I laughed. ‘Seriously? You want to go to the White Night party?’
‘Why not? YOLO and all that.’
‘What’s with this “YOLO”? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Mum shook her head at me. ‘For a youngster, you’re not very with-it, are you? You Only Live Once. We said carpe diem in my day but YOLO’s more fun. I saw it on the worldwide web.’
I snorted. ‘It reminds me of Rolos.’
‘You can have my last YOLO,’ said Mum.
I laughed. ‘Very good. Well. If that’s what you want … why not? But I can’t see John agreeing to go dancing. Can you?’
‘Miracles happen.’
‘Pigs don’t fly.’
We fell into silence. Mum looked at her beer. I wanted to say something about John; about how Harbourside had been his idea, not mine; about how we both just wanted her to be safe. As I struggled to find the right words, I stared vacantly at the square, letting the unfamiliar heat and bustle permeate my skin as if I could absorb the essence of Corfu by osmosis. Mum also appeared to be lost in thought.
‘Were you happy?’ she asked apropos of nothing. ‘You and John. As kids. Are your memories happy?’
‘Largely yes,’ I said. I looked at her and she met my gaze with honesty: what do you mean by ‘largely’? she was asking. It’s okay to tell me. I had the sense that layers were peeling back; that, for the first time ever, I might get a chance to see something of Mum’s hidden core. I took a deep breath. ‘But sometimes – and I hope you don’t mind me saying this – sometimes, I felt as if you were somehow holding back from me. From us. Were you?’
Mum closed her eyes and exhaled. Without her having to say anything, I knew it was an admission. Her lips moved as she worked out how to put her reply into words.
‘Losing my mum changed me,’ she said eventually. ‘I often wonder how I’d have turned out had she – and then Dad – died so young. But what happened was it taught me that people aren’t necessarily in your life forever. That, overnight, they can disappear. So I suppose that, yes, I did hold myself back a little. Part of it was subconscious – but partly I also felt I was protecting you. Yes. Protecting you …’ her voice trailed off.
‘From what?’
‘Oh …’ She waved her hand vaguely. ‘Just, protecting you.’
It was as if a veil had come down over her eyes. I changed tack. ‘Were you happy?’
Mum exhaled. ‘Yes. Yes, I was happy. Largely.’ She smiled.
‘It’s just …’ I ran my hands through my hair. ‘I always felt there was some sort of undercurrent in our house. Fear, maybe? An invisible monster in the corner – something that was ready to spring out at us at any given moment. I used to think it hid behind those big curtains in the living room.’ I gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t know what it was – or if I even imagined it. Obviously it didn’t live behind the curtains. Did I imagine it?’
Mum closed her eyes and opened them slowly. ‘An undercurrent of fear? Of your father? I suppose there might have been.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry. I tried to shield you.’
Mum fell silent again but I could see her face working as she struggled to say something. Emotions flickered across her face, then she said: ‘Do you remember the night I was packing? You must have been quite young. Five or six?’
I closed my eyes. A snatch of half-formed memory played in my mind. A door slamming. The sound of arguing. My father’s voice, rough and harsh. Footsteps thundering down the stairs. John and I peering into our parents’ room. Mum’s face, pale, pinched, and stained with tears. Something about a suitcase.
‘Did we come to your bedroom?’ I asked. ‘And your suitcase was on the bed?’
‘Yes. That night.’
I had the sense suddenly of the penny dropping. I’d never believed what Mum had told us that night – something about seeing what fitted in the case – but I hadn’t let myself question it further. ‘You were going to leave, weren’t you?’
Mum nodded. ‘I was. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave you.’
I stared at my beer glass, as this new information sunk in. ‘You could have taken us with you.’
Mum shook her head. ‘Your father would never have let me.’
‘But you wanted to leave? Were things that bad?’ And then another thought: ‘Was he violent?’ I didn’t remember being hit. ‘Is that what we were we scared of?’
