How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  d) Is your recipe for a happy and satisfying relationship *really* to find someone you can’t talk to? Ever considered a career as an agony aunt, Reuben? Relationship counsellor? No? Good. DON’T.

  e) I’m not sure why Camille being hot and French should mean I like her, though I can certainly see why it means you would.

  Hattie

  But Reuben’s last email has made my mind up completely about visiting Gloria. If I don’t go Reuben will think it’s because he told me not to and he’ll think he was right. And he’s not. He’s an idiot. I’m going to prove him and Mum wrong, and I’m going to prove to myself what a good person I am, thoughtful and responsible and caring, not feckless and stupid, which is how I feel.

  Yes. I don’t care what everyone else says. I’m going to visit Gloria.

  It’s a Tube ride and a bus journey to Gloria’s flat in north London. Even though Peggy gave me detailed instructions when I phoned her to say I’d be coming, I get off the bus too early and have to walk the rest of the way, past newsagents and cab offices and bookies and Turkish cafés and food stores with shelves filled with crates of fruit, kebab shops and bakers selling piles of baklava. It’s a bustling, busy place, the noise of traffic and music floating down from the windows of the flats above the shops and thumping out of passing cars and sirens blaring somewhere further along the road. I turn off the main road into more peaceful, tree-lined roads of tall, bay-windowed houses, past a school, deserted for the summer. It’s a sunny day and I enjoy the walk through this part of my city I’ve never been to. Okay, it’s not foreign or exotic, but it’s new to me, and it feels almost like a small adventure. On the Tube, pressed up against other people’s sweaty armpits, I’d been asking myself whether I’d done the right thing travelling across London to see an old lady I know nothing about when I could have spent my day off sunbathing in the garden but now, as I get closer, the sun reflecting in the windows of the houses, the buzz of a lawnmower and the smell of grass being cut somewhere nearby, I’m sure I have. After all, if I’d been at home I wouldn’t have relaxed. I’d have worried. I still haven’t phoned the doctors. It’s more than five weeks now, time’s ticking by. There never seems to be a time when the surgery’s open and no one else is around. Even as I think it, I know it’s a lame excuse. I’ve got to stop putting it off . . . I push the thought away. Today is about Gloria. I’m relieved to have something else to think about.

  All the houses along the road I scribbled down with Ollie’s glitter pen are the same design, old with big bay windows, but they all look quite different. Some are dark, dirty yellow brick with peeling paintwork and grey net curtains at the windows, others have been cleaned up and are painted dazzling white with window boxes and hanging baskets. Some are still houses, but many have been divided into flats with multiple buzzers and bells.

  As I reach the house I see that a person who must be Peggy is looking out for me from the window of the downstairs flat, overlooking a neat square of front garden. She waves energetically as she catches sight of me, and then disappears behind net curtains, reaching the front door before I get there.

  ‘Harriet?’ She smiles and the smile seems to take up most of her face. ‘Come in, dear, come in. I’m Peggy, of course, and Malcolm’s just – MALCOLM,’ she bellows down the hall. ‘Harriet’s here.’ She’s a tiny woman, with skin that’s a web of wrinkles, and very dark, bright eyes. Her hair is an unconvincing black. It’s hard to guess how old she is. Very, I’d guess, but she’s so lively and alert and quick-moving that she seems younger. She hurries in front of me through the dark communal hallway to the open front door of her flat, talking all the way, not pausing for breath. ‘Lovely to see you, dear, lovely, such a shame your mother wasn’t able to come. How was the journey? Did you get the train? And the bus? And did you eat? Awful food they give you on the trains now. There’s some cake here in case you want it. Lemon drizzle? Malcolm does like his lemon drizzle, although the doctor says he shouldn’t really, what with his heart. Or I can make you a sandwich if you’d like that? I can do ham? Or cheese? You’re sure? Well, you’ll have a cup of tea won’t you? Malcolm!’ she calls again as we step through the door into the flat. ‘Put the kettle on will you? Harriet needs a cup of tea and some cake. You do like lemon drizzle don’t you, Harriet? Or biscuits? We’ve biscuits if you’d rather have biscuits? Malcolm likes a fig roll. But I prefer Bourbons myself. Do you care for a Bourbon biscuit yourself, dear?’

  She pauses for breath at last.

  ‘Oh, well, yes, please. But please don’t go to any trouble. I can always just go up and see Gloria and have a cup of tea with her?’

