‘You try being sixty-nine,’ Mum said. ‘I’d like to see you do what I do at my age.’
John refused to be drawn. ‘You’ve had quite a serious accident and locked yourself out. And what if you fall down the stairs next time? Like Valya. Hit your head and lie there with a broken leg for days. At least I was around to find Valya. Not that it helped.’
A shadow passed across Mum’s face. ‘Don’t bring Valya into this. What happened to Valya doesn’t do you any favours … any favours at all.’
I looked at Mum sharply. Her face looked pinched.
John continued, his expression impassive. ‘We just want to make sure there’s help available – quickly – if you need it. Lexi and I can’t always drop everything and come.’
‘You really don’t need to worry about me. Okay? I absolve you of any responsibility. Get on with your own lives and don’t worry about me. It’s nice to see you, but I don’t need your visits.’
‘Table eighteen?’ asked a voice behind me. ‘Three roasts? Super. Here you go.’ The waitress balanced her tray on the edge of the table and unloaded the plates of food. ‘You’ve got cutlery?’ she asked. John unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap, cut open his roast potatoes and sprinkled salt liberally over them. He poured gravy over his beef, then took a forkful.
‘Lovely,’ he said, chewing. ‘Really good. Good choice.’
Mum stared at the pile of meat and vegetables on her plate. She made no move to pick up her cutlery.
‘We just want what’s best for you,’ I said, reaching for her hand. She pulled it away.
‘Best for who?’ she asked. ‘No. On second thoughts, don’t answer that.’ She sat back and shook her head. ‘After all I’ve done for you.’ She shook her head again. ‘After all I’ve done for you.’ She pushed her plate away and stood up. ‘Enjoy your lunch,’ she said, and marched out of the pub.
April 2013
St Ives, Cornwall
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I shouted at John. ‘Happy now?’ I threw my cutlery back onto the plate with a clatter, jumped up and ran out of the pub after Mum, pushing my way through the tables without caring that everyone was staring. I banged through the door and out onto the street, looking left and right to see which way Mum had gone.
‘Wait, Mum! Wait!’
I saw her hurrying down the road towards the harbour. It was a steep descent and I ran to catch up with her, terrified that she’d stumble or slip.
‘Mum!’ I grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face me. ‘I’m sorry about what John said. I don’t know how I let myself get dragged into that. He’s just worried, that’s all. Please don’t listen to him. We won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. Please, Mum. It was just him thinking aloud. Please come back. Come back for your lunch?’
Mum shook her head and I noticed two spots of colour still high on her cheeks. ‘No,’ she said. She jerked her arm away and continued to walk. I hurried after her.
‘Okay, then let me take you home. Come on, it’s the least I can do.’ I took Mum’s arm and turned her back towards the car park. She shook my hand off her but walked stiffly alongside me. I started sentences in my head but nothing reached my mouth. I didn’t know what to say to her. When we got to the car I opened her door and held it for her, as if she’d try to run away if I left her. When she’d got in I slammed the door, then quickly dialled John as I went around to the driver’s side.
‘I’m just dropping Mum home. She doesn’t want to come back,’ I said. In the background I heard the noises of the pub.
‘Okay.’ John sounded as if he was speaking with his mouth full.
I sneaked a look at Mum every now and then as we drove. Her whole body was angled away from me as if she couldn’t get far enough away. She stared out of her window and I tried to draw her in with small talk, pointing out a new shop or commenting on a nice car going the other way, but she responded only with the smallest nod or shake of her head, as if I was interrupting her thoughts. Sadness washed over me. I had the sense, as always, that I didn’t know my mother at all; that I didn’t know how to break through to her. I clenched my jaw. It was so frustrating. I put on Classic FM and let the sound of a piano concerto fill the car until I finally pulled into Mum’s road.
‘Here we are then,’ I said. I took a deep breath. ‘Look – about what John said …’
Mum didn’t even look at me as she got out of the car.
‘Don’t stress about it,’ she said, and disappeared into her house, leaving me with the sense that I’d once again failed to connect.
