The Unforgotten

by Laura Powell

  ‘Have they sent you up already?’ she says, a touch irritated. ‘Give me a minute to finish getting him ready, then you can go on through.’

  Mary half wants to turn around and run back down the stairs; his brain must have disintegrated entirely for the nurse to be speaking about him as though he is a child. But she nods instead and watches the nurse disappear back into the bedroom.

  Through the open door, Mary can make out a wide window and a pair of Venetian blinds pulled open. There is a folded Daily Telegraph on the carpet, the arm and wing of a tan armchair just beyond it and, at the bottom of the bed, a pair of long narrow feet mummified in a woven white blanket. She reddens, her hands clammy themselves and she turns her back on the doorway. Be polite, be formal, do what you came here for; ask him the questions and leave as soon as you have the truth. This is not a reunion.

  Eventually, the nurse pokes her head around the door and clears her throat.

  ‘You can come in now,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t know if I should—’

  ‘It’s all right, he’s decent,’ and she disappears back inside. ‘How about a nice jug of fresh water, John? That’ll perk you up.’

  A door creaks, the nurse’s feet pad from carpet to linoleum and a tap gushes. Water clinks on glass. Mary walks slowly into his bedroom keeping her eyes low. It smells of cough syrup and lily pollen; unbefitting of him. She stops at the foot of his bed and draws in a deep breath.

  ‘Hello,’ she says quietly. ‘Hello Mr Gallagher.’

  Then she dares to look at him.

  Chapter 9

  July 1956

  When Betty wakes, a hoarse whistle has replaced her voice. Mother tucks a thermometer into her mouth.

  ‘You need bed rest, my girl,’ she trills. ‘No more swanning off to Spoole for you.’

  Betty curls her toes beneath the blankets. This must be God’s punishment to her for lying – and for kissing. She replays the kiss in her mind and decides that, next to that, flu is no punishment at all. She tries to pull herself upright but her legs are too weak. They crumple and she flops onto the floor.

  ‘No, no, no,’ clucks Mother, walking into the bedroom.

  She grasps Betty’s armpits and hauls her fully onto the bed with such ease that Betty could be a toddler.

  ‘No talking or working, just lots of rest. Nurse Dolores at your service,’ and she curtseys, making Betty smile.

  Another day slogs on. Betty listens out for Gallagher. In her mind, she traces the contours of his jaw and his frame and his long pianist fingers. She drifts to sleep eventually and her dream is eaten up with his face. His Adam’s apple sticks out of his neck like a swallowed conker and his pallor is grey.

  A second dream figure appears, masked and pungent with ash fumes. It holds a bundle that drips with something red and stringy and clotting. Betty’s dream self walks closer until she is within touching distance of the bundle. She realises that it is a baby, half dead and hacked to bits. She doesn’t cry out but takes another step forward and watches, transfixed, as the baby transforms into a miniature beast that smells of burnt meat. Betty gasps: he is a tiny version of Gallagher himself. She sits upright in bed and looks around. Just a dream. Mother snores beside her, curled up into a foetus, her presence a comfort in its way. Betty drifts to sleep again.

  When she wakes next, sunshine streams through the curtains and George’s voice drifts upstairs from the hall.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ he is saying in a voice that chills Betty, despite the sun.

  She wraps her blankets tight around her.

  ‘A nasty bout of flu,’ says Mother. ‘I thought Mary’d have dropped in but I suppose she’s a working woman now. Has she even asked after poor Betty?’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Is Betty about? There’s something I need to tell her,’ says George uncomfortably.

  ‘She’s not looking her best. How about you come back on Friday and I’ll make a nice spread for both of your teas,’ replies Mother. ‘Tell your father I said hello too.’

  George says something muffled. The front door closes and Mother’s hands clasp together.

  Three more days pass and, with each, Betty grows stronger. Mother brings vegetable broth with lumps of butter to replenish her salts and Betty winces as she drinks it. She has heard Gallagher’s voice only once in these days. He had been on the landing with another man who sounded like Sam or one of the older reporters.