  ‘Well now,’ Peggy says in a significant-sounding tone. ‘The thing is, it might be best if we have a little chat before you go up to see Gloria. Just about . . . Certain Things. Malcolm! Hurry up with that tea, will you? Poor Harriet’s parched, aren’t you, Harriet? Sit down, dear, sit down, rest those feet of yours.’ She gestures to a large, floral armchair and I sink down into it, tired from the journey. Malcolm, an elderly man with thick, white hair, brings in the tea and pours it for us.

  ‘So, now. I was just going to tell Harriet here a bit about Gloria, Malcolm. Before she goes up to see her.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Malcolm. ‘Well, don’t tell her too much or she might not go and see her at all.’

  ‘Malcolm!’ says Peggy. ‘He’s only joking, dear.’

  Malcolm does a sort of cough.

  ‘She’s quite a character.’ Peggy smiles and takes a sip of her tea. ‘As I may have mentioned. Ever so well spoken. “The Duchess”, we call her.’

  ‘That’s one of the things we call her,’ Malcolm says. ‘When she goes putting her records on at top volume in the middle of the night we call her some other things.’

  ‘You do, Malcolm,’ Peggy says forcefully, giving him a look that clearly means ‘shut up’. From his expression, I’m guessing it’s a look he’s used to. ‘And shame on you for it. Anyway, Harriet doesn’t want to hear all about you and your coarse language, do you, Harriet, dear?’

  ‘She plays records in the middle of the night?’ This wasn’t what I’d been expecting.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Malcolm, nodding. ‘Opera. Edith Piaf. Janis Joplin. And musicals of course. Cabaret, that’s her favourite. You name it—’

  ‘The thing is,’ Peggy interrupts, ‘as I mentioned on the telephone, dear, she hasn’t been very well. She’s a little . . . unpredictable.’

  ‘And she likes a drink,’ Malcolm adds.

  ‘A drink?’ I chew on my lemon drizzle cake. The Gloria I’d imagined, who looked a bit like the grandmother in Alice and Ollie’s Little Red Riding Hood book, and who probably had one of those shopping trolleys and possibly some kind of a paisley shawl, disappears.

  ‘Well, yes, there’s that. She’s always liked a drop, that’s true enough. But recently, well . . . you’ll see when you meet her. She’s always been a bit – what’s the word, Malcolm?’

  ‘I can think of several words, but I couldn’t possibly say them in front of Harriet here.’ Malcolm winks at me.

  ‘Eccentric,’ Peggy says firmly. ‘That’s the word. She’s always been a bit eccentric, Harriet. And I don’t mean that as a criticism. She’s a very clever lady, very interesting when you get talking to her. But you should be prepared for the fact that she’s not exactly what you’d call house-proud.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Malcolm snorts.

  ‘Things are a little . . . chaotic in her flat. But then again they always were. Gloria was never a great one for tidying up. It’s the artistic temperament I expect. She was an actress, you know.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t know anything about her. And I’m surprised she knows anything about me. How did she know my name? And our phone number for that matter?’

  ‘I think Gwen must have given them to her. Your granny.’

  ‘But I thought you said they weren’t in contact?’

  ‘Well,’ Peggy says, looking a bit flustered. ‘I’m not
sure, dear. Perhaps they patched things up before your granny passed away. It often happens when people are near the end, doesn’t it? But you’d have to ask her about that. The thing is, Gloria’s getting a bit forgetful, Harriet. I mean, we all are, aren’t we, Malcolm? And what with her liking a drop . . . well, it’s hard to know, isn’t it? Some days she’s absolutely fine and she can remember things from forty years ago, no problem. But it’s getting her down, you see, and she’s got it into her head . . . I mean she’s not getting any younger and what with the gin and whatnot . . . perhaps that’s all it is. But she’s convinced herself . . . She can be a bit dramatic.’

  I feel like I ought to say something but I’m not sure what, so I just nod.

  ‘Well, anyway.’ Peggy says, ‘You’ll see.’

  Once I’ve eaten what Peggy considers to be an acceptable amount of cake and assured her that I really don’t need a sandwich, she decides that Malcolm should take me up. ‘Gloria likes you, Malcolm,’ she says when he protests, and then to me, under her breath, ‘She flirts with him something terrible, Harriet.’

