Persistence of Memory

by Winona Kent

  “I do believe,” Sarah remarked, casually, to Charlie, “that you have managed to capture the affections of Mr. Deeley.”

  Charlie glanced at Sarah. “And what would you think about that?” she inquired, with care.

  “It is his employer I dislike. Mr. Deeley is…” Sarah searched for the words, then smiled. “…very good with his hands.”

  Charlie laughed. Then caught herself. For a moment, she had almost considered it a possibility. But she was not of this time. And her mind had been so overwhelmed with the events of the past two days, she had not allowed herself to contemplate what might come next.

  But now she was contemplating it. Quite seriously. What would happen if she didn’t go back?

  It was not unpleasant here. Dreadfully inconvenient, yes. And she couldn’t begin to imagine how she was going to manage when her period was due…or if she was suddenly in need of a tooth to be filled…

  But…there was Mr. Deeley. As she had been sitting with him, her hands beside his on the piano keys, her heart had been filled with such a soaring joy. Something she’d forgotten. Something she now realized she had missed, in all the years since Jeff had died, and now yearned to have back. Something she’d lost…and had now rediscovered.

  And the thought of it suddenly—and unaccountably—caused tears to well up in her eyes.

  “My dear!” Sarah exclaimed. “It has been five years! Your time of mourning is long over. There is a season for everything…and our time on this earth is so fleeting. You have allowed yourself to grieve…but now, I am certain—I am more than certain—you must allow yourself some happiness.”

  Charlie looked at the spot on the kitchen wall where, two centuries on, a five-year-old calendar hung, permanently reminding her of the month and day that Jeff had ceased to be.

  “Think of it!” Sarah continued, “You and Mr. Collins had so longed for children…”

  “It isn’t that, Sarah. It’s…” How could she possibly explain?

  “And you could not ask for a better prospect than Mr. Deeley. He earns a good wage. And his future employment is secured.”

  “You will marry again, Sarah,” Charlie said, trying desperately to change the subject. “And you will have two more children. A boy and a girl. Augustus and Emily.”

  Sarah opened the kitchen door, and tipped the soapy water out into the bare patch of earth behind the foxgloves.

  Mary followed, with the rinsing bowl. “Augustus,” she said, with great thought. “I believe I should quite like to have a brother called Augustus.”

  Sarah laughed. “Augustus indeed. I think not.”

  She took the two bowls back inside, as Mary, acquitted from dish rinsing, seized the opportunity to disappear into the sitting room.

  “But it is true,” Charlie protested. “I have a way of…seeing things. A way of knowing what is in your future…”

  Sarah’s smile faded, and was replaced by a worried frown. “Do you read the cards? And see patterns in tea leaves and upon the palm of the hand? The Gypsies who live in the New Forest practice these dark arts…”

  “No—nothing like that!” Charlie assured her. “It’s like a…a sort of understanding. And the understanding is that you will marry again.”

  Sarah was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

  “And you will live a good long life, Sarah, with grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. You must believe me when I tell you this.”

  “And what does your special understanding tell you about your own future?” Sarah countered. “Will you marry again? Will you have children and grandchildren?”

  “I wish I knew,” Charlie answered, unhappily.

  “It does seem a great shame,” Sarah said, “that you cannot foresee what is next for yourself…yet you are uncommonly certain about what is in store for me. A Gypsy woman named Esmerelda read my tea leaves at the Village Fair last year. And she was of much the same opinion as you. Another marriage. And other children. But I cannot see the logic of such things, Catherine. It is the stuff of fancy and conjecture.”

  “There may be an opportunity to fulfill Esmerelda’s prediction at tomorrow night’s ball,” Charlie said. “There are sure to be guests, a complement of unattached gentlemen of means, who Mr. Deeley would happily contrive to make your acquaintance.”

  The idea had only just come to her. Convincing Sarah to attend the Grand Summer Ball would be half the battle won. A partial result was better than no result at all.

