How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  ‘Told who?’

  ‘Sam,’ she says. ‘Remember, we were talking about when you found out you were pregnant. What did Sam say when you told him?’

  I can’t tell her, of course. Not yet. Not ever perhaps. I don’t even want to think about it myself, and yet it is there suddenly in my head. I see myself, walking up to the park gates where we had arranged to meet. I know I must tell him but I know I cannot. I am heavy with sadness and dread; I can feel it now, the weight of it inside me. Sam and I haven’t seen each other for almost a month – I have invented excuses to avoid it – and he lights up as he catches sight of me. It breaks my heart.

  As I get closer I see his face change. I open my mouth to speak to him but no words will come. He reaches up to my eye and I flinch away from his touch.

  ‘Who did this to you?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘It was your dad, wasn’t it?’

  I take a deep breath and try to start the story about the bus and how I can never resist jumping off before it stops moving. It has the advantage of being true, and I’ve learned over the years of my dealings with Sister Mary Francis and others that the closer a lie is to the truth the more convincing it will be. It would make him smile if I could say it, the thought of my impatience, my inability to keep still, my clumsiness. These are all things he loves about me. He has told me so. Telling him that lie would take the anger and hurt out of his eyes.

  But I can’t say it. I just stand there silently.

  ‘How can he do that to you?’

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ I say. ‘It was weeks ago. It’s nearly healed now.’

  ‘To his own daughter? I’m going to go round to your house right now. I’m going to go and tell him—’

  ‘No.’ I want to say more but I’m too tired. Speaking is exhausting. I feel a bit faint.

  ‘He can’t just get away with it. It’s not right.’

  ‘I can stand up for myself.’

  ‘I’ve seen too many people getting treated badly and taking it. I’m not going to be one of those people, Gloria. You’re not one of those people.’

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Sam. Just leave it. It’s none of your business.’

  He stares at me. ‘Of course it’s my business,’ he says. ‘I love you.’

  He’s so open, so unafraid, so truthful. I can’t look at him.

  ‘This isn’t like you,’ he says.

  ‘How do you know?’ I say, and although I swore I wouldn’t cry there are tears in my eyes. ‘How do you know what I’m really like? We’ve only known each other a few months.’

  He shakes his head and puts his arms round me. ‘Gloria, I knew you the first time I met you. That time after the Lyceum. I knew you were strong, and clever, and funny, and a dreamer, full of crazy ideas, a little bit wild even. But kind too, underneath, although you try not to let it show.’ He smiles at me and I know he wants me to smile back and I want to, I really do, but I can’t. ‘I understood more about you than I do about people I’ve known for years and years.’

  ‘I’ve got something I have to tell you,’ I say.

  ‘She went that way,’ the grumpy waitress says, seeing me panic.

  ‘When?’ I say, scrabbling to find my purse and leaving far too big a tip.

  ‘Dunno,’ says the waitress. ‘Few minutes ago. If you want to go and look for her I’ll keep an eye out here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, running out of the shop. I look down the street, which is full of tourists milling about and groups of foreign students all dressed in matching sweatshirts. I can’t see Gloria anywhere.

  My head is aching. My feet too. I suppose if I wore those ugly old lady shoes people my age are supposed to they wouldn’t. But it would be admitting defeat. I suppose when I don’t know who I am any more someone will slide my feet into a pair of those beige monstrosities whatsername downstairs wears. St Peggy. But for now I will stick to my kitten heels. ‘Il Faut souffrir pour être belle, Gloria,’ Mum used to say when I was a little girl, smiling, when I squealed as she curled my hair, pulling it at the roots. ‘One must suffer to be beautiful.’ Well, she suffered all right, but broken teeth and black eyes don’t do much for your looks. I never fell for it, the idea that beauty and suffering were inseparable. ‘It’s stupid,’ I said to Gwen when Mum was out of earshot. ‘No, it’s not,’ Gwen said.