Mum inhaled, her hand on her chest. ‘No. He never laid a hand on you. We were all slightly afraid if his moods, I suppose. He could be very difficult.’
‘I know. But was he ever violent towards you? Like, when John and I weren’t around?’
‘He didn’t hit me or anything like that.’ A micro-pause. ‘Did you ever hear anything?’
I shook my head. ‘It was more the silence.’
Mum gave a little laugh. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘John doesn’t remember any of this. I think he blocked it out.’
‘Do you two talk about it?’
‘No. Not really. Maybe a bit lately. But no.’
‘Tell me what you do remember. The good bits.’
I sat back and exhaled; thought for a second; pushed the memory of fear from my head. ‘Pretend-ironing,’ I said. Mum smiled. ‘Listen with Mother on the radio. Sewing. You being so patient when I had to do that awful embroidery for school – do you remember it? I just couldn’t get the stitch right, and I kept expecting you to shout at me but you were so patient. I think you even finished it for me in the end.’
Mum’s eyes crinkled with her smile. ‘I’m sure I’d never have done that! What else?
‘Cake-making. Blowing bubbles in the summer. Rollerskating down the hall. Hide and seek. Those afternoon picnics in the park. Bedtime stories. The way you slammed the book shut at the end.’
Mum chuckled. ‘Probably shouldn’t have done that. Happy memories then?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Do you regret staying?’
Mum put her hand on mine. ‘No. No matter how hard things sometimes were, I was always sure I’d done the right thing.’
‘Okay. Good.’
‘What about John? What do you think he remembers?’
I pursed my lips. ‘I don’t know. He was different, wasn’t he? You’d send us upstairs to play – I think you thought we played together – but I’d read, and he’d be playing Meccano or one of his card games or something. Solitaire, wasn’t it?’
Mum nodded and took another sip of her beer. ‘This hits the spot, doesn’t it?’ She turned the bottle so she could read the label. ‘John’s become very like your father, hasn’t he?’
‘Yeah. I guess. Sometimes he looks like the spit of Pa.’
Mum’s finger traced a pattern in the condensation on the side of her glass. She looked at it intently then back up at me, her face troubled. ‘It’s more than looks. There’s something else.’
She was talking, I was sure, about him trying to get her to move. I took a deep breath. ‘Mum. About Harbourside. I know you worry that he’s trying to do to you what he did to Valya, but …’
Mum looked sharply at me. ‘What did he do to Valya? Did he tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
Mum stared at me, her eyes searching my face, and I looked back at her, confused.
‘What did you mean by “what he did to Valya”?’ she said.
‘Well, you know – how he pushed to have her put into that care home.’
Mum sat back in her chair. ‘Oh.’
‘What did you think I meant?’
‘Oh … nothing, dear. Nothing.’ She squinted up into the canopy of trees that shaded us from the sun. ‘Pretty birds,’ she said. ‘Swallows.’ There was a silence, then Mum spoke quietly: ‘Your father once killed a man.’
‘What?’
‘Your father once killed a man.’ Stronger this time. A look that was almost defiant.
‘What?’
‘It happened in India. It’s no secret.’
‘How come I didn’t know about this?’
‘It’s not the kind of thing you talk about, is it?’
‘But what happened? Were the police involved?’ I imagined my father on the run; a fugitive. ‘He murdered someone?’
Mum sighed. ‘It was so long ago. We’d gone out for dinner. Someone tried to mug me. It wasn’t murder. It was self-defence.’
‘But how? How did he kill him?’
‘Your father had him around the neck. I don’t think he realised how strong he was.’
I listened with my hand unconsciously pressed to my throat. My father had been a big man; strong. I could imagine the unintentional force he’d put behind a chokehold, especially if he was angry.
‘Were John and I born then?’
‘Yes. Yes, you were. You were at home with the ayah that night.’ Mum was staring into the distance. ‘We left India soon after.’
‘We ran away?’
