How Not to Disappear

  ‘I can see why she went for “wuthering”. “Windy Heights” doesn’t have quite the same ring, really, does it?’

  ‘Haworth is a long way from here anyway,’ she says. ‘South and over towards Lancashire.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Haworth. Where Emily Brontë lived.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Maybe we could stop there on the way back. I could get Mum an I-Heart-Heathcliff fridge magnet or something.’

  Gloria sighs again, heavily, and fidgets with her hands. She’s anxious. This chippiness is just her trying to disguise it. I read that this can be a sign of the disease. Or is it just a normal sign of agitation? This must be what it’s like for her. Constantly analyzing her own behaviour, wondering whether something she’s lost or forgotten, or someone she doesn’t recognize, or some slight eccentricity is just normal, or a sign of the encroaching disease. It must be exhausting. And terrifying. I want to say something to let her know that I understand, but I know it’s not the right time; she’ll only bite my head off. So I persevere with my inane cheeriness, and it’s not even put on. It’s all so beautiful you couldn’t fail to feel uplifted by it.

  ‘Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all,’ I say. ‘Who needs the Maldives when you’ve got Yorkshire?’

  She doesn’t reply.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Gloria is looking for something, and getting increasingly frantic.

  ‘Where is it?’ she says to herself. ‘Where can it be?’

  ‘What is it?’

  She empties out the contents of her bag. All sorts of things tumble out onto her lap, her red book, some makeup, a mirror, sweets, scissors, a pencil, a fork, and various other things that have been put there, intentionally or not it’s hard to say, but obviously not what she’s looking for.

  ‘What have you done with it?’ she says, turning on me. ‘You’ve taken it, haven’t you? You’re trying to trick me?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not, Gloria, I would never do that.’

  I’m reminded again about mood swings and how people with dementia can get a bit paranoid.

  ‘What is it you’ve lost?’

  ‘My necklace,’ she says. ‘My locket.’

  ‘It can’t have gone far,’ I say. ‘You had it yesterday. Don’t worry. We’ll find it.’

  But Gloria gets so agitated I pull over.

  ‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘It’s in here somewhere, I promise. It might be in your suitcase.’

  ‘I don’t remember putting it in there.’

  ‘You might have . . . forgotten,’ I say gently.

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ I say to her.

  We’re coming to the end of our journey. If I’m right about the reason we’re here, it’s a big deal.

  ‘Nervous?’ she says. ‘Why would I be nervous?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, and in that moment I decide to tell her that I’ve guessed the reason for our visit. I want to tell her it’s going to be all right. I want to help her to make it all right. ‘I think I’ve worked out what we’re going to do when we get there.’

  ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’m guessing we’re going to go and see someone.’

  She ignores me.

  ‘Your son,’ I say. ‘I think you’ve found him, haven’t you? And you want to go and see him? But now you’re getting cold feet. Am I right?’

  She ignores me.

  ‘The thing is, Gloria, I think it’s a brilliant idea, but have you been in touch with him? Because I think that would definitely be best. I mean, I’m assuming you’re not just planning to turn up out of the blue. That’d be a massive shock for him. I’m not saying he won’t be pleased to see you or anything, but these things are complicated, aren’t they? People can feel . . . rejected. Even though I know there’s no reason why he should, you didn’t have any choice, it’s just—’

  ‘My son is dead.’ Her voice is flat, without emotion.

  I switch the radio off and stare at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  I’m so shocked I can’t make sense of what she’s saying to me. I know he’s not dead. I know he lives in Whitby and Gloria’s tracked him down and that’s why we’re here. ‘But he can’t be,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, he can.’

  I try to get what she’s saying straight in my head.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I know,’ she says.

  ‘But . . .’

  I’m on the brink of tears, angry, disappointed tears. Everything I’d thought this journey was about – a reunion, a resolution . . . I feel tricked, let down.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You let me think—’

  ‘I didn’t let you think anything. You invented a happy ending. If that’s what you want, read a fairy tale.’