  The older reporter had said curtly, ‘Can I pass?’ at the same moment Gallagher said, ‘Excuse me.’ There had been a shuffle of feet, a creak of floorboards and Betty had imagined them circling around each other, the way male lions do. There were boots on the stairs, the click of a door, then the heavy press of silence again. But his voice still rings in her head; crisp and rounded but throaty, as though he has swallowed a sack of gravel.

  When Betty gets her first strains of energy back, Mother carries the Dansette upstairs and plays a Bobby Darin song. She dances along to it, weaving around the bed, but the song ends with her sitting on the mat, nursing a stubbed toe.

  ‘Off to serve the suppers,’ she sighs, and kisses Betty’s forehead.

  There is a familiar sharpness to Mother’s breath. As she sweeps back downstairs, Betty covers her face with her hands. That smell. She drags herself from bed and pulls on her belted pink skirt.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she argues, when Mother tries to frogmarch her back upstairs. ‘Really, I’m so bored cooped up in the bedroom like a little chicken.’

  ‘Cluck, cluck, hen,’ says Mother, flapping out her elbows like wings.

  Betty smiles weakly and scans the kitchen for bottles but she can’t see any.

  At dinner, Reggie sits head of the table, his hair oiled to one side.

  ‘Feeling better duckie?’ he calls to Betty.

  ‘Let’s hope what her mother has isn’t contagious,’ mumbles Sam.

  ‘You’ll not talk about our landlady dearest like that,’ snaps Reggie.

  They all go quiet. Betty sets down the water jug and glances at Gallagher. He is squashed between two other reporters, his elbows tightly at his sides, his eyes fixed on his placemat and his curls still wet from washing. He doesn’t look at her and she is nervous suddenly.

  ‘So, all’s quiet on the Western Front,’ says Tony. ‘Any ideas what we’re going to headline with next, chaps? Or how long our Cleaver is going to lie low?’

  ‘You’ve been too quiet for my liking,’ says Reggie, turning to Gallagher. ‘Your turn to come up with a new angle for the team to follow, I think.’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Then I’ll disappoint you,’ says Gallagher, his lips barely moving.

  ‘Will you now?’ sneers Reggie.

  ‘We’re not a team.’

  Betty returns from the kitchen with the corned beef stews and all eyes around the table are still fixed on Gallagher. She reaches over his shoulder to set down his dish – she would like to whisper something comforting in his ear – but the dish tilts and a slop of hot stew lands in his lap. He jumps up, his shoulder hits the dish and it ricochets backwards, landing flat against her front. Corned beef and dumpling slide down her blouse.

  ‘Look what you’ve done, you great oaf,’ shouts Reggie and Betty looks aghast. ‘Not you, Betty love. Him. That big lummox.’

  Gallagher’s jaw twitches. He pushes back his chair and storms upstairs. Betty runs into the kitchen, still clutching the dish and mess to her front. Mother whirls around to see and claps a hand over her mouth.

  ‘We’ll have to get you a bib, you mucky pup,’ she splutters, laughing.

  ‘Reggie shouted at Mr Gallagher.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s a big boy.’

  ‘But it’s my fault.’

  ‘Scoot upstairs and get yourself changed, I’ll fix him another plateful,’ says Mother, turning back to whipping the egg whites. ‘Oh, and before I forget,’ she adds casually. ‘I’m going for a spin tomorrow night, now you’re w
ell.’

  ‘With who?’

  Mother taps her finger to the side of her nose.

  ‘Not with Reggie?’

  ‘Ha, no,’ says Mother, grinning. ‘With someone I like very, very much.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Mother shakes her head, once and firm.

  ‘It’s not Mr Forbes, is it?’ says Betty carefully.

  Mother turns to her. Her eyes are black. Her fists are balled up and pressed tightly to her sides. Betty is so stunned, she steps backwards and bumps into the kitchen table. She has never seen that face.

  ‘I hope you have a nice time,’ she murmurs.

  Mother smiles and her face is back as it should be. Betty wonders whether she imagined it.

  She keeps her head down as she passes through the big room. Upstairs, she is about to step into her bedroom when another door opens and Gallagher steps out on to the landing.

  ‘I’m sorry about the stew,’ she says and turns to face him.