  My heart’s beating fast as we walk up the stairs and I realize I’m nervous. Why have I really come here? Because I want to help an old lady? Because I’m curious? Because everyone told me not to? Because it’s a good excuse not to think about my own problems for a while? None of these seem like very convincing reasons at this precise moment.

  As we get towards the top of the stairs I hear a man’s voice coming from inside the flat.

  ‘Has she got someone in there with her?’ I call up to Malcolm, who’s a few steps ahead of me. ‘Perhaps I should come back another time.’

  I feel quite relieved that I might have an excuse. He turns and smiles.

  ‘That’s Richard Burton.’

  ‘Richard Burton?’

  ‘You know, the actor.’ Malcolm stops and leans against the bannister, out of breath. ‘Married Elizabeth Taylor. Twice. Lucky so-and-so.’

  ‘I know who he was,’ I say. ‘But what’s he doing in my great-aunt’s flat?’

  Malcolm laughs.

  ‘Reading Under Milk Wood. It’s one of her records. One of her favourites. We hear it a lot. Richard’s a lovely speaking voice, but at one o’clock in the morning you could do without it.’

  We reach the front door and Malcolm knocks on it. There’s no response, just the boom of Under Milk Wood vibrating through the door. Malcolm knocks again.

  ‘Gloria! It’s Malcolm. I’ve Harriet here with me, Gloria. You remember we talked about young Harriet coming round? Your nephew Dominic’s girl?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Do you think she’s okay?’ I say.

  ‘She’ll be fine. Maybe just dozed off.’ Malcolm rummages in his jacket pocket and brings out a key. ‘Like I said, she likes a wee drink, does Gloria,’ he says, conspiratorially. I look at my watch. It’s just gone eleven thirty.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, trying to sound totally okay about the whole thing.

  ‘We had spare keys cut because she kept losing them,’ Malcolm carries on. ‘And a couple of times she’s gone out and left a pan of something boiling on the hob. We’ve only known about it when the smoke alarm’s gone off. Just as well I fitted that alarm for her.’

  I stare at him. ‘But that’s really dangerous.’

  ‘I know. But you try telling her that. We’re coming in, Gloria!’ he calls cheerily through the door. ‘Hope you’re decent!’ He winks at me and smiles, then turns the key in the lock.

  I follow him into the flat and am hit by a rancid smell – something rotting, combined with smoke and general staleness, with an underlying whiff of public toilets. I try not to react but for a second I think I’m going to be sick and I clamp my hand over my mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ Malcolm says, apologetically, pulling shut the door to the kitchen, which seems to be the source of the worst of the smell. ‘I should have warned you about the, er . . .’ He waves his hand in front of his nose to indicate ‘foul stench’. ‘She does sometimes forget about things in the fridge. Peggy pops up every now and then when she’s out or asleep and tries to give the place a quick once-over,’ he stage-whispers. ‘But Her Ladyship doesn’t like it.’

  I follow him through the dark, poky hall into a light, high-ceilinged room at the front of the house, and stop in the doorway, looking around in wonder. It’s like one of those old bric-a-brac shops. Every surface is full of unlikely objects. On the mantelpiece there are china shepherdesses, a lurid figurine of the Virgin Mary, ships in bottles, dried flowers, Christmas cards, a scattering of what look like old theatre tickets. There are ashtrays of every variety on shelves and tables, some nicked from pubs by the look of it, others made of crystal or plastic or ceramic, and one on its own chrome stand. Most of them are full of dog-ends. There are teetering piles of newspapers and magazines, some of which look quite recent, others curled and yellowing. There are shelves and shelves of books. On the wall there are three flying ducks soaring above what looks like an expensive painting. There’s an old-fashioned desk in the corner of the room, covered with fountain pens and piles of notebooks next to an incongruous-looking sleek silver laptop. Beside that there’s an ancient-looking portable TV. A few empty gin and champagne bottles are among the ornaments, and a selection of full ones sit on a table next to the bureau. A motorcycle helmet rests on a footstool next to the fireplace, a ukelele casually leaned up against it. In one corner a stuffed ginger cat stares glassy-eyed at me from the shadows. The whole place is both unsettling and incredible. I wish Reuben could see it.

  Gloria herself is reclined on a rather battered, moth-eaten chaise longue in the bay window at the far end of the room, with the sun shining in on her. Her thick hair is dyed a startling, glamorous red. She is wearing a flowing, purple velvet dressing gown that even from here I can tell has seen better days, and oversized sunglasses. Next to her on the wooden floor are two bottles of champagne, one empty and toppled onto its side, the other newly open. Standing next to it is a full glass.

