by Diane Janes
Alan had been endlessly patient about ‘your noises’ as he referred to them – cutting the creeper away from our bedroom window because when the wind blew it made me think of fingers scratching at the glass. Then there had been the night when I thought I heard a cat mewing. ‘It might be trapped in the cellar,’ I said, although there was not the slightest logic in this, for how would a cat have got down there in the first place? And although he himself confessed to hearing nothing, Alan had interrupted his reading to go downstairs and check. Of course there had not been a cat and, after Alan’s investigations, I was forced to admit that the mysterious noises had completely ceased.
One way and another I came to loathe that house and everything in it, but I never suggested moving again because the problem clearly lay not in the house but in my head. Alan was always right. That was why I could not argue with him. He was too calm, too logical, too reasonable – and I had been wrong too often. Besides which, I knew that Alan loved the house and I felt that he should not be deprived of it due to my pathetic, inadequate neediness and foolish anxieties, which must have been a tedious cross for him to bear. Only very occasionally did I ever entertain the thought that if he had been tolerant of my various weaknesses, conversely I had been a relatively useful cook and housekeeper, who had always gone along with what he wanted in bed, seldom betraying the fact that I did not enjoy those things he seemed to find the most stimulating.
My mother’s death came suddenly. A stroke, a brief hospital admission and it was all over. My feelings were a confusion of grief and guilt and relief. The stress of her decline, the disposal of her home and the suddenness of her death had all taken their toll, so that by the end of it I was not really thinking straight at all. In spite of the rucksack, new clothes and secret stash of bank notes, I did not really have a proper plan. When the morning I had scheduled for departure finally arrived, I hung around until Alan set off for work, then changed into my new clothes, feeling like a child engaged in a game of dressing up. The whole enterprise had an air of make-believe about it, even as I slipped away from the house, choosing a moment when the road outside appeared deserted then heading with heart-pounding haste for the station. I had no idea what I would do after the one night I had booked in Brighton.
For the first few weeks I moved from one place to another, never staying more than a couple of nights, pretending for the benefit of seaside landladies that I was visiting friends or en route to elsewhere. It was very early in the season and everywhere seemed bleakly deserted and windswept.
Convinced that I would be recognized and accosted, ‘Elizabeth Wilson’ (as I had decided to call myself, for no better reason than that it was the first name which came into my head) had her hair cut in two successive towns. I had the first hairdresser take off several inches, and that night I dyed it in the hotel basin. I had settled my bill on arrival, explaining that I had to make an early start, and I slipped away the next morning before anyone was around to observe that the departing guest looked very different to the one who had arrived. A day or two later I dropped into another salon and traded in almost half my newly darkened locks for a much shorter style, reasoning that a transformation in three stages would be less easily linked up by anyone on my trail. Even if the first hairdresser reported shortening the hair of a woman resembling Jennifer Reynolds, I hoped that by the time I reached hairdresser number two I would look different enough for her not to connect me with the missing woman at all.
During these adventures in the hair salons of Brighton and Eastbourne, I cursed the stylists’ innocent attempts at conversation and lived in constant fear of being recognized. I almost made a run for it when a perfectly harmless old lady stopped me on the sea front to ask for directions. It did not take me long to realize that staying alone in bed and breakfasts, then wandering aimlessly through half-deserted holiday towns all day was a sure-fire way of attracting suspicion. What I needed was a way of blending into the scenery; preferably a scheme which provided me with a little money for the immediate necessities and enough time to work out what to do next.
By the time these ideas were taking shape I had fetched up on the Isle of Wight and, thinking that the catering trade was a likely source of casual employment, I followed up an advertisement in the local paper for a waitress at the Seaspray. As it turned out, they were short-staffed and wanted someone who could start at once, so awkward questions scarcely arose. I called myself Louise Mason and gave them my own National Insurance number with a couple of digits changed. I knew this wouldn’t suffice for long, but I figured it would provide me with initial cover while I tried to think of something better.
I paid upfront to rent a beach hut for the season, pretending to be a summer visitor who was renting a cottage nearby. The hut was equipped with plastic chairs and a table, a rail which I could use as hanging space and a pair of folding sun-loungers – one of which, with my sleeping bag unrolled upon it, became my bed at night. The toilet block at the end of the line of huts was fortuitously possessed of a shower, presumably installed so that people could remove the sand and salt after bathing. The toilets were kept scrupulously clean by an elderly man in green overalls who walked with a limp. He arrived twice daily, as regular as clockwork, always carefully blocking the entrance with his little yellow and red warning notice, whistling to himself as he went about his task. He never suspected the silent gratitude flowing in his direction from the most regular member of his clientele.
Overnight camping in the huts was strictly prohibited, but the blonde beach bums who had a summer job looking after the concession were always gone long before dusk had fallen. I stopped up some gaps at the front of the hut, through which the telltale glimmer of my camping lantern might have given the game away, and generally settled down to sleep early, so as to have no difficulty rising in time for the morning breakfast shift.
