The Disappearance

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The Disappearance Page 6

by Annabel Kantaria


  ‘Madam,’ says the ayah, suddenly behind her. ‘I try.’

  Audrey spins around. ‘Oh, Madhu. Thank you. I … I just don’t know what’s wrong with him.’

  Madhu reaches into the cot and picks up the screaming baby. Audrey slips out of the room and listens at the door. Within seconds the crying simmers down and Audrey hears the rhythmic step of the ayah walking up and down the nursery floor and the soothing hum of her voice. Why can’t she do that?

  Audrey steps silently down the polished staircase in her stockings. She walks across the parquet floor of the drawing room to the bar, where she pours herself a neat gin and adds a dash of Angostura bitters: a little sharpener. She takes a sip, then carries the glass back up to the bedroom, where she puts her shoes back on, selects a perfume and sprays it liberally on her neck and wrists, then looks in the mirror one more time.

  She looks good. She looks, as Janet would say, ‘the part.’ She’s now got used to the sophisticated woman with the expensive clothes and the tumbling red curls who looks back at her each time she passes a mirror. The new look was Ralph’s idea: it was he who briefed the hairdresser and the tailor on how he wanted his wife to look and she likes the results. But it does take an increasing amount of effort to remember what Audrey Bailey, London legal secretary, used to look like. Ralph won’t hear of letting her work.

  The bedroom door opens behind her. Audrey turns a fraction so he can see she’s braless.

  ‘Nice,’ says Ralph. ‘Nice dress.’ He stares at her, his eyes dark with desire. ‘Come here.’

  Audrey knows what’s coming and she feels the familiar pull in her belly. But this is a game. She knows what Ralph likes. She extends her arm and looks at the little gold watch on her wrist, her expression inscrutable. ‘Darling, we’re due at dinner …’ She turns towards the door as if to leave.

  ‘Come here,’ repeats Ralph, but he doesn’t wait. In an instant he’s across the room and he catches Audrey from behind, his hands roaming over her body as she leans back against him and turns her head to meet his kisses. Inside the dress his hands find her bare breasts.

  ‘Red, what do you do to me?’ he says, his mouth against hers. Audrey moans. She’s known nothing like this in her life; Patrick was always so pedestrian, so strait-laced. Ralph scoops Audrey up, drops her on the bed, and wrenches up her silk dress. He undoes his trousers, tugs her knickers to one side, and pushes himself into her. She writhes under him, pushing her hips to meet his, then turns her head to one side as Ralph rains kisses on her face and neck.

  ‘The ayah,’ she breathes. ‘The door …’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘But …’

  Ralph is moving faster; he’s not going to stop. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the new nursery door open; Madhu step quietly out and walks across the landing and down the stairs, her eyes averted. A moment later, Ralph climaxes with a moan and collapses on top of her; he’s come too fast for her to keep up but she doesn’t mind – there’ll be another chance later. She strokes his back softly while his breathing returns to normal. Are all marriages like this? she wonders.

  When he’s caught his breath, Ralph props himself up on his elbows, strokes Audrey’s hair back from her face, and stares into her eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispers.

  Ralph leans down, kisses her forehead, and rolls off her. He goes to the bathroom. Audrey sits up and rearranges her dress. She hears the toilet flush and the tap run, then Ralph strides back into the room.

  ‘Hurry up, Red,’ he says with a wink. ‘We don’t want to be late for dinner.’

  The good mood unfortunately doesn’t last. The traffic on the way to the restaurant is worse than usual and Audrey watches as her husband gets increasingly worked up, snapping at the driver to go this way and that in an attempt to avoid the snarls.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she murmurs, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Ralph echoes the squeeze but then pulls his hand away, running it through his hair as he stares out at the gridlock, his jaw working as he clenches his teeth.