Mum tutted. ‘No. We just decided it was time to leave.’ Mum’s eyes misted over. ‘There was nothing to be ashamed of, but Ralph felt that everyone knew. I suppose he just wanted a fresh start.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Well – you wouldn’t.’
There was a silence as I assimilated this new fact about my father.
‘So … you think John is like Pa?’ The words now had a new weight to them. I was testing; how far was Mum going to take this? An ugly thought tried to surface in my mind and I pushed it back down and sat on it.
Mum nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he has. There’s a side to him that sometimes … oh, I don’t know … mothers are supposed to have a special bond with their sons. You know, the whole mother–son thing? But I never felt it with John. I wanted to feel it, but it was never there.’
I thought back to my childhood; tried to picture how John and Mum had been together. John had always been a bit of a loner. Even I wasn’t that close to him, despite the twin connection, but I’d never really thought about it from Mum’s perspective. It was just how John was.
‘He is quite like Pa,’ I said. ‘Like when he orders for you in a restaurant. I think it’s just his way of showing he cares.’
‘Huh! Controlling, more like.’ Mum took a sip of her beer. ‘If he were here, do you think he’d let me sit here drinking beer at this time of day? I don’t think so.’ She chuckled, then continued. ‘It’s you I felt sorry for growing up. You’re not very close to John, and you hardly saw your father. All you had was me.’ Mum was staring intently at the napkin ring, her lips pressed together. ‘I used to worry what would happen to you – who would look after you – if I … well, you know …’
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about that anymore.’
Mum smiled. ‘I know.’
I took a big swig of my beer, then swirled the liquid around the glass to capture the froth tidemark. ‘By the way, while we’re at it, can if I ask you something else?’ Mum nodded. ‘Why didn’t you and Pa have any more children? I’d have thought that you might have liked at least one more.’
‘Oof,’ she said. ‘You two were the perfect package. I didn’t feel the need for any more. Nothing more, nothing less.’ Mum picked up the menu. ‘You know what? I fancy trying some of those stuffed vine leaves. Shall we order some nibbles?’
14 July 2013, 8 p.m.
I slipped my feet into the only pair of strappy sandals I’d brought and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d chosen a strappy dress and a velvet wrap for dinner. With no phone reception on the ship and no need to carry any money, I didn’t even have a bag: all I would carry would be the plastic key card that doubled up as an on-board credit card. I swished a little to the right and left and took in my dress from different angles. It wasn’t eveningwear by any means, and I hoped it would pass muster at Valentino’s – a speciality restaurant that had a smart dress code.
I flicked my hair and added a slick of lipstick. ‘You’ll do,’ I said to myself in the mirror. I picked up my key card, stepped out into the corridor and rapped my knuckles on John’s door.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, poking his head out around the door. I caught a glimpse of guide books piled up on his dresser. He wore dark trousers and a white shirt, above which his face, red from the sun, glowed like a beacon. ‘Will I need a tie?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘Jacket?’
‘Uh. Maybe. Come on, we don’t want to be late.’
‘It’s a holiday. It should be relaxing,’ John said, pulling on his jacket and letting his cabin door close behind him. ‘That locks automatically, doesn’t it? I wonder what she wants to talk about. Maybe she has plans for the other shore visits.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘She seemed happy just to potter about in town and soak up the atmosphere today but I’m glad I was with her. She got a bit hot and flustered. How was your day anyway?’
‘Great. I climbed to the top of the Old Fort. Thanks for taking Mum. She’d never have managed that walk.’ John rubbed his hands together. ‘What we need is for her to eat some dodgy seafood tonight, get food poisoning, and be confined to her cabin.’ He laughed.
‘John!’
We turned right for the lifts and waited for one that was going up.
‘Did you go to Spianada Square?’ John asked.
‘Yeah. We took a cab and walked about a bit until it became too much for her, then we sat in a café and had a beer.’
‘Sounds all right,’ said John.
