‘Well, you could always come and stay when we go to Becky’s?’ Carl says. ‘I know she’d love to see you.’ Which is a blatant lie. Becky never looks particularly pleased to see any of us. She clearly thinks Carl could do a lot better for himself than Mum and her odd collection of offspring.
‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘Like I say, I’ve got my shifts all lined up.’
‘How come Hattie doesn’t have to go? That’s not fair!’ Alice whines. She hates Becky’s son, Bertie.
‘Are you sure you’re okay, love?’ Mum says to me. ‘You don’t seem yourself at the moment.’
‘I told you, I’m fine. Just tired.’
Peggy phones a few days later, sounding flustered and anxious.
‘You left in such a hurry,’ she says. ‘We were hoping to have a chance to say goodbye.’
I don’t reply. I know she means well but to be honest I wish I’d never spoken to Peggy, never gone to see Gloria. Why did she have to drag me into it?
‘We heard a bit of shouting, Harriet,’ she says, hesitantly. ‘Was she in one of her moods?’
‘I don’t think you can really call it a mood, can you? More of a catastrophic character defect. And it’s Hattie.’
‘She’s been very low since you left, dear. Won’t talk to me or Malcolm. Just ignores us or tells us to—’ she coughs delicately—‘well, “Go Away” is the general gist of it.’
‘If I were you I’d do exactly that. Leave her to it.’
‘Malcolm tried to let himself in yesterday to make sure she was okay, but she’d put the chain on the door. He thought he heard her crying.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I’m late for work.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry if she upset you. We were just trying to help.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But she doesn’t want to be helped.’
I wake up most nights worrying about the baby – NO, it’s not a baby – the positive pregnancy tests, that’s better. I wake up worrying about the positive pregnancy tests and what I’m going to do and Reuben and why, why, WHY did this have to happen, my mind leaping feverishly in the darkness from abortion clinic to labour ward.
And then when I’ve exhausted myself and I’m trying to switch my brain off and coax myself back to sleep I find I’m thinking about Gloria. At first I felt angry, and stupid for having gone to see her, for thinking she’d be pleased to see me. But now, lying wide awake in the dark, I keep thinking about the photo of her when she was young and of how her eyes looked like mine. And after a while I just feel sad. I see her face at the window as I left . . .
He thought he heard her crying . . .
There was something underneath all that act, I think, drifting towards sleep. Something vulnerable.
But maybe I just want that to be true.
It’s so early when the taxi arrives to take the others to the airport it’s still dark. I make my way blearily downstairs to say goodbye.
‘I hate leaving you, Hattie,’ Mum says at the front door, pulling me to her and hugging me. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
‘Mum, for God’s sake. I’m not a kid.’ But stupidly my eyes prick with tears and I’m glad she can’t see my face. ‘I’ll be glad to get you lot out of my hair for a while. Might actually get some peace and quiet for a change.’
‘You’ll be sorry when we’re gone,’ Alice says. She’s angry with me for not going with them. ‘And if you die no one will probably find you for a week and they’ll have to work out how long your corpse has been rotting from the life cycle of a maggot.’
‘Alice!’ Carl gives her a look.
‘It’s true,’ she says. ‘I saw it on a programme about forensics.’
‘Cheers, Al,’ I say.
‘She won’t die,’ says Ollie, anxious. ‘You won’t, will you, Hattie?’
‘No, she won’t,’ says Mum firmly. ‘I expressly forbid it. Now go and get in the taxi.’ When they’ve gone she holds me back from her so she can see my face and examines me closely. I smile a bright smile.
‘You seem . . . I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I know something’s the matter—’
‘Nothing’s the matter, Mum. You’re being neurotic. I’m totally fine.’
‘We’ll talk properly when I get back.’
‘About what? There’s nothing to talk about. Just have a great time.’
