The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  “Of course we can be friends. I would really like that.”

  “Me, too.”

  He pulled up to the house, where Mother greeted us. Being more than a little deliberate, we stood at opposite sides of the truck bed as we began to pull the boughs out. She instructed us to put them in the cellar. Under her stare, we carried them, speaking only words of direction, belying the understanding that we had begun to touch upon. Whether it was due to her presence or an attempt to suppress the hint of desire in ourselves, I didn’t know. But he did reveal the trace of a smile as I walked him back to the truck. And he promised he’d be by tomorrow.

  Abertillery

  Agnes Campbell gasped, and I lifted her head to dab water on her parched lips. She tried to speak.

  “Ho—”

  The whisper escaped, and the word disappeared. I dampened her lips again.

  “I ho—” she tried again. A cough arose in her throat, and I felt her body go limp as I laid her head back on the pillow. Her head turned to the side, and the last of her breath wisped out. She was gone.

  I was aware, suddenly, that I was alone in the room with the priest, whose voice had jarred me but whose face I had not yet seen. Silence descended upon us, and my heart beat rapidly in my chest.

  The priest spoke from behind me, returning to English. “Did you hear her last words? Her husband may want to know them.”

  “I did not.” I didn’t recognize my own voice, entangled as it was in the strangeness of the feeling taking over me.

  “I think she said, ‘I hope.’” He sighed and spoke without looking at me. “Do you believe in hope?”

  “I don’t,” I responded after a moment. “It’s hard to believe in hope with so much sadness in the world. And what about you?”

  “I used to believe in hope,” he said. “But not any longer.”

  We reached forward at the same time to cover her eyes, and I flinched when our hands brushed each other, as if a flame had singed my skin. I felt the blood course through my fingers as I withdrew them. He placed his hand over her eyes, closing them for the last time and drawing a cross on each of them with his thumb. I caught a glimpse of gold on his left hand. That seemed odd to me, for a priest. Although it wasn’t as if I’d known many of them in my lifetime. It was ordinary, just a plain gold band with a line of silver running through the middle. Like the one I’d slipped on Kyle’s finger. But surely there were hundreds of rings just like it.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was only able to get away once to see Charles, on a Wednesday, as there were so many preparations to make for the wedding. He did indeed look tired but seemed greatly bolstered by my visit. The absence of Kyle at Bootle was agonizing to me, but the sting was mollified by the fact that he stopped by Westcott Manor on several occasions to oversee the hanging of the boughs, even though they looked perfect to my untrained eye. I deluded myself into thinking that he was there to see me, but the constant presence of my mother made conversation impossible.

  The wedding of John and Maude was lovely, just like the couple. Even with Mother’s grandiose schemes, it retained a restrained elegance. It was touching to see them recite their vows, led by John’s father as the minister. To promise to love for better or worse. A string quartet played during the ceremony, while a live jazz trio alternated with holiday mummers afterward. I received a stream of offers to dance, but bowed out after a few and retreated to my bedroom until it was time to cut the cake.

  Christmas afternoon was a quiet affair, with just the three of us sitting at one end of a dining table designed for eighteen. In deference to the women of the household, my father refrained from any talk about business, and Mother made a series of poorly veiled references to her high hopes for my association with Roger. I kept quiet by exaggerating my enthusiasm for Betty’s plum pudding.

  My salvation came on New Year’s Eve when Lucille stayed over, and we talked through the midnight hour. I shared with her everything that had transpired with Kyle, and she listened with the heart of a friend who adopts your feelings as her own.

  “Happy New Year, Jul,” she said, when we realized that it was forty minutes past the magic hour. We had been too wrapped up in our conversation to notice. “Nineteen thirty-eight is going to be a great year for you—I know it.”

  “You, too.” We clinked our mugs of apple cider and toasted what we hoped the year would bring.

  I didn’t see Kyle again before leaving for London. I heard that he went back to Durham right after Christmas. There was no good-bye, but I supposed I wasn’t really entitled to one. Nor was there an occasion that would have brought us together again. I wished him well, but once again, I would be leaving Liverpool and trying to erase a memory.

  I enjoyed an enthusiastic reunion with Dorothy, Abigail, and the other girls from our floor when we all returned to school, though the tone was clouded by a recent announcement from the government that all schoolchildren were required to carry gas masks. Classes were being held and home visits scheduled to educate parents in the use of the fearsome contraptions, as there were reports of babies nearly suffocating when they fell asleep wearing them. No significant harm had come to the country, but the government placed a high importance on preparedness.

  It wasn’t long before Roger telephoned. He wanted to take me to dinner, but I asked him if we could take a walk instead. So I bundled into my wool coat and met him at the dormitory door.

  He was standing under a black umbrella, although the showers from earlier in the day had relaxed into a drizzle.

  “Julianne,” he said as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Roger. I hope your holidays were good.”

  He slipped his hand into mine, and my cowardice didn’t allow me to pull away. As we strolled along the weeping reflections of lights in the rain-soaked street, he recounted his meetings in Belfast in wearisome detail.

