How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  ‘Fine, I quit,’ I shouted, mainly because I’ve fantasized about doing it every day since I started work there. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would. A fat customer with a toupee who’d had his eyes fixed on Mel’s cleavage the whole time he’d been messily eating his double egg and sausage special said, ‘No work ethic, youngsters, that’s the problem. Country’s going to the dogs.’

  Mel said, ‘You’ll be back.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ I said, storming out, and then I remembered I’d left my bag and jacket in the staffroom and had to sneak in to retrieve them, so Mel was right.

  ‘. . . And then the Seaview Hotel in Whitby for two nights,’ Peggy’s saying. ‘It looks tremendous, dear, it really does. Malcolm and I are tempted to take a visit there ourselves. Now.’ she pauses for breath. ‘Are you quite sure about this, Harriet, dear? I think it’ll do Gloria the power of good to get away but I don’t want you going if you don’t feel you can cope. I know she can be very . . . forceful.’ I hear Malcolm muttering something in the background. ‘She hasn’t talked you into it against your will now, has she, Harriet?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to go.’

  And as I say it, I realize it’s actually true.

  It’s light when I wake in Gloria’s spare room (miraculously de-cluttered and cleaned, by Peggy, I assume), but it feels early. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am. And then I remember. I check my watch: not even six yet, but I know I won’t get back to sleep, even though I have that weariness that comes from a bad night’s sleep. I spent most of the night dreaming about driving out-of-control cars, my foot not quite able to reach the brake pedal, my eyes unable to focus on the road ahead, the steering wheel failing to respond to anything I do, pitching me into the middle of oncoming traffic. Now the day of the road trip is here I find myself wishing I’d never agreed to it. There are so many things that could go wrong . . .

  No. I force myself to think of Carl and his irritating positivity. He swears by thinking three positive things every day before he gets up. I am feeling strong, calm and healthy. Today I will be a force for good. That kind of thing. (‘He doesn’t say them out loud, does he?’ I said to Mum once. ‘God no,’ she said, ‘or he wouldn’t be feeling healthy for long.’) I’m not one to ever admit Carl might be right about something, and usually I mock him mercilessly for this kind of stuff, but today I think maybe he’s got a point so I try to think of three good things.

  I am feeling healthy. Well, I suppose I am, even if I am pregnant. There are worse things than being pregnant after all, like bubonic plague (as graphically outlined by Ms Horace) or Ebola or flesh-eating diseases. I don’t have any of those, so I’m going to count that as a positive thing.

  Today is full of new opportunity. Well, I’m doing something that doesn’t involve hash browns, aren’t I? I’m going somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s an adventure of sorts. It’s getting away. And it is an opportunity to find out more about Gloria, to get to know her, before she starts to disappear. I know from what I’ve read that, as a new acquaintance, I’m likely to be erased from her mind fairly early on. Memories that have been laid down longest are the most enduring, so the website said. Like Gloria said herself, those memories almost become clearer. The new ones don’t really ever get saved properly. And perhaps she will be able to tell me a bit about Dad, about what he was like when he was growing up. Just some little insight. Nothing big. It could be an opportunity to get to understand him better.

  I will be a force for good . . . Well, I don’t know about that. But I’m trying to help Gloria do something she wants to while she still can. I think of her face again when she remembered spinning on the Common, and imagine what it would be like to be in her situation, looking ahead to blankness and a future you won’t even be aware of. She wants to share her memories, her story, while she still can. That has to be a good thing. Doesn’t it? Or am I just opening up old wounds? She’s already told me her story isn’t a happy one and I still have no real idea how serious her dementia is. Sometimes she seems absolutely fine, sharp, funny and seems to remember everything about everything. But is it an act? She is an actress after all, so playing the part of someone who knows exactly what’s going on would be easy for her. Just occasionally, when we’re talking, something will change ever so slightly in her expression and I’ll wonder if she really knows who I am or what we’re talking about. Could I be putting her in danger by taking her somewhere she doesn’t know?

