How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  I think again about Whitby. I’m sure I’m right, that must be why we’re going to Whitby, mustn’t it? He must be there. Gloria has made it clear she doesn’t want to tell me why we’re going till we get there, but what else could it be? This journey has been all about Gloria and Sam and the baby she had to give up. That has to be what she meant by the end of the story.

  The bed is comfortable and I could happily have stayed there, but as usual I’m starving so I head downstairs to the kitchen and make myself some toast. As I eat it I decide, guiltily, that since I can’t pick up phone messages I’d better check my email, just in case Mum’s been trying to get in touch.

  She hasn’t, but Alice has.

  From: aliceisright@starmail.com

  To: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  Subject: HATTIE IS CRUEL AND ALSO SMELLS

  WE HAVE COME HOME FROM AUNTY BECKY’S ERLY BECAUSE MUM TOLD CARL SHE DOESNT WANT TO GET MARRYD. WHY HAVE YOU GONE AWAY? MUM IS GOING MENTAL BECAUSE SHE’S GOT NOT CAR AND IN A REELLY BAD MOOD ALL THE TIME AND IT IS ALL YOUR FORLT BECAUSE SHE IS WORRYD ABOUT YOU AND ALSO ANGRY WITH YOU AND TAKING IT OUT ON US BECAUSE WE ARE HERE AND YOU ARE NOT WHICH IS NOT FARE. CARL IS ALL QUIET AND SAD AND HE KEEPS COOKING AND CLEENING AND BYING MUM FLOWERS SO SHE WILL THINK WHAT A GOOD HUSBAND HE WILL BE BUT ITS ACHALLY REELY ANOYING.

  What? Mum and Carl aren’t getting married? I knew she was getting cold feet. But I didn’t think she’d actually call it off. Poor Carl. I feel so sorry for him that I hardly even feel happy at all about the fact that I’m off the hook on the bridesmaid-dress-of-horror front. I should call home. But then if Carl answers he might cry and I don’t think I can take that. Or worse, Mum will answer and just yell at me for taking the car and tell me I’ve got to come home RIGHT NOW THIS VERY MINUTE and I’ll tell her I can’t, which will just make everything worse for everyone. Mum can be pretty scary when she’s angry. Maybe it’s best just to wait till I get back. She might have calmed down a bit by then. The wedding might even be back on by the time my trip with Gloria is done. Anyway, I can always just pretend I didn’t know. I could tell them I didn’t get Alice’s email . . .

  BECAUSE YOUR NOT HERE CARL IS LOOKING AFTER US AND INSTED OF LETTING US WATCH LOOSE WOMEN AND TOM AND JERRY AND DOCUMENTRYS ABOUT PREDATORS AND SPYS HE IS MAKING US DO STUFF LIKE WRTING A STORY ABOUT THE ENVIROMENT AND MAKING MODELS OUT OF RECYCLED RUBBISH AND SINGING OLD BEETELS SONGS WHILE HE PLAYS HIS GITAR. HE IS MAKING US HELP HIM COOK NUTRISHUS FOOD. IT IS ALL TOO HORRIBLE HATTIE. IT IS WORSE THAN SCHOOL IF THAT IS EVEN LIKE POSSIBLE. AND IT IS ALL YOUR FORLT.

  IS IT REALY TRUE THAT YOU’VE KIDNAPPED AN OLD LADY? THAT’S WHAT RUEBEN SAID—

  Reuben? When did she speak to Reuben? Why has he phoned home and not my mobile when he knows I’m not there? I suppose I’ve been out of range since we got here . . . I’m not sure how I feel about the fact he wants to speak to me. Pleased? Grudgingly, yes. But also irritated. Resentful, even. Does he assume I’m just sitting around waiting for him to get in touch while he parties his way round Europe? Probably.

  I turn back to Alice’s email.

  —BUT CARL SAYS RUEBEN IS FULL OF IT. ATCHALLY HE SAID A SWARE WORD BUT I AM NOT GOING TO WRITE IT INCASE THIS EMAIL IS BEING MONITERED BY GCHQ.

  I wonder, briefly, what Alice thinks GCHQ would do if she swore, and have a fleeting but intense moment of love for Carl. I hope Mum changes her mind. I’m sure it must just be pre-wedding jitters.

  ANYWAY I DON’T CARE ABOUT ALL THAT. IT IS UNRELAVANT. WHAT I CARE ABOUT IS THAT YOU ARE NOT HERE. YOU HAVE ABANDONED US HATTIE AND I WILL NOT EVER FORGIVE YOU EVEN IF I LIVE TO BE 200 AND EVEN IF YOU CRAWL TO ME EVERY DAY FOR THAT 200 YERS BEGGING FOR MERSEY. OLLIE IS WORKING OUT ON HIS CALCULATOR HOW MANY DAYS THAT IS BUT I CAN TELL YOU IT IS SO MANY THAT YOUR KNEES WILL HAVE WORN RIGHT AWAY AND YOU WILL HAVE TO SLITHER ON YOUR FAT TUMMY LIKE A SLUGG.

