The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  The three of us looked at her, wearing the most cherubic expressions that we could muster. Her glare lingered on the always-obedient Dorothy, which must have allowed her to decide that we were speaking the truth.

  “Well, just try to keep it down from now on. Anyway, I came in here because she has a call on the hall telephone. Some man.” Gertrude pointed in my direction.

  “For me? I’ll be right there.” I reached for my robe, laid out over my chair.

  When Gertrude closed the door, Abigail turned so swiftly that she nearly knocked over the lamp. “A man, Julianne? Did you give out the house phone number last night? You’re wilder than I gave you credit for.”

  “No. At least, I don’t think I did. Wouldn’t I remember that?”

  “Who knows? Better see what it is he wants.”

  I tightened the sash around my waist and found my slippers next to my bed. The light in the hallway blared at me, so I closed my eyes and felt my way along the wall until I reached the phone. For a split second, my heart leapt in the faint hope that Kyle would be on the other end of the line. I picked it up and held my breath.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Miss Westcott?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s me. Roger Kline. I’m in London.”

  Abertillery

  The baby had loosed the blanket around her. I tightened it and tucked the corner under her arm, but she wasn’t satisfied. I picked her up and rocked her, back and forth, over and over. It was a stiff movement for me, and not one that I liked. I delivered babies. I didn’t cradle them. That was what mothers were for, and I made no claim on that title.

  The priest’s face was obscured to me as he held the hands of Mrs. Campbell and bent his head over her in prayer. Everything was silent.

  My little crisis had passed. In that swooning moment I’d convinced myself that this Father McCarthy could be my Kyle—a priest! I was imagining things in my panic. Was I going mad? Or perhaps it was just another of the dizzy spells that I’d been getting lately.

  Then it occurred to me: it was the pills I’d taken. Of course. They were confusing me. A glass of water to dilute them, and then another, and I felt like myself again.

  If I ever let myself think of Kyle, I supposed that he’d died in the war, probably doing something heroic. Or if he’d survived, surely he had a cozy home somewhere, surrounded by loving children and a beautiful wife. Wasn’t that why I’d done it?

  Kyle would have said, “You worry too much, Julianne. You just have to let some things be, and pray that everything works out.” Kyle’s God was one of love and patience. My God was one who punished.

  “Miss Bailey?” I looked up to see Connor Campbell in front of me. His eyes were damp, and he looked over at his wife, whose breathing had become markedly shallow. “I’d like to hold my daughter.”

  I looked down at the baby, having forgotten that I was even holding her. “Oh. Well, yes, of course.”

  He took her from my arms and rocked her the way that a parent should, with the gentle swinging motion that accompanied a lullaby. Then he handed the baby back to me. He walked into the adjacent room, and I wondered how many of the children were still awake. The priest stayed with his charge.

  Agnes Campbell gasped, and I rushed to her side.

  Chapter Eight

  “Roger!” I cleared my throat, but still didn’t sound like myself. I tried again. “How did you know where to call?”

  “Your mother rang me up when she heard that I’d taken a position here, and she insisted that I call you.”

  “My mother?” I placed the receiver to my chest and rolled my eyes, lightly tapping the back of my head against the wall. When I put it back to my ear he was speaking.

  “. . . and please don’t get the wrong impression. I’m glad she did. I was hoping to see you here and, well, apologize for being a prat the last time I saw you.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I have no excuses other than I got caught up with seeing some old friends, and it was entirely unfair to you. Can we start over?”

  I didn’t think anything had really started in the first place, but what could the harm be? “That would be nice.”

  “You’re a sport. You really are.”

  “So what are you doing in London?”

  “I was hired as an assistant to Lord Baylon, over in Parliament. Best thing is, it had nothing to do with Pops. I used Mum’s maiden name to apply and got it on my own merit. My flat is just across the river from Saint Thomas Hospital. I can see your school from my window.”