  ‘I can’t bear to be late!’ he snaps without turning around and Audrey realises that she herself is too late: she’s lost him to one of his black moods – his ‘funks’ as she’s come to think of them – and her birthday dinner, when they arrive, takes the hit. Although the restaurant is softly lit, the tinkle of a piano barely breaking over the gentle hum of expensive conversation, it’s as if a veil’s suddenly come down between the two of them. Audrey uses every single one of her conversational skills to try to get her husband to give her anything more than a monosyllabic reply, but he’s a different person to the one who ravished her in the bedroom. She asks coquettishly if he likes her dress. She talks about what she did all day with the children and she chats about the unseasonal weather Bombay’s been experiencing – always a good topic – but even that gets little more than a grunt.

  The tables are filled with beautiful ladies and well-dressed gentlemen and Audrey’s painfully aware that she and Ralph are being watched; that maybe these people remember the story of Alice Templeton; that the little scenario playing out at their table is being talked about. In this room full of people, with her husband, on her birthday, Audrey has never felt more alone. As the waiter clears the plates from their main courses, Audrey decides to give it one more shot.

  ‘Mmm,’ she says, looking at the dessert menu. ‘They all look so good. What are you going to go for?’ No response. ‘Hmm, darling? Does anything take your fancy?’

  Ralph looks up. ‘Sorry? Did you say something?’

  ‘Yes!’ snaps Audrey. She cracks the thick menu shut and bangs it down on the table with enough force to make the glasses jump. Ralph’s hand shoots out to steady his glass.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr Templeton,’ Audrey says, her voice shriller around the edges than she would have liked, her breath coming fast, ‘but I just asked if you’d like anything for dessert. On second thoughts, though, I retract that question. I’m calling it a night. Good night.’

  She pushes back her chair and stands abruptly, putting her hands on the table for a moment to steady herself. Ralph looks up at her.

  ‘Red,’ he says sternly. ‘Don’t make a scene. Sit down.’ His mouth is a straight, hard line, a picture of concealed anger, and a ripple of fear runs through Audrey’s body.

  ‘If you hadn’t noticed, you’ve been making a scene all night by not speaking to your wife.’ She says the words, quietly even, but she doesn’t move from the table. Ralph passes a hand through his hair.

  ‘Audrey,’ he orders, and she quivers at the sound of her real name. ‘Sit down.’ He glares at her, as if willing her to sit with his eyes.

  But still Audrey stands, debating her choices. Tonight was supposed to be a lovely evening – not just her birthday, but the anniversary of their engagement – and she doesn’t want to ruin the evening. But, as she stands there, she realises that Ralph has already wrecked it by refusing to celebrate with her. Audrey stares at her husband and it occurs to her that he’s spoiled her birthday evening deliberately; that he’s enjoying manipulating her emotions. Maybe Janet was right: Ralph does like to control her. Like the sex, it’s almost as if this is another game for him. Suddenly, Audrey feels like a pawn.

  ‘Good night, Ralph,’ she says. ‘Enjoy your dessert.’ She turns smartly and walks out of the restaurant into the humid stench of the Bombay night.

  The restaurant doesn’t have a taxi rank and Audrey regrets at once that they weren’t dining in a hotel with a bell boy to summon a car. As she stands on the pavement, her hand raised, watching the oncoming traffic for vacant cabs, her sixth sense picks up that someone’s approaching from behind. She assumes it’s Ralph and a little smile plays on her lips as she realises she’s won: he’s come outside. Then her head snaps back as an odorous hand clamps over her mouth and her arms are wrenched behind her back. She tries in vain to scream, to struggle; realises too late that she’s being mugged.

 
But suddenly there’s a commotion and the pressure slackens. Taking advantage, Audrey twists out of the grip, hurls herself across the pavement, and turns to see Ralph pitching his bulk against her attacker until he has him in a chokehold.

  ‘Don’t you touch my wife!’ he screams, shaking the man. ‘How dare you touch my wife!’

  The man locks eyes with Audrey and she watches as he struggles for air. He’s well-restrained. Ralph will stop in a minute, she thinks. But her husband keeps up the pressure.

  ‘He can’t breathe!’ Audrey gasps, but Ralph continues to squeeze the man’s throat until his body goes limp. Only then does he let go; only then, when it’s too late, does he let the man’s lifeless body slump to the pavement. Ralph’s eyes meet Audrey’s, unflinching.

