How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  ‘So . . .’ I say, trying to sound positive, but realizing as I say it that I don’t really have anything to add.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Gloria says, turning her head to me as if she’d forgotten I was there. ‘Oh, yes.’ She sounds mildly disappointed.

  ‘Drink?’ she says, waving in the direction of the champagne bottle.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say. Pregnancy is turning out to be a bit like a very long hangover. My head is fuzzy and aches and even the smell of alcohol makes me want to puke. I’d kill for a glass of water but I can’t really face venturing into the putrid-smelling kitchen.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Gloria says, sounding offended. ‘So, what story did they concoct to make you come here? That I’m some poor little old lady? Or that I’m mad and need locking up? Or perhaps you thought I might be at death’s door with a large fortune?’

  I assume she’s joking, but if she is there’s no sign of it, no flicker of a smile or any suggestion that behind the sunglasses there’s a twinkle in her eye. ‘Peggy just phoned and said you were dad’s aunt and that you weren’t very well and that she thought you might appreciate a visit. That’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She makes no attempt to hide the fact that she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘And why did you come?’

  To be honest, I’ve been asking myself this same question since I arrived here. What was I thinking? Reuben had been right for once, not that I’d tell him that of course. It was a crazy idea.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have better things to do, a girl of your age. You’re not one of those saintly, do-gooding types are you?’ she says, suspicious suddenly, and raises her sunglasses to look me in the eye. ‘Because I can’t be doing with any of that. If you’re hoping to convert me on my deathbed, I can tell you now you’re wasting your time. I’m a lost cause.’

  ‘No!’ I say brightly. ‘Nothing like that. I just wanted to meet you. It’s not every day you find out you’ve got a long-lost relative, is it?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘There must be more to it than that.’

  ‘My mum didn’t want me to,’ I admit. ‘I suppose that was part of it.’

  She looks pleased, though whether because she was right or because she’d been disapproved of I can’t tell. ‘That’s more like it. And?’

  ‘And my friend, Reuben. He said you’d be a mad psychopath and that it was a stupid idea to come and visit you.’

  ‘Did he, indeed?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to prove him wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t,’ she says.

  Exactly, I think.

  ‘So you came here because everyone told you not to?’ She half smiles. ‘That rather runs in the family I’m afraid.’

  ‘And the other reason . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Well, Dad died a few years ago and I don’t really remember that much about him.’ The words come out in a jumble. I hadn’t planned to say this. To be honest I hadn’t even realized till now that this is part of the reason I’m here. ‘There were questions I never got to ask him.’

  Gloria looks at me blankly.

  ‘Nothing big,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I mean, just stupid stuff about him growing up. What he was like when he was my age. I don’t know. I just thought you might have some photos or, you know, maybe you’d remember his birthday parties or seen him in a school play or something. Anything really.’

  Gloria pulls a small tin of long, thin cigars and a lighter out from under a faded patchwork cushion on the chaise longue, and takes one out.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ She says it with a finality that makes me afraid to ask anything else, about why she hadn’t been at Nan’s funeral and why none of us really knew anything about her. ‘You’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say quickly, trying not to feel disappointed. ‘Like I said, I wanted to see you. And Peggy thought a visitor might cheer you up.’

  Gloria doesn’t say anything. The notion of my visit cheering her up now seems about as ridiculous as Reuben’s dungeon full of Princess Leias. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. The Gloria I’d vaguely expected to find here – the little old lady who looked a bit like what I remember of Nan with white hair set in a perm and soft blue cardigans and rose-embroidered handkerchiefs and a faint scent of lavender – she’d definitely have been cheered up by my visit. We’d have watched Countdown together and listened to The Archers and she’d probably have taught me how to knit or darn socks or something useful like that. We’d have gone for a little walk if she’d been up to it, perhaps to the park, and she’d have laughed at me for ordering a decaf skinny vanilla latte with soya at the café. ‘You young people,’ she’d have said, fondly. ‘Everything’s so complicated these days. I can’t keep up. Just a plain old cup of tea for me.’ And then when we got back she’d have got out a cake she’d made specially for my visit and said, ‘Oh, it’s lovely to have someone to bake for again!’ and then we’d have talked about Dad and all the hilarious scrapes he got into as a kid. She’d say stuff like, ‘Oh yes, he was a real live wire, that one. Always knew he’d go far.’ And when she got tired I’d have made her go and have a little lie-down and I’d have sat and read to her. Probably a Miss Marple or a short story about a holiday romance from a magazine. I look at Gloria with her red hair and glass of champagne and expression of utter disdain and wonder how many expletives she’d manage to fit into a sentence if I asked her to teach me to knit or bake me a cake.

  The smell of the smoke is making me feel really nauseous now and my mouth is dry. Gloria is still saying nothing. Before, she just seemed uninterested in me, perhaps a little inconvenienced by my presence. Now the silence feels almost hostile. Or am I imagining it? I don’t know, but I do know I have to have something to drink that isn’t champagne. There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to brave the kitchen.

  ‘Do you mind if I make myself a cup of tea?’

  She shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. Though why you’d want tea when there’s perfectly good Bollinger on offer, I don’t know.’

