A Kind of Vanishing

by Lesley Thomson

  While he took off his postman shoes, her Dad was whistling a tune she didn’t recognise. His whistling normally made her hopeful. Today the long drawn out notes made her sad. She looked round the kitchen, usually so reassuring. It was full of enemies. She gloomily eyed the teacups on the shelves above the sideboard and the row of grinning cat plates propped up behind. The shelves were lined with flowery paper smelling of lemon. The teapot, in its woollen hat with the bobble on top, could read her mind.

  ‘So, did you have a nice day?’ Her Dad sat down opposite her. She wished he would go into the lounge and read the evening paper, or out to his lean-to to mend something. Her Mum had popped back to the surgery where she had left her purse. Alice could have had plenty of time to chuck the bear in the rubbish bin. Now her Dad could see right into her head and take out her thoughts with a spoon. She tried to think ordinary things: school…ballet…subjects it would be okay for him to find. Then she remembered the precious glass jewel and closed her mind. The teddy bear would take more than ten swallows. She was sure she had eaten more of its left cheek, but now its whole face was leering at her. If Doctor Ramsay delved inside her head he would discover she had taunted Eleanor about Mrs Ramsay and the medicine. No one knew what Alice was really like. Except for Eleanor who was biding her time.

  ‘Yes, it was a lovely day. Thank you.’ This was mostly true.

  ‘Is that all? Where are all your stories? Your Mum said you picked flowers.’

  Alice’s mouth went dry. ‘Yes, we looked for flowers for my collection. Doctor Ramsay helped.’

  ‘Did he? You know your flowers. I expect he was bowled over. Bet you could hold a candle to any of his kids.’

  ‘Eleanor didn’t pay attention. Gina knows about flowers, but she was with her horse.’ While her Dad was there Alice had to keep eating. She got another spoonful ready and readied herself. He was watching.

  ‘That Eleanor’s a bit of a wild one.’ Steve Howland looked through his daughter as he considered the truth of his remark. Despite this, he rather liked the girl. She had spirit.

  ‘Mum’s asked her to tea tomorrow.’

  ‘Did you bring them home?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The flowers you picked. A nice bunch for your Daddy?’

  Alice gulped down some jelly and sprawled her arms out around the plate. It was more comfortable than sitting up straight. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She had been told to chew her food ten times before swallowing, surely that didn’t mean jelly. It had gone by chew five.

  ‘Oh-oh, so what was it like? What about what’s her name, Lady Muck?’ He gave a roar of laughter.

  ‘Mrs Ramsay. I wish you wouldn’t, Steve.’ Her Mum hurried into the kitchen on an urgent mission. Alice saw that her mother didn’t do anything calmly; she was always rushing and going out of control. She grew hot with impatience as her Mum filled the kettle, crashing it down on the stove and waving the gas lighter at it inaccurately so that it took longer to light than it needed to.

  ‘Did you tell Dad about Doctor Ramsay’s lesson on photosynthesis? Wasn’t he kind to take the time, Steve? So busy and with three of his own. He sat her down and went through it. Normally it’s not done until they get to the big school.’

  She turned from the stove pointing the gas lighter at Alice, ‘Make the most of it, love. You’ll have a lovely head start.’

  ‘She said he took them on a jaunt to get flowers!’ Steve Howland remained unimpressed.

  ‘Doctor Ramsay works harder than you and I put together.’ Kathleen Howland wrapped a tea towel around her hand and pulled open the oven door. Warm air wafted around them.

  ‘You should see the state of their drive, cracks, bumps. Needs seeing to.’ Steve judged everyone by the route from the street to their letter box. He gazed fondly at his daughter, she smiled back and collected up some more jelly.

  Steve and Kathleen tried not to spoil their only daughter. But at times like this they thought she was perfect. Steve took pleasure in everything his Alice did. He loved the way she held her spoon, daintily like a lady, not in her fist like other children. She was beautiful with her soft eyes, sitting there so straight, with her hair falling down past her shoulders. He often told himself she was the point of his life, the apple of his eye. Despite his sarcasm, he was proud she could go to tea with the Ramsays and be like them. Even if it meant she’d change beyond all recognition he would fight tooth and nail to prevent anything holding her back.