  “Is that so?” I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I honestly didn’t think my legs could support me much longer, and I just wanted to lie down: “Listen, Roger, I—”

  “So, Julianne, when may I come and see you?”

  I swallowed hard and considered how to answer. Did he want to see me because a familiar face from Liverpool would be a welcome thing in this vast place, or did he want to see me because he really believed that there could be something between us? And how involved was my mother in this?

  I had to admit that seeing him would not be an altogether unpleasant thing. After the lunacy of last night, I felt inclined to grasp onto anything that felt real. And at least Roger represented a piece of home.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “How about supper tonight? I found a great place near Charing Cross. Smashing beef Wellington. I think you’d like it.”

  “Tonight? I can’t,” I said, perhaps too hurriedly. All I could think of was going back to bed. I swallowed down the cotton-like feeling that I had in my mouth. “I mean, tonight is not good for me, but what about tomorrow?”

  “Brilliant. Shall I come by for you at seven?”

  Abigail assailed me with questions when I returned to the room, and was ecstatic to hear that I had made an appointment to get together with a man.

  “It’s not what you think, Abigail. He’s just a friend from Liverpool.”

  “It’s not—”

  “No, it’s not Pillow Man. So lower your eyebrows and don’t get any ideas.”

  “Is he as good-looking?”

  “What does it matter, if he’s just a friend?”

  Dorothy led Abigail out of the room then, telling her that she could bunk with her for the rest of the day so that I could get my beauty rest. I opened my bureau drawer and pulled out the most recent letter from Miss Ellis. Charles was letting his plants die, since Kyle and I were both away. But the weather had been good, so she’d been taking him outside on her breaks, and he seemed to like that. I held her letters to my heart, and those from Lucille. I missed home.

  The next evening I met Roger at a restaurant overlooking the Thames. I had insisted on meeting him there rather than having him pick me up at the dormitory. In the first place, I didn’t want to have to introduce him to Abigail, who would no doubt jump to all sorts of romantic conclusions. Second, I didn’t want to give him an inaccurate perception of my intentions. We were just two friends from Liverpool, getting together to catch up.

  I hadn’t been away all that long, so he did not have much news from home to bring to my attention. If anything really important ever happened, Lucille or my parents would write or telephone. He did tell me that Maude and John had decided upon a Christmastime wedding, and I was happy that I would be home for that. The Liverpool Football Club was poised to win another league championship. A strike at the docks was averted, thanks in no small part to the swift work of my father. The IRA threats had subsided.

  After dinner, we strolled along the riverbank. I stepped carefully over the uneven cobblestones, holding on to his arm to steady myself. I felt inconsequential next to the water that was bordered by centuries of history and the buildings that shaped the course of the world, even as I rambled on about itchy uniforms and bed-making foibles. Roger listened with amused, if perfunctory, attention before telling me that he was thinking about enrolling in some law classes at the University of London.

  “That’s the
path to peace, Julianne. If we want to avoid a war, we need diplomacy and well-spoken leaders. Many of the MPs are barristers. So I’m going to follow suit. I want to be the youngest MP in recent history.”

  This was a city with a past. But I had the feeling that I was walking with a shaper of its future. The question was, how far did I want to walk with him?

  In November, Roger surprised me with theater tickets. We saw The Laughing Cavalier at the Adelphi Theatre. It was a lively musical with heroes and villains, and love and abduction. Seeing how much I’d enjoyed it, Roger bought more tickets a couple of weeks later. This time, it was Me and My Girl at the Victoria Palace Theatre.

  The title seemed apt. I had sensed, through our time together, that he increasingly hoped there could be something more between us. And to be honest, I was beginning to warm up to the idea. It was difficult to shut away the desire for love and intimacy, and I would have to acknowledge that someday. Why not now? Roger was what every girl would dream of—intelligent, considerate, success waiting to anoint him as its king. I couldn’t muster up the intensity of feeling that I had experienced in the few times that I had talked with Kyle, but I believed I could ease into it.

