Burden of Memory

by Vicki Delany

  “I had a dream, a dream of my past. Something both wonderful and dreadful all mixed up in one, as it was in life. I’ll probably tell you about it one day, if I am ever strong enough. As to how the pillow came to be over my face, I don’t know. But thank you for removing it.” Moira picked up her book and flicked to the page saved with an old-fashioned, elaborately embroidered bookmark. She was reading P.D. James.

  Elaine sighed. Nothing more to be gained here. “I’ll come back after lunch. Perhaps we can pick up where we left off.”

  “Sit down, dear.” Once a decision was reached, the old voice was strong and firm. “I know a story, a very sad story, and one that is, unfortunately, probably not at all unique. But it is not my story to tell. Sadly, there is no one left alive to whom the tale belongs. Megan and Maeve were here, of course, fluttering around like the mindless butterflies they so resembled. But in those days little penetrated their veil of self-absorption.” She snorted. “Of course, now that I come to think of it, little penetrates their veil of self-absorption these days either. Although Maeve is no longer entirely at fault. Poor dear.”

  She settled back into her chair and closed her eyes. “I will not betray a confidence told to me by someone in his darkest hour. Of the person who, if the story is true, I would not hesitate to expose to the world, I know only hearsay. I cannot present hearsay as fact. Merely to tell it would be to give it validity.”

  She focused her sharp brown eyes on Elaine. “Do you recall what Hamlet said to Horatio?”

  “Hamlet said a great many things to Horatio.”

  “That he did. But most memorably: ‘I knew him, Horatio.’ And then: ‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ So let us leave stranger things to greater minds than ours, Elaine. I’m tired. Can you call Ruth, please?”

  “Of course.”

  ***

  Elaine found Ruth in the kitchen, cradling a cup of tea and staring off into space, lost in memories. “Any more tea in that pot?”

  “Make your own.”

  “Well, pardon me! I just asked.”

  “I just told you.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  Ruth turned on her, her face twisting out of shape. “Is anything wrong? You interfering fool. Rather you should ask, is anything right?”

  Elaine recoiled, feeling as if she had been struck. “I’m only looking for a cup of tea. I don’t mean you any harm, Ruth.”

  “Oh, I’m so sure you don’t. Miss Biographer. Precious Miss Historian. Leave me alone.”

  Elaine considered turning on her heels and leaving the bitter woman to stew in her hostility. Instead she asked, “Can we talk, Ruth? I don’t know why you…dislike me so much.”

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. “You dance in here with your PhD and your old books. I tried to read them. Too boring to finish. They’re rubbish. But you know that, don’t you? If anyone wanted to read anything you wrote, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

  The barb was a wild shot, but it hit home with vicious accuracy. Elaine collapsed into a chair. Ruth was right: Elaine was a failure. A washed up biographer with her best work so far behind her it was disappearing over the horizon. An abandoned wife, discarded for the younger woman with good contacts and a cuter butt. “I’m only here to help Moira.”

  “Fuck you.” By the look of surprise on Ruth’s angry, pinched face she’d probably never said those words out loud before. “My mother worked here all of her life. She was trusted—loved—by the family. And when she retired, I took her place, the place saved for me. I won’t give it up to you.”

  “I don’t want to take your place,” Elaine said. “I’m helping with the biography, that’s all.”

  “No, that’s not all,” Ruth yelled. She slammed her hand down on the wooden table. She was still holding the mug of tea. The mug shattered and tea splashed onto the table and floor, and shards of pottery sliced into Ruth’s hand.

  “Oh.” She watched as a thin stream of bright red blood flowed out of her clenched palm and ran down her wrist. “Oh, dear.” All of the rage drained out of Ruth along with the blood. Her shoulders slumped and her face crinkled as the tears began to flow.

  “Let me get a bandage. Is there a first aid kit anywhere?”

  “Just a tea towel will do. Please. How silly of me. Lizzie will be furious.”

  “I’m sure she won’t even notice it’s missing.”