  “Oh, indeed,” Sarah laughed. “And having successfully dispensed with the lesser Monsieur Duran, I shall then marry one of his contemporaries. And give birth to a son I shall name Augustus, so that each time Monsieur Duran passes him in the village, he will be reminded of his unfortunate decision to send me a gown.”

  She paused to dry her hands on the old piece of linen Mary had left hanging by the fire.

  “A not altogether displeasing scheme,” she admitted.

  “And so you would consider taking another husband?” Charlie asked.

  “Of course I would,” Sarah replied. “But the more pressing question might be, would a gentleman of means, who has either managed to avoid marriage into middle age, or who has suffered a tragic loss and has now ended his grieving and is of a mind to remarry, be willing to consider me? With three children of my own, and nothing to bring to the union but a cottage and an independent mind.”

  She paused again.

  “No,” she decided. “No. I will not risk it. Mr. Deeley may accompany you to the ball, but I shall stay behind.”

  “And Monsieur Duran…?”

  “Monsieur Duran,” Sarah said, hanging up the tattered piece of linen, “is welcome to amuse himself. As I’m quite certain he does. Unceasingly.”

  She would not interfere. She would not. She had done her best, and still could not convince Sarah to change her mind.

  Charlie excused herself, and went outside to think.

  There was still the lunch tomorrow, with Monsieur Duran and his father.

  There was still time for the lesser Monsieur Duran to say something—anything—that she could take back to Sarah as an offering.

  Even if it was to be a loveless marriage, she would have security and comfort. She would be looked after, as would her children…and her two future children, thus guaranteeing the orderly progression of descendancy.

  And perhaps, she thought, hopefully, Monsieur Duran might confine his…unnatural habits…to clandestine affairs with his maids, and reserve the marital bed for more traditional practices.

  Charlie shook her head. What was she thinking? This was madness.

  She needed to walk. By herself. She needed to clear her mind.

  It was a lovely summer’s evening, and without the ever-present reminders of life in the 21st century that Charlie was used to. There were no jet trails criss-crossing the sky and no aircraft glinting their way to and from Gatwick and Heathrow. There were no whining car engines, no diesel lorries taking an illegal shortcut past the Village Green. And there was nothing of the foul exhaust that they left in their wake.

  It was, in fact, very, very quiet. And the twilight was scented with woodsmoke and garden flowers and something that she could only describe, in her imagination, as green. Shrubs and trees and grass: a wilderness kind of smell that had been lost when paved roads and frantic commerce had inflicted their brand of civilization on the countryside.

  She walked along the cart track that was Cliff Road. There were no lights. There was barely habitation at this end of the village, though in the future it was destined to be populated by expensive houses with even more expensive views, sun decks and swimming pools. This was where Sam would live with Roger, in a house they could barely afford, but one which allowed Sam a cachet of wealth and privilege.

  A little further along, the track sloped down to the familiar shingle beach. The moon was rising, shining like a brilliant silver lantern in the indigo sky. It illuminated the sea and the pebbles and the strip of sand dunes where, centuries
later, a long row of brightly painted little beach huts would stand, status symbols for holiday weekenders.

  Charlie stood in the twilight and listened to the soft whish and shirr of the tide lapping in and out.

  She looked out over the dark deserted stretch of water between the beach and the Isle of Wight, two miles in the distance.

  Not quite deserted.

  There was a boat. Charlie could see it by the little light that was still lingering on the horizon. There were two men aboard, rowing, and there was cargo.

  Smugglers?

  She stepped back and crouched down behind some tall tufts of beach grass, so that she was not so visible. She watched as the men landed on the rocky part of the shore, about a quarter of a mile to the west. There was a small ravine, there—Stoneford Bunny—which was heavily wooded and, in the future, would be protected as a nature conservancy. Now it was just an overgrown and uninhabited little valley running back from the gravel and clay cliffs, with a surprise patch of quicksand at its foot. Perfect for smuggling contraband, as only the Stoneford locals would have the knowledge to enable them to navigate past the dodgy bits.