  I sit down on a bench and close my eyes. Poor Mum. She only ever dared smile when we were alone together. If Father saw he’d take it as a personal affront. How dare she be happy? Or he’d think she was laughing at him.

  I hadn’t been completely truthful with her. It had been the last time I spoke to him, but it wasn’t the last time I saw him.

  The last time I saw him I was out shopping with Gwen. Must have been just before I went into the Mother and Baby Home because we were shopping for the list of things I’d been told I had to take with me for the baby. My duffel-coat buttons wouldn’t do up any more. The idea of going into the Home six weeks before was that if you were lucky no one would guess you were expecting, everyone could pretend you’d got ill and gone to some relative in the country to recuperate and then you could come back and pretend nothing had happened. ‘Especially you young girls. You stay so flat no one’d ever know you were in the family way till the last few weeks,’ Beattie, the Social Worker, had said the first time we met, looking a little ruefully at her own saggy midriff. But my belly hadn’t got that message and had expanded at such a rate that there was no hiding it, even with the enormous duffel coat Mum insisted I wore whenever I went outside. Father thought I was doing it on purpose, to shame him. And I probably would have done too, if I’d had any control over it, just to spite him. It would have been worth enduring the looks I got from the neighbours, from strangers on the bus just to know I’d made him suffer. Mum gave me a Woolworth’s wedding ring to wear but it was too big and it kept falling off and I lost it after a couple of days; it rolled off along the pavement and into the gutter and I couldn’t bring myself to get down on my hands and knees and scrabble about for it. Not with people watching. I was sure they all knew I wasn’t really married anyway. I kept telling myself I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, and that they were stupid and ignorant and knew nothing about me, that I was better than them, no matter what they thought. Sometimes I believed myself. And the fact that it angered Father, that it humiliated him, was a consolation.

  So I stood on Oxford Street trying to disappear and there Sam was, suddenly, walking towards us on the other side of the road. I wanted to hide but at the same time I couldn’t take my eyes off him and eventually he noticed me.

  At first I thought he was going to call out and run across the road. But then he stopped dead, just staring at me. I can still see him now as he stood and watched me walk past, clear as anything, still as if I’d turned him to stone.

  We’d walked past him by then but I still couldn’t take my eyes off him, craning my head round to see him through the crowds and he put his hands up to his face and turned away.

  That was the last time I saw him. It still feels so raw and fresh that it seems impossible that I should ever forget it. But I will of course. I will sit in a chair in the day room of some nursing home, not knowing what a chair is or what sitting is. I will forget his name, and my own, and I will forget that I ever had a baby, that I ever loved.

  And so yes, of course I will forget that day, when I saw him for the last time, when I thought that it wasn’t possible that I could go on living without him, that my heart would break and that I would be glad of it.

  I’ve learned over the years that they are stubborn things, though, hearts. They go on beating whether you want them to or not.

  I open my eyes. Where am I? I am on a bench. I have been asleep, I think. Is that right? There is a man in front of me dressed in silver pretending to be a statue. I don’t know why. I don’t know where I am. What am I doing here? I look around me. There is a bridge and a river and lots of people I don’t know, young people most of them, sitting
on the grass, walking around arm in arm. This is not a place I know.

  Is it?

  How would I know, if I’ve forgotten it? Why can I not remember? Perhaps it is somewhere I come every day. I look around, trying not to show panic.

  I am not scared. Perhaps if I say it enough I will believe it.

  Oh, God, where is she? Where would she have gone? I try to get myself into her head. Did she just wander off because she felt like it, or because I was asking her about stuff she didn’t want to talk about? What if she’s changed her mind again and decided to go home after all? Perhaps I’m panicking about nothing. She might just turn up at the bed and breakfast later. Or has she forgotten where she is? What if she can’t remember where we’re staying? It’s all in the red book, of course, but the book is in my bag. She gave it to me to carry when we were on the punt. There’s no way of anyone knowing. I imagine for a moment how terrifying that must be, to have no point of reference, like one of those dreams that you arrive in halfway through and have no idea why anything is the way it is. I run down the street, trying to think of a clue as to where Gloria might have gone. She wanted to see the river. I hurry down the road that leads to the Cam and spy a pub on the corner. Yes! Surely that’s where she’ll be.

