The Half-Life Of Hannah (Hannah series Book 1) Page 8

  This turns out to be a wise decision, because when they reach the location Tristan put into Cliff’s GPS, they find not a water-park but a vast bill-board advertisement to a water-park in a place called Fréjus. The GPS informs them that though the route to Fréjus does begin in the direction the yellow arrow on the signpost indicates, it is, in reality, an entirely different town an hour and a half’s drive away.

  “So we drive to Frejus, I guess,” Hannah says.

  “There’s no turning back now,” Cliff agrees. “We’d never hear the end of it if we did. Let’s just hope that it’s worth it.”

  ***

  The sun is dipping behind the olive trees by the time they get back to the Villa.

  Hannah finds Tristan and Jill drinking rosé and smoking on the patio. They look up lazily to greet the returned travellers.

  “Wow! Someone’s caught the sun,” Jill says.

  “I know,” Hannah replies. “I kept smothering myself in that factor fifty stuff, but after yesterday’s fry-up...”

  Tristan glances at Jill. He raises an eyebrow and Hannah pauses, thinking that he’s silently prompting Jill to say something, something they have previously discussed – an agreed announcement perhaps.

  After an almost-imperceptible head-shake on Jill’s part, Tristan turns back to Hannah. “So how was it?” he asks. “Fun?”

  Hannah glances behind her to check that she’s still alone – the others are emptying the car – before whispering, “Awful. A million screaming children. And loads of chavvy adults barging their way into the queues. Those two loved it though.”

  “I didn’t know they had chavs in France,” Jill says.

  “Nor did I,” Hannah says, “until we got to Aquasplash.”

  “Poor you,” Jill says. “Was Aïsha OK?”

  “Honestly Jill, she had such a good time. She was like a little girl all over again. It was a joy to see.”

  Aïsha, Luke and Cliff appear laden with towels and bags and booty which they dump on a free chair.

  “Good?” Tristan asks again.

  “Awesome,” Luke says. “Look!” He rounds the table and thrusts a fridge magnet under Tristan’s nose. It contains a photo of him and Aïsha on an inflatable tyre in white-water rapids.

  “They have a machine that makes these,” Luke says, waving the magnet. “It was ten euros.”

  “Wow, that does look like fun,” Tristan says.

  “Show me?” Jill holds out her hand and then studying the photo, continues, “Gosh, yes. That does look good.”

  “Mum went down it too,” Luke says, “but she fell off and hurt her ear.”

  “It’s true,” Hannah says, nodding shamefully. “It kept bouncing off the sides and eventually it threw me off completely. I thought the whole thing was pretty dangerous to be honest.”

  “Do we have a photo of that?” Tristan asks.

  Hannah shakes her head. “It’s automatic so it took a photo of my rubber ring, but I was drowning some way behind.”

  “And there were those tubes you slide down,” Luke says. “And a thing like a helter-skelter but with water in it. And there were these ropes that you hold on to and they pull you really fast across the pool.”

  “Wow,” Jill says. “All of that, huh?” She reaches out to touch her daughter’s arm. “And you. Did you have fun?”

  Aïsha shrugs. “It was OK I suppose,” she says.

  A wave of anger rises up in Hannah. She could almost slap Aïsha for that. They have driven a hundred miles today. They have spent almost two-hundred euros. And Aïsha spent the four hours in the water park grinning like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Her response is disingenuous to say the least. She opens her mouth to say something, but then catches Jill’s eye, and Jill winks. Jill gets it, which means that it doesn’t really matter. So Hannah just licks her lips and exhales instead.

  “The pool here is full now,” Tristan says. “The heater is on too. It’s almost bearable. I reckon it’ll be nice and warm by tomorrow.”

  Luke and Aïsha head immediately to the pool and in less than a minute can be heard splashing and shrieking again.

  “She had such a good time,” Hannah says. “I don’t know why she can’t just say so.”

  Cliff returns from the kitchen with two extra glasses. He sits down and slops wine into both of them. “A really good time,” he confirms. “They both did. But it wasn’t at all where you said it was, Tris’.”