  Near the ravine, at the top of the cliff, was a farm. Charlie could see a lantern, shining from one of its windows.

  Two hundred years later, that farmhouse would be long gone, and the land it once sat upon would be in danger of falling into the sea, as the edges of the cliff-tops were unstable and eroding. A tunnel was rumored to have once run from Stoneford Bunny to Beckford Farm, but nobody had ever been able to locate it.

  Watching silently from her hiding place in the tall grasses, Charlie had absolutely no doubt that the tunnel existed, and would shortly be employed by the three gentlemen—all wearing dark clothing—who had appeared from nowhere with a hand-drawn cart to greet the two individuals from the boat.

  Said boat was divested, quickly, of its cargo of casks and containers, with few words spoken. And then, as Charlie watched, an argument erupted. She couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but there were raised voices. And one of the gentlemen who had appeared from the gulley seemed to be disputing something the other four fellows had no quarrel with.

  The argument escalated. There were threats. And gesticulations. And then—a decisive act. The disputing gentleman was suddenly attacked by one of the others. Struck from behind with an oar, he collapsed onto the shingle beach where his throat was cut with the single decisive slash of a flashing blade.

  “Ballocks!” the murderer swore, and Charlie saw that, in his haste, he’d also managed to cut himself.

  Frozen with fear, she watched as the murderer rifled through the clothing of his victim until he found what he wanted—a folded piece of white paper. The victim’s body was then bundled into the boat.

  The two men climbed back aboard and rowed out into the deep, dark water.

  The two smugglers left behind on the beach scurried and scuttled and hoisted the casks from the sand onto their cart. Then, as silently as they had arrived, they departed, disappearing into the ravine.

  Far away on the water, in the moonlight, the body of their companion was tipped over the side of the rowboat, and the vessel continued on its way, back to the Isle of Wight.

  The beach was once again deserted.

  Charlie stayed where she was, concealed in the marram grass, until she was certain the two gentlemen with the cart would not be returning—and that the two men in the boat would not be changing their minds about which shore they preferred.

  Then, taking off her shoes—they were full of fine sand—she crept back towards the Cliff Road, reflecting on the sobering fact that the argumentative gentleman who’d had his throat slashed was the same dodgy fellow with the eye-patch she’d seen earlier, outside The Dog’s Watch, talking to Lemuel Ferryman.

  And, that the smuggler who’d done the coshing and the slashing and who’d removed the piece of paper from the dead man’s clothing bore a not uncanny resemblance to Lemuel Ferryman himself.

  Chapter 17

  Twilight had progressed to night by the time Charlie had negotiated her way back along the gentle climb of the Cliff Road to the village. It was dark, but the moon was full, and the road was familiar. It had been a very long time since she had actually attempted the ascent, her preferred mode of transport consisting of two wheels, not two very tired legs. And her shoes, which were meant to be worn in the museum as part of her costume, and which were off her feet as often as they were on, were beginning to rub in all the wrong places.

  Still shaken by what she had witnessed, and wondering whose husband or brother or son would be missed by dawn, she walked up the hill as quickly as she was able. She missed her vintage Elswick Ladies Town Bike, with its wicker basket and bright blue paint. Jeff had found it abandoned by the side of the road one day, a rusted relic from the 1960s. He’d lovingly restored it for her.

  At last, she reached the spot where the Cliff Road abruptly changed its name to the High Street, where the village properly began. There was a little more light here, as some of the inhabitants were still burning late-night candles and rushes. Charlie could see their flickering glow through the windows of little cottages.

  As she walked past the collection of dwellings that made up the Poorhouse, Charlie noticed, standing in the dark little lane, a shadowy figure which, upon closer inspection, she determined to be Eliza Robinson.