  We laughed through the first act, and Roger left at intermission when I asked him to fetch my wrap from the coat check. The crisp air in the theater had chilled us both.

  “You make a handsome couple.”

  I looked to my right, where an elderly lady with a thick Italian accent smiled at me.

  “Thank you.” I fumbled with my program.

  She persisted. “You would make beautiful babies.”

  My hand tightened around the page, wrinkling it beyond recognition. “Thank you, that’s very kind. But he’s not my beau.”

  “He’s not? Colpa mia. I don’t think he knows that, the way he looks at you.”

  “Well, maybe he will be. I don’t know.”

  I looked back to see Roger, coming down the aisle. A smile came to his face when he caught my eye. He was here. Kyle was not. That had to count for something.

  “Here you are,” he said, placing my wrap across my shoulders.

  “What about you?”

  “There was a rush on the coat check, and I didn’t have time to get mine. But I’ll be fine. I’m just glad that yours was accessible.”

  “Thank you.” I hugged it around myself just as the music of the entr’acte slowed down. The heavy red curtain parted.

  My hands were cold and still, and when I rubbed them together Roger noticed and gently slipped his hands around mine. They were warm and comfortable there, and I let him keep them. My Italian seatmate glanced our way and winked again. Roger looked over at me and smiled with a look akin to victory.

  I felt none of the electricity that I had that evening in the barn with Kyle. But maybe if I played along, authentic feelings would follow. If I gave him an honest chance, could I like him as much? I thought that I could. I just needed to give myself time and opportunity, both of which I knew he would provide.

  After my hands had warmed, Roger held one of them during the rest of the performance. He held it in the cab. He walked me to my dormitory door and, still squeezing my hand, said that he would call me soon.

  “Well, well, well.” Abigail looked like she had stayed up waiting for me. “Are we in love?”

  I curled up on my bed and tossed a pillow at her, just missing her mask-covered face.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Take that however you want. It’s not a yes; it’s not a no. We’ll just have to see. Go to sleep and let your imagination have a rest!”

  She threw the pillow back at me, and her aim was better than mine.

  I’d been dodging Abigail’s and Dorothy’s entreaties for the chance to meet him with vague promises when the hall phone rang a few days later. Abigail answered it and shouted through the dormitory for me.

  “There’s a call for you, Julianne!”

  Kyle, I thought, before I could stop myself. I laid the magazine I was reading on top of my textbook and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders. The hallway was always chilly.

  Instead of leaving the telephone on the table, as we usually did, Abigail was speaking into it.

  “Well, we can’t have that now,” she was saying. “We’re just dying to meet Julianne’s mysterious beau. Why don’t you cancel your reservations and come dancing with us?” She listened to his response. “Then we’re all set. I can’t wait to check out the man that our girl has been droning on about.”

  “Abigail!” I hissed through my teeth.

  She covered the receiver with her hand and whispered to me. “Oh, stop it. I’m just helping you out. A man needs to believe that he’s the sun in your sky. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you.”

  She turned back to the conversation. “Then we’re all set. Come meet us here around nine, and be ready to boogie!”

  I stood in front of her and put my hand out for the telephone, tapping my foot.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, and held up a finger to hold me off. “Bye-bye, then. See you tonight.” She hung up the receiver.

  I threw my arms up in the air. “Why did you do that?”

  “Somebody had to save you from yourself,” she said. She made silent smooching gestures into the air and turned back to our room.

  Against her protestations, I wore something conservative and vowed to remain sober while we went dancing.

  As in all things, Roger displayed unflappable self-assurance on the dance floor. In this one area, though, he proved to have no reason for confidence. His footwork was sloppy and his arms flailed about, as if there was a wind blowing through the club. But his body moved with an enthusiasm that one had to give him points for. Before long, a small circle of wide-eyed adorers had gathered around him, and I stepped back to find a refill for my drink.