  “Mrs. Bridges would have noticed.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Bridges?” Elaine pulled a tea towel from the drying rack and ran it under the tap.

  “The old cook. She served the family for a long time. She was here when my mother was first hired as a maid. My mother began working for the family when she was a teenager, as a scullery maid, and she rose all the way to housekeeper. And family friend.”

  “I’d like to learn more about Mrs. Bridges,” Elaine said as she applied a light touch of pressure to the wound. “And much, much more about your mother. Will you talk to me about your mother one day? Moira, Miss Madison, has mentioned her many times. She cared for your mother a great deal.”

  A rush of warm blood flooded Ruth’s face and chest. She looked at her hand. Elaine had wrapped it well. “Has she? Talked about my mother? Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Why don’t you tell me where I can find a bandage? You can’t walk around with that towel around your hand. Moira sent me to ask for you.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Ruth threw off the towel and ran to the sink. She held her hand directly under the cold-water tap.

  Because you were too busy calling me a washed up hack, Elaine thought.

  “I’m sorry, if I was…rude.” Ruth almost choked on the words. The water ran clear into the drain.

  “Once Moira has told her story, and I’ve read the letters, then it’ll be time for me to be on my way. I’ll write it all up, but I probably won’t be back. I’ll miss this place.”

  “I missed it, all the years I was away.”

  Ruth fled.

  ***

  Elaine dressed for dinner, forcing herself to forget about Moira’s mysterious words, the confrontation with Ruth, and concentrate on choosing something decent to wear. A loud knock as knuckles hit the door. She pulled it open, just a crack.

  Alan stood there, his rough face like a thundercloud, incongruously peeking out from behind a bouquet of luxuriant yellow roses: tiny, perfect buds hesitating on the verge of bursting open. Elaine’s heart leapt at the sight. For a brief moment she lost track of the place and the season and delighted in Alan’s gardening skills and his consideration.

  “For me,” she breathed, pulling the door open wide. “How absolutely beautiful. Come in, please.”

  “Imported nonsense,” Alan growled as he thrust the bouquet into her startled arms. “These came for you. Thought I should bring them up. They won’t last long.”

  And he was gone.

  She pulled out the white card attached. “We got off to a rough start last night,” it said. “Let me make it up to you. Soon. Greg.”

  Elaine sighed and slammed the door shut with a flick of her hip. Her delight in the gift faded somewhat once she realized they were not from Alan. Alan was certainly pleasant enough, but he was one cold fish. She pushed the thought aside and decided she would be better spending her time enjoying Greg’s kindness than worrying about the possibility of Alan thawing out some day.

  There was no need to search for a vase and water. The flowers came in an expensive cut-glass bowl. Thoughtful of the sender to realize that she wasn’t living in her own home and wouldn’t have such things readily to hand.

  The gift was exquisite, but it only managed to distract her for a brief moment. Moira’s soupçon of musings and dark hints were more disturbing than a straightforward telling of the story would have been. Elaine had never believed in the supernatural, and she refused to believe in it now. Stuff and nonsense, her mother would have snorted. Moira had kept the story (whatever it was) to he
rself all these years, and behind it lay the truth about what she believed regarding the deserted cabin in the woods. No doubt the story had built and built upon itself in her mind as time passed, and the aura of the abandoned servants’ cabin even more so. That would explain why the Madison children found the place so fascinating. What children wouldn’t?

  Thoughts may not be voiced, but children pick up nuances extremely well. Great-Aunt Moira thought the place to be haunted. Ergo, it was haunted. And Moira had a strong enough personality to insist that her family leave the place alone, to allow it to fall into ruin and decay. Thus adding to the legend.

  As for Elaine herself? The competent, independent, modern, city-dwelling woman of the new millennium? Even she could be influenced by mysterious hints, brought to believe that she saw something which was, in fact, not there. Wildflowers in October? Maids in starched aprons? Stuff and nonsense.