  I pick my way through to the kitchen, almost tripping over a pair of discarded platform shoes (can they really be Louboutins?) and crashing into a garden gnome that’s being used as doorstop. Gloria’s kitchen smells of death, with faint overtones of something that might possibly be slightly worse than death. I gag and clamp my hand over my mouth. Maybe I’ll hatch a plan with Peggy and come back sometime with some heavy-duty cleaning products and a load of bin bags and clear up, but for now I can’t face investigating the cause of the smell, which seems to be emanating from the fridge. I fill the kettle up and search for mugs and teabags. Judging by the contents of the cupboards Gloria’s diet seems to consist largely of violet creams. There are boxes of them everywhere, some full, some empty. Other than this there are a few tins of soup, mostly dramatically out of date (one, oxtail, reads: Best Before: Oct 1999) a couple of jars of marmalade and – thankfully – several different kinds of tea. I choose peppermint to settle my stomach and because it means I won’t have to risk delving into the fridge to find milk. In the absence of a mug I rinse out a bone-china teacup. The kitchen isn’t filthy – due to Peggy, I bet, not Gloria – it’s just chaotic. There’s stuff on all the surfaces and I try to tidy up a bit but it’s all so random – pens, a tube of toothpaste, a pair of socks, a bulb of garlic – it’s hard to know where to begin. And there are notes everywhere, written on Post-it notes, envelopes, pages torn out of books. They’re on the table, on cupboard doors, on the fridge. Sometimes they just say one word: Sugar or Coffee or Gin. Some are longer: Tesco – no. 13 bus, 3 stops, or Gloria’s own address or lists of names. Others are more cryptic: optimism, tricycle, hydrangea. Another one says: Ophelia Act 1, Scene 3. Some are in different handwriting, again I’m assuming it’s Peggy’s. These say things like: Don’t forget your tablets at breakfast time (in the right-hand drawer of the dresser). One says: HARRIET (Dominic’s dau
ghter) is coming on TUESDAY.

  Does she really need reminding about all this stuff? I know Peggy said she’d been forgetting things but I didn’t realize she meant like this. Could it really be because she drinks? Perhaps she’s an alcoholic and it’s got to the point where Peggy thinks she can’t cope any more. Maybe that’s what this is all about. But then maybe she’s drinking because she’s worried about the fact that she’s forgetting stuff . . .

  When I’ve made my tea I go back in to see Gloria. She’s still lying on the chaise longue but she doesn’t stir when I say her name and I realize from her steady breathing that she’s fallen asleep. I think about waking her but I can’t think of a way to do it that won’t annoy her, and anyway, to be honest, it’s quite a relief not to have to make conversation. Even better, it gives me a chance to explore the flat a bit more.

  I stick my head round the door of a room that turns out to be Gloria’s bedroom. It has a four-poster bed in it, far too big and grand for the room. There’s a dressing table along the wall, covered in jars and bottles of make-up. On the far side of the room is a wardrobe with a door hanging open, bursting with exotic-looking clothes – evening gowns and hats, several fur coats and shoes piled high. It’s tidier than the rest of the house and smells better too, of perfume and moisturizing creams and face powder. Next door to it there’s a spare room with a double bed but every inch of the room, including the bed, is piled high with boxes and stacks of paper. I have a quick look, telling myself I’m just being concerned, not nosy. There are bills, quite a few of them red, receipts and letters – official-looking ones from banks or the council. There’s one lying on the floor. As I pick it up I can’t help noticing it’s an appointment letter from the hospital and I take a glance as I put it with all the others on the bed. Neurologist . . . PET scan . . . The date is in a month’s time. I stop myself reading more. It’s none of my business, I tell myself. If Gloria wants to tell me about it she will. Not that it seems very likely.

  There’s a photo on the mantelpiece, not framed, black and white and curling at the edges, tucked up behind an old carriage clock, against the wall. It’s of a girl about my age and another much younger girl standing together outside a house. Is it Nan and Gloria? I look closely. It could be but I can’t be sure. I bet there are loads of other photos in these boxes. Maybe even some of Dad.

  I take the picture through to Gloria, thinking I’ll ask her about them when she wakes up. Perhaps I’ll be able to get her talking; she might be in a better mood if I let her have a bit of a rest and sleep off the effects of the champagne. But when I go into the room she sits up sharply.

  ‘Yes?’ she says. ‘What do you want?’

  I stare at her, alarmed, wondering if she’s half asleep, or more drunk than I realized. ‘I’m Hattie, remember? We were talking and then you fell asleep.’

  She stares at me.

  ‘I’m your great-niece. Your nephew Dominic’s daughter?’

  ‘Dominic?’

  But then I think about the notes in the kitchen and some of the things Peggy said before.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, and I go and get the note that Peggy wrote saying I was coming.

  ‘See?’ I say, holding the note out.

  She wafts it away dismissively. ‘Yes, all right, all right,’ she says. ‘Of course I know who you are. You just took me by surprise, that’s all, sneaking up on me while I was asleep.’

  ‘Sorry. Can I get you anything? Tea? Or lunch? I could go to the shops? Or we could go to a café?’