  Tea. I need tea. That’ll make everything better. And sugar. Lots of sugar.

  Before I get up I text Kat.

  I’m going away for a few days with my great-aunt – long story! Hope you and Zoe are ok xx

  I don’t expect to get a reply. It’s early, and anyway, I’ve hardly heard from Kat at all since she went away, apart from that first conversation when I told her was pregnant. I blame Zoe-from-Kettering. I know she doesn’t like me and there was something about her. Manipulative, that’s what she is. I watched her doing whatever it took to keep Kat focused entirely on her: flirting with other people, turning on the tears, pretending she was ill. She wanted Kat all to herself. I didn’t like her. As I’m thinking all this, my phone chimes with a message.

  We are ok. Have a great time! The books says you should be needing to wee all the time and your boobs should hurt. Have u been to docs????! xxxxx

  My heart sinks at the mention of the doctor’s. I’ll be more than nine weeks pregnant when we get back. I finally booked a doctor’s appointment a couple days after we get back. Even thinking about it makes me feel jittery. While we’re away I just want to forget about it. And maybe when I get back things will be different somehow. Maybe I’ll feel different, and the panic will subside. Maybe it will all be clear, what I need to do. Maybe I’ll feel brave enough to tell Mum. Maybe Reuben will come back and . . .

  And what?

  No not yet I text Kat. When I get back xxx

  Make sure you do! Take care Hats. Love u xxxxxxxx

  Her message makes my eyes prickle with tears.

  ‘Today is full of new opportunity,’ I mutter to myself. Then I go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, using so much sugar from a paper packet I find lurking in one of Gloria’s cupboards that the spoon practically stands up in it. I look in the fridge for milk but only find some lemons and a ball of string. Then, in the absence of bread, cereal, eggs or anything else that might pass for breakfast, I help myself to the pineapple juice left over from the gin slings, some lemon shortbread and a couple of violet creams. Not exactly nutritious but I’m starving so it’ll have to do. There’s no sign of Gloria yet and the nerves are still there in my stomach, for all Carl’s positive affirmations. Will she even remember who I am when she gets up? Will she have changed her mind about the trip or forgotten it completely? I still don’t really have a grip on how bad Gloria’s memory is. What I really want to know is what the trip’s about. Does she really want to see a few places while she can still remember them? Is it about sharing her story, this secret from her past? Or is it something else, something she’s not telling me?

  I think of what she said the first time about dying at a time and in a manner of my own choosing . . . What if that’s it? What if it’s a genuine bucket list, and she’s doing all these things because at the end of it she plans to top herself?

  Jesus, Hattie, I can hear Reuben’s voice in my head. Melodramatic much?

  I know, I reply silently. But think about it. Could that be what she means by Whitby being ‘where the story ends’? Perhaps she had a really happy time there as a kid or something, and she wants to go back there to . . . you know. End it all.

  You are such a catastrophist, says the Reuben voice. Remember that time you couldn’t find Alice and you thought there was blood on the kitchen floor and she’d been abducted but it turned out it was ketchup and Alice had just gone off on some spying expedition in the garden? You’ve got a vivid imagination, that’s your problem. I’m telling you, you read too
many books. It’s bad for your health. Scientific FACT.

  It’s true. Not the book thing, but the tendency to envisage worst-case scenarios. And I do get a teeny bit paranoid when I haven’t had enough sleep. Yes, I’m overreacting. The tea and the sugar buzz is starting to kick in and everything seems a bit better. The road trip will be fine. It will be more than fine. It will be an adventure. Gloria just wants to remember things from her past – to mark them, pass them on. I’m going to help her do it. And what about the secret? What could it be? I feel a thrill of excitement. Something no one else knows, and Gloria has chosen to tell me.

  I make another cup of tea and psyche myself up to get washed in Gloria’s dank bathroom.

