by Karen Cole
‘Maybe it’ll be for the best. You don’t make her happy, you said so yourself. Maybe if we leave, go back to England . . .’
‘I can’t leave Adam. I won’t leave him,’ he says, shaking his head. His mouth is set in a grim line. For a moment he looks like a stranger. I can’t believe that this is the same man who only a few nights ago lay in bed with me and told me I was his girl – told me he loved me.
‘No, well, we could stay here then,’ I say. I sit next to him on the step, put my hand on his knee. ‘We could stay in Kyrenia, maybe move out into a flat. I’ll go wherever you want to go.’
Hakan holds my hand. He turns and looks at me directly. His eyes are like stones, beautiful brown stones.
‘I can’t leave Helen either. I’ll never leave Helen.’
‘You don’t love her.’
‘It’s complicated. There are different kinds of love. I love you both in different ways. But she’s my wife, the mother of my children. I can’t just abandon her.’
But you can abandon me.
I can hear the words, but they make no sense, as if he’s speaking a foreign language. Nothing makes sense anymore. All I know is that he doesn’t want me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to draw me close to him.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, pushing him away, and I run away towards the sea, stumbling over the paving stones, tears blurring my vision.
Sometimes I hate Helen and the baby she’s carrying. Sometimes I imagine that they don’t exist. I fantasise that I kill them. But it’s just a fantasy, that’s all. Thinking about something is not the same as doing it.
Saturday, 23rd September 2017
Chapter 28
It’s Saturday morning – the earliest appointment I could wangle – and I’m sitting in the doctor’s waiting room flicking through a magazine, trying to make sense of the Greek writing and looking blankly at the pictures of Greek celebrities that I’ve never heard of. I’ve come here alone, slipping out before Chris and Jack were awake. I see no reason to tell Chris what Maria told me yet. It would only worry him and, if Grace went ahead with an abortion, there may be no need for him to ever know.
There’s a fish tank in the corner of the room. While I’m waiting, I watch the tiny stripped tetra dart about a model of a shipwreck and angelfish hover, fluttering their fins. A largish grey fish stares back at me with blank, round eyes and I shiver. I’ve always hated fish. They remind me of Dave and his fish tank at home. An image flashes into my mind: Dave’s fish writhing on the dirty green carpet, mouths gaping. Dave, his face red with fury, picking them up and flinging them at my mother.
‘What did you do that for, you fucking bitch!’ he shouted and I felt a cold, wet slap in the face as he missed my mother and hit me on the cheek. I remember how much I hated him in that moment. How much I still hate him.
‘The doctor can see you now,’ says the receptionist, interrupting my thoughts.
I banish Dave to the murky recesses of my mind where he belongs and head to the doctor’s office.
Dr Stavrides is about sixty with grey hair, a friendly smile and twinkling brown eyes. On the wall he has certificates from UK universities and Greek icons. There’s a sign that says Please do not confuse your Google search with my medical degree. So, he has a sense of humour, I think, if maybe a somewhat prickly one. He fiddles fussily with some papers for a moment as I come in, then gestures for me to sit down.
‘Do you speak English?’ I ask in Greek, one of the few phrases I’ve learnt. In Cyprus the answer is almost always yes, but it seems only polite to ask.
He beams and says in fluent English, ‘Of course. You know, I lived and worked in England for thirty-six years. And you? Whereabouts in England are you from?’
‘From Gloucestershire, the Cotswolds.’
‘Oh yes, a beautiful part of the world. I know it well. I’ve visited there many times. But I lived and practised in Birmingham.’
‘Oh?’ I really didn’t come here to have a chat, I think, impatient to get to the point, but I realise that rushing him could be counterproductive. He’s old school, and maybe if we establish a rapport, he’ll be more likely to help me, because I know he probably shouldn’t give me the information I’m about to ask for.
‘Yes,’ he continues happily. ‘My sons were born there and grew up there. Now one lives in Australia, one in England and one here in Cyprus. I have two grandchildren, you know.’
