by Lisa Gordon
“Emma!” Louise was red in the face and horrified. “That is absurd. We’re not kids anymore. It’s illegal to smoke indoors, never mind a joint. You are so ridiculous sometimes.”
“C’mon guys, indulge my fantasy. We’ll look back on this and have such a hoot.”
“You’ve had too much to drink Don’”. I’m having nothing to do with it,” hissed Louise.
“What about you two then, or are you going to wimp out as well?” Emma gave Gaby and Julia a daring look.
“I’ve had one before. Why not? Let’s not get bloody caught though,” giggled Julia.
“Gaby?”
Gaby had never indulged in anything of the sort; wine was the limit of her adventurousness when it came to intoxication. She could not abide drugs of any kind and took paracetamol with reluctance; however, Gaby had changed. She thought about how she had let go of so many of her previously tightly held beliefs: she now flouted rules at work; skived off; visited psychics; took antidepressants and tranquillisers. In light of all this she found herself saying nonchalantly: “Why not? Might work better than the antideps!”
“Gaby, I can’t believe it. I thought you would at least stand with me on this!” Louise was incredulous.
“Well, the answer is simple: stay here and gossip with the others. The three of us are off to look for the ladies’ room,” announced Emma.
Gaby found herself following Emma to the ladies’ room, strangely numb to the potential consequences of what she was about to do. Julia and Louise were not far behind. Emma did a recce and announced the toilets were empty, and the other three skulked in, assembling nervously at the basins while Emma rammed a chair against the door.
“What if someone comes in and asks what we’re doing — assuming it’s not totally obvious?” asked Gaby seriously.
“Well,” Emma chewed her bottom lip while thinking. “I’ll just say that I’m conducting a presentation for a product my marketing firm is promoting. It’s an antibacterial, environmentally friendly incense stick for public toilets — much greener than bleach.”
“Think they’ll buy that?” challenged Julia. Louise said nothing; she was looking green.
“Sure, tell people anything with enough aplomb and they’ll believe it,” Emma assured them with her typical braggadocio.
“Reminds me of when Emma convinced Mrs Worth that her new puppy had eaten her completed English holiday assignment the day before term started,” recalled Gaby, laughing happily at the memory.
“She told the tale in such morbid detail, who wouldn’t have believed it?” added Louise.
“The trick,” bragged Emma, “is never tell a small lie; make it a whopper and people will think: it has to be true, she could never have made that up.”
By this stage Emma had handed each girl a joint. While Julia held hers as if she were quite used to it, Louise’s fingers were shaking so much that she ended up flicking it on to the floor twice. Gaby was more in control; she carefully raised the crudely rolled joint to her mouth and accepted the light which Emma flamboyantly produced from her bag of tricks.
Gaby drew on the spliff as if she were drinking a fizzy drink from a straw. After a few seconds she noticed that nothing was happening and realised that she was merely sucking the smoke into her mouth. She decided to try again and this time, she closed her eyes and made an effort to inhale, a strange, unnatural feeling for her. Gaby started to choke as she felt the sticky, grittiness of the smoke clinging to her lungs. She spluttered and coughed violently, her eyes began to water and her vision blurred. She wanted to stub the joint out, but her hand would not obey. Her mind felt chaotic: thoughts merged, mingled and tumbled over one another. The voices of her companions sounded muffled and distant; she had lost the sense of where she was in space and time; her sense of balance was interrupted and suddenly she could not fathom whether she was still upright or horizontal and she did not care: it was the most blissfully relaxed she could ever remember feeling.
Gaby wakened with a start; it was the thunderous crashing of the waves which had roused her. She jumped out of bed, but it was too late and the immensely powerful waves shattered the glass doors of the seaside cottage, bursting into the room. Gaby was sucked under into the Neptunian abyss and she couldn’t breathe. Scenes from her life flashed before her.