  I think back over everything, and of course she’s right. She never said that’s what the journey was about. Never even hinted at it. But it seemed so logical. It seemed so neat. Life isn’t neat, though, is it? She’s right. I wanted to have a happy ending. More than that, I wanted to have been responsible for a happy ending.

  I start the engine again and we drive on in silence, as clouds build and are blown across the big sky above us, their shadows dark on the heathery moors.

  ‘Then why did you want to come here?’ I say, when I can trust myself to speak. ‘You said the answer to a question was here. I thought you meant a person. If it’s not a person then, what?’

  ‘This is where it ends.’

  ‘Where what ends?’

  ‘The story. My story.’

  ‘The one you’re telling me, you mean?’

  She doesn’t reply, just keeps on turning the dial of the radio until opera comes blaring out. I grimace instinctively.

  ‘Ah,’ she says, satisfied. ‘That’s proper music. Maria Callas, if I’m not mistaken. That’s passion. That’s life.’

  I’m about to protest, but somehow the moors and the sun and the soaring, shimmering, sad music all seem to fit.

  Ahead of us on a cliff in the distance the silhouette of Whitby Abbey’s ruins appear, dark against the skyline. I shiver. The end of Gloria’s story lies ahead of us. Mine too. I must make my decision. Whatever I choose it will be an ending of one kind or another. That is what I must face. Panic grips me, sudden and unexpected. You invented a happy ending. If that’s what you want, read a fairy tale. She’s right. There is no way there can be a happy ending.

  I feel small, a tiny speck of life in the middle of the vast, ancient moors, which were here so very long before I was and will be here long after I’m gone.

  And inside me is an even tinier speck of life, or of something that could become life.

  I feel swallowed up by my smallness and the vastness of the decision I have to make and I feel utterly alone.

  ‘I’m scared too,’ I say.

  She half smiles. ‘How can you be brave if you’re not scared?’ she says.

  I am not alone.

  Gloria is with me. We will carry on our journey together to the end, whatever it is.

  For some reason, now we are here, I can’t stop thinking of Gwen. Dear Gwen. I wish she was here with us. I miss her, even though I didn’t see her for so many years.

  ‘Why are you so twitchy?’ I say to Gwen. We’re in the Lyons Corner House up by Tottenham Court Road and she’s jumpy as anything, starting when the waitress asks us what we want, and looking around, anxious, as we wait for our pot of tea and iced cakes.

  ‘You know Vinnie told me he doesn’t want me to see you,’ she says.

  Even the sound of his name makes me angry.

  ‘What right has he got to stop you seeing your own sister?’

  ‘He doesn’t mean to be unkind,’ Gwen says. ‘He’s just trying to protect me, my reputation. He just doesn’t want me caught up in any unpleasant gossip. You know how people are . . .’

  I certainly do
.

  ‘It’s bad enough that you’re not married, but with the baby being coloured as well . . .’

  I say nothing. It hurts, that Gwen would judge me in this way. She’s hardly been round at all since Mum told her I was expecting. But it’s not her, I think. It’s him. Vinnie. She’d do anything he told her to.

  ‘You don’t have to do what he says, you know.’

  ‘He’s my husband, Gloria,’ she says. ‘I promised to love, honour and obey him, remember?’

  I look at her, pale faint lines already round her eyes and mouth. She looks older than she is.

  ‘Why did you marry him, Gwen?’

  She smiles a tight smile. ‘Because I loved him.’

  ‘Loved?’

  ‘Love.’

  I remember when she came back from their honeymoon in Torquay. She seemed different, older, distant, more buttoned-up somehow. She wouldn’t take her cardigan off, even though it was a scorching hot day. She’d told us about the hotel and the weather.

  ‘So come on,’ I asked her when Mum was out of the room. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘You know,’ I said, giggling. ‘On your wedding night.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gwen said. She didn’t giggle, just pulled her cardigan tighter round her. ‘You’ll find out when you get married.’