‘Really? You don’t look old enough.’
His beam widens. ‘I’m sixty-two, would you believe?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’ I’m laying it on a bit thick perhaps, but hopefully it’s working.
‘Anyway, how can I help you?’ he asks finally, leaning across his desk and clasping his hands together.
‘It’s about my daughter. I think she might have visited you . . . about two weeks ago. Her name is Grace Appleton.’
‘Oh . . . ?’ he frowns. ‘Wait a minute.’ He taps something into his computer and peers at the screen.
‘Grace Appleton? No. I have no record of any Grace Appleton coming to my surgery. You know it’s better if you—’
‘She might have used another name. Look.’ I take out my phone and show him a picture of Grace.
He puts his glasses on his head and squints at the screen.
‘She does look familiar,’ he says slowly. The he smiles and slaps his thigh. ‘Yes, that’s it. I remember now. She did come to see me about two weeks ago.’
‘About having an abortion?’
‘Oh.’ He frowns and shifts back in his seat. ‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that kind of information, I’m afraid.’
‘But I’m her mother,’ I exclaim, frustrated. ‘She’s only sixteen. I have a right to know.’ I gaze at him pleadingly. ‘All I want to know is did she go ahead and have the abortion? Please.’
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair then leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘You know, strictly speaking abortion is not legal here in Cyprus. There are some doctors, I believe, that are willing to break the law, but I’m not one of them. I suggested she try a clinic that I know in Limassol. But I told your daughter that she would need her parents’ consent before proceeding. Didn’t she speak to you about it?’
I shake my head, trying not to imagine how Grace must have felt when he told her that. She must have been so frightened and desperate. Oh Grace, I think. Why didn’t you speak to me? We could have sorted this mess out together.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Did she say anything else? Anything about the baby or the baby’s father?’
He frowns. ‘No, not that I remember. I assumed that the father was the young man she came with.’
My jaw drops open. ‘She was with someone?’ Tom, I think angrily. So, he’s been lying to us. ‘Was he English? With long, dark hair. Good-looking?’
Dr Stavrides shakes his head. ‘No, he wasn’t English. He was Greek. He had bushy hair’ – he raises his hands over his head and pats imaginary hair to demonstrate how thick it was – ‘and bad acne.’
Andreas, I think, shocked. But it makes no sense. Why would Grace have asked Andreas of all people to come with her to the doctor’s?
Dr Stavrides polishes his glasses, puts them back on and gives me a direct stare from kindly brown eyes. ‘I don’t want to take a liberty, but I would suggest that you talk to your daughter, Mrs Appleton.’
I would give everything to be able to talk to Grace right now, I think as I leave the doctor’s surgery and walk back to my car. I want so badly to comfort her and reassure her, to tell her I’m sorry – to beg her forgiveness. I want her to know that I don’t blame her. If anything, I blame myself. If only I had been less intransigent, if only I’d been more flexible about the whole Tom thing, maybe she wouldn’t have got into this mess.
Tears are blurring my vision as I cross the road and I don’t see the car. It screeches
to a halt in front of me, hooting madly.
The driver opens the window and shouts at me in Greek.
I ignore him and get into my car, banging the steering wheel in frustration. She must have been feeling so alone, I think. Did she think we wouldn’t have done everything we could to help and support her? Did she trust us so little? Christ, she even trusted Andreas more than us. Andreas of all people. I wipe my nose and start up the engine, swerving out into the traffic and causing the driver behind to hoot at me again. I need to talk to that young man, I think, but first I want to see Chris to let him know what I’ve discovered.
Chapter 29
When I get back home the sound of laughter, rough, cackling laughter, comes from the garden and my heart sinks.
Dave, I think. What’s he doing here? Dave and Chris are sitting out on the back veranda, drinking beers, laughing and chatting like old friends. Chris has that fatuous smile on his face that he gets when spending time with members of my family, and Dave is telling a story, tipping his chair back, waving his arms around wildly.