  Tristan frowns. “What d’you mean? We drove past it. It’s just outside Antibes.”

  Cliff and Hannah shake their heads in unison.

  “You drove past the sign,” Cliff explains. “It’s actually just an advertisement. The park is in Fréjus – an hour up the motorway.”

  “God, sorry,” Tristan says. “I was driving, you know? I was in traffic, so I didn’t read the small print.”

  “It’s fine,” Hannah says. “The extra drive was just a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”

  Everyone reaches for their glasses at the same time and a silence falls over the table. Hannah suspects that she’s picking up a vibe. Tristan seems still to keep glancing at Jill. He looks nervous. They both do.

  “So what have you two been up to?” Hannah asks, determined to pierce this particular mystery.

  “Nothing,” Tristan says, a little too quickly.

  “Nothing,” Jill repeats, and there it is again: that nervous glance between them.

  “It was just a normal lazy day, wasn’t it Jill?” Tristan says.

  “Yep,” Jill says.

  Jill never says ‘Yep.’

  “We just lazed around,” she adds. “Nothing really happened.”

  “Right,” Hannah says. She doesn’t believe them one bit.

  FOURTEEN

  After dinner – a goats cheese and artichoke salad which Tristan prepared earlier, served with fresh crispy chunks of baguette – Hannah leaves everyone at the table and starts to tidy the kitchen. Tristan is a good cook, but a messy one. But she doesn’t mind; something in the atmosphere outside has been unsettling her, and she’d rather just escape it to be honest. She’s too tired to spend the evening trying to decode something if no one wants to tell her.

  She is stacking the dishwasher – specifically scraping the contents of Aïsha and Luke’s plates into the bin – when Jill enters the room.

  She crosses to the window, tosses a, “Sorry, mosquitos,” to those beyond it, and closes both sides firmly. She then returns to the kitchen door and closes that too.

  “I knew there was something going on,” Hannah says, straightening.

  “I need a word,” Jill says, looking nervously beyond the window to check that everyone has remained seated.

  “That sounds ominous,” Hannah says. “You haven’t had a row with...”

  The kitchen door bursts open and Aïsha peers in. “Can I make some toast?” she asks.

  “No,” Jill says, uncharacteristically. “No you can’t.”

  “But I’m still h–”

  “You should have eaten your salad.”

  “It was rank,” Aïsha says.

  “It wasn’t rank. It was absolutely gorgeous. As you would have found out if you had tried it instead of wrinkling your nose and pushing it around the plate.”

  “Jill,” Aïsha whines. “I’m starving.”

  “Tristan went to a lot of trouble to make that, so, you know, just wait a bit. If you’re still hungry later then I’ll let you make some toast, but doing it right after dinner is just plain rude.”

  “Luke says he’s hungry too,” Aïsha says. “Anyway, it was Tristan who told me to come and make toast in the first place. Can I? Can I?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Jill spits, grabbing Aïsha’s arm and yanking her into the kitchen. “Just do what you want. You always do anyway.”

  She then pushes Aïsha – who looks as if she might cry – towards the toaster, and grabs Hannah’s arm and pulls her out of the kitchen before starting to bustle her down the hallway towa
rds the bedrooms.

  “Jill,” Hannah protests. “Whatever is the mat–”

  Jill pushes Hannah into the blue room and then closes and locks the bedroom door behind her. She then crosses and closes the bedroom window as well – the shutters are already closed.

  “Jill you’re scaring me now,” Hannah says, drying her wet hands on the back of her jeans.

  “Come,” Jill says more softly now, sitting side-saddle on the bed and holding out both hands.

  Hannah twists her mouth sideways but places her fingers in Jill’s hands and sits.

  “There was a phone call while you were out,” Jill says.

  “A phone call.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh God!” Hannah says. “It’s not Mister Mittens, is it?” Mister Mittens is Luke’s cat. A neighbour is feeding him while they’re away. Luke loves Mister Mittens more than life itself.

