A Kind of Vanishing

by Lesley Thomson

  Later that morning Alice’s own telephone had rung. Jane had invited her to coffee. Again she offered to fetch her. She did know about the agoraphobia, it was in Alice’s tenant file. No, it wasn’t common knowledge. Everything was on a ‘need to know’ basis. It was simply that Alice had been marked down as requiring help leaving the flat in case of fire. At first Alice had refused, she was still smarting from the phone incident, which she had taken as a personal slight. Then she had pulled herself together. Jane had sounded genuine. Her allusion to the housing association’s confidentiality policy must mean Jane hadn’t been talking about her. Perhaps she could trust her.

  The estate office was only about twenty steps outside the flat. She told Jane she could manage the distance by herself, but made sure to sound sufficiently hesitant. She would check that the coast was clear beforehand so there was surely no risk.

  After she replaced the receiver, Alice imagined Jane’s rich, deep voice and reflected that talking to her had been easy; they might have known each other a long time.

  After that the two women met in the office about twice a week. Alice hadn’t told Chris. She couldn’t think how to. She was ambivalent about a friendship with Jane. It was dangerous to get close to anyone. If she confessed to Chris about leaving the flat to see Jane it would commit her to continuing. At the moment she could stop at any time. If Chris knew, she would try to make Alice go out with her too and she might even guess that Alice wasn’t agoraphobic at all.

  When Alice read about what happened to Doctor Ramsay, Jane was the only person she had to talk to about it. But she must keep silent. If anything, his death confirmed that she had been right to keep her distance. In the end, because she was sure Jane would see something was wrong, Alice said her uncle had died, but that she hadn’t seen him since she was eighteen; he lived in New Zealand so she wasn’t grieving. Jane behaved, as she always did, with sensitivity and kindness. Then Alice worried that Jane would mention it to Chris who knew there was no uncle and would say so. So she had to tell Jane to keep quiet because Chris hated talking about death. It was getting complicated; Alice began to wish she had stayed in her living room.

  Despite all the deception and fabrication, Alice was herself with Jane. After so many years, she had forgotten her real self.

  So when Alice saw Jane outside the office a moment before she was about to step outside the flat, she was furious with herself. Only a few minutes longer upstairs and she would have been there if Jane had rung. She could have given herself an alibi, should she need one. She could have said she was ill and would be asleep all day and so would not answer the telephone. She ought to go back and call Jane now, but there wasn’t time. Now Jane would be worried if she rang and got no answer. When she had made her meticulous plans Alice had not included Jane because she belonged in a different part of her life. Now it was too late.

  Alice felt her way in semi-darkness down the last flight of steps to the basement and heaved open the back door. She was in a concreted area across which was slung a line of colourless washing. This sign of life took her by surprise. Someone might come out at any minute. Alice ran over to the door in the high wall she had seen from her bedroom; once upon a time it had run along the railway tracks but now it bordered an industrial park. She tugged desperately at the bolt. It was rusty and wouldn’t budge. After hitting it several times, she shifted it and, rubbing her bruised palm, plunged into a filthy alley, littered with syringes, used condoms, beer cans and crisp bags and slippery with dog shit and vomit. The bolt had held the door shut so now she had to leave it ajar. She felt guilty – the washing might get stolen – then it dawned on her that this was her only way back as she couldn’t use the front entrance. Alice had not planned her return journey. She had to hope the owner of the washing wouldn’t notice.

  The alley came out on the main road. Alice was blasted by the heat and the sound of traffic thundering down off the flyover on to the Old Kent Road. She shuddered at the engines roaring, gears grinding, coughs of exhaust, blaring horns; and shrank from the gigantic tyres of articulated lorries that could crush a life in moments and missed her by inches. She retreated to a convenience store with windows protected by metal grills. The shop had been a general store when she was last on the street years before. Then its produce had been displayed in abundance on the pavement, with more goods on show easily visible through the gleaming glass. Now piles of packets and tins bricked up the windows that were in turn behind the grill so she couldn’t see inside the shop. Alice nearly gave up and longed to scuttle back to the sanctuary of what now seemed like home. Maybe after staying indoors for so long she actually did have agoraphobia. She sat down on a yellow plastic grit bin to get her breath. The words Another day in Paradise had been sprayed through a template several times on its side partially hiding the manufacturer’s name and telephone number. -inaware 01273 622. Shading her eyes, she could see the archway to the flats a few yards down the street and was overwhelmed with exhilaration that at last she was on this side of it. She was free.

  Although she had lied about her health, there had been a genuine reason for staying in the flat. Alice began to imagine that just possibly today’s expedition might mark a change to her life. Today might let her draw a line under her stolen past.

  With renewed determination Alice stepped out into the road, and flagged down a taxi to take her to Victoria station. As she slid into the corner of the cab, out of sight of the driver’s mirror, the years Alice had had to bury began to surface and she remembered what was special about the 28th June.

