‘Still doesn’t explain why you’re in Whitby, pretending to be my husband.’
‘Sorry about the husband thing,’ he says. ‘I just said it. I thought it’d be funny. It is quite funny. Isn’t it?’
I say nothing, just stare at him, arms folded.
‘And obviously it was mainly the promise of the Seaview’s impressive facilities that lured me to Whitby. The selection of teas. Coffee. Shortbread fingers.’ He holds up a packet in case I don’t know what they are. ‘You kept quiet about them, didn’t you? And slippers. Actual free slippers.’
He gestures to his feet, on which are a pair of said slippers, white towelling and utterly ridiculous with his jeans.
‘That’s mainly why I came.’
Still I say nothing.
‘And I missed you,’ he says at last.
And because I really do know how his tiny little mind works, I know he’s telling the truth.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I say to Gloria. We’re alone in our room now, Gloria lying on the bed flicking through the TV channels, me towelling my hair dry after my shower. Reuben’s gone up to his room on the next floor. ‘Why don’t you come and have dinner with me and Reuben?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’d rather be on my own.’
I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that Reuben’s here, torn between being excited that he’s come all this way to see me, and feeling sick because I can no longer ignore the pregnancy. I either tell him or I don’t. I feel rushed and pressured and resentful that he’s turned up before I’ve had the chance to make that decision. Added to which I’m annoyed with him. It’s presumptuous of him just to assume I’ll be pleased to see him. This was my journey. Mine and Gloria’s and he’s gate-crashed it. I wanted to talk to her some more about all of it, about why we’re here, about the baby who died, and Reuben being here has given her the perfect excuse to avoid it. But maybe that’s how she wants it. Maybe she just wanted to come here to satisfy some need that I’ll never know about, to relive a memory that she doesn’t want to share. It’s her decision after all, her story. Perhaps she doesn’t want to tell it after all.
‘But I don’t like leaving you here on your own,’ I say. ‘And I wanted us to have time to talk. So you could tell me why we’re here. You know. The rest of the story.’
She’s been very quiet all afternoon, lost in thought. And what if she wanders off again? When she’s on her own is when she’s most likely to become disorientated, lose track of where she is, especially given that she’s had a couple of very large gins now.
‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘And anyway, you two need some time together. Are you going to tell him?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. I feel ambushed, on the defensive. Reuben shouldn’t be here. That wasn’t the plan. This trip was about Gloria, not him. Typical that he’d just assume I’d be happy to see him. But why wouldn’t he? I’ve always been before.
‘I wanted to spend the evening with you,’ I say to Gloria, sounding slightly like a whiny child. ‘I wanted to talk about why we’re here.’
‘That can wait till tomorrow,’ she says.
‘Is there something particular you want to do?’ I say. ‘Somewhere you want to visit?’
If this was our final destination there must surely be a specific purpose. Again I feel a flash of worry that she might have forgotten what it is.
‘I want to walk up there,’ she says, pointing across the harbour to the cliff on the far side.
‘To the abbey?’ I say. ‘It’s a long way up. One hundred and ninety-nine steps, apparently. Are you sure?’
‘That’s the reason we’ve come all this way,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to let a few steps stop me.’
‘Okay,’ I say, wondering why it’s so important to her. ‘If you want to, that’s what we’ll do.’ Then I add, ‘I feel bad leaving you.’
‘Well, don’t, I’m fine here,’ she says, and to be fair she seems happy enough, propped up on her bed with a gin and tonic on the bedside table and the cricket highlights on the widescreen television. ‘I do like a chap in cricket whites, don’t you?’ she says, fondly.
‘Okay, I’ll see you later then. You can always come down to the bar if you fancy it? We could see you in there?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’
The hotel restaurant is unexpectedly posh, with starched white napkins folded into elaborate shapes and waiters in waistcoats. I feel horribly self-conscious and out of place, as though everyone’s looking at me. Reuben seems completely relaxed, and while I’m staring at the menu he talks and talks about all the fantastic things he’s done on his travels, all the friends he’s made, how drunk he’s got.