  Alice was sure her parents must have heard about her imprisoning Eleanor in the dining room on Saturday. Her Mum would have been astonished and told the doctor it wasn’t like Alice to behave unkindly. She would have looked for an explanation, but have been too polite to blame Eleanor. She would have promised to have a quiet word with Alice over tea, perhaps even told Doctor Ramsay about the bear treat and how that would be a good time to choose. She would say Steve would be there to ensure a firm hand, hoping that, as a father himself, Doctor Ramsay would appreciate that. So Alice guessed this was why they were both there, waiting for the right moment. She felt sorry for them. They were so sure there must be a perfectly good explanation. They would say she wasn’t naturally mean.

  They were wrong.

  Alice could not have explained to anyone what had made her torture Eleanor with the Cheese Secret. She couldn’t talk about the sniggering, the put on voices, cat hairs, bowls of vegetable soup like sick, and finally the matches in the toilet. Alice could not explain that she hadn’t thought Eleanor would mind because she didn’t believe Eleanor loved her Mummy as much as Alice loved hers. She had seen no recognisable signs. The Ramsays were not like ordinary people.

  ‘You’re clever when it comes to flowers. You’ve got a gift.’ Steve turned to Kathleen for back up, but she was draining potatoes over the sink. ‘You could be a florist.’

  ‘Doctor Ramsay said I’d make a great botanist and should get a job at Kew Gardens.’

  ‘Ah well. He should know.’ Steve Howland puffed out his cheeks with an explosive sigh.

  Alice wanted to tell him about the picture in her head. She could see a face, eyes sparkly like diamonds with trying not to cry. A crayon snapping in her fist as she made the sun bright yellow. The big room with wooden walls was caving in on her. She wished there was someone she could tell the truth to about the sort of girl she really was. She wasn’t the Alice everyone thought she was.

  After rushing out of the White House last Saturday afternoon, Alice had stuffed her screwed up picture in the bin when she got home. Her Dad could have seen it, if he had looked inside.

  Her Mum put a plate with two chops, four potatoes and a map of peas down in front of her Dad. He went off to wash his hands, like he always did exactly when the food was ready. Her Mum tutted at the delay, like she always did. But still she filled his silver tankard with frothing London Pride, his favourite.

  ‘Hurry up with that, Alice.’ Mrs Howland flitted from one task to the next without stopping. She began washing the pans, clinking and clattering as she loaded the rack with steaming dishes. Alice saw her chance.

  She kept her eyes on her Mum and, stepping around her chair, guided the remains of the bear into the hole at the top of the stove. The rubbish bin was too far away. For a second his face looked at her before it slathered over the unlit coals. Her father returned just as she sat back down.

  ‘What’s up, Fannackapans?’ Steve was puzzled by Alice’s expression. She was gaping at him as if she didn’t know him. For a moment he dreaded her growing up more than anything and wanted time to stand still.

  ‘I was taking my plate to be washed.’ She glanced down and saw a smear of jelly up to the rim where she had pushed it off and covered it with her hand. She looked at her father, divided now by more than a tea table.

  After her Mum and Dad had gone to sleep, Alice crept down and lifted the latch on the kitchen door. She flinched at the loud click of the light switch. Had it woken her parents? There was no movement from above. The lino was cool on her ba
re feet. All evening she had dreaded her Mum and Dad looking in the stove. She knew that in the height of summer it was very unlikely, but her guilt skewed her judgement. She imagined they knew and as with everything else had agreed to say nothing. Alice was persecuted by their silence. Her crimes were mounting up. She had to show them the person she had become.

  She eased open the lid of the stove. Button eyes stared blindly from the coals. She felt into the dark hole and one by one picked up lumps of coal from the sides and laid them over the jelly until the bear was buried. Her hands were soon smeared with sticky black dust. She was about to wash them under the tap when she remembered how the pipes would hiss and clank. She was not allowed to pull the chain at night for this reason. There was a small puddle of water around the plughole, she dabbled her fingers in, rubbing them together and dipping them again until the stains had gone.

  She went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. She lay in the dark, thinking of Mrs Ramsay trying to kill herself. Alice had doubted the truth of the story even as she was quizzing Eleanor. Just as she could not imagine Mrs Ramsay going to the toilet, so she couldn’t imagine her killing herself. Eleanor had been right, no one could die from cheese.