  I WOULD RATHER HAVE A SACK OF POTATOS FOR A SISTER THAN YOU. AT LEAST WITH POTATOS I COULD MAKE CHIPS AND FRY THEM TILL THEY WERE CRISPY AND EAT THEM WITHOUT GOING TO PRISON. ALTHOGH CARL WOULD PROBABLY THROW THEM IN THE BIN AND MAKE ME A BLOODY ORGANIC SALUD INSTEAD (SORRY GCHQ IF YOUR READING THIS BUT I DONT THINK BLOODY IS TECNICLY A REAL SWARE WORD)

  I AM GOING TO FIND OUT ABOTU WEATHER ITIS POSIBLE TO DIVORCE YOUR SISTER. IF IT IS THEN YOU WILL BE HERRING FROM MY SOLISITTER SOON.

  ALICE PERSEPHONE LOCKWOOD

  PS OLLIE SAYS IT IS 72975 DAYS BY THE WAY.

  PPS OR MAYBE 72974 DEPENDING ON WHEN THE LEAP YEARS ARE.

  I make myself another round of toast, layering it thickly with marmalade this time. Apparently I’m not just eating for two but for an entire football team. I panic briefly at the thought that I could be carrying sextuplets.

  But realistically I’m probably just greedy.

  Then I sit down again, trying not to get smeary butter and crumbs on the keyboard, and type:

  From: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  To: aliceisright@starmail.com

  Subject: Re: HATTIE IS CRUEL AND ALSO SMELLS

  Als, what is going on with mum and Carl? when did you speak to Reuben? What did he say? Has he been trying to get hold of me? My mobile isn’t working. (You can tell Carl that from me too.) Is Reuben ok?

  I’m sorry about all the singing and nutritious food. That sounds awful. I’ll be home soon I promise. I’m just doing something nice for an old lady who is our great-aunt. Her name is Gloria. She’s not very well and a bit sad. I think you’d like her. She is quite rude and likes doing things she thinks people don’t want her to. Sometimes she reminds me a little bit of you.

  Love you lots and Ols too.

  Hattiexxxx

  Alice’s reply is almost instantaneous, which makes me suspect she’s got up early to sneak in some computer games before Carl gets up and starts another day of educational and ‘fun’ activities. It is short and to the point.

  From: aliceisright@starmail.com

  To: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  Subject: Re: HATTIE IS CRUEL AND ALSO SMELLS

  HE WAS TRYING HERE BECAUSE NO ONE CAN GET HOLD OF YOU ON YOUR MOBILE. YOU MUST HAVE LIKE 5 GAZILLION VOICEMAIL MESSAGES IF YOU CAN BE BOTHERD TO LISTEN TO THEM BUT I WOUDNT BOTHER COZ MOST OF THEM ARE MUM YELLING OR ME SWARING.

  Surely GCHQ could be tapping the phone, I think. Who knows how Alice’s mind works.

  IF U WANT TO NO WHAT ELSE RUEBEN SAID YOULL HAVE TO COME HOME WONT YOU. IM NOT TELLING U TIL THEN.

  * * *

  St Monica’s is about a ten-mile drive away, along winding, damp roads. It’s not called St Monica’s any more. I looked it up on the internet and found that it hasn’t been a Mother and Baby Home since the sixties. I suppose once unmarried and pregnant girls stopped being something that had to be hidden away, once they were allowed to keep their babies if they wanted to, there was no need for places like that.

  Now there are signs up saying it’s been bought by a company planning to turn it into a luxury country house hotel. What a strange thought, that if Gloria and I came back in a couple of years’ time she’d be able to stay in the place she had her baby. But by then . . . I try not to think it but the thought comes anyway. Maybe she won’t even remember by then that she had a baby . . . I look over at Gloria, her face almost hidden under her fedora and unnecessary sunglasses. There’s no sun; it’s a grey, gloomy day, much more like the Lake District I remember. At first I think it’s just vanity, but watching her sit, pale and tense, in the passenger seat, I realize that they form a barrier between her and the outside world. I can understand why she feels the need for protection, considering the place we’re going to visit. If it was me . . . I can’t imagine it. It feels hard enough making the choice I have to make. But if I had no choice at all, and then got to know my baby for three months before it was taken away, all the while being treated like a shameful secret, an outcast from society, something sinful and wicked . . . No, I can’t imagine it. But Gloria doesn’t have to imagine it. She lived it.