  ‘If I get married,’ I said.

  It wasn’t until a couple of years later, when I’d peeked through the curtains of the changing room in Dickins & Jones while Gwen was trying on a new dress and I’d seen, reflected in the mirror, Gwen’s bare arms covered in bruises, that I understood why she never took her cardigan off.

  The waitress brings us our tea and cakes, but I find I’m not hungry. My throat is tight suddenly and I feel full and heavy, not just with the baby but with sadness, unexpected and unbearable. I don’t know how to tell her what I’m feeling. It’s not something I know how to say.

  ‘You know I love you, Gwen,’ I say at last, blurting it out a bit too loud. She smiles and shakes her head, not even looking at me, pouring herself more tea.

  ‘Daft, you are,’ she says, as if I’m a child who’s just told a silly joke.

  I try not to feel hurt. Showing your feelings isn’t done, certainly not in our family. Why would you? What you feel isn’t something to dwell on, certainly not something you want other people to know about.

  I have to, though. This is important. I have to make her understand.

  ‘I’m not daft,’ I say. ‘I just want you to know. I love you, Gwen. Nothing can change that.’

  She still doesn’t look at me, concentrating on topping up her cup and then mine from the jug of boiling water.

  ‘I know.’ She says it in the big-sister tone she’s always used with me, half amused, half exasperated, but her eyes are full of tears.

  I park in the cramped car park round the back of the hotel, hoist the cases out of the boot and start to lug them across the potholed tarmac. Gloria’s tetchiness is catching. I’m cursing the wheelie case with a life of its own, which keeps veering off like an over-enthusiastic dog pulling on the lead as I snap it back to heel, and the hold-all with the broken strap, when it strikes me that this is the last time I’ll have to do this, and suddenly I feel a great, sad affection for our ramshackle luggage, and the motley collection of places that have been our temporary home on our trip. We’re at our last stop. Whatever happens here, whatever secrets are uncovered, memories revisited, ghosts called forth, decisions made, this is it for us. It’s the end of my journey with Gloria. I wonder suddenly if that’s part of what’s bothering her. I’ve been assuming it’s the past, but perhaps it’s the present too. And the future of course.

  ‘Booked under the name of Lockwood?’ The receptionist smiles brightly at me. The Seaview Hotel is a bit faded at the edges and smells of something that I guess to be yesterday’s not-very-delicious dinner, but still, it’s a relief to be here and I’m looking forward to making use of the luxurious en-suite bathroom facilities as soon as possible. I curse the weakness of my pregnant bladder.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, attempting a tired smile that comes out as a patronizing sort of grimace. ‘That’s right. Lockwood.’

  ‘There was some confusion about the rooms,’ the receptionist says. ‘We only had the one twin room under your original booking, but luckily there was a double available due to a cancellation so we’re able to fit you all three of you in.’

  ‘All three of us? What do you mean?’ I try not to sound impatient, but frankly after all the driving I’ve got a splitting headache and I’m dying for a wee and could do without having to sort out muddles with the hotel booking.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Lockwood. Your husband explained it when he arrived.’

  ‘Wait, what? My husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘Mr Lockwood arrived about an hour ago.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I think there’s been some mistake . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, patiently. ‘That’s what I’m saying. But don’t worry. We’ve sorted it all out. You’ve got your two rooms, one twin, one double. Must have been a glitch with the online booking app.’ She rolls her heavily mascaraladen eyes. ‘Technology, eh? It’s great when it works, isn’t it?’

  I just stare at her, trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, flushing slightly and sounding a little out of breath all of a sudden. ‘Mr Lockwood was very charming and understanding about it—’

  ‘Was he, indeed?’ I say, as the penny finally drops about the identity of my mystery spouse. ‘And where is he now, this charming husband of mine?’

  ‘By way of apology we offered him a complimentary beer, wine, or soft beverage at the bar, which I do believe he’s enjoying now.’