‘Okay,’ she says, doubtful. ‘Well. Okay. If you use the oven, just make sure you’ve switched the gas off afterwards. And if there’s a fat fire, remember don’t throw water on it—’
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Honestly. Yes. And I’ll do my best not to drown or fall down the stairs or spontaneously combust. I won’t accept sweets from strangers or run with my shoelaces undone. Happy?’
But she’s not. ‘Promise me you’ll drive carefully if you borrow the car. No overtaking on bends or—’
‘GO.’ I turn her round and push her out of the door.
‘Anyway, you’re a fine one to give driving advice,’ Carl says to her, carrying out the last suitcase, making a big show of how heavy it is. ‘Jeez, what have you got in here, woman?’
Mum laughs, turns back and gives me a last kiss.
‘Love you,’ she says.
‘You too,’ I call after her.
‘Take it easy, Hats,’ Carl calls over his shoulder. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. If you have any wild parties just make sure you clear up afterwards, yeah?’ He winks at me and then gets into the taxi.
‘I wish,’ I say. After I’ve waved them off I turn back into the empty house and feel the weight of silence all around me. I’m almost glad when it’s time to leave for my shift at the Happy Diner.
I check the display on my alarm clock. It’s 12.52 a.m. I can’t sleep. The house is oppressively quiet and my thoughts are loud and panicky. I spent the evening hoping Kat would phone. I’m missing her. And now I can’t bear it any longer. I pick up my phone and text her.
I’m pregnant. By Reuben.
I send it, my heart pounding. That’s it. I’ve told Kat. Will she pick up the message now or in the morning? And when she does what will she say? She’s never really liked Reuben. Ever since he started at our school three years ago she’s been wary of him. I lie back down in the dark. She probably won’t see it tonight. I close my eyes and then start awake as my phone starts ringing.
‘Jesus, Hattie!’ Kat says as I answer.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘I mean . . .’
‘I know.’ I switch my bedside lamp on.
‘Reuben.’
‘I know.’
‘Why didn’t you—’
‘I KNOW.’ I start to cry.
‘Oh, no,’ she says. ‘No, Hattie, don’t cry. You can’t cry. It’s okay. Look, it’s all going to be fine. Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean . . . I just wish you’d told me.’
‘I tried,’ I say. ‘I kept texting you to call me and you didn’t.’
I’m wailing now.
‘Oh, Hats, I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . hang on a minute—’
There’s rustling and banging and the music in the background gets quieter until eventually I can hardly hear it.
‘I’ve come outside so I can hear you properly,’ she says. ‘Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t call. It’s Zoe. She sort of wants it to be just me and her while we’re up here. I was going to phone you and she got a bit funny about it.’
Typical. She’s such a cow.
‘Her ex really messed her around,’ Kat says. ‘So, you know. She’s kind of a bit . . . She gets a bit jealous. But obviously if I’d known I’d have called straight away.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.’
There’s some shouting in the background wherever Kat is. I imagine her standing in a cobbled street in Edinburgh having a great night out and the house seems even lonelier and emptier, and my life seems even more of a mess.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Kat says.
‘I
don’t know.’
‘Have you been to the doctor’s?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you told Reuben?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘I don’t know. He’s in France. Or he was. I think he’s heading for Italy or Greece or somewhere. With a girl he’s met out there.’
‘Oh, Hattie.’ We’re silent for a while, and I can tell Kat’s thinking of all the painful and unpleasant things she’d do to Reuben if she could.
‘What about your mum?’ she says at last. ‘Have you told her?’
‘Not yet. I will. They’re all off in Mallorca at the moment.’
‘How many weeks are you?’ she says at last.
‘Six, I think. Well, between six and seven.’
‘Okay. Well, you know if you’re going to have an abortion the sooner the better. I think you’re supposed to have it by twelve weeks? I mean that’s when my sister had her scan pictures and everything.’