‘Hello, Joanna,’ he says, breaking off from his story as I slide open the patio door.
‘I thought you were going back home, Dave?’ I glare at him and he grins back at me. His skin is sunburnt, and his face is red with white rings around his eyes where his sunglasses have been.
‘Thought I’d stay a bit longer, didn’t I? It’s a great place, Cyprus. You’re really living the dream here, you are.’ He puts his feet up on a chair and takes a slurp of beer.
‘We’ve been talking about Tom,’ says Chris. ‘Also,’ Dave adds, ‘I remembered something about Grace. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘What?’ I say wearily. I sit down at the table opposite him, shielding my eyes from the sun. I don’t for a second believe he really has anything to tell us about Grace. It’s just a tactic – a way to get under my skin.
Dave puts his can of beer down. ‘I saw her,’ he says.
‘When? Where? Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?’ I ask sharply. I would bet a lot of money that he’s lying, but we can’t afford to ignore any leads.
He pauses for dramatic effect, enjoying the attention. ‘It was last night. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure it was her but . . . It was at a club in Ayia Napa. She was dancing with some bloke. I tried to go and talk to her. But by the time I’d managed to get through the crowd she was gone.’
‘Which club?’
‘I think it was called Moon something . . . No, that’s it, Castle Moon. It’s a little place in the centre.’
‘Who was she with?’ asks Chris eagerly.
‘Some bloke,’ says Dave vaguely.
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Um, well, he was tall and dark. He looked Greek, you know.’
‘So, basically almost anyone here,’ I say acerbically.
Chris gets a notepad and starts writing stuff down. He’s swallowing it all up hook, line and sinker. He doesn’t know Dave like I do. I’m pretty sure Dave’s just bullshitting. It’s what he does.
‘Can you tell us anything else? Like what was he wearing?’ Chris asks, sucking the end of his pen.
‘Uh, jeans and a T-shirt. I think the T-shirt might have been blue.’
‘And what was Grace wearing?’
‘Some kind of dress, if you could call it a dress. You know the kind of things young kids wear nowadays.’ He grins at me. ‘A slinky little number. Red with holes cut in the back and the front. Didn’t leave much to the imagination, if you know what I mean.’
Now I know that he’s lying. Grace doesn’t have a dress like that, and she would never wear anything with a low back. She has a large birthmark under her right shoulder blade. She’s very self-conscious about it. She almost always covers it up.
‘There was something different about her, though,’ he continues, staring at me. ‘Can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘Maybe that’s because it wasn’t her,’ I say coldly.
Dave shrugs and takes a slug of beer. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t.’
‘Well, either it was her or it wasn’t,’ says Chris impatiently. ‘I’d have thought you’d recognise your own granddaughter.’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? I don’t know, maybe I’m going a bit senile in my old age.’ He sits back and gives me a slow, pointed stare.
‘What are you still doing here, Dave?’ I snap. ‘I thought you were flying home a couple of days ago.’
‘Would you believe it? I had my wallet stolen. My card and all my money was in it. I’ve got no money to get home even if I wanted to.’
No, I wouldn’t believe it, I think.
‘Didn’t you book a return flight?’ Chris asks.
‘No, I didn’t know when I was going back, you see.’
‘Well, I expect we can loan you a couple of hundred quid.’ Chris stands up and fetches his wallet. Then he shoves a few notes into Dave’s hand. ‘There you go, mate. That should cover your air fare. And there’s another hundred to tide you over.’
‘Thanks, son. I appreciate it.’ Dave grins at me. ‘You’ve got a keeper here, Joanna.’
Just get out of my fucking house, I scream in my head. Out loud I say calmly, ‘Actually, Dave, there’s something urgent I need to discuss with Chris. So, if you don’t mind?’ I stand up, hoping he’ll take the hint.
‘Well, okay.’ Dave drains his beer and stands up. ‘You don’t want me around, I understand.’