‘If it was so brilliant why did you come back?’ I snap at last.
‘No need to be like that,’ he says.
‘You haven’t asked me a single thing about me, about what I’ve been doing, about how Gloria is, how it’s all been.’
‘I just . . .’
‘What? You just aren’t interested in anyone other than you, Reuben. That’s the truth of it.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Yes, Reuben, it is.’
We sit in silence, for a while staring at the menu, and I can feel this tightness building and building in my chest, the self-consciousness of being here in this stupid restaurant in a dress I don’t really fit into any more, the hurt of Reuben leaving, the anger at his selfishness. Eventually I say, ‘You know what, Reuben, this isn’t me. I don’t want confit of pheasant in a port jus. I don’t want smoked venison or kohlrabi or pressed duck-liver terrine. I want to go out and get some fish and chips and I want to sit and eat them out there. You can do what you like.’
I get up from the table and almost mow down a hovering waistcoat-clad waiter as I march out without looking to check whether Reuben’s following.
‘You’re the boss,’ I hear Reuben say from behind me, and I think, Yes, I am. I never have been, where Reuben’s concerned. But I have to be, now.
Outside it is still warm and the streets are full of holidaymakers, kids carrying candy floss and ice cream, dogs sniffing discarded burger boxes, overweight men with bright-red arms and necks and noses.
We head down the hill from the hotel without speaking to each other until we’re close to the harbour. We stop at a chippy with a big queue and wait to be served. Then we walk back up to the clifftop and sit on a bench to eat our fish and chips. The abbey is dark across on the other cliff, and the sun is low, turning the sky pink. The sea is spread out below us. The chips are delicious, laden with salt and vinegar and very hot. We eat them in silence.
‘Why did you go away without saying goodbye, Reuben?’
I hadn’t expected to say it. I’d spent so much time convincing myself and everyone else that I didn’t care, I’d almost forgotten that in fact it had hurt more than pretty much anything anyone’s ever done to me.
‘Apart from the fact that we’d had sex and then you pretended we hadn’t and I didn’t know what was going on, it was actually just a really hurtful thing to do to someone who’s supposed to be your best friend.’
I’m on a roll now.
‘I’m always defending you, Reuben. Always saying you’re not as bad as everyone thinks. But maybe everyone else was right.’
He’s quiet for a long time.
‘You know what I said in Norfolk?’ he says at last. ‘That night. Remember?’
I stiffen and instinctively look away so that he can’t see my face.
‘Which particular thing?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘That you understand me. That you’re the only one who does.’
I half smile to myself. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘And you know you asked whether I meant it?’
‘And you wouldn’t answer?’ I say. ‘Yes, I do remember that.’
‘Well, I did mean it. Of course I did.’
‘Then why wouldn’t you answer me?’
<
br /> ‘Because . . . I dunno. Because I was scared. And because I’m an idiot. But I meant it then and I still mean it. Honestly, Hattie. You are the only person who understands me.’
‘Well, why did you go off to France then? Without even saying a proper goodbye, Reuben?’ My eyes fill with tears that I don’t want him to see so I turn away and start walking towards the cliff edge.
‘Hattie,’ he says. ‘Come back.’
He grabs hold of my arm and turns me round to him.
‘I was scared,’ he says. ‘If we got together, Hattie, I’d screw it up. You know I would. I can’t do relationships. I always hurt people. That’s why I backed off. I’m sorry. It was stupid of me, I know. It’s just, you’re too important to me to risk that happening with you. It might sound like bullshit but it’s true.’
‘Do you honestly think I’ve been worrying about it?’ I snap. ‘That I’ve been sitting around wishing you’d stayed so we could be a couple?’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘God! You’re so arrogant. Listen to yourself!’
