So I filled my time by familiarising myself with my adopted home through exploratory field trips. My fascination with architecture remained and there was much to absorb, like William Marcel’s pre-First World War H?tel du Golf, and the ochre-red country club in Chantaco I’d read about in my father’s Reader’s Digest magazines.
My evenings were occupied by listening to hostellers reminiscing about their pre-travelling lives, while offering little about my own background. My scant smokescreen involved leaving university to spend a couple of years being part of the world, not merely studying it from the sidelines.
It was a plausible story that I repeated so often, I’d begun to believe it myself.
30 June
‘You should’ve told me you’re looking for a job,’ said Bradley, the American-born hostel manager. He was an amiable man in his late thirties with shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair and Elvis-sized sideburns. His surfer’s saline tan etched deep white lines into his face and aged him prematurely.
‘Yes, do you know of one?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Well, it’s not much, but we need a janitor. Someone who can check people in and out too, and do odd jobs. It doesn’t pay much, but you’ll get your bed and board for free.’
It sounded ideal and I began the next day. The role offered extra perks I hadn’t accounted for. I could raid the cupboard of forgotten clothes, read literature in the ‘Take a book, leave a book’ library and practise my language skills with other travellers.
I gave walls fresh licks of paint, hammered loose floorboards, wiped vomit from bathroom toilets and welcomed new guests. Ample free time and reliable surf enabled me to learn the skills of wave riding, thanks to Bradley’s patient lessons and his collection of colourful surfboards. Once I’d mastered the basics, scuba diving became my next challenge, followed by horse-trekking excursions through the neighbouring mountain foothills.
My evenings were golden – the day of work followed by an hour on the beach watching the sun set over a joint or two with Bradley, and finally shots of Jack Daniels and Coke at one of the local bistros.
I adapted to my new way of life with gusto. And with my baggage consigned to sealed boxes in my head, I was at ease living in a way I’d never dared to dream of. To the eyes of a stranger, and even myself, I had no discernible essence.
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
17 June
‘Just tell us where he is!’ Shirley yelled as I grabbed her shoulder and shoved her out the front door.
‘Get out now!’ I screamed back.
Shirley’s exasperated voice echoed around the house as I gave her and Arthur their marching orders.
For half an hour, Simon’s dad and stepmother had subjected me to a bitter barrage of questions and accusations, and I’d had enough. My nerves were already in tatters without them sticking their oars in. I’d expected them to turn up on our doorstep sooner, but they’d clearly been too busy spending their days festering over how he could’ve vanished into thin air. And they were convinced I must have had something to do with it.
When they’d arrived, I’d made the most of the light summer night and sent the children into the garden to play. Then I took a deep breath and slowly walked the green mile to the living room. There, Arthur and Shirley sat side by side, their arms and legs crossed.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Simon,’ I began, ‘but I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘You think it’s acceptable for us to hear from the police that our son is missing?’ barked Shirley. ‘We should have been told immediately.’
‘Yes, I know, and I apologise. But I asked Roger to keep you informed, and he’s Simon’s closest friend, so it wasn’t like you were told by a total stranger. And I’d really rather not get into an argument with you about it right now. It’s been a hideous couple of weeks.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard. It must be quite stressful spending afternoons with the children at the cinema while their father might be lying dead somewhere,’ she sniped.
‘Shirley, it wasn’t like that. It was one afternoon, and on Roger’s advice. And they’re my children, so I’ll decide what’s best for them, not you.’
She shouldn’t have dragged the kids into it, especially since their grandparents barely even played a supporting role in their lives. They lived in the next village but rarely offered to babysit or pick them up from school. A stranger would be forgiven for assuming they had no grandchildren.
After the funeral, they’d hardly bothered to offer either of us help, or a shoulder to cry on. I’m sure that must have hurt Simon, but he’d not admitted it.
I’d always presumed their lack of interest in us was my fault. They remembered a boy who was once infatuated by Alan Whicker’s travel documentaries and who’d dreamed of exploring the world’s architecture. Then, by twenty-three, he was a married man and later, saddled with his own family. Even before we walked up the aisle, he tried to convince them that all he’d ever wanted was his own normal, loving family, but they wanted more for him than that.
I recalled his relationship with Shirley wasn’t easy. She was a big, bottle-blonde hurricane of a woman who burst into Arthur’s life a couple of years after he’d kicked Doreen out. I remembered how, when we were teenagers, Simon often moaned about how she’d order him to do his homework and tell him off for smoking. But then she’d clean up his bedroom and cook him meals, and all without expecting anything in return. He might never have loved her, but she showed him what a mum was capable of. I never admitted it, but I’d been envious he had parents who cared.
They were at a loss to understand why, after all Doreen had put Simon through, he would do the same to his own family. With no proof to the contrary, they’d decided I’d driven him away.
‘Were you pressuring him to do better at work?’ began Arthur, awkwardly.
‘No.’
‘Were you giving him the support he needed?’ Shirley demanded to know.
‘Yes, of course I was.’
‘Did he really want all those little ones so soon?’
‘Yes, Shirley. I didn’t get pregnant by myself.’
‘You could have tricked him. A lot of women do, to get what they want.’
‘What, four times?’
‘Well, why did he leave then?’
‘He hasn’t left, he’s disappeared. And it has nothing to do with our children!’
‘That doesn’t rule you out as the cause though, does it, dear?’
I rolled my eyes as we went round in circles. I took a bottle of wine from the cupboard and poured myself a glass without offering them one. They looked at each other with disapproval but I didn’t care. I took an extra-large gulp to make a point.
‘Are you sure you don’t know where he is?’ asked Shirley.
‘What kind of question is that?’ I replied, taken aback. ‘Do you think we’d be sitting here having this conversation if I did?’
‘Now’s the time to tell us, Catherine. Just put us all out of our misery. Does Simon have another woman? Is that what it is? Is he with her now? You’re hurting our grandchildren if you’re putting your own pride first and pretending he’s just disappeared.’