  And Eliza was not alone. Her back was pressed to the brick wall of the house, her full attention focussed upon a young man of a similar age to herself, who was similarly engaged in what Charlie observed was a fairly passionate kiss.

  What caught Charlie’s attention more than the kiss, however, was the sudden appearance of young Daniel Robinson, Eliza’s son, from the open doorway beside her.

  He ought not to have been awake at that hour. He ought to have been fast asleep in his cot. But there he was, and while his mother was otherwise preoccupied, he’d obviously made up his mind to explore as much territory as his little legs—and their newly acquired walking skills—would allow.

  In fact, he was not so much walking as running. And, with his face wreathed in joy and a delighted laugh, he was off to explore his world. He shot straight out from the doorway and into the lane, his itinerary taking him directly out to the High Street.

  Charlie’s first instinct was to run after him. And, from habit, to check right and left before darting into traffic.

  Not that she should realistically have expected anything other than an occasional horse.

  As it happened, there were two horses. Galloping. And behind them was a coach—which was travelling at breakneck speed towards The Dog’s Watch Inn.

  With an alarmed shriek, Charlie rushed into the road, scooping Daniel up and hurling both herself and the infant onto the grassy verge that belonged to the western edge of the Village Green. The two horses—and the Royal Mail coach from London to which they were attached—clattered over the spot where they had been a moment earlier without slowing.

  For his part, Daniel remained momentarily composed. And then nonplussed. And then, he began to scream. Not because Charlie was squashing him into the dewy grass—she’d remedied that almost immediately. But because his glorious adventure had been thwarted and, to make matters worse, the thwarting seemed to be related the Royal Mail coach, which he was used to seeing arrive in the afternoon, and certainly not in the middle of the night.

  Young Daniel’s wails had one predictable effect: the immediate appearance of his mother, Eliza, running, horrified, from the darkened passageway, followed closely by her amorous young man.

  “Here you are,” Charlie said, graciously, delivering Daniel into Eliza’s custody. Several hundred yards in the distance, the Royal Mail coach disembarked its payload and its passengers, its driver apparently unperturbed—or unaware—of the deadly accident that had very nearly taken place.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Eliza gasped, erupting into sobs herself as she hugged Daniel close. “Oh! I should never have brought him
downstairs with me! But he would not settle! And to leave him alone would have been worse! Oh Jobey, whatever would we have done?”

  Jobey, the young man whose interests had been wholly focused on Eliza in the cobblestoned lane, stepped forward.

  “We are grateful to you,” he said, to Charlie. “I am called Jobey Cooper…”

  And here, he paused, as if Charlie ought to have known who he was.

  She did not…and yet—she did. Cooper.

  An ancestor of old Emmy Cooper…?

  “Jobey lives in a Gypsy camp in the New Forest,” Eliza said. “And it would not do for it to be known that he is keeping my company. He would be thrown out by his family.”

  “So that is why you must meet in secret…?” Charlie asked.

  “We are man and wife in the eyes of God,” Jobey replied.

  “And we will be married by the Vicar soon enough,” Eliza added. “But until then…you will not breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen this evening, will you, Mrs. Collins?”

  “You may consider me a trusted confidante,” Charlie replied. “I shall say nothing.”

  “Thank you,” Eliza said. “And thank you, too, for your fortunate timing…for if you had not happened along when you did…I cannot bear to think what would have become of Daniel.”

  “You have our gratitude for your assistance,” Jobey added. “For I love Daniel as if he were my own, and when we are married, I intend to give him my name.”

  “And when he is old enough to understand,” Eliza said. “I shall ensure he remembers always the visitor from London who saved his life.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie replied. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cooper, although I wish it had been under more auspicious circumstances.”

  She took her leave, and walked on to the Village Green.

  What had nearly happened there?

  What had nearly happened was that Daniel Robinson was very nearly Not. And if he had been knocked down and killed…everything that had come afterwards would have been irrevocably altered.