The loneliness did not bother me. The truth was that I was used to living alone and actual, bodily loneliness can be easier than other sorts of loneliness. It had been different for Alan. In his eyes the symbolic acceptance of a ring meant that I had become part of him, much in the way that his treasured collection of pocket watches was a part of him, though I probably ranked a little higher up the scale of things even if I was not specifically mentioned in the meticulous list of possessions updated annually for his home contents policy. It had been a misunderstanding on a monumental scale. Alan, who thought he knew me thoroughly and understood me perfectly, while all the time I had been a different person – an independent person who Alan would not really have liked or wanted to be married to, except of course that Alan would never have accepted that this different person existed at all.
I was careful never to be seen entering or emerging from the beach hut dressed as a waitress. I left for work in my holidaymaker’s garb of jeans or shorts, depending on the weather, with my black skirt, white blouse and pinny neatly folded in my shoulder bag. I changed into them in another block of toilets near the cliff top, reversing the procedure on the way back to the hut. I paid to have my waitressing gear cleaned and pressed – an extravagance on my wages, but justified by the results.
Without much planning I had managed to find an ideal cover. The hotel guests were transient, staying at most a fortnight. Most of them never even asked my name, content to call me ‘the waitress’, or more affectionately, ‘our waitress’. My colleagues were focused on serving up thirty-eight breakfasts or dinners, with little time to engage in idle chit-chat, and my weekly pay packet was put into my hand on Fridays, so that the bluff of my fictitious address was never called.
I knew it couldn’t last. The summer season would end, the beach hut lodging would become impractical and sooner or later enquiries regarding my National Insurance number would rear their ugly head; so as mid-September approached, I handed in my notice and headed north, where I found work waitressing or cleaning, staying in bedsits, sometimes as Louise Mason, sometimes as Jane Smith, occasionally as Elizabeth Wilson, barely scraping a living, always movi
ng on before fake details became a serious issue.
Most of my accommodation had a much poorer outlook than the beach hut, but shabby surroundings failed to depress me when set against the novelty of freedom. I found shops where second-hand paperbacks could be exchanged for a small fee. I bought cheap vegetables from market stalls and concocted wonderful curries at a cost of pennies. I visited galleries and libraries and museums and gardens and sought out all manner of free entertainment as diligently as I had once helped Alan search out those sepia photographs to adorn our walls, but I was always conscious that one day I might turn in for work and find a policeman waiting there. I knew that I was a missing person and concern had been expressed for my safety. I came from Nicholsfield, after all, where any woman who did not come home when expected was deemed to be a possible victim of the local ‘serial killer’.
I sometimes thought about telephoning Alan or the police to let them know that I was safe, but I always decided against. Phone calls were traceable. I had been living under a false name, giving out false particulars to all and sundry – I was in too deep before I knew it. What would happen to me when the authorities caught up? Then there was Alan. Alan was clever and persistent and, given the slightest inkling that he could track me down, I knew he would not rest until he had done so. I could picture him arriving in my damp bedsit, not troubling to disguise his amazement and distaste. I could hear his voice, so calm, so reasonable, even when edged with self-righteous hurt and anger, remonstrating with me for my foolishness.
‘Look what you’ve sunk to,’ he would say. ‘Goodness knows where you would have ended up if I hadn’t found you in time.’ He would be collecting up my things even as he spoke – very neat, very efficient.
And I would have been unable to stand up to him, unable to explain that I was happier, that the last thing I wanted to do was return to his house and resume my part as his wife. My protests would have faltered to a standstill – frozen on my lips by his uncompromising certainty. He would talk and talk until I was drowning beneath the torrent of words, sucked into the whirlpool of his logic, ready to question my own sanity.
I could even picture our homecoming, after the long, silent drive down the motorway. Him rubbing his hand across my shorn hair and saying, ‘Never mind, it will soon grow again.’ Then sending me upstairs to have a hot bath, while he laid out one of my ‘best’ nightgowns – one of the white Victorian-style ones – and prepared a tray of supper for me, to be taken sitting up in our marital bed, with its cast-iron bars at head and foot, like the bars at a prisoner’s cell window.
‘Divorce?’ I could imagine the expression on his face. Had this latest escapade been an example of how I thought I could manage on my own? Running away and living in … a beach hut? Perhaps a chat with our GP would help? Maybe a prescription for my nerves – or even some kind of psychiatric referral – just to help me over the upset of my mother’s death? Argument would have been useless – Alan always knew what was best. Anyone would see that my defection had been nothing more than a cry for help.
I would have forfeited my job, of course, and my unusual form of giving notice would hardly have endeared me to other prospective employers. Alan would probably have decided that the responsibilities of a normal working life put too great a strain on me and that in future it would be better if I didn’t go out to work. Instead I would be allowed to sit at home, taking care of his other possessions, merging into them until any thought of escape was completely impossible.