  And she, Elaine, who prided herself on being a practical modern woman, PhD in history, biographer, collector of the facts: it was embarrassing to find that her subconscious could be so influenced by an old woman’s suggestions. No doubt the same thing had happened to Rachel. The only difference being that the red-haired new age hippie would have been more than happy to listen to Moira’s fantasies and then interpret them as the responses of her own senses.

  She sniffed at the beautiful flowers. No scent. She started to think of Greg and found her mind shifting to Moira instead. In all her contemplations about the power of suggestion and the nature of long remembered stories, Elaine had pushed (perhaps purposely) to the back of her mind the few facts that were incontrovertible.

  She did arrive at the top of the staircase to find Moira’s bedroom door standing wide open. Unthinkable that with a houseful of guests, roaming dogs, and a party underway downstairs it would be left that way. And Moira did have a pillow over her face. No one slept like that.

  Elaine walked to the window and looked out.

  Someone had been in Moira’s room.

  No problem with that—it was a busy household, a connected family, an elderly woman requiring care. But whoever had opened the door had left in one heck of a hurry, without bothering to wake the occupant of the room. And leaving a pillow as a calling card?

  Days ago, Elaine had decided to treat the fire as an accident—caused by someone’s carelessness. And to assume that that someone was afraid to step forward and take responsibility. Her money was on Dave and Amber, how like those two to be sneaking around the unoccupied guesthouse at night. Maybe carrying a candle—that was sure to be Amber’s idea of romantic.

  She pulled the two separate thoughts together in her mind—the fire and the pillow over Moira’s face—and they coalesced into a frightening whole. To the mix she tossed in the death of Donna Smithton. Yet Elaine had not the slightest idea of what to do with her suppositions.

  For a moment, she considered confiding her fears to the old woman. But Moira was having trouble enough coping with the influx of visitors who didn’t appear to be ready to leave anytime soon. Best not to worry her further.

  Elaine decided to keep a watch on Moira.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Moira had not gone with the army to France, although she desperately wanted to. Jean and Susan left, overflowing with tearful goodbyes and promises to stay in contact. Moira remained behind in England, tending to the streams of critically wounded men sent back from the battles in France, Belgium, and Holland. She had been in Europe for five years, and could scarcely remember her mother’s face, her grandmother’s gentle smile, the colors of the sugar maple trees surrounding their house in autumn or the shade of blue that Lake Muskoka would turn under the brilliant summer sun. The only colors in Moira’s world were the sharp new red of blood in the theatre and on the wards, the duller, angrier red of wounds failing to heal, the black of burned flesh, the endless sea of soldiers’ stained khaki, and nurses’ starched, blood-soaked white.

  Rose wrote to Moira regularly, as she had ever since the magical weekend in London with Ralph. Apparently Rose had continued to see Charlie Stoughton long after. Her letters were full of her expectation of a fairy-tale marriage and then being whisked off to the imagined luxuries of Canada. Moira wrote back, when she had the chance, her letters whispering caution.

  How could she say that just because Ralph Madison had money, his friend might not? How could she tell an English factory girl with stars in her eyes that there were poor people in Canada too? Lots of them. And drought-plagued farms and an expanse of bug-infested wilderness. Endless beyond the imaginings of a girl brought up amongst the neat hedgerows and tidy villages of rural England.

  Spring of 1945. Moira was ordered to take leave. She had lost all interest in parties or vacations or in seeing the sights, but Matron realized the girl was getting far too thin, and working far too hard. She called Moira into her office and simply ordered her to go on leave.

  There was nowhere she wanted to go. Her grandmother’s sister, Moira’s Great Aunt Florence, had died the year Moira arrived in England, before she had the chance to pay a visit. And Florence had left no descendants. But as fortune would have it, the day Moira was ordered to take leave a letter arrived from Rose, ending, as her letters always did, with an invitation for Moira to visit her in London.

  Before she had time to think it through, Moira wrote back to accept.

  Once again, she took the train up to London. It was no longer so crowded and the platform at Waterloo station was largely empty. The focus of the war had moved to Europe.