  She leans down to pour herself another drink.

  ‘This is just fine for me, thank you.’ She raises her glass to me.

  ‘Gloria,’ I say, tentative. ‘You can’t live on violet creams and champagne and the occasional cigar.’

  ‘Cigarillo.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Actually I think you’ll find I can, my dear, if I so choose.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’ll get . . . I dunno. Scurvy. Thingy of the liver.’ I rummage around in my brain for any other medical conditions that sound like they might result from malnutrition. We did it in biology, I’m sure of it. ‘Rickets!’ I pluck out triumphantly.

  Gloria snorts dismissively.

  ‘And cancer, obviously,’ I add. ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘Well, don’t say it then,’ she snaps. ‘Why is everyone so bossy nowadays? You can’t step out of the front door without someone ramming good sense and vegetables and low-fat, smoke-free tedium down everybody’s throat all the bloody time. You can’t even sit in your own living room without some neighbour or—’ she gestures at me—‘do-gooder preaching at you.’

  ‘I’m not a do-gooder—’

  ‘Even on the wireless they’re at it. There’s always some know-it-all doctor or politician wittering on about . . . saturated whatevers. Morbid obesity. Well, I like violet creams and I like champagne. And if I want them for breakfast I shall damn well have them.’

  She glares at me.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re right. It’s none of my business. If I live to be as old as you, I’ll eat whatever I want too. Chip butties and pancakes for every meal.’ The thought of it makes me realize how hungry I am.

  ‘I’m not old, thank you very much.’

  I wonder how old she is. It’s hard to tell with the makeup. Old, but not ancient. Younger than Peggy, I’d guess. She must be at least seventy, though.

  ‘I was only trying to help. I’m more than happy to go away and leave you in peace to do whatever you like. I could have been doing a million other much more interesting things than clearing up your kitchen . . .’ It’s not strictly true, obviously. In fact it’s a blatant lie; I’d have been reading Watership bloody Down to Ollie again while being tied to a chair by Alice, wouldn’t I? But Gloria doesn’t know that.

  She looks at me haughtily. ‘I didn’t ask you to clean my kitchen.’ Then she pauses and looks at me suddenly, uncertain. ‘Did I?’

  I can see the panic behind her eyes, and I remember what Peggy said, about Gloria being worried about her memory. I wonder how often she feels it, that panic. Is it there all the time, underneath all her stroppiness? The uncertainty, the disorientation? Feeling that she’s not quite sure whether she knows what’s going on? Hard to tell. She’d hide it well, stubborn old boot that she is.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re right. You didn’t.’

  She looks at me for a moment and then picks up a very old newspaper that’s lying on the floor next to her.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you but I’d like you to leave now, and please don’t come back.’

  I stare at her, but she doesn’t show any awareness of the fact that I haven’t done what she asked and left. She turns a page of the newspaper.

  ‘I’ve come all this way to see you,’ I say, feeling tears pricking my eyes. ‘I thought—’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought we could at least get to know each other a bit.’

  Gloria sighs.

  ‘But there’s no point, is there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She lowers her newspaper.

  ‘I assume Peggy told you about my . . . condition.’

  ‘Not exactly. She just said you hadn’t been well. She seemed quite worried,’ I say. ‘I hope it’s nothing too serious?’

  She smiles and turns her head to look out of the window, pulling the sunglasses back down over her eyes. ‘It’s fairly serious.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Um.’ I smile nervously. ‘The good news?’

  She blows smoke out through her nose. Then she says: ‘The good news is I’m dying. That serious enough for you?’

  I nearly laugh; I don’t know whether it’s because I’m shocked, or because I think she’s making some kind of dark joke, or maybe it’s just like that awful urge to giggle that people get at funerals. She watches my reaction, even behind
the glasses I know she’s not taken her eyes off me. It’s like she’s challenging me. Trying to shock me.

  But I know she’s telling the truth too.

  ‘How is that the good news?’ I say eventually.

  She smiles, and her smile makes me shiver. ‘How young you are,’ she says, in a way that reminds me how Peggy said she used to be an actress, and takes another sip from her glass. ‘There are things worse than death you know.’

  I think about this. ‘Like what? Pain?’

  She snorts. ‘Pain?’ she says, derisively. ‘No, not pain.’

  ‘What then?’

  She looks at me for so long I think she’s not going to answer. Then she gets up and walks to where the bottles and glasses are and picks up another champagne flute.

  ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Join me for just one little drink. Just to humour me. I’ve just told you I’m dying. It’s the least you can do.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. Even thinking about it makes me feel queasy again, like the thought of drinking with a hangover, but I’m half scared of Gloria and half sorry for her, so I let her pour me out a glass and take it from her.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says and clinks her glass against mine, as she settles herself back on the chaise longue.

  ‘Cheers,’ I echo, taking a small sip and attempting to smile.

  ‘What makes us who we are?’ she says, suddenly.

  I stare at her, feeling a bit like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘It’s simple enough. What makes us who we are?’

  It’s not simple, I want to say. A million different things make us who we are, but I know that’s not the answer she wants. ‘Well, I suppose, genes and environment. Nature and nurture.’ I look at her hopefully.