‘I know.’ I remember going to the hospital with Mum when she had her scan for the twins. Mum was in shock afterwards; she hadn’t been expecting two babies. I was so excited. For a split second I’m annoyed that Kat’s just assuming I’m going to have an abortion. She’s making it sound easier than it is. I do have to make a decision. But she’s right. It doesn’t feel like much of a choice. I don’t want a baby and Reuben sure as hell doesn’t.
‘So, not being funny, Hats, but if that’s what you’re going to do, you need to get on and make an appointment.’
I don’t say anything.
There’s a pause.
‘You aren’t thinking about actually having the baby, are you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I can’t, can I?’
‘You mean you’re not sure?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to be pregnant. But . . . I just want to be sure.’
‘Okay. Well, there are pregnancy books, aren’t there? I remember my sister had a whole library of them when she was pregnant. Maybe you should have a look. Might help you get your head around it all.’
‘I can’t face it, Kat. I looked on a website and it was all adverts for nappies and baby milk and advice on breastfeeding.’
I start crying again.
‘Oh, Hattie, I wish I could give you a hug,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ I sniff.
‘Listen to me,’ Kat says. ‘It’s going to be okay. You just need to work out what you’re going to do and then do it. It’s all fine. And whatever you decide, I’ll be with you if you need me, okay?’
I can hear that she’s shivering.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Of course I’m cold. I’m in Scotland, aren’t I?’
‘You should go back in,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Look,’ she says. ‘I’m going to buy a book or find a website or something, and I’ll look up everything you need to know.’
‘You won’t tell Zoe, though, will you? I don’t want anyone to know except you.’
‘No, course not. I’ll do it when she’s not around. Anything you want to know, just text me and ask. Or email.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I won’t phone, though. I don’t want to mess things up with you and Zoe. Is it still going well between you two?’
I try very hard not to hope that it isn’t.
‘I really like her, Hattie,’ she says. ‘I think I might love her.’
‘Wow,’ I say. Kat’s not generally the falling-in-love type. It must be really serious.
‘I just wish I could make her understand that she can trust me.’
‘She will,’ I say. ‘There’s no one more trustworthy in the whole world than you.’
‘That’s what I keep telling her.’ She sighs. ‘I miss you.’
‘Me too.’ My voice sounds small in the dark.
‘It’ll be okay, you know.’
I try to hold on to her words after she’s gone. Eventually I sleep.
The next day, when I finish my shift, limp, hot and exuding a stale aroma of burnt bacon fat, there’s a pile of post lying on the doormat. It’s mainly bills and catalogues and some fitness magazine for Carl, but as I pick it up I see that underneath it all is a white envelope with the address handwritten neatly in blue ink. It’s addressed to me.
13b Iona Road
12 August
Dear Hattie,
On reflection, I may have been a little hasty when you came to see me last week. I use ‘hasty’ as a euphemism for rude, obviously. Also possibly a bit drunk. Staring death and oncoming oblivion in the face makes one rather tetchy, I find.
Anyway, I have been thinking about what you said and I would like you to visit again. Your visit stirred up a lot of memories and I have decided that perhaps you are right. I have avoided thinking about the past for many years. I thought it was better that way, that I was being strong by leaving it behind. But perhaps it was fear. There are things in my past that no one else living knows, and soon I will have forgotten them. Perhaps I may share them with you. If you are still willing to take me, I should like to visit my childhood home. I should warn you, though, my past is not a particularly happy place.
I understand if you choose not to visit again. If I were you I’d probably tell me to bugger off. But I suspect you are a nicer person than me so I hope you will consider it.
Yours,
Gloria
The girl. I wake thinking of her, dreaming of her maybe. Gwen. No, not Gwen.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.
Hattie. Yes. That is her name.
She will have received the letter by now. Will she read it? It took a long time to write it. Words take a long time to make the journey from my head to my hand these days, they get tangled and go missing and pop up in the wrong places if I’m not careful. Perhaps she won’t even open it, she will guess it is from me and she will throw it away without opening it.