  “No,” Jill says, smiling briefly at this. “No, it’s not Mister Mittens.”

  “Thank God for that,” Hannah says. “But what then?”

  “It’s... Look... It was James,” Jill says. “James phoned.”

  Hannah looks at her blankly. She doesn’t know anyone called James. Or rather she doesn’t know anyone alive called James. She wracks her brain, but no, the only James she ever knew belongs to the past, belonged, in fact, to a different century. “James?” she repeats.

  “James,” Jill says, nodding as if encouraging her to guess a quiz question.

  Hannah mentally lists Jill’s boyfriends in case she has missed one. Then she starts on Tristan’s many partners. “I’m sorry, Jill,” she says. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “God!” Jill exclaims, glancing at the ceiling for inspiration. “James!” she says again, with added panache as if this might somehow help. “Cliff’s brother.”

  Hannah freezes. She holds her breath and stares into her sister’s eyes. She can see the reflection of the lampshade in them, two little orange squares stretched across the spherical surface of her eyes. She can sense the blood draining from her face. She shakes her head. “But that’s impossible,” she says. “James is dead. You know he is.”

  Jill grips her hands tightly and peers into her eyes. “Only he isn’t, Han’,” she says. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He phoned this afternoon to get the address. He’s on his way here.”

  Hannah sighs and frowns deeply, then slowly she shakes her head. “No,” she says, matter-of-factly.

  Jill nods, visually contradicting her.

  “God, I get it. You’re high, aren’t you,” Hannah says, starting to breathe again as the absurdity of Jill’s proposition sinks in.

  “I knew this was going to be hard for you,” Jill says.

  “Jill!” Hannah says, her voice shrill now. “It’s not hard for me. James died. He had a bike accident in India years ago. You know that, I know that, we all know that.”

  “Only he didn’t,” Jill says, struggling, but failing to keep hold of Hannah’s hands as she pulls them away. “I spoke to him, today.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Hannah says. “Why are you doing this? Why are you lying to me?”

  “Hannah...”

  “Even if he were alive – which we both know he isn’t – he couldn’t possibly know we’re down here. Is this supposed to be funny? Are you so stoned that you think this is funny?”

  “He went to the house. To your house. Marjorie told him.”

  “Marjorie.”

  “Your neighbour.”

  “You see! Lies!” Hannah laughs sourly. “Marjorie doesn’t even have the address. What on Earth has got into you?”

  “I know,” Jill says. “That’s why he phoned. To get the address. Marjorie gave him the number here – you must have left it with her – and he phoned and I gave him the address.”

  Hannah stands. “This is rubbish, Jill,” she says. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but this is bullshit. And I’m not playing.”

  “Hannah?” Jill says. She is still seated on the bed. “Hannah!” she shouts as Hannah fumbles with the lock and then bursts from the bedroom.

  Hannah collides with Cliff who is at that second stepping out of the bathroom. “Oh!” he says, in shock, then, registering her expression he asks, “What’s wrong? Whatever’s happened?”

  Hannah opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Cliff glances past her and sees Jill standing in the doorway. “Jill?”

  Hannah shakes her head. “She’s lost it, Cliff,” she says. “This time, she has really lost it.”

  Jill is advancing nervously towards them. “Han’,” she says. “Wait. Let me...”

  “Just... just keep her away from me Cliff,” Hannah says. “I can’t be doing with it.”

  Hannah pushes past Cliff and strides to the front door, out past Tristan and the kids – all gaping – then rounds the house and leans back against the wall. It’s still hot from the sun, almost too hot to bear.

  She stares at the shimmering water of the pool and she tries to catch her breath. Moths, attracted by the underwater lights are fluttering against the surface of the water.

  “Will you please just tell me what is going on?” – Cliff’s voice. He’s walking towards her looking almost angry. “Jill won’t tell me.”

  “You shouldn’t get involved in this,” Hannah says. “It would just... it would be... You wouldn’t... God. Look, there’s no need for you to get involved. Just leave me alone and...”