  “We met with their PM, Lord Craigavon. He’s a staunch loyalist to the king, as you know, and he’s been instrumental in appointing only Protestants to key positions in government so as to counteract the traitorous notions of the southern Catholics. Lord Baylon came to help support that, especially with the upcoming general election there next month. He’s asked me to write up the report that he will present to Parliament.”

  “How wonderful for you. Your parents must be proud.”

  “Oh, they are. Pops especially. I run into him in the halls sometimes, and he’ll smile and introduce me to whichever colleague he’s with.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about politics, but I think I can safely say that on this subject, you and my father would be in agreement.”

  “That’s good news. And perhaps in time I’ll get to meet him and see if I can’t convince him of Chamberlain’s peace plan as well.”

  “I think you’d be well advised to leave that topic alone, I’m afraid. Over Christmas break, he seemed very hopeful over some of the opposition from Sir Winston Churchill. At least that was my impression.”

  “You just leave it up to us men, and we’ll get it all sorted out. Don’t worry your pretty head.” He tousled my hair, which was hanging outside of my woolen hat.

  When we paused to hear a flutist who had attracted a respectable crowd, Roger put his arm around me. I welcomed his warmth. But despite the romance of the surroundings, Roger was only a substitute for the one I truly wanted.

  The double faces of Big Ben shone down on me like two eyes in the night, condemning me right there if I did not confess to him the insufficiency of my feelings.

  “Roger, listen.” I released myself from his arm and turned to face him, then took a deep breath before launching into the speech that had been delivered countless times by countless hopeless lovers: “You are wonderful. You are going places and making your mark on the world. Some girl is going to be very lucky to have you at her side. But I’m not that girl.”

  He moved in closer and put his arm around me, pulling me in to him. I put both of my
hands against his chest and stepped back.

  “No, please. I’m serious, Roger. I need to concentrate on my studies. I’m afraid that there’s no room for anyone else in my life right now.”

  The umbrella cast a shadow over his face, but I could still see his look of chagrin. “You’re making a mistake, Julianne,” he said. “Just think about it. I’ll be a young MP. You’ll be at my side hosting parties, charming everyone. I’ll start heading committees, and London will be at your feet.”

  My stomach lurched as I envisioned myself as a duplicate of my mother.

  I shook my head. “I know it’s hard to understand, but that’s not the life I want for myself any longer.” I started to walk away, and he followed after me. I let his words hit my back, and they became more faint as my steps hastened back to the school.

  “The world is changing, Julianne,” he shouted. “If we do go to war, I’ll be exempt from service. You’ll be protected.”

  If he said anything after that, I couldn’t hear it. I hated to think I’d hurt him. But when he said my name, it carried none of the music that stirred me when the same word left Kyle’s lips. Surely, in the end, Roger would see that this was right.

  School resumed, a welcome distraction. The intensity of the studies and the demands of our hands-on work in the hospital left me too tired to think about Kyle or Roger or anything but making it through the day.

  Our care for the patients involved giving sponge baths, cleaning bedsores, changing soiled linens, and the like—distasteful but necessary tasks that grew easier with practice. On the days we had hospital duty, we worked twelve-hour shifts. Dorothy, Abigail, and I sometimes just passed each other in the hall, one coming in, one going out, mere ghosts of the dancing girls that we had been just weeks before.

  It felt good, despite the hours, to be gaining real experience. And I loved working with many of the patients. The sick children were, of course, heartbreaking, and the nurses with even an ounce of theatrical talent could perform little ditties in exchange for a smile.

  Though most student nurses clamored for the activity in the labor and delivery wing, I preferred the nursery myself, as the mess of childbirth was woefully unappealing to me. Mothers were usually sedated during delivery, but there was a growing movement toward labor without medication. I witnessed both and wondered which path I would choose should I ever have a baby of my own. Both seemed appalling.

  When it was possible, I continued to go out and enjoy the city of London. On one unusually sunny Sunday morning, late in February, I walked through South Kensington, with the intention of visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum.

  Heading down Cromwell Street, I saw a courtyard, and beyond the courtyard, a church. Built with gray marble, its columns towered over me. The exterior was simple, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. The doors of the church were open, no doubt to bring in the refreshing air, and emanating from them was the most exquisite music. A plaque near the entrance read: “Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.”

  I had never been inside a Catholic church and had not previously felt a desire to do so. But I didn’t know Kyle then, and now I did. This was what possessed his attention, his very life. This was why he couldn’t love me. My initial instinct was to be jealous, to see this ancient faith as a competitor, but I dismissed that temptation and found it replaced by a burning curiosity to know more.

  My eyes were first drawn to the breathtaking stained glass windows pointing toward the dramatic Gothic arches. Color was everywhere—not only in the glass but also in the checked mosaics on the floor, the reds and blues of the frescoes, the height of the domes, and the many icons of saints that lined the church, framed in gold. Tall candles adorned the altar. From somewhere, I smelled the sweet, smoky scent of incense. The congregation was kneeling, heads bowed. I could see only the back of the priest, and his clothing was as ornate as the interior of the church. Purple, trimmed with gold braid, atop his black cassock.