‘Sorry,’ he says, putting his head in his hands for a moment and then looking back up at me. ‘I’m doing it all wrong. I’m saying it wrong. What I wanted to say is that the real reason I came back is . . . come travelling with me. We’d have the best time, I know we would. We could go anywhere. Just you and me. Italy? Florence, Rome, Capri? Or Prague; we could go to Prague. Or Spain. What about Barcelona?’
I watch him imagine us in all these places and want to let myself imagine it too. But I can’t.
‘Reuben,’ I say. ‘I want you to tell me one thing. If Camille hadn’t dumped you, would you be here now? Would you have missed me so much that you couldn’t bear not to be with me for another day? Or would you have just carried on having a great time and just sent me the occasional email if you could be bothered and didn’t have anything more interesting to do?’ He looks away from me and fiddles with his lighter, flicking it on and off until it burns his thumb.
‘I don’t know,’ he says.
‘Yes.’ I take his hands. ‘You do. And so do I.’
‘Hats—’
‘Reuben,’ I say. ‘I’m pregnant. Eleven weeks pregnant.’
I watch his face change as he realizes what I’m saying, and it would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that I know I am watching everything that has ever been between us change, and that it can never change back again.
‘Oh,’ he says at last.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘But— What . . . ?’
‘I’m just telling you, so that you know.’
He stares at me.
‘How long have you known?’
‘A while.’
‘Are you sure? It couldn’t be a mistake?’
‘No, Reuben, it couldn’t be a mistake.’
He carries on staring at me, mouth slightly open. Probably the first time I’ve ever seen him lost for words.
‘What are you going to do?’ he says at last.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You mean you might keep it?’
‘I don’t know, Reuben. I haven’t decided. But I need to. I’m going home when Gloria’s done whatever she needs to do here, and then I’m going to talk to Mum about it and make a decision.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ he says, not looking at me. ‘If you keep it?’
I look at him and I think of Gloria asking me what Reuben would say if he knew I was pregnant. I know you, I think.
I love you, I think. But I know what I expect you to do.
‘I can only make my own decision. You’ll have to make yours.’
‘Hattie,’ he says. ‘This doesn’t need to change anything. We can still go travelling. You can . . . sort this out and then come and join me.’
‘I can’t, Reuben.’
‘Why not?’
I hold his face gently and I kiss him on the cheek.
‘I’m going back to see Gloria now,’ I say. ‘I came here with her and I know she’s got stuff she needs to tell me. The whole point of this trip has been to come here. I need to find out why. I said I’d see her in the bar.’
‘But you can’t,’ he says.
‘I can,’ I say. ‘Think about what I’ve told you and if you want to talk, come and find me later.’
I turn and walk away.
When I get into the hotel, the receptionist is looking flustered.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Mrs Lockwood. We tried to call up to your room but there was no answer. It’s your aunt. She’s in the bar and she’s . . . well, she’s not very well.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say, panicking. I knew I shouldn’t have left her.
‘She’s had a bit to drink,’ the receptionist says in a loud whisper.
As soon as I get into the bar I can see that Gloria’s drunk and not in a good way. She’s not going to tell me stories or sing me songs this time.
Her face is fixed and disdainful, and I remember the first time we met. Hard to believe it was only a month ago. I think of how arrogant and cold she seemed. And she was. But I understand now that this means she’s scared. Scared and sad. I think of what she said about her father too, about his drinking, about how he didn’t laugh when he was drunk. I think of Sister Francis Whatsername saying Gloria was like her father. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was scared and sad too. Gloria’s mum said he was different before the war.
‘Yes?’ she says as I sit down next to her at the table.
‘I’m Hattie,’ I say, uncertainly.
‘I know who you are.’
‘Just checking,’ I say, cheerily. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You just seem a bit—’
‘What?’
‘You don’t seem very happy,’ I say.
‘Of course I’m not happy,’ she says. ‘Why did you make me come back here, Gwen?’