  Nine

  It had been arranged that Eleanor would go to tea with Alice on the Monday afternoon. Mrs Howland was up at dawn that morning making sure the house was spotless. She unwrapped the pink china and shooed Alice off the settee to vacuum the cushions. Alice knew Eleanor wouldn’t care about clean cushions or eating off the best plates. She hated her mother for her mistake. In despair Alice had set off for the Ramsays’ where she was to spend the morning and have lunch. Unlike the other two days, she had to be back in time to get ready for the special tea and Eleanor’s arrival at four o’clock.

  The Ramsays floated through space: Lucian slid down banisters sideways, Gina did perfect horse jumps and cantered like the Virginian. Eleanor vaulted over walls like a man while Alice walked sensibly round to the gate. Mrs Ramsay floated the most, in a cloud of cigarette smoke, in and out of rooms and across the garden, trailing in flowing robes. Her own parents made everything difficult and Alice was crushed by the weight of their efforts. After her talk with the doctor, she saw the world like a bicycle wheel with the Ramsays at the centre, while her parents were at the end of a long spoke. The home she longed to escape to when she was caught in a Ramsay storm wasn’t real. It wasn’t where proper things went on. There was no need to wash already clean tablecloths and polish already gleaming cake forks, for no one noticed except her Mum, and she didn’t matter.

  At the sound of the doorbell her Mum snatched off her apron. Alice stayed in the kitchen, reluctant to see Eleanor. She eyed the table piled high with triangular fish paste sandwiches, jelly, fairy cakes, tall beakers of orange juice, and glittering with the best cutlery. The Ramsays didn’t eat this much between them. Through the half open door she saw her Mum greet Eleanor. Never had the cottage looked so dark and small. Eleanor’s playroom was bigger than the whole ground floor. She grimaced as Eleanor let her cheek be kissed and, shrugging off her anorak, hung it on one of the hooks, before Alice’s Mum could take it.

  Alice glared at the table, bright white and stupidly waiting. She wanted to be Gina, wandering in late from horse riding to find a game of hide and seek or Monopoly going on, free to leave or join in if she wished. Gina was the White Witch in her sleigh heaped with furs, making a lashing remark before gliding away. In Alice’s house no one interrupted her games, except her Mum to ask her to lay the table or her Dad to take her ice-skating. If she had a friend to stay, she had to play with them. She couldn’t go off and read a book like Gina. Alice sat down on the chair reserved for Eleanor and picking up a geometrically folded serviette, twisted it into a ball and scowled at the door.

  Last week Alice had believed in God. He was a kindly third parent, rather like her Brighton grandad had been. God was pleased when she did a hundred skips in a row or was pencil monitor for a whole term. He helped her get best marks for her arabesques, a reward for cleaning her mother’s china animal collection. She believed that if her Mum was pleased with her, God would be too. He was behind the rare tick in green ink that Mrs Bird, the head mistress at her old Newhaven school, sometimes put beside her teacher’s red one, for neat writing or punctuality. Until Alice met the Ramsays, God had kept watch over Alice all the time, taking notes like Eleanor. Now she was certain that, like Father Christmas, God had never ever been there. He was one of the Ramsays’ jokes she didn’t get, but laughed at until her stomach hurt. He was the stern old Judge whose eyes could see you wherever you hid.

  Alice hoped there was not a God to see the fluffy dolls that doubled as covers for the toilet rolls, the toilet brush, the bread bin, hot water bottles, the teapot. Dolls in pink, dolls in blue staring out of every corner, seeing much more than God.

  When Eleanor had pointed out that God couldn’t be watching everyone at once, Alice had tried to explain:

  ‘He’s not like you and me, he sees everything. If he was like us he wouldn’t be God.’

  ‘You made that up. Every time I ask how he could do something, like have your dead grandad there with him along with my grandparents and all the other grandpas and grandmas, and heaps of dead people, you say he’s special and not like us.’ Eleanor was swinging headfirst round and round a railing behind the cricket pavilion. As she returned to a standing position, leaning on the bar, she panted: ‘If he is different from us, how come he has a beard and two feet and hands like an ordinary man? He could be your Dad or my Dad. Perhaps he is!’ She launched herself over again, legs flying. As she spun round, her head nearly touched the concrete; Alice believed Eleanor would die if one hand slipped, but like everything else Eleanor did that was dirty or dangerous, nothing like that happened.