  She doesn’t acknowledge us in any way, just lies so still that I wonder for a moment if she’s asleep. Then without turning her head she says, ‘Decent, darling? I should hope not,’ and reaches down for her glass of champagne.

  Malcolm laughs a bit nervously. ‘So, Gloria, this is Harriet—’

  ‘Hattie,’ I correct automatically.

  ‘Hattie, yes, of course. You remember Peggy saying she was coming to see you?’

  Gloria doesn’t respond.

  ‘She’s Dominic’s daughter,’ Malcolm persists. ‘Remember you and Peggy had that chat about Dominic, your sister Gwen’s boy, God rest his soul? And her soul too, of course.’

  Gloria sits up, slowly, and pushes the sunglasses back on her head to reveal vivid blue eyes: eyes that, even through the heavy layer of make-up, I can see are like mine, and like Dad’s. Nan’s too. It’s a shock, somehow, seeing someone I almost recognize in this unexpected person, but reassuring too. Proof that there is a link between us. She seems so alien, so unlike what I was expecting, so unlike what I remember of Nan, who was always so neat and brisk, so unforgiving of unbrushed hair or unpolished shoes or smeary fingerprints left on her patio doors, so impatient of daydreaming and dawdling – can this woman really be Nan’s sister? But yes, her eyes tell me that she can, that she is. She stares at me for a while, still not speaking, and I don’t know what to do, so in the end I pick my way across the jumbled room and I’m unsure whether to hold out my hand to her or give her a kiss so I just stand there awkwardly in front of her.

  ‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last,’ I say, blushing at how formal I sound.

  She carries on staring at me and eventually she takes my hand.

  ‘Peggy made you come, I suppose?’ she says. Her voice is deep and theatrical.

  ‘Well, she phoned, yes. But she didn’t force me or anything. I mean, she didn’t threaten me with violence or blackmail.’ I smile, sensing hostility, trying to diffuse it with a lame attempt at humour like I alwa
ys do.

  ‘I wanted to come,’ I persevere. ‘I’d have come before but I didn’t know anything about you until Peggy told me. I mean, I didn’t even know you existed.’

  ‘No,’ Gloria says, and she smiles a humourless little smile that makes me wonder. ‘I don’t suppose you did.’

  There’s a silence, and I want to fill it but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t come out wrong. I want to ask her what’s the matter with her and whether she knew Dad well and why she wasn’t at Nan’s funeral, and why they lost touch. But none of those feel like things you can ask someone you’ve just met, even if they are a bit drunk on champagne at eleven thirty in the morning, so the silence just grows more awkward. And all the while Gloria is staring intently at me, her eyes scanning my face as though she’s looking for something specific that might be hiding there, and I feel so self-conscious that eventually I have to pretend I’m looking for a tissue in my bag.

  ‘Well now,’ Malcolm says eventually, slapping his hands together, full of fake cheeriness. ‘You ladies have a lot to catch up on, and you don’t want an old fella like me getting in the way now do you? So I’ll leave you to it.’

  I want to yell ‘NO, YOU CAN’T GO’ but instead I smile and say, ‘Thanks Malcolm.’ Gloria blows him a kiss. ‘Adieu, dear heart.’

  ‘Pop in and say goodbye before you go, won’t you, Harriet?’ he says.

  ‘They’ll be asking for a full report,’ Gloria says. ‘Him and that busybody wife of his.’

  Malcolm laughs. ‘You’ve a vivid imagination, Gloria.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, darling,’ she says, raising an eyebrow, and Malcolm hurries out before she can elaborate.

  She lies back on the chaise longue and pulls the sunglasses back down to cover her eyes. Behind the enormous, enigmatic lenses I can’t tell whether she’s got her eyes open or not. Is she looking at me? Is she waiting for me to speak? Or has she decided to go back to sleep? What with the smell and the weirdness of everything and being pregnant I’m starting to feel a bit wobbly, so although Gloria doesn’t offer me a seat, I try to clear a small space among the ancient copies of Private Eye and The London Review of Books that are piled on the sofa and squeeze myself into the gap. I sit awkwardly in silence, smiling in case she’s looking me. Eventually I clear my throat, just in case she really has dozed off.