  “I think there’s every reason for me to get involved,” Cliff says. “Look at you. You’re shaking. Jill’s upset. You’re freaking Luke out. What just happened here Hannah?”

  “It’s her,” Hannah says, nodding vaguely into the distance. “She’s high on drugs or something.”

  “And this is news, because...?” Cliff says.

  Hannah shrugs. She wonders if she can tell Cliff what Jill has said. She tries to calculate how much hurt that might cause him. She tries to work out if there’s any way to avoid telling him.

  “Look, one minute we’re having dinner and everything’s fine, and the next...” Cliff is saying.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah says. “But I suppose you’ll have to know. Jill claims that James phoned.”

  “James,” Cliff says flatly.

  “Yes. She’s been trying to tell me that James phoned. Here. While we were out. She reckons he’s been miraculously raised from the dead and he’s on his way here.”

  “My brother James?” Cliff says.

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s coming here?” Cliff exclaims, his eyes widening. “Why would he be coming here?”

  Hannah shrugs. “That’s what my crazy doped up sister...” Her voice fades. Cliff’s response has belatedly struck her. “Cliff?” she asks.

  Cliff stares back at her. He looks anxious. He looks like a rabbit in the headlights.

  “Oh Cliff! Oh God, no.”

  “I...” Cliff says.

  “You... you know, don’t you?” Hannah says.

  “I...” he says again.

  “Jesus Christ!” Hannah says, feeling faint now. “He isn’t dead at all, is he?”

  “I... I’m sorry,” Cliff says, reaching out to touch her arm.

  Hannah uses her right hand to push him away, and her left to cover her mouth. “Oh Cliff,” she says. “Oh, how could you?”

  Cliff only approaches Hannah one more time that evening. She is lying in the hammock with a blanket, staring at the night sky. He approaches and says, “Hannah, we need to...”

  “Stay away from me, Cliff!” she says. It came out too loudly, and the whole household probably heard. But she doesn’t care. It will keep them away.

  And she needs them to stay away. She needs the time and space to remember, time and space to rewrite the narrative of fifteen years of married life.

  FIFTEEN

  James

  James meant nothing to me to start with. He was Cliff’s younger brother. That was it. It was the fifteenth of J
une, and it was raining.

  I was three months pregnant, a pregnancy that was neither planned, nor a shock, nor even much of a surprise: though we hadn’t been trying to have a child, we hadn’t been trying very hard not to have one either. We both wanted kids. It was fine.

  It had been raining for days, endlessly, relentlessly. It was so dark outside that I had the lights on. I remember thinking that if one more person said, “I hope it clears up by next Saturday,” I would scream. No one wants to get married in the rain. Well, maybe someone somewhere in Africa does, but we certainly didn’t.

  Everything was ready. We’re both good organisers and we were back then too. There was no real stress to focus on other than the weather, which I suppose is why everyone kept banging on about it. Neither Cliff nor I were religious so it was to be a simple registry office service, and neither were we flamboyant, so the reception we had booked was a simple catered affair in a country pub. We had been living together for two years by then anyway and Cliff’s mother, our only remaining parent, had died the year before – there was no point making a fuss.

  Was I disappointed already by the lack of lustre? Perhaps, a little.

  There had been a time, just a few years earlier, when I had wobbled on a knife-edge between gothic flamboyancy and being ordinary. It really could have gone either way.

  At the beginning of my fling with Ben I had fantasised about marrying him, and that fantasy had involved Blur playing a concert at our wedding (Ben claimed to know Graham Coxon, the guitarist, though I never saw any proof of that while I was dating him), and inevitably a Harley Davidson to whisk us away to our honeymoon (Ben was a biker.)

  It’s not that this image matched who I was any more than the cliché of becoming a Surrey housewife did; it’s just that I was young – I was still a blank canvas ready to take whatever life wanted to throw at me.

  When Ben’s ego turned out to be impossible to live with, Cliff’s calm middle-England approach seemed like the obvious alternative.