December 1976
Barnes, London
Audrey stands on the doorstep of the Barnes house and waves until her arm aches; she waves at the white car that’s taking her husband to the airport until it disappears from sight. To her neighbours and to passers-by she looks every inch the dutiful wife. Feeling as if she’s on a stage, Audrey smiles to her next-door neighbour, who’s bringing in the milk.
‘Good morning!’
‘Morning,’ replies the neighbour, a woman who, despite having four children under five and a dog the size of a small horse, is always immaculately turned out. Even now she’s in full make-up and looks as if she’s had her hair set.
‘Off anywhere nice?’ asks the neighbour, nodding her head in the direction the chauffeur-driven car’s just gone.
‘He’s off to India. Business,’ says Audrey.
‘Won’t be here for Christmas then?’ asks the neighbour.
‘No. He won’t.’
The neighbour pulls a sad face. ‘Aw. The poor children. Will they miss their daddy?’
‘Of course,’ says Audrey, ‘but, you know … we’ll make it fun.’ She shrugs as if to show she’s making do with a bad lot but, in reality, she’s overjoyed to have some respite from the oppressive atmosphere that’s choked the house since the night of the rape. Anyway, today Audrey has an agenda. Back inside the house, she closes the front door gently, listening to the latch click into place, then she leans against it, breathes deeply in and out, and listens to the silence: no children, no husband – the house to herself. She feels the first kick of adrenalin as she thinks about what she’s going to do with Ralph safely out of the way; about what’s been consuming her for the past nine days – although she still has to wait a little longer.
Audrey walks into the kitchen and sets about preparing herself a coffee. When it’s done, she picks up the phone and brings it over to the kitchen table, where she sits with the day’s newspaper. Audrey tries to focus on the headline story as she blows gently across the surface of the coffee but she’s taking nothing in. She looks at the phone, picks up the handset, listens to the dial tone, then replaces it carefully. She’s told herself that she must wait for Ralph at least to have reached the airport and checked in: another hour. There could be any number of reasons why he might turn back: forgotten passport, documents – anything. She stares at the paper, sips her coffee.
When she’s turned all the pages of the paper and sipped down to the dregs of her coffee, Audrey stands up, takes her cup to the sink and washes it. She looks at the kitchen clock. The second hand clunks stubbornly around the dial, each tick a monumental effort. Twenty minutes to go. But he’s not back. If he comes back now, he’ll surely miss his flight. Audrey dithers in the kitchen, arguing with herself. Is she safe now?
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she tells herself. Her voice, competing only with the ticking of the clock, sounds loud in the silent house. She goes over to the kitchen table and sits down. She clears her throat, picks up the handset and starts to dial the number she’s committed to memory. When the line connects and she hears the ringing sound, she clears her throat once more, gives a little cough, and waits, her blood thrumming in her veins. She waits and waits, but the number rings on: no answer. She places the receiver carefully back into the cradle.
Audrey hasn’t thought about what she’d do if Mack doesn’t pick up. She’s assumed he would; of course he would. In h
er mind’s eye, Mack has been waiting desperately to hear from her since the first day she’d failed to turn up to art school, if not before. It’s inconceivable that he’s out. Emboldened, she dials again – no reply. Audrey slams the receiver down harder this time, causing the phone’s bell to give one startled tring.
‘Hmm,’ she says out loud. She stands up, the legs of her chair scraping across the kitchen floor tiles. She marches out to the hall and, before she gives herself a chance to think twice, she grabs her coat, picks up her handbag from the hall table, scoops up her keys, and dashes out into the street.
Audrey is unaware of the traffic, of the pedestrians, of the cold, clammy air that encircles her, frizzing her hair and dampening her coat as her shoes click along the pavement. She reaches the familiar college, walks across the car park, pushes open the door and enters the foyer with its ever-present smell of disinfectant. Her eyes are drawn at once to the noticeboard with the class lists and she sees immediately that something’s different; even from this distance, she sees handwriting, some sort of amendment. She walks over to the board and takes in the news: her art class has a new teacher. A felt-tip line runs through her lover’s name. Over the top is handwritten a different name. Audrey spins around, looking for someone to ask. The reception desk is empty but there’s a sign next to a phone, asking people to call the office with any queries.