‘Gloria!’ I say, trying to hold her arm but she shakes me off. ‘Gloria, what are you talking about? It’s me, Hattie. I didn’t make you come back here. You wanted to come. Look, it’s in the book.’ I take the red notebook out of Gloria’s handbag and try to hold it open on the page about the journey.
‘I don’t care,’ she says. ‘It was a mistake. All of it. I want to go home. Take me home.’
‘What is it, Gloria? What’s upsetting you?’ I try to pull everything together in my mind, to work out what I know and whether that gives me a clue about why Gloria’s acting like this. But it’s like trying to do a jigsaw without all the pieces and not knowing what the final picture is supposed to be. Gloria fell in love with Sam. She had his baby. The baby was taken away. The baby died. And now we’re here, in Whitby, to find ‘the answer’, but I don’t know what the question is, and for all I know Gloria’s forgotten it. And now she’s completely losing the plot.
Reuben was right. It was mad coming here. I press my head into my hands and try to think.
‘Is it to do with your son? The fact that he’s dead? It must be hard even after all this time.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘He didn’t die here did he? Your baby?’
‘You know nothing about it.’
‘Well, how can I? I only know what you’ve told me. But I understand that it must be very upsetting to remember all of this.’
‘I hated my baby.’
‘But, Gloria,’ I say. ‘I know it must have been scary, but you must have loved him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was yours. Yours and Sam’s.’
‘No,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘No, he wasn’t.’
I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’
She says nothing. But her hands are twisting and knotting together in her lap.
‘Gloria,’ I say again. ‘What do you mean?’
She’s shaking her head. ‘No,’ she mutters. ‘No.’
No. One little word. I feel a bit dizzy at the possibilities it opens up, off balance suddenly as the firm ground I
thought I was standing on starts to give way. In my head I work through the rest of the story that Gloria’s told me, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. A thought forms in my mind. No . . . it can’t be. But I realize I’ve made assumptions, filled in the gaps in Gloria’s history the way I wanted them to be, made everything neat and tidy when in fact, of course, of course, it was messier than that. No, he wasn’t. That’s why she never saw Sam again. It all makes sense, even though I don’t want it to. Gloria’s baby wasn’t his.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she whispers. ‘It wasn’t my fault. You mustn’t tell Gwen. You mustn’t. She can’t ever know. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘What wasn’t, Gloria?’ I take hold of her hand, scared to hear the answer. But that’s nothing compared to the fear in her eyes as she looks into mine.
‘I didn’t know he’d be there.’ Her voice is pleading, desperate. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Who?’
She shakes her head.
‘Who was the father, Gloria? Why mustn’t I tell Gwen?’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Tell me.’ I grip her hand. ‘You’ve got to tell me. Gloria!’ I say. ‘I can’t tell Gwen. She’s dead.’
‘What?’ she says. ‘What, Gwen? No, no, she can’t be. Why are you saying that? Who are you?’ She pulls her hand away from mine and walks away.
‘Come back,’ I say. ‘Gloria!’
As I follow her, she stumbles. I run to her and help her to get her balance, and then take her arm, gently this time.
‘Let me help you,’ I say. ‘Please, Gloria.’
She lets me put my arm round her and I lead her to the lift and up to our room.
In silence I help Gloria to get her shoes off and I lie her down on the bed.
All the while my mind is flipping through everything that’s happened, making jittery leaps from the present to the past. I think about how strange it is that physical pain leaves you the moment it passes: you can remember it without flinching. And yet emotional pain is with you for ever. Remembering it can make you cry years later. Why is that? My head lolls and then snaps up suddenly. I glance at Gloria and it makes my stomach lurch a bit to see how small and frail she looks. I close my eyes again and as my mind drifts the doctor’s words are playing in my head, and I think about how you can’t judge by appearances, and about Gwen and her cardigan sleeves in summer, and about Vinnie. I think about Sam, and about Vivienne and Danny, the imaginary children. I think about how Gloria told her baby she loved him when she thought they were both dying. I think about how the worst wounds are often the ones you can’t see.
How Not to Disappear Page 27
