The Disappearance. Annabel Kantaria

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      ‘Red. Sit down,’ he says, his mouth still full, flecks of pastry escaping as he speaks. He nods to the table. ‘I don’t know what all this is for, but I have something to tell you.’

      Audrey goes silently to the chair, sits down. She puts her hands neatly on the table, her fingers intertwined.

      ‘What is it?’ She cocks her head. Ralph chews. Audrey waits for him to swallow.

      ‘Something important,’ he says.

      Audrey raises one shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs. It’s a question: what?

      Ralph looks at her levelly, steeples his hands in front of his mouth, index fingers touching his lips: ‘We’re moving to England.’

      Audrey knows better than to say anything before Ralph’s finished.

      ‘There’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay,’ he says. ‘My company will be relocating us.’

      ‘Is this to do with …?’ she can’t say it. She can’t mention the dead man. But maybe the recent court case sits uncomfortably with his company: no-one wants a killer on their payroll. Ralph holds up a hand to stop her.

      ‘As I said, there’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay.’ He pauses. ‘For the record, it is nothing whatsoever to do with events that may have taken place.’

      They sit in silence. Audrey’s shocked. She’d thought they would remain in India long-term. It’s her home now. She thinks of the life she’s built for herself here; the way she’s fallen in love with India. She’s going to miss the garden, the house – the ayah, the houseboy, the cook. She’s going to miss the teeming mass of humanity that is Bombay; the sights, the smells, the sounds, the heat, the relief that the monsoon brings. She’s going to miss Janet and her precious visits to the dusty church. England in comparison seems dreary – in her mind, it’s flat, two-dimensional. For Audrey, the greyness of her home country has grown out of all proportion; she’s forgotten that England has sunshine, too. In her memory, the sun never shines back home; England is a country of tragedy and of gravestones; a country in which even nature cries real tears.

      ‘You needn’t worry about a thing,’ says Ralph after some time. ‘I have funds to purchase a house of significant standing in London.’

      ‘And Madhu?’ asks Audrey. ‘Will she come with us?’

      Ralph lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘You’ll have to learn to look after the children yourself. You won’t need to work. How difficult will it be to look after two small children? Millions of women do it.’

      Audrey remains silent. The fact is, while she was happy enough to take on the twins, parenting’s far harder than she imagined. She’s not a natural mother: soothing crying babies doesn’t come easily to her and she’s become dependent on the ayah, for whom these things are intuitive. ‘Magic Madhu,’ she says gratefully when the ayah eases John out of a tantrum or helps Alexandra drop off to sleep. The thought of having to get up in the night to deal with the vagaries of the children terrifies her almost more than the thought of moving back to England.

      Ralph takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips contentedly. He leans back in his chair, every inch the boss. ‘If I’ve been quiet the last few weeks it’s because I’ve been thinking. There’s plenty to plan. The shippers are coming on Monday.’ Then he raises his glass to Audrey, takes a swig: ‘Cheers to that.’

       February, 2013

       Penzance, Cornwall

      The pub John had asked me to meet him in was easy to find; the Sunday afternoon parking not so. In the end, I’d left the car in the town car park and walked the riddle of streets to The Fisherman’s Arms. John sat alone at a table, stooped over his mobile phone, a pint of Cornish cider on a cardboard drinks mat in front of him. He wore a tatty green sweater, jeans, hiking boots – the picture of the scruffy millionaire. He stood up to greet me.

      ‘Hi,’ he said.

      ‘Hi.’ There was an awkward pause during which I thought about giving him a little hug, but John sat straight back down and the moment was lost. I knew it was nothing personal – this was just how John was. I’d always been the more demonstrative twin. Mum used to joke about it: ‘Alexandra does the emotion for both of you,’ she’d say, laughing. ‘And John does the bossiness,’ I’d add under my breath.

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t get you a drink,’ he said, nodding towards the pint. ‘You’re driving, right?’

      ‘Yes. But I’ll have a coffee.’ I ordered at the bar, then pulled out a chair and sat across from John at the table. My knees knocked the wood when I tried to cross my legs. I uncrossed them and leaned forward on the table instead, unsure of how this conversation was going to go. John had called the meeting.

      ‘We’ve both watched her for a few months now,’ he’d said on the phone. ‘You can’t deny she’s vague. You can’t deny she forgets things. More than I think is normal for her age. She clean forgot I was coming down once. I think we should get together and have a think about how we’re going to take this forward.’

      John was right. Mum hadn’t been herself. But it wasn’t anything I could put my finger on specifically. Yes, she forgot stuff – but who didn’t? I had the best part of three decades on her and I forgot stuff. I had ‘senior moments’ myself. Yes, she was always looking off into the distance and reminiscing about the past. This, I couldn’t deny. But was it serious? I was for a more organic approach. I felt the decision to move had to come from Mum herself, not from John and me pushing her.

      ‘So – what are your thoughts?’ John asked me now. That’s my brother: straight to the point.

      ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?’ I said.

      John rolled his eyes and I goggled mine back at him.

      ‘She seems okay?’ I said.

      John sighed. ‘I thought you might be like this.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Defending her.’

      ‘I’m not defending her.’

      ‘Yes, you are.’

      ‘No, I’m not. She seems okay. A little forgetful, maybe. A little vague. But she’s nearly seventy. I’m sure that’s normal. Physically, she’s in great shape. We walked a bit of the South West Coast path last month.’

      ‘I’m not asking whether or not it’s normal,’ John said. ‘I’m not saying she has dementia. What I’m saying is that this is as good as it’s going to get. It’s only going to get worse from here in. She’s not getting any younger.’ He gave me a minute to absorb his words. ‘I’m asking you to help me come up with a way to move forward. I have a lot on my plate. I need to get this settled in my head before we get into crisis management mode.’

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