There was a silence during which I stared at the lift buttons. ‘She was thinking about the past,’ I said. ‘You know, talking about Pa and stuff. I felt there was something on her mind.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t put my finger on it.’ As I said the words, the feeling of unease I’d had during the conversation with Mum returned to me and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I shook my head a little, trying to banish the feeling. A gilded glass lift swished up past our floor without stopping. People were packed inside like sardines.
‘Do you think she wants to talk about Harbourside tonight?’ said John. ‘Maybe she’s going to surprise us and say she’s already bought a property there.’
I sucked air in though my teeth. ‘Please don’t bring that up again.’
At last a lift stopped. It was almost full and John and I squashed into spaces a few people apart, the conversation closed. The button for the restaurant deck was already pressed; a lift full of locusts ready to swarm.
I had to do a double-take when John and I arrived at the door to Valentino’s. Given its much-lauded status as a speciality restaurant and the plush nature of the ship’s interior – or perhaps because of the word association with ‘Valentino’ – I’d been expecting a lush interior of red and gold; swags of rich velvet and gilded chairs. However, the look the ship’s interior designers had gone for could most accurately be described as ‘rustic Italian village.’
The walls were painted with murals of the Tuscan countryside, fake vines wound their way around the pillars, brick recesses in the walls housed collections of copper pans, and the wooden chairs all had straw seats. There was even a fake horse and cart. I had to pinch myself to remember we were on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Mum, sitting alone in her cruise ship evening finery, looked completely out of place. I could almost hear the static crackle of John’s disapproval.
The waitress led us over to Mum’s table.
‘It’s not what I expected,’ Mum whispered once we’d sat and ordered our drinks, ‘but the food’s supposed to be excellent.’
‘That’s all that matters,’ I said.
There was a pause while we all looked at the menu. John spoke first. ‘So what’s tonight about?’
Mum looked up. ‘Well,’ she said with an air of mystery, ‘I have something important to tell you.’
John raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you have a look at Harbourside?’
‘Yes, I did, and very pleasant it is, too. But it’s not about that.’ Mum paused. ‘It’s about you
r father’s will.’
‘Oh!’ A nervous laugh popped out of my mouth. ‘Wasn’t that all sorted out when he died?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Mum. ‘There’s something that I’d like to make you both aware of.’
‘Okaaay,’ said John slowly. He passed his hand through his hair. The cutlery on the table started to vibrate. I realised my foot had started jiggling under the table and I uncrossed my legs to stop it, placing both feet firmly on the floor.
‘Is it good news?’ I asked.
‘Let’s order, then I’ll explain.’
‘I thought Pa’s will was all finalised,’ John said. ‘He left us nothing. “I’m a self-made man and proud of it. You’ll make our own way in the world, too.” And all that. End of.’
Mum held up a hand, palm facing John. ‘Let’s order and then we’ll talk about it.’
I looked sideways at John and saw with surprise that his jaw was clenched and that he was trying to breathe slowly through his nose. He’d mentioned our inheritance once before and I couldn’t understand why it would be so important to him. Yes, he had two children to look after and quite a high-maintenance wife but his company, as far as I knew, was worth a fortune. Yet now, looking at him, I could see how much effort it was taking him not to push Mum further. He stared intently at the menu and rubbed the back of his neck as he did so. His face contorted with the effort of staying quiet.
‘Everyone ready?’ John said after a minute or two, then without waiting for our replies, he waved over a waitress.
‘I’m getting used to the décor now,’ said Mum when our orders had been taken. She intertwined her hands on the table and looked around the restaurant. ‘It’s quite quaint. Much nicer than the buffet.’
‘Very atmospheric.’ I said.
‘And you don’t have to search for a table.’
‘Exactly!’
John’s fingers drummed on the table.
‘What do you think, John?’ I asked.
‘Very nice.’
‘I believe the chef is Italian,’ Mum said.
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘So … you were saying …?’ John said to Mum.
A waiter arrived with the wine. ‘Would sir like to taste?’
The Disappearance Page 16