‘It’s not that . . .’ says Chris.
Yes, it is.
‘I’d like to help if I can. I’m worried about her. She’s my granddaughter after all.’
‘Of course you are. You’ve already helped a lot,’ says Chris, patting him on the back. ‘We’ll look into this Ayia Napa club.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Dave whispers to me as he leaves.
I watch Dave through the window. I watch him walk towards the bus stop. Heading to the airport, hopefully. I imagine him sitting on a plane and I picture the plane plummeting to the ground. Who would miss him really?
Chapter 30
2001
I’m going home. There’s nowhere else for me to go. The plane lands at Heathrow late in the evening and I get the bus back to Cirencester. It’s dark and the streets are deserted when I arrive. There’s not a single taxi in sight, so I walk the kilometre to our house in the dark, dragging my suitcase along the pavement.
Dave is at the door after I hammer on it for what seems like hours. He’s dressed in silk boxers and that’s all, his slug white chest covered in a smattering of hairs. He smells of aftershave, which is weird, as normally the only scent he wears is eau de cigarettes and booze.
‘Jesus, Joanna. Do you know what time it is?’ he says.
‘Welcome home, Joanna. Good to see you,’ I say sarcastically, dragging my suitcase past him into the living room.
The place is a tip. Ashtrays are overflowing, empty takeaway boxes and beer cans are scattered around, and there are some small bowls and spoons that make me guess he’s been using again. The smell is overpowering and makes me feel nauseous. As soon as I’m through the door I retch and rush to the toilet.
‘Christ,’ says Dave, lighting a roll-up when I return to the living room. ‘What have you been eating?’ He gives me a shrewd look. ‘Oh no. You’re not pregnant, are you?’
I stare at him. Dave has an uncanny way of hitting the nail on the head sometimes.
‘Oh my God,’ he exclaims. ‘You are, aren’t you? That’s all we need, another sprog in the family. Haven’t you ever heard of birth control?’
‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask coldly, lifting the cat and sitting on the sagging leather sofa. I didn’t really expect to get much sympathy from Dave but maybe Mum will change the habit of a lifetime and miraculously morph into a proper parent now, in my hour of
need.
‘She’s not well. She checked herself into the loony bin.’
My heart sinks. I want to talk to my mother. I need her more than ever now. I feel angry tears welling up in my eyes. Why has she always been so useless? Why did she ever have children if she couldn’t handle the responsibility? But my anger is mixed with guilt too. Perhaps I should never have left her alone with Dave and his violent mood swings. If I’d been here to defend her, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen apart again.
‘And the twins?’ I ask. Surely Dave isn’t looking after them by himself? God forbid.
‘They’re in Wales, with their nana. I couldn’t look after them. Not with my back. It’s been giving me a lot of grief lately.’ He winces and arches his back to make his point. ‘You really left us in the lurch, you know, when you went to Cyprus.’
I think about Dave’s mother, Nana Carol. She’s an evil witch of a woman whom I loathe, but the twins will probably be better off with her than with Dave. At least she can boil an egg and clean a toilet. Things that Dave seems incapable of doing.
I stand up and look at my watch. I’ve only been in the country five hours. Five minutes at home and already I want to kill him.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks.
‘Well, I’m quite tired. I thought I might head to bed.’
‘You can’t stay here. Mandy won’t like it.’
‘Who’s Mandy?’
As if in answer a small, stringy blonde woman wearing a long blue T-shirt and not a lot else appears at the door. There’s a fag hanging out of her mouth and smudged make-up around her eyes. ‘Who the fuck’re you?’ she says.
‘This is Gemma’s daughter, Joanna,’ Dave explains. ‘Is it okay if she stays just for one night? She’s got nowhere else to go. She’s gone and got herself up the duff.’
Mandy lights a cigarette and gives me a hard stare. ‘I suppose it’ll have to be, won’t it?’
Even Dave can do better than Mandy, I think.