  At the same time, my ears were enveloped by the choir music that had caught my attention in the first place.

  Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

  I had no idea what it meant, but it was entrancing.

  Pleni sunt caeli et terra Gloria tua.

  I found a seat on the end of a pew in the middle of the church. An old woman holding beads in her hands scowled at me. I supposed it was because everyone else was kneeling, so I did the same. The kneeler was made of hard wood, and I covered my knees with my skirt so as not to tear my stockings.

  After ten minutes, they shuffled out of their seats, row by row, and knelt again, this time at a railing in front of the altar. The priest paused in front of each person, mumbled words that I couldn’t hear, and then dipped a host into a gold cup. It was not dissimilar to the Anglican services that our family occasionally attended, but I had never given the ritual such rapt attention. A boy who looked like a miniature clergyman held a golden plate under the chin of the person, and the priest fed the white host to him or her. As one person left the railing, the next one in the queue would take his or her place—a precise, solemn choreography.

  The people in the rows just ahead of me stood to get into position, and I was keenly aware of my intrusion. I sat down and shifted my legs so that the family to my left could get past me. When they returned, I bowed my head to mirror their look of devotion. I had no conversation to make with God, so my eyes were distracted by the succession of shoes from the people in the rows behind me who were now walking past me on their way to the front. Purple velvet buckles. Woman. In her twenties. I peeked up to see if I was correct. I was. Scuffed brown leather lace-ups, small. Boy, around six years old.

  The choir chanted a descant that consisted of four notes and sounded like an elegy. I gathered my handbag and slipped out of the pew before the song was over, avoiding eye contact with any soul who might glance up from their reverent pose.

  Outside the church I squeezed my eyes shut and let the sunlight warm my face. As Lucille might say, twenty thousand questions entered my mind as I tried to make sense of what I had encountered. The music, the language, the trappings, the clothing—they were so unfamiliar to me, but it was the world that Kyle inhabited. Perhaps I could ask him about those things next time I saw him, whenever that might be.

  My musings were interrupted as I took a step beneath the arched doorway at the school. A young boy on a motorbike pulled up. The engine sputtered and he lifted his driving goggles over his leather cap.

  “Is this the girls’ wing, Miss?” he said.

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “Might you be able to deliver a telegram for me? I’m not supposed to go in there, but I can’t wait around. Too many deliveries today.”

  “Certainly. I’ll take care of that.”

  He handed me a parchment-colored envelope and drove off with puffs of brown smoke following him. I turned it over in my hand. It read, Julianne Westcott, King’s College, Hampstead Residence, London.

  Who could be sending a telegram to me?

  I ripped it open, not bothering with clean tears, and pulled out the card. It had been sent five days before.

  Charles taken ill. Telephone Bootle when you can. Kyle

  Chapter Twelve

  Charles taken ill. Charles taken ill. The words repeated and repeated as I pushed through the heavy wooden door and raced up the stairs toward the second floor, brushing up against a first-year girl with whom I shared a couple of classes. She dropped her books as I continued on, and I yelled out a paltry “Sorry, emergency” when I reached the top.

  The telephone was thankfully free, and I picked up the receiver.

  “Long distance. Merseyside. Bootle Home,” I whispered through staccato breaths.

  The operator remained on the line for what seemed like an eternity before she said, “Connecting you to Bootle Home now.”

  The next voice, which I had expected to be Miss Ellis’s, contained not a note of my friend’s chipper welcome.

&n
bsp; “Bootle Home.”

  “This is Julianne Westcott. I just received a telegram about my brother, Charles. Can you please put someone on the line who knows about his condition?”

  “Let me look up that file.”

  I heard the receiver get set on the desk, and I slumped down to the floor. My head throbbed, and I rubbed my temples while I waited.

  “Miss Westcott, I do not see you as being named in his file as someone to whom I can release information.”

  Of course I wouldn’t be. My parents would not have included me in this permission.

  “I understand. But I am his sister. Surely you can have someone tell me how he is doing. I just received a telegram saying that he had been taken ill.”

  “May I ask who sent that to you?”

  “Kyle McCarthy. He’s one of the gardeners during the summer.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss. I cannot release information on the authority of a gardener.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks and I raised the receiver into the air, shaking it with frustration. Pulling it back down, I said, “Then Miss Ellis will know. Please put Miss Ellis on the line.”

  “Today is Miss Ellis’s day off, but she will be back in tomorrow.”

  “This can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to know what’s wrong with my brother!”

  “Again, I’m sorry, but I cannot help you without permission. Perhaps you could try to phone the gardener who sent the telegram to you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.” I stood up and slammed down the receiver, muttering words that would have invited a reprimand from my mother.

  Dorothy opened her door and looked out. “Julianne? Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” She set down her textbook and walked out to me, encircling me in her arms and letting me sob into her shoulder. When I pulled back, I showed the telegram to her and told her about the telephone call.