  I run in and look around, out of breath. The bar is full of tourists buying Pimm’s and pints of lager in plastic cups to take outside and drink by the river.

  And sure enough, in the middle of them all, there’s Gloria, giving the barman an earful.

  ‘You make it with pineapple juice and cherry brandy,’ she’s saying. ‘Plus Cointreau and lemon juice, of course. Any bartender worth his salt knows that.’

  ‘Gloria!’ I call out. She turns to me and just for a moment I see a look of intense gratitude and relief cross her face. It’s gone in an instant, though.

  ‘This young man doesn’t know how to make a gin sling!’ she says, outraged. What an actress she is.

  ‘Why did you go wandering off?’ I say, trying not to sound angry and failing.

  ‘So I’m not to be trusted to go for a walk on my own now? I just fancied a stroll that’s all, and then I saw the pub.’

  She looks at me.

  ‘I knew you’d find me.’

  I’m beginning to get tuned in to her act, the way she pretends you’re overreacting, her little evasions, her generalizing or implying that you should already know so she’s not going to tell you. She’s bloody good at it. She could fool you into thinking she was totally on the ball if you only saw her every now and then. It’s only because I’m with her all the time that I’m starting to see the gaps, the inconsistencies, the little moments of fear, the empty spaces before the act kicks in to fill them. And I realize that Gloria must have known that going away together would mean letting me in on this secret side of her, exposing her vulnerability to me. That’s a pretty big deal, it strikes me, and I tell myself to remember this next time she’s being a pain.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll get the drinks. You go and sit down.’

  As we sit there, a group of women all totter in together, wearing fancy dress, laughing and chatting. I’d guess most of them are in their twenties or thirties and one of them is wearing a tiara and a sash. They’re laughing and chatting and Gloria looks interested.

  ‘Hen night,’ I say.

  Carl had been on at me about what I was going to organize for Mum’s hen do, even though the wedding was months away. Mum had grimaced and said ‘Just nothing involving fancy dress, please.’ Carl was planning a weekend away with his mates in Barcelona.

  ‘Looks rather fun,’ Gloria says.

  I go to the loo, and when I come back Gloria’s not sitting at the table. I panic for a moment, thinking she’s wandered off again, but then I see that she’s gone to join the hen-night table, talking to a couple of the women as though they were old friends. One of them is pouring her a drink from a pitcher of lurid pink cocktail. Somehow I’m not surprised. I sigh inwardly and wave to Gloria, gesturing to her to come over to where I am so we can get going and find somewhere for dinner. Gloria sees me, I’m sure she does, but she pretends not to and carries on telling what I can tell from here is a rather rude story to her new best friends. They cackle with laughter and one of them, who’s definitely had quite a lot to drink already, puts her arm round Gloria. I hurry over to extricate her, feeling shy and a bit embarrassed.

  ‘Hattie,’ Gloria calls out as I get close to the table. ‘Everyone, this is Hattie, my great-niece. Hattie, this is . . .’

  She stops.

  ‘Rachel,’ says the woman sitting next to her.

  ‘Rachel,’ says Gloria. ‘It’s her sister, Emily, who’s getting married.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Um, nice to meet you. Congratulations,’ I say to the woman in the tiara. ‘Sorry, but we need to get going, don’t we, Gloria? We need to go and get something to eat.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Emily says. ‘No, don’t go! Come with us. We’re just off to eat and we’ve got a couple of spaces at the table because a couple of people couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think—’ I begin.

  ‘Marvellous!’ says Gloria. ‘What a splendid idea. If you’re sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ they chorus.