It was a hot August day in the Florida Keys. Gaby bobbed up and down with the undulating waves, keeping her older siblings in view at all times. Suddenly she saw with horror a huge swell approaching, and feared it would break into a wave and crash into her. She was afraid and felt tiny and insignificant in contrast to the omnipotent ocean. Making a quick decision, she gulped in a breath and ducked under the surface. She felt the force of the enormous swell wash over her and then the buoyancy of her body pushed her to the surface again. She was relieved that the sea was now calmer and she could once again see Clint and Alison. They were playing a funny game: it looked as if Clint was trying to climb on Alison’s shoulders; then it looked like they were playfully jostling; then a strange, frightened look came over Alison’s face. Gaby wondered if she was feeling afraid of the waves as well, but Clint was holding on to her, so why should she be so panicked? Gaby had not been paying attention to the sea, and another big wave took her by surprise, momentarily stunning her. When she recovered and looked about, she could no longer see Alison; she could only see Clint, who looked as if he were straining. He had a very angry look on his face, Gaby thought. He reminded her of their father the day he had caught her and Meagan playing with the brown leather, rectangular suitcase thing which he took with him to a place he called ‘The Lodge’. There had been interesting things inside and Meagan had played with a long blue ribbon with silver bells on it. Her father had been angrier than she had ever seen him: Clint had that same look right then. Gaby began to tremble; she tried to call out but her voice was drowned out by the roar of the ocean. Gaby watched Clint, his face filled with rage, his muscles straining. She was sure she caught a glimpse of a small hand reaching out of the water in a last desperate attempt. That was all she saw before another more powerful wave rose up right in front of her and a foaming, howling mass enveloped her. After many minutes of oblivion, Gaby found herself sitting on the sand in the last of the backwash. To her right, Clinton was striding out of the surf towards the beach.
“Gaby, Gaby!”
Her eyes flickered open and she saw the three very concerned faces of her friends who were kneeling around her.
“Gaby, speak to us. Are you okay?” Emma was looking more anxious than Gaby had ever seen her before.
“Can I get you some water?” asked an ashen-faced Louise.
“I just want to get out of here,” Gaby found herself saying.
“Yes, let’s all get out of here. Fast!” urged Julia, as the three helped support Gaby to her feet and handed her her handbag.
Still feeling rather disconnected from reality, Gaby hurried out of the toilets towards the foyer with the others.
“That was so irresponsible Emma! Anything could have happened,” Gaby heard Louise saying. The recriminations were beginning.
“You know what, you’re gonna make a great parent Lou — always scolding,” retorted Emma while straightening her sequined boobtube, obviously rattled.
Gaby looked around the foyer; she still felt dizzy and had totally lost her bearings. Although she could not remember where the exit was, she noticed a wide carpeted staircase leading downstairs and immediately made a beeline for it, hoping that the other three would not notice her slipping away. Being caught up in their own mixture of fear and intoxication to differing degrees, Emma, Louise and Julia were unaware of Gaby’s movements.
Although Gaby was shaking uncontrollably, she made her way down the stairs astonishingly quickly. She had no idea where exactly she was going, but she felt a desperate need to keep moving, to keep running. At the bottom of the stairs was a large brightly decorated foyer where various signs indicated conferencing facilities and meeting rooms to the left. To
the right was a set of swing doors. Gaby shoved the doors open and ran down the long fluorescently lit, concrete-floored corridor. At the end of the corridor she was confronted with another set of double swing doors. She pushed her way through them and found herself in a large storeroom, filled with crates of liquor and tall trolleys of foodstuffs. The cold, damp air that filled the store told her that she was near an exit. She moved purposely through the maze of crates, ignoring a shout of “Oi! You ain’t supposed to be in ’ere, Luv.”
At last she found the exit and was able to duck under the half-closed roller door. She found herself in a narrow alley where she could hear the hum of the generators and smell the meaty, warm odour from the extractor pipes. To her right were several industrial wheelie bins overflowing with black bags; to her left she could see the bright lights of London traffic creeping along a main road.