I don’t care if she does. Perhaps it would be for the best. Perhaps it would be a relief for the days to pass and realize that she is not coming, that she never will, that my secrets are safe.
And yet—
I do care. I try not to. It has always been my way, to try not to care. I don’t think I’m being immodest when I say that I’ve done very well at it over the years, perfected it. Almost . . .
The past visits me so often now, clearer than the present. Ghosts, some more welcome than others. Gwen and Vinnie and Sam and Edie . . . I want to share it. I want to share it with her. I want her to know.
I’m pregnant. She was crying. I know about secrets, about the burden of them. I would like to help her if I can . . . But how can I? Can sharing my burden help her?
Is it fair? It is not a happy story, that’s for sure. Young people think the past was gentler than the present, innocent. My past was never like that, not even my earliest memories . . .
Is she ready for these things, the girl, Hattie? The violence and worse that came later? Is it right to share it with her, to reawaken it? Or should it be left where it is?
Perhaps she will make the decision for me. Perhaps she will not come.
‘Ah,’ Gloria says as she opens the door. She’s wearing an elegant trouser suit, a fedora and extremely red lipstick. ‘There you are. Gin sling?’
‘What?’
‘Would you like a gin sling? Malcolm did a supermarket run and got all the ingredients. He is a treasure.’
I’ve been reading up on dementia since the last time I was here, and I know that mood swings are common, so I try not to look surprised by this total change of attitude. She ushers me into the hall, which I can’t help noticing smells a little less rancid than last time I was there.
‘No!’ I say. ‘And nor should you. It’s too early.’
‘Sun’s over the yard arm, isn’t it?’
‘It’s half past ten in the morning,’ I say, frowning.
‘Well.’ She smiles. ‘As Russell, my first husband, used to say, the sun’s always over the
yard arm somewhere in the world. Mind you, of all my husbands he was by far the stupidest. And they were none of them exactly Einstein, if you know what I mean.’
I wonder how I can tactfully check that she knows who I am and why I’m there. Perhaps she’s mistaking me for someone else, or has forgotten that she asked me. My research has told me that people with dementia can be very good at covering it up. I also know that people have good days and bad days, that it can progress quite slowly in some people, that symptoms differ a lot between people. I’d been hoping for a nice checklist that I could measure Gloria against but apparently it doesn’t work like that.
In the end I can’t think of a subtle way of dropping my name into the conversation so I just come out with it.
‘You do know who I am, don’t you? And why I’m here?’
She looks irritated.
‘Yes. I asked you here because I want you to take me back to the house I grew up in. You’re Hattie Lockwood,’ she says. ‘You are Dominic’s daughter. You are seventeen years old, your birthday is in January, you have a brother, Ollie, and a sister, Alice. You are studying for your A-levels, you are pregnant. Did I miss anything?’
I stare at her.
‘Blimey,’ I say. ‘Vital statistics?’
‘Hmmm,’ she says, looking me up and down. ‘No, I don’t know those, but I could guess if you like?’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ I say hastily. ‘How did you know about my birthday?’
‘I know about a lot of things,’ she says grandly. ‘I’ve got it all written down in my book.’ She picks up a red, hardback notebook from the kitchen table and waves it at me. ‘Everyone and everything I need to remember goes in there. It was whatsername’s idea.’ She leafs through the book. ‘Peggy!’ she says, evidently reaching Peggy and Malcolm’s page in the notebook. ‘She may be an interfering do-gooder but she’s not as stupid as she looks.’
‘She doesn’t look stupid at all.’
But she ignores me, and starts measuring gin and cherry brandy into a glass.
‘How many husbands have you had then? All together?’
‘Husbands?’ She thinks. ‘Three. And one fiancé. All ended in acrimonious divorce,’ she says. ‘Except for the engagement of course. That just ended in acrimony.’
How Not to Disappear Page 8