  Rose waited for her at the appointed place, her face lit up by a brilliant smile. She had lost her pudginess in the intervening years, gained a good deal of confidence, and was looking quite pretty. Her dress was new and fashionable, a cheerful yellow with a white belt. A small girl of about two years of age held Rose’s hand tightly.

  They hugged and kissed and exclaimed over each other’s appearance. Then Moira crouched down to greet the girl. “Hello there,” she said. “I’m Miss Madison. Who might you be?”

  The wide-eyed girl stuck her thumb into her mouth and sucked with enthusiasm.

  “This is Pamela. My daughter,” Rose said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Pamela.” Moira thought she took the shock well. She rose to her feet. “You didn’t say anything in your letters.”

  “No.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is. Charlie Stoughton is her father.”

  “Oh, Rose. No.”

  Rose pulled herself to her full height and jerked her daughter’s arm. “We’re going to be married. Once he gets back from France.”

  Moira struggled to recover. “When did you see him last?”

  “Early 1943,” Rose admitted. Two years ago. “Then he was sent to Italy and after that to France. But we write, all the time.”

  You write, Moira thought, her heart heavy.

  “He won the George Cross, did you know?” Rose said, her eyes shining with pride. “Oh, I wish this horrid war would end.”

  “Does Charlie, uh, know about Pamela?”

  “Of course he knows. What a thing to say. We’ll be married, Moira, as soon as he has leave.”

  “Of course. Not much longer, they say. Germany has to give in soon.” Moira counted in her head. September 1944 when Ralph died. Charlie was a hero. The campaign in Italy was winding to a close. He had leave then. Charlie came to Moira to say goodbye. They cried together, remembering Ralph, and Charlie promised to visit when the war finally was over and they were back in Canada. She could tell that something was bothering him. But for once she allowed herself to indulge her own feelings, sunk into her grief, and ignored the signals Charlie was sending.

  Moira burst into tears. “Oh, Rose. Will it ever end?”

  The child looked up at this weeping stranger. She reached out a tiny hand and patted Moira’s thigh. “’right. ’right,” she said. Moira wept all the harder.

  Rose gathered up Moira’s suitcase and led her out of the station. One hand cl
inging to her daughter’s, the other holding Moira’s bag, and still she managed to comfort and guide her friend.

  They only had three days, but made the most of it. Rose and Moira took Pamela to the park, or to feed the swans on the pond. Rose explained that she still had her job in the munitions factory and Pamela was in a day-care center the factory operated, so she wanted to spend all her free time with her daughter. Moira had never thought of herself as a mother, a woman with children. Her time with Grant had been so short. But she loved Pamela instantly, and a tiny part of her wondered…what if?

  It was a lovely leave. Moira pushed her worries about Charlie Stoughton to the back of her mind and concentrated on treating Rose and Pamela. They went to the pictures and played in the park. Moira insisted on buying Pamela some new clothes and even a few toys from the almost empty shops. The last day of her leave, Moira surprised Rose and Pamela with tea at the Savoy.

  The girl sat up in her chair, so straight and proud in her new frock, white socks, and brown shoes. Curly black hair burst out of the new blue ribbons and Moira was happy, for the first time in a very long time.

  Arm in arm the three of them walked back to Rose’s flat. Moira only had time to pick up her suitcase before she had to set off to catch her train back to the hospital. She kissed Rose and swung Pamela in a high arc. “If Charlie…I mean, if something…anything…should happen to Charlie…I’ll help you. Always.”

  Rose laughed. “You are a dear, but it’s time to be on your way.” She shooed Moira out the door.

  Moira walked down the street. A house at the corner was bombed out, now just a pile of rubble with only one wall remaining. Children clambered happily through the wreckage and made their own playground. Children could always be counted on to make the best of any situation. Charlie Stoughton wouldn’t be back. She knew that with as much certainty as she knew that the sun would rise tomorrow in the east (although being in England, no one might actually see it). He was a fortune hunter, that one. A factory girl like sweet Rose had nothing he wanted. Well, something maybe, but that was not enough.