  When I come out, Gloria is up and sitting at her computer, wearing an emerald-green kimono and smoking a cigarillo.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, trying not to sound nervous. ‘I’m Hattie—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she says briskly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Are you packed?’

  ‘More or less.’ She hesitates. ‘I do sometimes get a little muddled with packing.’

  ‘Would you like me to take a look?’ I say.

  I try to persuade Gloria that she probably doesn’t need eight pairs of shoes. ‘But I like them all,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t you have something a little more comfortable?’ I ask, looking at the array of pointed toes and heels of varying heights. ‘Some trainers or something?’

  She looks at me as if I’ve said something incredibly insulting. ‘Comfortable shoes?’ she says. ‘No, I certainly do not. The day I wear “comfortable shoes” is the day it’s all over, that every last bit of me has gone. I hope I die before that day ever comes.’

  Which seems a tiny bit extreme.

  While Gloria’s having a shower I remove a couple of the more random items that have sneaked in, a fork and an onion. At first I can’t help smiling to myself, but then I think how unnerving it must be to know your brain is playing tricks on you all the time. She’s folded a necklace into one of her dresses, a heavy silver thing. I pull it out to look at it as she comes into the room.

  ‘Did you mean to pack this?’ I say. It’s a locket, I realize.

  ‘Yes, I did. Give it to me.’ She snatches it from me and puts it round her neck. ‘What were you doing nosing through my stuff anyway?’

  ‘You asked me to help you pack,’ I say.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looks at me, suspicious. ‘Look, Gloria, if we’re going to do this you have to trust me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. She pauses. ‘I know. I’ll try.’

  Peggy makes us take a packed lunch, which looks as though it would probably last us the entire week, and waves us goodbye.

  ‘You’ve got the folder with all the information?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s got all the dates and the addresses—’

  ‘I know,’ Gloria snaps. ‘You’ve already told me a hundred times. I know my memory’s bad but it’s not that bad yet.’

  ‘And you’ve got my number, in case of emergencies?’ Peggy says, ignoring Gloria’s outburst.

  ‘Yes,’ says Gloria, ‘Although I’m not sure what you think you’ll do if we phone you in an emergency.’

  Gloria sits next to me, checking her make-up in the passenger-seat mirror.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I say to her before I start the car.

  She turns her face to me, and underneath the make-up I can see that she’s scared.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Are you?’

  I smile at her. ‘God, no,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Well, we’d better get going then,’ she says irritably. ‘Before we change our minds.’

  The drive to Cambridge is a nightmare. My terror at driving unsupervised on a motorway proves unfounded since almost as soon as we’re on the motorway we grind to a complete halt. The car is stifling; there’s something wrong with the air conditioning so I have to open the windows and breathe in the heavy, warm, fume-filled air. I’d hoped to interrogate Gloria a bit more, about what she’s told me, about her plans for where we’re going and why. But Gloria is asleep.

  I play about with the radio, trying in vain to find something I want to listen to. I keep replaying the things Gloria told me in my head. If that is the beginning of her story, what is the end? And why is it in Whitby? What is the secret? Why are we going to Cambridge? Too many questions. My head feels thick and is starting to throb. In the end I text Reuben.

  Sitting on the M25 with snoring great-aunt. Is like a never-ending car park. Like a dystopian vision of the future, Reuben. One massive bloody car park. Bet u r on beach. I hate u.

  To my surprise, he replies.

  Oh god pleas dont tell me u have turned into 1 of those people who talks about roads now u have passed driving test. oh i always take the A624 not the M7 or the H40. NO ONE CARES

  I know he’s joking but I’m not in the mood. I take a swig from the bottle of horribly warm water and grimace. There is something so very wrong about drinking water that is at body temperature.