  January 2013

  St Ives

  ‘Just look at that view!’ I said to Mum as we came to a standstill at the top of a climb. We were on the South West Coast path and the sand of Carbis Bay arced out before us, looking as if it wouldn’t be out of place in the Caribbean. It was one of those crisp, cold days for which the phrase ‘biting cold’ was invented, and Mum and I were bundled up in our woollies but the sun sparkled on the sea, which reflected back the blue of the sky. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  ‘It makes me wish I was an artist,’ said Mum, her hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sun.

  ‘Why don’t you try painting?’

  Since John and I had met in the autumn, we’d ironed out a deal that meant each of us saw Mum once a month, our visits dovetailed so one of us saw her every fortnight. This, we felt, was both manageable for us and good for her: while John took her out for lunches with the family and concentrated on practicalities like scooping leaves out of the gutters or DIY jobs around the house, I tried to do a variety of more fun things with Mum – the spa, shopping, afternoon tea, walks.

  It felt right to me to be doing something and, even though in a corner of my soul, I knew that half a day once a month was not a lot, some of the guilt I’d been carrying about not being a good daughter was being assuaged. I was now a woman who visited her mother regularly; a woman who took an active interest. I walked slightly taller for it.

  Mum had never really said how she felt about our visits, though. Did she realise John and I were keeping an eye on her? I told myself she was pleased to see us but, secretly, I wondered. Mum always opened the door with a smile, but she also insisted that we really didn’t need to keep coming down. She was often on her computer, researching goodness knows what when I arrived, and sometimes I got the impression she’d actually rather I hadn’t turned up. She wasn’t very talkative, especially today. Instead of mooching about the shops like we’d planned, I’d taken advantage of the beautiful day and insisted we take a walk along the coastal path and I wondered now if she’d rather have gone shopping. The coastal walk had been more tiring than I’d imagined, with quite a steep climb that had left Mum noticeably out of breath. I’d already decided we’d take the train back.

  I nudged Mum with my elbow. ‘Why don’t you try painting?’

  Mum’s lips moved, her words snatched by the breeze.

  ‘What was that?’ I craned to hear.

  ‘I used to paint,’ she said. She held her hand up as if holding a paintbrush and made some strokes in the air.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I went to art classes for a while. Less than a year, I suppose. When you were only little.’

  ‘Oh wow! Were you any good?’

  Mum stared out at the ocean, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘My teacher thought so. He said I had a talent. Do you suppose you can see the Scilly Isles from here? Or are we facing the wrong direction?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But that’s amazing about the painting! Why don’t you do it anymore?’

  Mum looked like she was going to say something else so I waited, but she remained silent, her eyes on the sea.

  ‘Why did you stop painting? If you were so good? Didn’t you want to develop it?’

  ‘Ohh, different reasons. Come on.’ Mum started walking again and I fell into step next to her. ‘I didn’t have time when you two were young,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘Your father liked everything at home to be “just so” and it took a lot of my time. You know, shopping, cooking, cleaning, taking care of you two …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘But later? When we were older? Surely you had more time then?’

  Mum shook her head dismissively. ‘It’s just … look, it’s something I didn’t pursue any further. That’s all.’

  ‘It must have been hard, having twins,’ I said, thinking at the same time how I’d give anything for the chance to bring up twins of my own. ‘Pa obviously wasn’t very hands-on.’

  ‘He was very traditional. He thought his role was to provide. And he did that very well. But when it came to parenting …’ Mum laughed. ‘I don’t remember him ever lifting a finger in that department.’

  I fell behind Mum as we had to walk single file through a narrow bit of the path. It descended steeply towards the beach.

  ‘He used to take John on those “boy’s trips”. Do you remember? You know: fishing, camping. And those days at Lords watching the cricket?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mum turned around and laughed again, her hair whipping her face. ‘All my idea.’

  I ran a few steps to catch up. ‘What?’

  ‘I thought it would do them both good to spend time together. I used to beg Ralph to take him away.’