She joined the main road and kept walking with determination, even though she was clueless as to her destination. Traffic continued to clog the roads, but the pavements were deserted. It was raining and Gaby was freezing cold; she had left her jacket and raincoat at the reunion. The sound of her heart banging inside her chest resonated in her ears and in spite of the cold, her cheeks burned. Suddenly she felt a strange vibrating in her chest. It took her a few moments to realise that it was her mobile vibrating inside her handbag, which she wore slung over her shoulder. It was obviously the girls ringing to find her. She ignored it.
Gaby felt as if she had been walking for ages and she had no idea where she was. She looked around for a street sign and saw one:
GREAT CUMBERLAND PLACE W1
Gaby’s mind was still scrambled and she could not fathom precisely where she now was. She kept on walking, but now she took more note of her surroundings. She needed a place to stop, think and get warm. One block away in a quiet side street, Gaby noticed with relief a grand old Edwardian building. Royal blue canopies over cosy, glowing windows indicated a restaurant, and the rotating door and flags over the main entrance advertised that this was a hotel. She raced up the stairs and up to the reception desk, inadvertently ignoring the salubriously clad concierge, who greeted her with raised eyebrow. Standing face to face with the rather dubious looking receptionist, Gaby reflected for the first time on her appearance. Her hair and clothes were soaked and a quick look at her reflection in the polished brass currency conversion board revealed that black mascara was streaked down her cheeks.
“You have a reservation?” enquired the immaculately turned-out receptionist sternly.
Gaby rapidly explained that she had gone for a meal with her husband; they had had an enormous row, after which she had stormed off, then got lost. Gaby was not sure whether the receptionist’s manner became more sympathetic or more condescending, but with a few clicks of the mouse and a swipe of Gaby’s VISA, she allocated her a room.
As Gaby entered her room she was struck by a wave of nausea; she rushed into the bathroom and vomited three times. Feeling weak and still shivering, she sank on to the floor of the room, sobbing. She thought about the reunion — rushing off to smoke a joint in the ladies; passing out; coming to lying on the revolting floor of a public toilet — but she dared think no further. Gaby forced herself to her feet and climbed into a blisteringly hot shower.
Wrapped in a towel, she phoned Emma to let her know she was okay and then Piers to tell him that she was stopping at Emma’s for the night. She needed time to think; it had been the most momentous day of her life, but in a macabre and shattering way. For the first time in her life, Gaby was terrified; in an irrational burst of activity she bolted the door, pushed a chair against it and checked the windows.
She crawled into bed and thought of Clinton: her beloved brother, hero, trusted friend and confidant. She thought of him ruthlessly holding Alison under the water; she thought of the venom etched on his face and compared that to the portrayal of the desperately concerned and then devastated brother which he had performed in the aftermath. He had obviously never realised that Gaby was that far out and had seen everything. The ‘unremembered memory’, so long repressed, had been released — the cannabis had destroyed the mental barriers that had persisted all these years.
Gaby thought about her new memory again and again. She also thought about Sally Corbett, Clinton’s ex-girlfriend who had drowned. But there was something else she had remembered which she dared not think about.
Chapter Five
The following day, Gaby returned home, presented Piers with a number of false excuses, collected her car and headed up towards Birmingham. There would be no more dreams, but the search for answers had only just begun. Gaby had forced the emotional element aside; she wanted to delve further with logic and rationale. She desperately wanted to tell someone what she had seen during her cannabis-induced blackout; however, she was well aware of how ludicrous it would sound. Piers would certainly think she was in the ‘last chance saloon’ of sanity. His patience with her moods and emotional angst had grown thin and she doubted any sympathy would arise from the latest instalment.
Gaby thought of Meagan and realised that she had allowed eight months to slip by with virtually no communication other than a hastily scrawled Christmas card. Meagan had always kept herself aloof from family and Gaby felt that she was the one person whom she could confide in. Gaby’s life picture had been blown apart by the momentous events which had unfolded, and she was beginning to realise that although what she had seen was incredibly real to her — a fact not a vision — to others it would lack any credence. She had to know more and had decided that Aunt Pen should be her first port of call.