  He waves his hand to dismiss it.

  ‘Mother’ll get you fresh,’ she adds.

  He nods and looks down at his shiny toecaps.

  ‘I was ill,’ she says.

  ‘I heard.’

  Then why didn’t you knock or send a note, she wants to know, but she won’t ask aloud.

  ‘I enjoyed St Ives so much,’ she says slowly. ‘And now we’re back.’

  He reaches out and touches her cheek. A long tingle creeps up her spine. She waits for him to kiss her again but he drops his hand.

  ‘Maybe we could go for another drive,’ she tries.

  ‘What happened wasn’t right.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts,’ he cuts in firmly. ‘It’s wrong. Imagine what your mother would say.’

  ‘I don’t care about my mother.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. And either way, I mean it. I should never have—’

  ‘Why not?’

  He sighs and stares hard at her. He must have found someone else; someone prettier and cleverer. Tears prick her eyes but she won’t cry in front of him. She would like to grab his hands and kiss each finger, and let him drive her away again. To America for all she cares, as long as it is just them.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t reset,’ she mutters.

  Gallagher watches her. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Cutlery scrapes on china downstairs. Mother chatters away in a high voice and someone laughs.

  ‘You’ll find a nice young man,’ he says gently.

  ‘I don’t care about nice young men.’

  ‘You’re special, Betty. I intend to leave you that way.’

  She gulps. So this is what he has been thinking these days they have been apart. Foolish of her to imagine he would say anything else.

  ‘You will meet someone. And you’ll forget you ever met me.’

  He strides past her and back downstairs. The front door opens and clicks shut.

  This, then, is what sleepwalking feels like. The afternoon drags on and so does the night. She doesn’t sleep. Eventually it is the next morning, the next afternoon. She could be walking in a bubble, slow and grey and airless, while everyone else busies on as though nothing has changed.

  Betty is still suffocating when Joan arrives with a can of lacquer and a pocket of rags to set Mother’s hair in curls for her special night out. Mother slicks on smudgy mascara and Joan helps to tie her sash before they waltz off downstairs. Mother squeals her goodbyes and clicks to the end of the street while Betty watches through the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she is meeting, but Mother turns the corner and disappears.

  The reporters are all at the Lamb and Flagg and the hotel is empty but for Joan. Betty wonders whether Gallagher is with them at the pub, but she can’t imagine it. She creeps onto the landing and presses an ear to his bedroom door. Silence. She holds her breath.

  ‘Aren’t you coming downstairs to make me a nice cup of tea?’ calls Joan from the hall.

  Betty jumps.

  ‘Coming.’

  Joan is settled on Mother’s bruised armchair, lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘There’s a darling, I’ll have two sugars,’ she says when she sees Betty.

  When Betty returns with the tea, Joan is leafing through Mother’s knitting patterns, her cigarette ash dropping onto the paper. Betty hasn’t the energy to ask her to stop.

  ‘Fetch me some nice jam sponge to go with that, will you, Betty love. Just a smidgeon. Thinking about my hips but I do love your mother’s baking… Now, what do you think of that Reggie? Not exactly a looker is he?’

  Betty says nothing. She trudges back to the kitchen and slices the cake. She eats a slab standing up and carries out a smaller piece for Joan who will ask for seconds anyway.

  ‘Is it Reggie she’s seeing tonight?’ Joan continues.

  Betty shrugs.

  ‘Didn’t she tell you either?’ presses Joan. ‘She can keep a secret, can our Dolores.’

  Joan eats her cake, smokes two cigarettes and tucks one of Mother’s knitting patterns into her handbag. Betty reads six newspaper articles, all with Gallagher’s name at the top. Joan’s eyelids begin to droop.

  ‘Mother asked you to stay here and look after me, didn’t she?’ says Betty.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Joan?’

  ‘Fine, she did,’ says Joan, slurping the last of her tea. ‘You’ve had flu or something, haven’t you? She wanted me to keep an eye on you. It’s only because she loves you.’

  ‘I’m fine. You should go home to Richard. He’ll be wanting his supper.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ says Joan, already on her feet.

