a line.

  “It’s my responsibility,” he said, and he was already climbing in.

  The driver had closed one door and the revolving light gave a whoop. “It’s sorted, love,” the paramedic said. “Quicker we get there…” He didn’t finish the sentence before the other door closed on them.

  “Where are you taking him?” Nat called after the ambulance, but they were bumping off, across the dusty grass.

  Nat turned, feeling as though she had cement in her chest.

  A girl said, “Raynwick casualty, it’ll be. My nan got took there last year when she had a turn.” The three of them were there, the film-set groupies, all tanned dark, their hair blonded at the hairline, all in short shorts. One was smaller than the others, like a little doll; one had boobs and was proud of them; and the one who’d spoken was the tallest and skinniest.

  “Who found him?”

  “Kirsty did,” said the little one, elbowing the tall girl—Kirsty—who shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable, carefully taking gum out of her mouth as if Nat was a teacher. Rolling it into a ball between thumb and finger with her fancy nails catching the light. “We were right behind her, though,” said the small one.

  “Did he say anything?” Nat asked, the cement in her chest seeming to rise up her throat. “Victor. What happened?”

  A fidgeting passed through them. “We was talking about the dead body,” said Kirsty. “In the weir, drowned.” Darkly. “He’d bin in the water days, someone said.”

  He. Nat felt her heart disappear, then it was speeding up.

  “Who?” she said.

  “Some kid,” said Kirsty, sticking the gum back in. “Police car come up the site, late last night, asking if we know him. We was talking about it up the lane and he—Victor did—he made like to turn round, just ahead of us on his way to the telephone, but he looked all funny. He … he started to ask us about it, then he just went over. He like just fell right over.” She looked sulky and scared at once. “I run for Mr. Wilkins.”

  “What kid?” said Nat, running out of breath. “The body. Do they know his name?”

  But they just shrugged, turning away, parting to release her. She didn’t know if
they’d lost interest or they’d had enough of answering questions. She watched them go.

  There’d been a drowning a year or so ago, farther upstream, a teenager pissed on alcopops from some booze factory in the town. It didn’t have to be someone she knew, but Nat’s heart was pounding all the same.

  She was inside Victor’s caravan thinking she could bring something with her to the hospital, his pajamas at least, a toothbrush, when the girl with the cleavage stuck her head around the door, eyes bright and round. Nat had only taken a step inside, got as far as scanning the photographs on a shelf in frames that looked like silver, her eye traveling over the neatly made bed to stop and wonder why a drawer was already open and its contents turned over, when she heard the sound behind her, and her heart was off again.

  “Did you see anyone come in here?” she said. The door had been unlocked. The silver frames were still there, though: if someone had thought to take advantage.

  The girl shrugged. “No one would nick off old Victor,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

  “What did you come for?” asked Nat, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

  “They’re saying it was Oliver,” said the girl, and for a moment the name meant nothing, Nat just stared. “He’s one of your regulars, isn’t he?” the girl said. “I seen him up there, up the pub. Oliver, his mate works there, tall bloke never says nothing, whassisname. Craig, is it?” And then, impatiently. “The body, they’re saying it’s him. S’Ollie.”

  * * *

  Raynwick had been a Victorian hospital, now expanded with an ugly modern extension that almost completely hid the original. By the time Nat got there it was almost three.