Audrey dials the number.
‘Hello?’ she says. ‘I’m calling about the introduction to art class. Taught by, um, Dave MacDonald?’
‘Yes?’ says a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I’m just in the foyer and I just wanted to ask why Mr, um, MacDonald isn’t taking the art class anymore?’
Audrey hears a rustling of papers. ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ says the woman’s voice. ‘The class is now being taken by Mr Steven Roach.’
‘Why?’ asks Audrey. ‘What happened to Mr MacDonald? Why isn’t he taking the class any more?’
‘Mr MacDonald, I believe, erm … hold on a sec …’ Audrey hears as the woman turns to speak to someone in the room with her. ‘Susan? Why isn’t Mack taking the adult art class anymore? Just got someone on the phone … ah … okay. Oh, that was it, was it? Is that all we know? Okay … okay. Thanks.’ The woman’s voice comes back to the phone line. ‘Oh, he resigned,’ she says casually, as if the news she’s delivering is of no consequence at all. Audrey grips the edge of the reception desk, steeling herself. ‘With immediate effect. I think he was moving away. He left, what, a week ago?’
Audrey sways a little as she listens. The voice sounds like it’s coming from the moon. She hears herself reply; hears herself thank the woman, end the call. With her coat flapping open around her, she walks like a zombie out of the college, aware only of the contact her feet have with the pavement. Eventually she spots green grass, recognises Barnes Green, crosses roads to get herself there, finds a wet bench and collapses onto it, her head in her hands. Why did he leave just like that? Without telling her, leaving no forwarding address, nothing? How can she find Mack now? Audrey needs to explain to him what happened. She needs to tell him that Ralph found out; explain that she had no choice; that she couldn’t leave the children.
Audrey has never spoken to Mack about Ralph. She’d been almost religious about keeping the two sides of her life completely separate. It’s funny, she often thought as she lay entangled with Mack, how making love with him didn’t seem as much of a betrayal as talking to him about her husband; giving away details of their life together. And now she realises that Mack had no idea what Ralph was like; no idea of how Mrs Templeton tiptoes around her husband. Mack probably thought she’d just got bored of him: lost interest in the class and dumped him. She thinks about the injustice of it all and moans.
As Audrey sits on the bench, tormenting herself with what Mack must have thought of her, she suddenly remembers that his phone had rung: it hadn’t been disconnected. She jumps up and turns towards the road that will lead her to Mack’s apartment. As she walks, this time with a purpose in her step, Audrey feels the thrill of the illicit in her bones. Her body remembers taking this walk on the days when she was stealing an hour or two to meet Mack at his home and she tells herself, as she walks along, that this is not the case now; that her body must not anticipate her arrival at his house in such a way.
She passes under the railway bridge and then the red-brick mansion block with its glorious river views comes into view. Audrey steps up to the front door and buzzes the number to Mack’s flat. She repeats this three times, waiting a minute in between each buzz. She hears steps behind her and turns to see a woman whose face is familiar from her previous visits. The woman appears to be some kind of professional – a consultant of some sort, maybe. Despite being home in the middle of the day, she’s dressed in a sharp business suit and heels, and carries a smart leather handbag. Audrey can see the top of a bulging desk diary at its opening. Even though Audrey had pretended she was having art lessons with Mack in his home and had spoken several times at unnecessary length to the woman about the quality of the light over the river, she’s pretty sure that the woman guessed the real reason for her visits. Now, as the woman rummages in her handbag for her key, Audrey takes her chance.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I was supposed to be meeting Mr MacDonald for an art lesson. But he doesn’t seem to be home. Have you seen him recently?’