  ‘You okay?’ I say, t
rying to sound reassuring and casual, as if we’re off on a day trip to one of those National Trust places Mum drags us all round on Sundays when she’s trying to be improving. (‘We don’t NEED improving,’ Alice says and generally finds a way of making Mum wish she’d left us in our natural, unimproved state in front of the TV, by falling in lakes or breaking historical artefacts or setting off fire alarms.) ‘Does any of this look familiar?’

  She doesn’t respond. We drive through a small village – more of a hamlet, really – and then turn along a narrow road.

  I park at the side of the road nearby and we walk up the little lane towards the building that had been St Monica’s.

  It’s a huge Victorian house set in lawned grounds, screened from the road by dripping trees, which we have to peer through to get a good view of it. It’s very grand-looking, grey brick, dark against the green that surrounds it. It looks a bit like a haunted house from a kids’ book. Even from here I can see that bits of it are boarded up. Obviously empty.

  Gloria just stares at it from where we stand at the end of the drive.

  ‘Do you want to go closer?’ I say tentatively. ‘We might even be able to get inside. Or at least look in through a window.’

  She shudders.

  ‘No. This is close enough.’ She stands looking at it, her face fixed.

  As we stand there looking, it starts to rain again, water pattering on the leaves of the trees around us, splashing in puddles on the lane.

  ‘Did you have the baby here?’ I say at last.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’d like to go now,’ she says.

  The pain is the worst I’ve ever felt. It begins in the middle of the night – the clock on the dorm wall says it’s ten past one when I open my eyes in the darkness, waking from a restless dream, crying out with the sudden shock of it.

  It doesn’t start, as Edie had said it would, with the gripey twinges and heavy backache of the Curse. The thought had comforted me when I’d lain awake at night worrying about the mystery of labour, about what it might be like and whether I could bear it: that perhaps it could be eased with sweet tea and a hot-water bottle to the small of the back, like Mum used to give me for my Monthlies.

  No. It’s not like that. It is instant agony: sudden, shocking, starting from a place so deep inside me I didn’t know it was there, and it radiates out until it fills me up, until I am nothing but pain and fear.

  ‘Gloria?’ It’s Edie’s sleepy voice from across the dorm. ‘What is it? You all right?’

  I try to speak to her, to say ‘It hurts’, and ‘Help me’, and ‘I’m afraid’, but it all comes out as a wordless, gasping shriek.

  ‘Katie, get Sister Annunciata, will you?’ Edie says, awake now. ‘Quick. Tell her it looks like Gloria’s baby’s on its way.’

  She pads over in her bare feet as I sit rocking back and forth on the bed, hugging the covers to me, trying to make the pain less.

  She takes my hand and strokes it, puts her other arm round my shoulders.

  ‘Shhh,’ she says, like she does when she’s settling baby Ted, trying to soothe him to sleep. ‘Shhh, now. I know it hurts like bloody buggery but it’ll pass. It will, I promise.’ She tries to smile at me. ‘Just think, Glo. You’ll be able to give your baby a cuddle before the day’s out.’

  ‘No,’ I say, and I whisper it because if I don’t I will cry out, I try not to, but I am not in control of my voice any more than I am of the rest of me, and it squeaks and wavers and rises, louder and higher, ‘Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sister Annunciata says, striding into the room, bringing a cold draught with her. ‘Your baby’s coming, that’s all.’ She turns. ‘Pack her hospital bag for her, will you, Edie? You know what she’ll need.’

  I know already that it will never end, this pain. Sister tells me not to be so silly, that it is a contraction, that it will be over soon enough. And it is true that there are gaps in the pain, moments, blurred minutes of numbness when I can lie, limp, and wait for the pain to fill me once again. But still, she is wrong, and I am right. The pain starts then, that night at ten past one and it never ends.

  I try to catch my breath, to breathe deeply; if I could breathe deep and slow that would help, I know it would make it better, but my lungs are all squashed up by the baby and the pain and I can’t get the air in—

  ‘Can you stand up?’ Sister Annunciata says, pulling back the bedclothes. When we look down, the sheets, smooth and neat with their razor-sharp hospital corners, are stained dark red. The lower half of my nightdress is covered in it too, clinging stickily to my legs.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘There’s blood. I didn’t know there’d be blood. You didn’t tell me, Edie.’ I wonder vaguely if it is my blood or the baby’s.

  ‘It’s okay, Gloria,’ Edie says, stroking my hair. Then, softly, ‘Why is she bleeding?’ And she sounds scared.