  Today was Eleanor Ramsay’s fortieth birthday.

  Nineteen

  Kathleen had been disappointed not to get an invitation to Doctor Ramsay’s funeral, but was not surprised. The only Ramsay likely to think of her was Mark Ramsay himself. Although only family and close friends were allowed to attend the service, Iris had said that most of Charbury would turn out to watch the cortège and see him buried. Kathleen was sure there would be no harm in going up to the church to pay her respects.

  She was the first to arrive at the churchyard, having left her cottage an hour early to be sure of getting somewhere to sit. She found a bench about thirty yards from the gravesite. From here she could see the whole length of the path up to the church but she would not be conspicuous. Iris had also informed her that the hearse would start from the White House and go at walking pace along the main street as it had for the old Judge and every Ramsay before him. Iris had shooed her two Persian cats out to the back of the shop and bustled around the counter to confide in Kathleen’s ear that Isabel Ramsay had been keen to avoid fuss; rumour had it that she had wanted a cremation, but she couldn’t argue with Ramsay tradition. Iris had been strident in her defence of Doctor Ramsay’s right to a proper send off, but Kathleen privately felt sorry for Isabel. She too knew that Mark Ramsay would not have wanted so much bother. When Steve died, her sister had organised his funeral. Kathleen had not known where to begin and had even considered going away until it was all over, while knowing that such an idea was impossible.

  The organist was practising scales, which made Kathleen anxious; he was cutting it fine if he wasn’t perfect by now. She didn’t want Isabel to be offended by a wrong note; today would be hard enough for her. Kathleen was also uncomfortable with the position of the bench she had chosen. Perhaps after all it was too prominent. She didn’t want the Ramsays to think she was drawing attention to their omission of her name from the guest list. The day was heating up and, unlike the other seats, this one wasn’t in the shade. But the other benches would give her no view at all, so there was no choice but to stay here.

  Then more people began to drift into the graveyard and soon Kathleen was less obvious. The ones who had invitations held them conspicuously and took up sentry positions around the church door entrance, their expressions stern and distant. She didn’t recognise any of them and guessed they were friends and colleagues from Doctor Ramsay’s London life; the women in discreet black hats, the men
in funeral suits that didn’t look hired or years out of date. This group showed no interest in their surroundings and, seeming to Kathleen cold and aloof, struck her as the opposite to Doctor Ramsay. If he had been here, he would have made everyone talk to each other regardless of who they were. But of course if he were here then no one else would be.

  There were many people who Kathleen didn’t know. Whole families, making a day of it, milled up the path through the lych gate, while locals used the side entrance. A gang of youths tumbled over the wall at the back, initially laughing and joking. Then they were quiet as they formed a tight bunch on a rise near the old rowan tree, cowed by the gravestones, the sonorous tones of the organ and the sombre dress of the gathering crowd. Then she saw them; the kind who wrote her long rambling letters supposedly to help but really as cries for help. They were the pilgrims come to be healed by the kind doctor who even in death could provide solace. Men and women, their movements erratic, some clutching carrier bags, some dressed in dark corduroy jackets or trousers, worn overcoats and puffa jackets inappropriate for summer. Kathleen reflected that in their own way they would be genuine mourners.

  Of course there were the reporters, behaving with self-conscious discretion, some laden with recording machines, others wielding cameras with long lenses. Kathleen prayed without hope that no one would recognise her. She could not talk about Doctor Ramsay, today of all days. A group of middle-aged men, who looked like councillors and bank managers, stood to attention under the yew trees, shuffling their feet, with their hands behind their backs. While other people, mostly women, had settled on the grass or had perched on larger tombstones, making a show of brushing off invisible leaves before lowering themselves with exaggerated care. Everyone kept a respectful distance. Soon Kathleen reckoned there were over a hundred and fifty people.

  Then over the cemetery wall she saw movement far up the lane. A black hearse followed by five limousines and a straggle of cars had appeared from over the rise and was passing the village shop and her cottage before processing down the hill towards them. It was escorted on foot by Harry Norton in a top hat, the funeral director who had been one of Steve’s coffin bearers. Both Harry and the tall car behind him appeared to shimmer and warp in the heat, making the sombre procession look ethereal. For what seemed like an age, the cortège seemed to get no nearer and Harry was pacing on a giant grey conveyor belt that moved in the opposite direction to the steady pace of his black boots. Then the hearse was outside the church gates.

  It was greeted by an uncanny hush. No one spoke or moved. Kathleen’s right hand began to tremble violently and she stilled it with her other. Her drugs were wearing off with the upset of it all. Luckily she had thought to bring a container of water with an emergency tablet already dissolved and, trying to make no noise, she fumbled for it in her bag. It nearly spilt as she unscrewed the top with ineffectual fingers. Finally she managed to swig the medicine down, dabbing the crumbly white sediment from her lips with her hanky. She mustn’t spoil things by being ill.