The woman stops rummaging and examines at Audrey, as if wondering what to say. ‘Mmm,’ she says finally. ‘I saw him last week. He was moving out.’
Audrey’s insides freeze. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive,’ says the woman. ‘He’d hired a van. Double-parked while he loaded it.’
Audrey presses her lips together and tries to look thoughtful. She wants to ask if he left a forwarding address but, equally, she doesn’t want to admit that she has no idea where Mack has gone. She slaps her forehead.
‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaims. ‘Silly me. I remember now he’d told me he was moving. Oh, how silly I can be. Mind like a sieve.’ Her laugh is brittle. ‘Anyway – thank you. Take care!’ She turns to go, but the woman continues to speak.
‘I don’t know what happened to him,’ she says. ‘He looked as if he were in some kind of trouble.’
Audrey spins around. ‘What? What sort of trouble?’
The woman looks at the ground then back up at Audrey. She chooses her words carefully. ‘It looked like he’d been in a fight.’ She pauses, looks appraisingly – challengingly – at Audrey. It strikes Audrey that she knows how upsetting this will be for her to hear; that she’s being deliberately cruel. ‘His face was quite bashed up.’
Audrey’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Really? What do you mean “bashed up”?’
‘Two black eyes, cuts, bruising.’ She peers at Audrey. ‘You want me to carry on?’
Audrey can barely breathe.
The woman seems to be enjoying cataloguing Mack’s injuries. She continues even though Audrey doesn’t reply. ‘I don’t know how he managed the move, to be honest. He must have been in a lot of pain. One eye was so swollen it barely opened and his nose was clearly broken, as were – I’d say – a couple of his fingers. He’d bandaged them together but I could see they were very swollen.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘You know. Kind of black and disfigured?’
Audrey thinks of Mack’s long, elegant fingers – the tools of his trade. However painful the injuries were, it wouldn’t come close to the pain of not being able to paint.
‘Did he say what happened?’ she asks. ‘A car accident – or …?’
The woman sighs. ‘Maybe. But my money’s on a fight.’
‘But he’s not the fighting sort – he’s just not!’
‘Look. I’m just telling you what I saw.’ The woman slots her key into the lock. ‘Anyway, I have to go. Hope you find him. See you around, maybe.’
Audrey nods to the woman and turns away. She crosses the road and leans her elbows on the wall as she stare
s at the river Mack had loved so much. Its waters slide by, as they always have done; as they always will do. She thinks about her lover’s injuries. She knows now where her husband went after he raped her; what he did next.
‘Oh, Mack,’ she says to the river. ‘I’m so sorry.’
December 1976
Barnes, London
‘Hello?’ The line is crackly, echoing. There’s a lot of background noise. Standing in the hall of the Barnes house, Audrey presses the receiver against her ear better to hear.
‘Audrey.’
‘Mack?’
‘I’m in a phone box. I only have one coin. Don’t say anything, just listen. I’m okay. But I’m leaving. Don’t follow me. Your husband …’ His voice breaks. ‘Please don’t follow me, Audrey. For your own safety, don’t try to find me.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing. Please Audrey. If you love me, forget me. Please. I love you. I love you with all my heart. I always will. Stay safe.’
‘I love you, too. I love you, Mack.’ It’s the first time she’s said the words.
The line beeps and goes dead.
Audrey sinks to the floor.
April 2013
Truro, Cornwall
I was sitting at the kitchen table when the invitation arrived. It was one of those beautiful early summer mornings and I was eating scrambled eggs on toast while flicking through the news on the iPad. I heard the letterbox rattle and the post land on the doormat with a thwump that was heavier than the usual pile of flimsy bills. I looked up from the iPad, wondering whether it was worth getting up to see what had caused the thwump. I heard Mark clattering down the wooden stairs.
‘Can you bring the post?’ I shouted. The steps paused, then Mark appeared in the kitchen, a cream envelope in his hand, his coffee cup in the other.
‘Fancy,’ he said, dropping a thick, cream envelope onto the table.
The Disappearance Page 12