Gaby reached Aunt Pen’s little thatched red-brick cottage in Shirley at noon. She parked at the end of the street and walked along the familiar road until she reached the luscious cerise rhododendron which proudly marked the beginning of Aunt Pen’s garden. A warm feeling of relief settled within her as she walked up the path towards the front door and she noticed the freshly planted coral impatiens in the window boxes and the hanging basket with the Surfinia petunias, which would cascade down come the warmer weather. Gaby remembered with a warm glow the summers she had spent with Aunt Pen helping with the gardening; learning to bake; reading Hello magazine at the kitchen table; and indulging in women’s gossip. She reached the white wooden door with the black lacquered plaque which read ‘2 Orchard Road’. Aunt Pen had received her text and was expecting her; she welcomed Gaby in joyfully and immediately set about making tea and slicing her freshly baked gingerbread.
Gaby sipped her tea at the large farmhouse table, the focal point of the kitchen dining area. The cottagey kitchen had hardly changed in twenty years, and the only new addition seemed to be the green gingham blind and white café net. Gaby had spent hours at that very table during the previous summer, poring over wedding catalogues, writing the invitations and agonising over competing fabric samples. Aunt Pen had cut out and sewn Meagan’s and Chantelle’s bridesmaids’ dresses on that same table. Gaby thought briefly about her wedding dress: the figure-hugging white satin bodice; the vertical piping which emphasised her tiny waistline; the clusters of satin roses gathered where the bodice met the voluptuous bunches of shimmering ice-white silk voile which made up her skirt. It was another lifetime, another Gaby, another world from the one she now found herself in.
Gaby forced herself to make conversation about the garden, married life and recipe ideas, but she was aching to steer things towards the issue which, despite her calm exterior, was burning inside her.
Eventually she sensed her chance. “Aunt Pen, there is something important I need to speak to you about.” Her aunt turned away from the sink where she was chopping a banana and looked at Gaby with interest. Gaby immediately thought of Dr Humphreys and cringed, hoping that Aunt Pen would not jump to the wrong conclusion. “I haven’t told anyone in the family, but I have been suffering from depression. I realise how absurd and perhaps selfish that may sound, all things considered, but I believe it’s one of those things … you know … it
just happens sometimes …” Gaby began stumbling over her words.
Aunt Pen immediately removed her navy butcher’s apron and pulled up a chair.
“I understand, Love, I’m a nurse, remember; I see it all the time. In fact, many high-powered professionals land up on the wards suffering from severe depression brought on by stress. There was an accountant in the hospital recently, spent four weeks in with chronic depression. He had been working twenty-hour days — just couldn’t stop himself, became obsessed.”
Gaby smiled with relief. “Yes, exactly. I first realised how depressed I was when I started hating work.” Gaby was eager not to be sidetracked into a discussion about her stress levels at work and so she quickly continued, “I visited a psychologist because I really wanted to get to the bottom of it.” Aunt Pen nodded approvingly. “Anyway, he kept saying that I had unresolved emotional issues to do with Alison’s death and what followed. I thought that perhaps if we could talk about it, maybe I could resolve it somehow?”
“Gaby, you can always talk to me. In fact, you should have come to me right away. This was bound to hit you at some point; childhood traumas are often the root of adult depression.” Aunt Pen was firm and reassuring.
“I don’t really know where to start, but I have some questions. Do you mind?” Gaby took another sip of tea and began: “Did Mum often talk to you about what happened that day?”
“Not often about the actual events; she mainly talked about her grief, her guilt and how she found it impossible to get on with life. She was constantly tormented and really could not come to terms with what happened on any level.” Aunt Pen’s face dropped as she recalled what must have been a painful time for her. Gaby felt a stab of guilt; she was forcing Aunt Pen to delve into a past she would surely prefer to forget.