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ Sister Annunciata says. She turns away. ‘We must get her to hospital,’ I hear her say to somebody else who is in the room, one of the nurses. ‘Call an ambulance. Now.’

  ‘I can’t come with you,’ Sister Theresa, a younger nun who has helped me into the ambulance, says, holding my hands as the ambulance man wraps a blanket round me. ‘There’s not enough of us here to keep the girls and the babies safe. I’m sorry.’ And I can see that she is, but I still want her to come with me because I’m scared on my own and I cling to her hands, I won’t let her go.

  ‘You’ll be fine, dear. Strong, stubborn girl like you.’ The nuns usually leave us in no doubt that we are paying for our sins, but for a fleeting moment I think perhaps she is actually a kinder person than she lets on. I wonder, dizzily, whether it is because the nuns think it’s better for us not to know they care, or because Sister Theresa is afraid to show it. But maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe she is not kind at all.

  I travel alone in the ambulance. The siren is loud in the night, making me think of air raids and being carried out in the cold darkness to the shelter, though whether I’m remembering or whether it’s just what Mum told me, I couldn’t say. I remember how it felt to have my head resting on Mum’s shoulder, my face pressed into her neck, the smell of soap on her warm skin. And I cry out for her, for Mum. I want her here. Or Edie. Or Gwen. Anyone. But there is no one. I am alone.

  Except I am not alone because the baby is with me. For the first time the thought comforts me. I am not alone. So I talk to the baby, in my head because I still can’t trust myself to speak out loud without screaming, and sometimes, when the pain comes on worse, I do scream. But I keep on talking to it in my head because I am its mum and it is inside me; it is part of me still, so perhaps it can hear me even though I’m not saying the words out loud. I also talk to it because I am scared that the blood is the baby’s not mine and what if the baby is dying inside me, what if it is dead and that is what is causing the pain . . . ?

  Don’t be scared, little one, I say. And—

  I’m sorry. And—

  It is not your fault.

  Lights swirl above me, fading now, dimming to grey, and then bright again, so bright they hurt my eyes as they zoom over my head, neon-lit shooting stars in the grey. I am lying down, on something soft, I think; on a bed, yes, but it is rushing along a corridor so maybe it is a dream, maybe all of this is just in my head. In my dream the bed is floating along a river. I remember Sam telling me about the Niagara Falls in America. He’d read about them in a book, and how daredevils and lunatics went over them in barrels and suchlike and I think that maybe that is what will happen, we will reach the end of the river and be carried over the edge in a violent thunder of spray and rainbows. And the pain is so overwhelming now that all I can think is I will die soon and it will be over. It is coming, I think, the end of the river is coming, it is here and, yes, I feel the bed begin to lurch and tip . . .

  The lights swim and fade again and as they go out I wonder if the baby can still hear me and in case it can and I don�
�t get to say it again I think into the darkness Goodbye.

  And last of all, because I am dying, I think: I love you.

  I wake, but I am too weak to open my eyes to see where I am, in a place that is too loud. There are women crying out in pain and another shouting. Really shouting, swearing at someone. They are a long way away, I think, but still too loud. The sound hurts my head. I don’t open my eyes. I am too weak. Just being awake feels like an effort. My insides feel hollowed out.

  At last I force my eyes open. Everything is blurred and too bright. I close them again, sink into the dark.

  When I wake next I know where I am. I know I am alive. I know I am in hospital. I look around trying to work out what has happened. How long have I been here? Have I had the baby? I look down and I can see from the shape of the bedclothes over my middle that the baby is no longer there.

  It is dead. I know this at once. I try to say this to the doctor, to say, ‘It’s dead, isn’t it? My baby is dead?’ but as I try to speak my throat closes and tears are spilling down my face and I think, How strange, because in my head there are words thrumming round and round and the words are: It is for the best; it is meant to be. The baby was never supposed to exist and now it doesn’t. That is what everyone wanted, it is what I wanted and now I have what I want. My baby is cold and dead. But still the tears come, unbidden.

  The doctor clears his throat disapprovingly; at my tears I think, tears wasted on a dead bastard baby.

  ‘Mrs Harper,’ he says, and my heart leaps because Mum is here, and I look round for her because she is the only person I want to see, the only person who can make this better. But no, she is not here. I am alone. It takes me a while to realize he’s talking to me.

  ‘No,’ I manage to say. ‘I’m Miss—’

  ‘Mrs Harper,’ he says again, firmly, and I remember now that Edie had told me how they had all called her ‘Mrs’ in hospital. A nurse had even given her a wedding ring to wear while she was on the ward; they had a little tin of them in the Matron’s drawer. ‘They still all gave me dirty looks, though,’ she’d said. ‘Made me feel like I was something they’d scraped off their shoe.’