  Alice picked up another serviette and opened it out. As she glowered uncomprehending at the pattern of a sunflower, she remembered Mrs Ramsay saying that Doctor Ramsay was ‘playing God’ when her Mum had asked her where he was yesterday morning. Her Mum had laughed, but Mrs Ramsay hadn’t even smiled. Her Mum didn’t understand the Ramsays’ jokes either.

  It seemed that Alice had found a joke of her own when, just minutes before she mentioned the cheese, she had spotted a box of matches in the Ramsays’ downstairs toilet. She had taken Eleanor to see it, chortling loudly all the way, pleased to find something funny at last. How had it got there? Did her parents make fires indoors to keep warm? Eleanor had not laughed.

  ‘Oh that. It’s to get rid of the stink after a shit. Feel free to use it.’

  Alice was shocked. She couldn’t speak as Eleanor drew open the box, picked out a match and struck it. She held the flame up to Alice’s face, staring at her with wide eyes, like a wicked witch trying to put her under a spell. The fire had burned right down to her fingers before she tossed it into the toilet. The flame went out with a psst as it hit the water and the blackened wood turned into a live insect swimming around at the bottom. Alice flinched as, with both hands, Eleanor yanked the metal chain above their heads.

  The children had peered down like perpetrators of an awful crime, as the water thundered around the toilet sending droplets over the sides. Alice shrank back as splashes landed on the wooden seat. They were the splashes she had previously misunderstood when using the toilet. She had cleaned them up with wads of toilet paper and pinched lips before being prepared to sit down on the yawning wooden seat. The match-insect shot up and down and was still there when the water was quiet. Eleanor made them stand there until the iron cistern had filled so they could try again. They were squashed together in the cramped room smelling of smoke, waiting as the hissing got higher and higher and fizzled to a stop.

  As Eleanor pulled the chain a second time, Mrs Ramsay appeared. Alice had thought she’d heard her going out. She had not heard footsteps although she had been listening out. Alice had paid no attention to Eleanor’s explanation about the matches. It was one of her stories.

  ‘What are you girls up to?’
Mrs Ramsay rubbed the sides of her nose with her hands. Alice started explaining the smell was nothing to do with her, that she had not been to the toilet or set fire to the toilet, but Eleanor was speaking:

  ‘I was showing Alice the matches, so she knows what do to when she does a poo. She was asking.’ Eleanor slid the box shut and put it back on the windowsill beside the pile of Harper’s Bazaar magazines that Alice never touched because of germs.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mrs Ramsay behaved as if she didn’t recognise Alice, but must have for she went on: ‘Do go ahead, Alice, just don’t be stupid with them.’ Alice couldn’t get out because Mrs Ramsay blocked the doorway. ‘Elly, come out. Let’s leave Alice to do her poo.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t do that. I mean, I don’t need…’ Alice nearly fainted with misery at the way things were turning out. ‘I don’t need to be in here.’ Alice ducked past Mrs Ramsay. Her voice squeaked like one of Lucian’s animal characters, but no one laughed. She couldn’t say she only went in the mornings after breakfast. She had been told it was rude to talk about toilets.

  To Alice’s amazement, Eleanor’s mother then went into the lavatory and left the door slightly open. They could have seen her on the toilet if they had stayed to look, but Eleanor led the way back to the dining room, far more interested in her stupid picture.

  Alice hadn’t thought Mrs Ramsay went to the toilet. She was so beautiful it wasn’t possible that either she or Doctor Ramsay ever needed to go. She tried not to think of Mrs Ramsay sitting in the spider-webbed room with the cracked walls and the smoky smell. She blushed as, despite herself, she imagined Mrs Ramsay with her knickers down with a snatch of whiteness followed by a darkness impossible to contemplate. Alice had been angry. Eleanor should not have made Mrs Ramsay think she wanted to do Number Twos in the middle of the day. Her Mum kept an aerosol of fresh pine trees in their toilet under a Spanish dancer with a wide skirt. Surely her Mum was right? Surely there was a God?