  ‘No!’ John used to lord it over me because he’d been picked, not me. I shook my head, recalibrating the memory. I felt slightly sorry for my brother now.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘He was so desperate for your father’s approval. Do you remember how he used to follow him around like a puppy? It used to break my heart. I tried to distract him but he was never interested in what we were doing.’

  ‘Wow. He loved those trips. He used to count the days.’ I fell silent, remembering. ‘And then, once they were back, Pa would go back to work and it was as if the trip had never happened and John would mope about the house with a face like a wet weekend.’

  ‘I know. Sometimes I wondered if they did more harm than good.’

  I caught up with Mum once more as we emerged from the path onto the golden sand of Carbis Bay. The tide was out and the sand seemed to stretch for miles.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘You know, I once suggested that I went fishing with them. I thought it would be fun. But John wouldn’t even let me ask Pa. He said I wouldn’t understand because it was a “man thing” ‘. The cattiness in my laugh surprised me.

  ‘I suppose it’s only natural for a boy to look up to his dad,’ Mum said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘And we did our own things, too. Didn’t we?’ Mum looked at me. ‘You used to love learning how to do things around the house.’

  ‘I did,’ I said, and I thought about me standing next to Mum, pretend-ironing the hankies while she ironed our clothes; about me standing on a chair next to Mum in the kitchen, sneaking licks of cake batter while helping her make cakes and biscuits – we were probably even in matching aprons that Mum had sewn herself – the picture of ‘70s domestic bliss. Yes, she was right: I had wanted to learn everything. But, with that thought came the memory of the uneasiness that had underpinned my childhood: an unexplained sense of nervousness; a sense I’d always had that we were walking on pins; that our life was a house of cards that could topple at any minute.

  Yes, I’d been desperate to please Mum – but it was driven by a need to keep the house of cards standing. Now, looking out at the sea, I shook my head. I’d never seen it before: John had tied himself in knots to get Pa’s approval, while I’d tried, like a bumblebee banging itself again and again against a closed window, to reach Mum. I’d craved - but never got – her love.

  ‘I tried with John,’ Mum was saying, ‘but he was never interested in that side of things – the cooking and everything.’

 
My realisation was too heavy to articulate. ‘His loss,’ I said with a smile. ‘These days everyone loves a guy who can cook.’

  We both laughed. Mum shook her head. ‘Look at us walking down memory lane. Come on. Let’s get going. Are you going to march me back or can we please take the train?’

  August 1972

  Bombay, India

  Audrey walks into her kitchen and surveys the scene. Ralph’s cook is at the epicentre of what looks like a minihurricane. Five of the six burners on the hob have pans bubbling on them. The oven’s on and the worktops are all in use: chopping boards, knives, vegetables, and empty dishes cover every surface. The ceiling fans are whirring but, still, the air is plump with steam.

  ‘Madam, you want taste?’ the cook asks.

  Audrey waves her hand. ‘No. No, thank you. You make Sir’s favourite?’

  ‘Haan,’ the cook nods.

  ‘Acchaa. Lovely. Thank you.’

  Audrey takes one more look around the kitchen, happy that everything’s under control.

  ‘Everything will be ready for eight o’clock?’ Audrey asks. ‘Send snacks and drinks out to the garden with Madhu, and then serve dinner in the house.’

  The cook nods and Audrey backs out of the kitchen.

  Already dressed for dinner, she drifts out of the back door and into the garden, where she stops for a second to inhale the heady scent of the night jasmine. It’s rained heavily today and this magnifies the myriad fragrances rising from the flowerbeds. Audrey breathes in deeply, this smell of earth, rain, and flowers now as vital to her soul as oxygen is to her lungs. The garden’s well-established and there’s evidence in the riot of colour and scent that it’s well taken care of by the gardener who’s worked at the house for decades. Audrey walks slowly across the lawn, gently touching the leaves and petals of her favourite blooms. In the distance, under the hum of the city, she can sense the gentle shifting of the sea. She breathes in deeply. It’ll be all right, she tells herself. He loves you.

 

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