  ‘Gloria was just telling us about her weddings,’ Rachel says to me, and she starts laughing again. ‘She’s quite a character, isn’t she?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say. I’m a bit annoyed that they know something about Gloria that I don’t and the last thing I want to do is get embroiled in a hen night. But looking at Gloria, in her element, I know I don’t stand a chance of talking her out of it.

  ‘We’re going clubbing later,’ Rachel says. ‘You can come along if you like.’

  ‘Well, Gloria gets tired. We’ll need an early night,’ I say.

  Several hours later I’m sitting in a packed, sweaty nightclub. I’m sitting with the only other sober person, Lisa, who is six-months pregnant. Gloria and the others are on the dance floor doing the Macarena. I’ve got a pulsing headache and all I want to do is sleep. My resentment towards Gloria is increasing every second. ‘I’m really tired,’ I’d said to her earlier. ‘I feel quite ill.’ ‘Have a drink,’ she’d said. ‘Let your hair down.’ ‘I can’t,’ I’d said. ‘I’m pregnant, remember?’ ‘If you’re not keeping the baby, what does it matter?’ I didn’t have an answer for that.

  Now sitting here, I’m overwhelmed suddenly by rage towards Gloria, towards Reuben, and most of all towards the baby that isn’t a baby yet inside me. It feels like a parasite. I feel invaded. And I think suddenly about Gloria’s Dr Gilbert and his suggestion about gin and think, why not?

  I go to the bar and order two double gins.

  I take them back to the table and down the first one. It’s disgusting.

  ‘Wow, you’re going for it!’ says Lisa. ‘I thought you didn’t drink?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say.

  The gin burns inside me and seems to make my head blur a little almost immediately. I pick up the next glass and drink that one too. Then I sit back and close my eyes. Everything feels distant but not in a good way. My head is still thudding, worse than ever, and I feel so hot I’m sweating and the taste of gin is in my mouth and the smell is in my nose and it’s disgusting.

  ‘You all right?’ Lisa says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Gloria appears in front of me.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Come and have a dance with me and the girls!’

  Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.

  ‘Gloria, I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I feel sick. And we’re leaving in the morning remember?’

  She looks blank.

  ‘For the Lake District.’

  I have no idea whether she remembers what I’m talking about or not.

  ‘We can’t go now!’ she says. ‘Not when everyone’s having so much fun!’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I shout over the thumping music. ‘I
’ve got to go.’

  ‘Okay,’ she shouts. ‘You go. I’ll see you back there.’

  ‘No!’ I shout. ‘I can’t leave you!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You might get lost,’ I say.

  ‘I have a very good sense of direction, I’ll have you know,’ she says.

  ‘But can you even remember the name of where we’re staying?’ I say. ‘Can you even remember my name?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘SUSAN.’

  And I don’t know whether she’s saying it to annoy me or if she really thinks that’s my name.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she says, defiant. ‘I don’t need babysitting. I’ve survived till now without you watching my every move.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Your new friends can get you home.’

  As I leave, I give Lisa the name of our bed and breakfast and some money. ‘Sorry to ask, but can you make sure Gloria gets back all right?’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  And with that I run to the exit and down the stairs of the club because I know I’m going to be sick.

  Once I’m at the bed and breakfast, my rage at Gloria subsides and I start to worry. But I think to myself that what she says was right. She’s an adult; she’s got by without me all this time. Still, though, I’m sure she had no idea where she was when I found her this afternoon.

  I check my email as a distraction, hoping there might be something from Reuben. Instead there’s a message from Mum.

  From: ruthslockwood70@starmail.com

  To: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  Subject: Re: Hola!

  So let me get this straight. You’ve taken my car – the car that you crashed into a pillar in the car park the very first time you drove it – and you’re driving an old lady to Whitby in it? Hattie, you and I are going to have words about this when I get home. In the meantime, DRIVE SAFELY.