NINE
The threat of Disappeared! hung over my week, colouring my every waking thought. I had always taken it for granted that after my initial disappearance any fuss would die down. The passage of time had made me feel safer; it had never occurred to me that my vanishing act would be thrust centre stage again after so many years. I had also banked on the fact that the Jennifer Reynolds case would never have generated much interest in the Dales, and been long forgotten by the time I arrived in Lasthwaite. But what would happen when reminders were thrust right under their noses? I was an incomer from the Midlands – I had that telltale accent. I had allowed my hair to revert back to Jennifer Reynolds’ blonde mouse, though the length and cut were completely different and I had eschewed that Prissy Missy style of clothes for something more confident and modern. A glance in the mirror confirmed just how different I looked these days, but was it different enough? By the time I drove into work on Thursday morning I was feeling absurdly furtive. It was foolish, of course, because I had nothing to fear until the programme was actually transmitted. For everyone else it was just a normal morning: post to be opened, calls to answer, patients’ names coming over the tannoy: ‘Mrs Wilkins to Doctor Woods, please.’ But I was on edge and avoided my colleagues as much as possible, even taking my coffee alone in my office rather than joining the doctors in their sitting room as I usually did for mid-morning break.
At about eleven thirty Dr Mac popped his head round my door. ‘About that television thing, Susan,’ he said.
I felt myself go rigid. ‘Which … what do you mean?’ I asked, praying that the colour wasn’t really rising in my face, in direct ratio to the icy funicular which was rushing up my spine.
‘Those people who’re suggesting we have a television set in the waiting room.’ Dr Mac smiled. ‘Not like you to forget anything. That’s more in my line, eh?’
‘Oh, yes, the set to go in Reception.’ I recovered quickly. The practice had been approached with an offer of a television for patients to watch while they waited for their turn with the doctors. Given that Dr Woods’s surgery always ran at least half an hour late, it was inevitable that people got bored, with only a few out-of-date magazines and a tank of tropical fish to look at.
‘I’ve got no strong feelings either way myself and as it’s been offered as a gift in memory of a patient, I think it needs some serious thought. Could you put together all the pros and cons for the next team meeting?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘Good, good. I’ll leave it with you.’ He hesitated at the door. ‘Are you all right, Susan? You don’t look your usual self.’ Those wise blue eyes were appraising me. Dr Mac might occasionally be forgetful, but he had a good GP’s sixth sense when it came to face-to-face consultations.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, rather too quickly. ‘A little bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Better take care of yourself. We all rely on you to keep things running around here, you know.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m perfectly all right, really.’
As he closed the door behind him I felt a trickle of sweat run down my spine. I’ve got to pull myself together, I thought.
The suspense was dreadful. No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind on my work, my eyes were drawn continually to the wall clock. I stood with a foot poised on either side of a gulf of contradiction. On the one hand, I did not want nine thirty to arrive, and yet equally I wanted to get it over and done with. By four o’clock I could stand it no longer. Unable to concentrate, I tidied my desk and buzzed Reception, where the internal line was answered by Helen.
‘I’m afraid I have rather a bad headache, so I’m going off early,’ I said. ‘If anyone wants me it will have to wait until the morning.’
‘OK, Susan.’ I could hear the surprise in her voice. ‘I’ll let everyone know you’ve gone.’
‘Thank you.’ I replaced the handset without giving her time to ask any questions. I knew that everyone would be surprised, because I was never ill and never went home early. Oh, well, hopefully all the more reason for them to accept a sudden illness as genuine.
I had not been back at Heb’s Cottage for more than fifteen minutes when Rob rang.
‘Sue? I just tried the health centre and they said you’d gone home. What’s up – shall I come over?’
‘No – yes – it’s nothing really. I’ve just knocked off early with a headache.’
‘Poor you. I’ll come straight across.’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘You’ve got loads of work to do – you told me last night. And anyway, I shall be much better on my own. I’m going to take some paracetamol and try to sleep it off.’
‘Are you sure? What about something to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry. I can always get something later, when I’m feeling a bit better. Please don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine.’
‘You’re absolutely sure that you don’t want me to come over?’
‘Positive. I’ll be better on my own. Honestly.’
‘Well, give me a ring later on if you feel up to it, to let me know you’re OK. I won’t ring you, in case you’re asleep.’
‘Thanks.’ Pre-occupied as I was, his voice was still the sweetest nectar. ‘I’ll ring you later if I’m not asleep.’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
I rang off. I do love him, I thought. If I didn’t there would be so much less to lose.
The hands on the kitchen clock had not quite reached four thirty. Five hours to kill before the programme came on. Five whole hours. It was nowhere near dark, but I drew all the curtains and even pulled down the kitchen blind, which I hardly ever did because the kitchen window wasn’t overlooked from anywhere. I undressed and had a bath, pouring in some scented oil in a doomed attempt to relax. It occurred to me that if Rob suddenly took it into his head to call in, I might look more convincingly off colour if I was undressed for bed, so after my bath I rambled round the cottage in my dressing gown.
It had been no more than the truth when I told Rob I wasn’t hungry, but I occupied a few minutes by heating up a tin of soup, which I ate at the table in the kitchen, my eyes straying continually towards the clock. I made the washing up of saucepan, dish and spoon last as long as I could, then watched the six o’clock news. Unable to concentrate on a book, I tried to watch the TV, but if someone had come into the cottage that evening and asked me what any of the programmes were about I could not have told them.