  For a moment the ceremony was halted as the guests climbed out of the cars and assembled into line, hanging back for the family who had not yet emerged from the first limousine. The eerie quiet was interrupted by just the odd cough, or the clearing of a throat, thumps of car doors closing and the crunch of leather shoes on the shingle path. Kathleen did not take her eyes off the coffin. It was majestic and like Doctor Ramsay, beyond question. Mark Ramsay had been a tall man, an athlete in his youth, so she had expected it to be large, but it was very big indeed. She felt a flash of love for the man who had been so good to her daughter, so good to her, and who she would genuinely miss.

  In the face of this loss, Kathleen found it mild compensation to see that Lucian was so like his father. The clock was wound back thirty years as she studied the strapping, dark haired man walking behind his father’s coffin with Isabel Ramsay on his arm. Isabel was smaller than Kathleen remembered, and moved stiffly. Kathleen felt no satisfaction at seeing that she was not the only person ageing. Then she recalled Iris describing how Mrs Ramsay had bruised her leg trying to rescue Mark Ramsay from his car. It was at least a year since Kathleen had last seen Isabel, who seldom came into the village.

  Gina Ramsay looked beautiful. Kathleen had a soft spot for Gina because she had been Alice’s favourite, although Kathleen had been drawn to Eleanor who had such a lovely nature. Iris had said Gina had taken her father’s death very badly.

  ‘She cried like a baby, I heard. It’s her that’s organised it all. Just goes to show, it doesn’t matter what age you are, when your Dad goes, or your Mum, it hurts as if you was a little girl again.’ Then Iris had stopped and floundered around for another subject. Kathleen had got used to people’s dismay at uttering anything that hinted at Alice. They did not realise that for Kathleen, everything was to do with Alice.

  As the Ramsays filed into the church under the shadow of the porch, Kathleen was consoled once again by thinking that Alice had not had to mourn her parents. Her child had been saved that pain.

  But unlike Doctor Ramsay, there had been no funeral for Alice.

  Steve had stopped believing in God after Alice went, but Kathleen had found excuses for God’s actions and looked harder than ever for the good in everything and everyone. Doctor Ramsay’s quiet kindnesses had shored up her faltering faith. Kathleen shut her eyes and relaxed as the warm sun played gently on her stiffened features, willing the dopamine to give her back some life and, with it, hope. The doors and windows of the church were open and as the service began, the mourners outside were able to hear the service:

  I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord;

  he that believeth in me, though he were dead,

  yet shall he live;

  and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

  It was only when the Ramsay family was trooping out of the graveyard, after the coffin had been lowered into the ground, that Kathleen caught sight of Eleanor about ten yards away. Eleanor was looking right at her. She must have been watching her for some time. Kathleen hoped she hadn’t appeared to ignore her and been assumed rude. Her Parkinson’s could make her seem distant, as her face refused to smile, or words were uttered with sharpness in her determined effort to get them out. Now Kathleen struggled to her feet buoyed up at the prospect of speaking to Eleanor. But by the time she felt steady enough to walk, Eleanor had gone. She must want to be alone. Kathleen didn’t feel offended by this; she expected that for all the Ramsays she was the last person they wanted to see. That was why they hadn’t asked her to the funeral. When Alice vanished it had been awful for the Ramsays too.

  ‘Hello Mrs Howland.’ The voice made her jump.

  She would have known him anywhere, although he had filled out and looked like he drank too much, but perhaps he was just the outdoors type.

  ‘Chief Inspector Hall.’

  She couldn’t think what to say. She wasn’t pleased to see him.

  ‘Rick, please.’ He took her hand in both of his like an old friend. ‘I wondered if you’d come.’ Then he too had nothing to say. The words: Have you found my daughter yet? hung between them. He let go of her hand.

  ‘Have you spoken to the family?’ Kathleen hoped he had left them alone.

  ‘Only a nod to Mrs Ramsay. Not sure she recognised me, but there we are…’ For a fleeting moment he looked disapproving, reminding Kathleen of the reason she hadn’t liked him. He had not been nice about Eleanor when she was a little girl, once comparing her unfavourably with Alice, assuming it would please her. He would have gone further if she had encouraged him, but she had stopped him. Kathleen said nothing as he stepped away from her and let himself be carried along with the queue of people heading for the lane.

  It was then she saw her.

  Kathleen lurched forward, her hand fluttered towards the back of the bench to catch herself. She missed it and toppled against a man and a woman cutting across the grassy plots to the path. The woman caught her by the arm and
held on to her. She looked impatient but when she spoke her voice was concerned as she asked Kathleen if she was all right. Recovering, Kathleen tried to laugh it off, but her mouth wouldn’t move and her reply was incoherent. The couple helped her around to the front of the seat and stood over her as she sank down. Kathleen was so distracted that it was all she could do to be polite to them. They were in the way. She needed to get to her and they were blocking her view. She summoned up all her energy to urge them to leave her. Eventually she convinced them that she was fine and with thinly disguised relief they went.