  I don’t think the H40 is an actual road Reuben. ANd anyway I was only saying hi because I’m in a traffic jam and VERY VERY bored. I don’t think roads are interesting. THAT’S MY POINT. I thought you might make it more interesting but you’re making it MORE BORING so GOODBYE

  I’m so annoyed with him that I throw the phone down into the footwell. Bloody Reuben. No wonder his relationships work better when the other person can’t understand what he’s saying. After a second it chimes again with another message. I pretend not to hear it and turn the radio up. But after a while I can’t resist taking a look, groping around by my feet to find the phone.

  WHATEVER PETROLHEAD Hope the thelma & louise thing is going ok xx

  I relent.

  Yeah Thelma and Louise would have been a v different film if they’d have had to contend with the M25 clockwise. less freedom & sisterhood, more swearing at caravans & traffic cones & wondering if you can hold on for a wee till birchanger green. don’t fancy my chances of bumping into young brad pitt at the birchanger green services much either. next time i take an aged relative on a bucket list road trip remind me to do it in arizona will you? x

  I look out of my window at the car next to me, piled high with camping stuff, bikes on the roof. A small child in the back sees me watching, presses its face to the window and rolls its eyes up into its head at me.

  Eventually we turn off the motorway onto clearer roads. Gloria stirs in the seat next to me.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ she says. ‘I mean, I know who you are but I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘It’s Hattie,’ I say, grateful to her for admitting it. Perhaps this is progress. Perhaps she is starting to trust me after all.

  ‘Is it?’

  She looks genuinely surprised.

  ‘You don’t look like a Hattie.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ I say, pleased. ‘No. I don’t think so either. I had exactly this conversation with Reuben . . .’

  I stop. That had been the weekend in Norfolk. The last time I saw him. The time—

  No, I don’t want to think about it. But the conversation comes back to me. I feel a pang thinking about it. God, I miss Reuben.

  ‘I was saying that it would all have been different if I’d been called Bathsheba or Demelza. I’d have had a life of being beautiful and spirited and adventurous. No one called Bathsheba could ever have ended up working in the Happy Diner. Demelza would never have been Most Likely To: Become An Accountant. It’s just not possible. I’d have had countless exotic lovers and not a single one of them would have been called William.’

  ‘William?’ says Gloria, getting out her notebook. ‘Who’s William? Should I make a note of him? Is he relevant?’

  ‘NO,’ I say. ‘He is entirely irrelevant.’

  Gloria seems satisfied with this.

  �
��Harriet Lockwood is at best a minor player in a Jane Austen novel. You know, she’d be one of the annoying ones who marries the stupid vicar, or makes snarky comments about the heroine’s needlework. If I’d even been a Raphaella or a—’

  ‘Susan,’ Gloria says firmly. ‘You look like a Susan.’

  ‘Susan?’ I say. ‘I do not look like a Susan.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. In fact, there are some very impressive Susans. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s just you can’t help feeling they’ve done it in spite of being called Susan. I mean it’s not very exciting, is it? Susans are the sensible ones in books who boss everyone else around and tell them to buck up and get to bed on time and oh do stop snivelling or it will upset poor Mother dreadfully.’

  I stare at her so challengingly that we end up going round the roundabout three times and get beeped at again, thankfully by a different driver from the last time.

  When Gloria’s finished giving them the two-fingered salute she turns her attention back to me.

  ‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ she says. ‘What of it?’

  ‘But that’s not me,’ I say.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘NO.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you say so.’

  We drive on in silence for a while.

  ‘Well, I think you look like a Myrtle,’ I snap.

  Gloria sniffs. ‘Myrtle,’ she mutters.

  ‘Or an Edwina perhaps.’

  ‘I draw the line at Edwina,’ she says.

  I look at her and we both start to laugh.

  ‘Not far to Cambridge now,’ I say. ‘Tell me about the time you went there before.’

  ‘We used to go for days out, Sam and I, to the museums or to Kew or Hampstead. He always wanted to see new places. He worked extra hours and saved up the money for the train fare. He said his mum didn’t like it because doing extra work interfered with his school studies. She was determined he was going to make something of himself.’