  The gyrations of the crowd diminished as the band played the first chords of a slower song. My eyes met Roger’s across the room. He nodded and made his way over to me. I set my water on the nearest table and met his outstretched hand. I was a little nervous about this. Our occasional outings had remained innocent, but now we would move as one, bodies together, touching heads, sharing warmth and breath. Roger took my left hand in his right and put his arm around my waist. When he pulled me tightly to him, I could feel every contour of his body. His hand stroked the small of my back as his face descended to mine. Panicking, I turned, and his lips just brushed my cheek. I let my head fall on his shoulder, and I looked down at my shoes, counting the holes that punctured the white leather to create a scrolling pattern. Marking the time until the song was finished. Was this what I wanted? Was this what I was supposed to do?

  “I’m thirsty,” I said as the final notes faded. “I’m going to head back to our table.”

  Abigail was seated in my place and stood as we approached.

  “Looks like I took your spot, and anyways, I see an alligator over there that I’ve been making eyes with. Time to go say hello.”

  I grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t go. Stay.”

  “What, and horn in on you lovebirds?”

  “I thought you wanted to get to know Roger better. I mean, seeing as you went to all that effort just to get him here.”

  Abigail looked at the “alligator” approaching us and waved him away, the abundant bangles decorating her arm creating a bell-like tinkling. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s see if the boy’s good enough for my friend.”

  Roger joined us then, bringing two drinks. The condensation dripped onto his hands, and I gave him my napkin. Abigail took a swig from her dirty martini, her third of the evening, and patted her seat so he could sit next to her. Before she was halfway through her glass, they had already discovered four people they knew in common through their fathers’ connections. Each new name brought a howl from her red-stained lips. They talked all the way home in the cab, and I closed my eyes while slouching in the seat.

  In the morning, Roger sent over a note with a me
ssenger saying that he had to travel with Lord Baylon and would be away for several weeks. There were important people that they needed to meet with. The messenger also carried pink roses. I found a bowl and trimmed their stems on the diagonal. I arranged them in the water, then lay down on my bed with a sigh. I slid my hand into my pillowcase and pulled out the slightly wrinkled picture of Kyle I had taken stealthily from Charles’s window. Pressing it against my heart, I reluctantly retired it to a drawer in my bureau.

  Chapter Nine

  London, if it was possible, was even more beautiful in December. Christmas trees and garlands adorned store windows, beckoning the passersby to enter. Lampposts were embellished with burgundy streamers and bows. Carolers and cards, presents and Father Christmases enhanced the mood. Magic had descended upon the city.

  Thanks in no small part to Dorothy’s patient tutoring, I passed my finals with slightly better-than-average marks. So it was with great relief and exhilaration that we participated in the Ceremony of the Caps. We could now rid ourselves of the unsightly hairnets and wear the more attractive white caps of nurses. Of course we weren’t nurses yet, but the cap ritual did mean that we would return next term for practical work in the hospital. I was very much looking forward to that.

  Roger wrote before I left for the holiday. He was remaining in Belfast with Lord Baylon for the time being and wouldn’t be able to see me at home in Liverpool. He included a postcard of Giant’s Causeway and signed it, “Fondly, Roger.”

  I purchased two seats on the train ride home, since I had packages that I didn’t want lost or damaged in the cargo car. Mother, Father, and Lucille were all recipients of an enthusiastic spree in Harrods. I had remembered Charles and Miss Ellis as well, selecting for them woolen scarves and gloves, his in black, hers in pale blue. Her latest note said that my brother seemed tired all the time, but she supposed that he just missed me. They were both looking forward to a visit.

  Liverpool was chilly, but the welcome was warm. My parents and a gathering of friends were all there. From a distance, they were one blurred vision of coats, gloves, hats, and scarves. It wasn’t until I approached that I could distinguish them. When I did get closer, I was smothered in a huddle of embraces.