  She clasps Betty in an awkward hug. Betty walks her outside and waits on the doorstep as Joan lets herself into her own house, just next door. Betty is about to step back into the hall and shut out the dark road when she notices a streak of white on the doorframe. Closer, she sees that it is lumpy seagull mess dried on to the wood. She goes to the kitchen for a scouring pad, returns and begins scrubbing. She has turned over the scourer and is working it into the wood when she hears a pair of feet on the pavement. Someone is panting. She should go back indoors and double lock the front door but she freezes.

  Her hand is frozen and the scourer is still pressed to the doorframe. Suddenly a shadowy figure appears behind her. She can’t make out the figure’s face, only a hat, a long coat, and two man hands hustling her into the hall.

  ‘Get away,’ she cries, but it comes out as a gurgle.

  Betty trips over her own feet and drops the scourer. She can smell wet wool and something earthy and metallic. She wants to scream but her lips and lungs don’t connect with her brain.

  Her back is against the hall wall now and the figure stands over her. Betty tries to push him away but it is like pushing at a lamppost. His hat is tilted down and his dark collar is pulled high. Two hands reach out and push closed the front door. They are smeared red. Something glints.

  ‘Stop,’ she calls, but she sounds feeble, even to her own ears.

  In the weak light, Betty sees what glinted. A ring. A familiar solitaire.

  ‘Mr Gallagher?’

  ‘It’s me,’ he whispers at the same time.

  She is half relieved for a second, until he takes off his hat and she sees the spray of red on his jaw.

  ‘Don’t look at me, Betty.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  She sees his face differently now. His eyes are bloodshot and unnaturally wide, his coat is sodden and red fingerprints smear his face. She still wants to scream but instead she guides him to the kitchen.

  ‘We found her—’ his voice cracks.

  Betty clutches the edge of the sink to steady herself.

  ‘Mother?’

  He shakes his head and she relaxes a fraction. Gallagher begins to cry and crumples to the floor.

  ‘A girl. We had to carry her to the ambulance… Napier and I… Met on the beach to tell me something… And the blood still came�
��’ he heaves in a deep breath.

  She digs her fingers into the hard sink.

  ‘Who?’ she breathes.

  ‘Napier didn’t recognise her… A fishing hook… Blood spurting…’

  He sobs in a dry, guttural sort of way while she stands over him, frozen solid, letting his tears wet her feet. His arms wrap around her ankles and his shoulders tremble as he presses his face into her shins.

  ‘Her eyes were bulging and—’

  ‘Stop it,’ she says.

  He looks up at her face, still kneeling and hugging her ankles.

  ‘You think it was me, don’t you?’ he splutters. ‘Dear God, you actually think I could hurt someone.’

  Betty looks at him harder. She thinks she might unpeel her legs from his grasp. She might tie him to the kitchen table somehow so she is safe, then run outside. She would bang on Joan’s door or find a policeman, and she would stand under the streetlamp until they cart him off – until everyone is safe again. Mother would come home then. They would toast bread with sugar and cinnamon to calm her.

  ‘Ssh, it’s all right,’ says Betty instead.

  She crouches on the floor, level with Gallagher, and she hugs him while he shivers. His hands are frozen. She rubs them inside her own to thaw them.

  Blood has smeared her ankles but she doesn’t wash it away. She holds him for a long time; until the temperature in the kitchen plummets and the metallic smell sets in her nose, then she guides him up to his room and tucks him into bed. She sponges his face and hands with water from the basin in the corner, while he lies still. When she has dried him gently and unlaced his sandy shoes, she kneels at his bedside and strokes his hair in a jerky, uncertain way.

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ he says, looking hard into her eyes.

  She gulps.

  ‘Yes… yes I do,’ she says, and she keeps stroking his hair until she loses him to sleep.

  Part Two

  Chapter 10

  August 1956

  Betty’s footsteps echo in the empty street. She walks faster as she nears Mr Forbes’s butcher’s shop, shivering though the sun is high and bright. She tells herself that she is only hurrying because she is late to meet Gallagher, and she glances into the shop window as she passes. The lights are switched off and the silver display trays are empty but for a cow shoulder, buzzing with bluebottles, that hangs from a meat hook.