  ‘Yes, that’d be right,’ I say.

  ‘What’s she on about?’ Gloria says from behind me. ‘Did she say “bar”? I could murder a Martini.’

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute,’ I say.

  ‘The bar’s through those double doors there, if you want to go and find him,’ the receptionist says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, no need. Here he is now. They’ve arrived, Mr Lockwood!’ she calls across the lobby, as the double doors open, and through them comes Reuben.

  ‘Why are you sulking?’ Reuben says when we’re up in the twin room I’m sharing with Gloria. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Reuben?’

  ‘I’m your young Brad Pitt.’

  ‘We don’t need a young Brad bloody Pitt—’

  ‘Speak for yourself, dear,’ Gloria interrupts, forcefully.

  ‘Exactly. Thank you, Gloria,’ Reuben says, smiling at her and then looking at me in an I told you so sort of way. ‘Gloria understands.’

  ‘Well, okay. But you’re not Young Brad. You’re you. So why are you really here?’

  He shrugs evasively. ‘Wanted to see you.’

  ‘Would you care for a G and T, Brad, dear?’ Gloria says, heading for the minibar at speed. ‘I fancy a Martini myself, but alas! No olives.’

  ‘No,’ I say, flopping down on the bed. ‘He’s not Brad. He’s Reuben, remember?’

  ‘Well, that’s tremendously kind of you, Gloria. You don’t mind me calling you Gloria, do you? Sorry not to have introduced myself. I’m Reuben. Reuben Wilde, by name and nature.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ I say.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Gloria says. ‘Reuben Wilde. Hattie’s friend—’

  ‘What about Camille?’ I interrupt quickly, before Gloria can say anything that might be incriminating. I’m pretty sure I can trust her not to say anything about the pregnancy, but what if she forgets he doesn’t know? What if she just blurts it out? ‘And Mykonos?’

  Again, the shrug.

  I sigh impatiently and snatch the packet of shortbread fingers from him.

  He looks me up and down. ‘Have you gained weight?’

  I stare at him in open-mouthed fu
ry. ‘Have you gained tact, Reuben?’ I snarl. ‘Or are you still as much of an offensive arsehole as you always were? Oh, wait. I already know the answer to that one.’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . I mean, it’s nice. You’re sort of—’ he gestures, ill-advisedly, in the region of his chest—‘curvy. You know.’

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ I say. ‘Or at least alive.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I just—’

  ‘Shut UP.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘There’s your drink, Brad,’ Gloria says, handing him a very full glass and then sitting down in an armchair to drink her own.

  ‘His name’s Reuben,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘I know,’ says Gloria. ‘I just prefer to think of him as Brad.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Reuben. What made you want to swap your lithe, rich Frenchwoman and Greek island for a three-star hotel in Whitby?’

  His eyes – stupidly, stupidly blue – open wide in their I’m About To Lie way.

  ‘Don’t,’ I snap. ‘I’ll know if you’re bullshitting.’

  ‘Will you?’ He genuinely sounds a bit surprised.

  ‘Oh, come on. You know I will.’

  He looks at me, sideways though, so he hopes I won’t notice. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘I know you. I know how your tiny little brain works.’

  ‘It wasn’t really working out with Camille,’ he says.

  ‘You mean she dumped you?’

  ‘It turned out not being able to talk to someone isn’t the key to a happy relationship after all.’

  ‘Well, who’d have thought?’

  ‘And I had to come back and see Mum. She’d got herself in a bit of a state.’ I look at him questioningly, but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘I went round to yours while I was home to see if anyone knew what had happened to you. Last thing I heard you were heading for the Lake District and then it all went quiet. I couldn’t get you on your mobile. I thought maybe you’d been eaten by wolves or abducted by aliens or something. And then I got an email from you telling me to fuck off.’

  ‘I was annonyed.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that. Alice isn’t very happy with you by the way. You might want to get yourself a new identity and flee the country.’