The Book of Lost and Found

by Lucy Foley

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You looked … I don’t know, upset for a moment.’

  I hesitated, deliberating whether or not to tell him. ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Well … I was thinking that my mother would have loved this, sitting here, doing nothing. And then I realized I was completely wrong. She wouldn’t: she’d hate it.’ I found, with a kind of amazement, that my vision was blurred by tears. I hadn’t cried for so long – had managed every time to fight the urge into submission. Now it had taken me by surprise.

  To my relief, Oliver didn’t remark upon it. He regarded me in silence for a while, then said, ‘I think – perhaps – I know what you mean.’

  I didn’t believe for a moment that he did, but I appreciated the effort.

  ‘You’re worried about forgetting her.’

  I stared at him. So he did know, after all. For a second, I wondered if he was thinking of his mother, but then he said: ‘It was like that when Grand-mère died. I was terrified I’d forget, but things come back to you – things that you probably couldn’t even have remembered while they were still alive. Naturally, you have to accept that it’s impossible to remember everything, but the memories that are most important – those you’ll never lose.’

  It was the sort of thing I imagined Stafford would say.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’ He seemed embarrassed by my thanks.

  ‘No,’ I told him, ‘you have.’

  Oliver left the beach soon afterwards, while I stayed there with the letters and my thoughts for the next couple of hours, wondering what I would say to Stafford when he asked me about what I had read. Through Stafford’s accounts of Alice I had come to see why he would have fallen in love with her. The idea that I might have once had a relative like that – brave, rebellious – had excited me. Now I felt … rather disappointed in her. I reminded myself that she had been young, and no doubt naïve. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the fact that she had acted callously.

  I broached the subject of the letters that evening, when Stafford and I were alone at the table before supper.

  ‘I’ve read them all,’ I told him.

  He nodded. ‘Good. So you know about him?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t help wondering … well, how you felt, reading that last one.’

  ‘Rather sorry for myself, in truth. Rather worried. Even though there was nothing concrete in it, I was stuck in Oxford and she was all those hundreds of miles away with that man showing her about, “educating her”. I didn’t like it at all. It was quite clear to me that he had managed to get his claws into her. I chose to believe that it wasn’t anything real, whatever fascination he held for her. It was the allure of the unknown.’

  ‘Were you tempted to go after her?’

  ‘Absolutely. In fact, I had it all planned out: I’d sold my first painting, for what to me was a considerable sum – enough for my passage to Venice, if nothing more.’

  ‘But you never did?’

  ‘No. I never had time to. I got her telegram first: ‘“Dearest Tom …”’ he said, quoting from memory, ‘“returning England end of week latest. Will write soon.”’

  19

  Corsica, August 1986

  That night, I went to bed and slept soundly, until I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night with the sense that something was amiss. And then I became convinced that I was not alone in the room. A bolt of pure fear ran through me, and I thought – though I blush to say it now – of the Genoese noble, hundreds of years dead in his resting place beneath the stones of the house.

  I sat up in bed. The sensible thing would have been to turn on the light, but like the helpless heroine in a horror film, it never occurred to me to do so.

  The door was ajar. Had I shut it? I was certain I had – I did so every night, before I changed into my pyjamas. No, it had definitely been closed. Now a sliver of moonlit corridor was visible in the aperture between door and frame.

  ‘Hello?’ I whispered, into the still, dark air, feeling a fool as I did. Then again, ‘Hello – is anyone there?’

  I heard a tiny sound, a crepitation. The claws of a rodent – or the sound of something metallic worried against a surface – the wall or floor. Something gleamed in the moonlight, a few feet off the ground. I was riveted, unable to look away. It was unmistakably an eye, the eye of something crouched beside my bed. I screamed.

  There was the sound of quick footsteps, and my door banged back on its support. Oliver stood in the frame, haloed from behind by the hallway light. ‘What is it? There was a scream …’ He peered inside. And then he began to laugh, quietly. It was the first time I had heard him do so.

  Napoleon, as I learned the animal was named, was some kind of lurcher-wolfhound mix. Even in the dim light I could tell that he was one of the ugliest dogs I’d ever seen, with a sparse, pockmarked coat and bandy, overlong legs. He had, as if for comic effect, the most uneven set of lower teeth, all pointing in different directions. His tail was a terrible-looking stump.

  ‘Sorry for waking you,’ I told Oliver, feeling foolish.

  ‘Don’t worry – I wasn’t properly asleep anyway.’ He stood at the foot of my bed, where I could just about make him out.

  I asked where the animal had come from. ‘He turned up one day,’ he told me. ‘Grand-père said he and my grandmother were sitting having lunch on the terrace when the dog appeared at the top of the steps that lead up from the road. The poor thing was in such a state that they didn’t have the heart to send him away.’ He rubbed at the spot behind Napoleon’s ear and the animal lolled against his leg in apparent bliss, tail thwacking on the ground where he sat, gazing up at us with beady dark eyes and grinning through his hideous teeth.

  ‘Why Napoleon?’

  ‘I think it must have been Grand-père’s idea of a joke. Poley’s the least warlike creature you can imagine. He’s lived here for years, but he’s still got the mentality of a tramp … he’ll wander off and won’t be seen for weeks, sometimes months, and then suddenly he’ll turn up out of the blue, like he did this evening.

  ‘Grand-père was worried the first time he disappeared. He set off in Gerard’s van, convinced that he’d been hit by a car. When he eventually turned up unharmed we realized that he’d simply taken off in search of adventure. Though, when my grandmother died, he stayed in the house for a full three months. I imagine it went against his every instinct to do so: that’s loyalty for you. He can be excellent company. But right now, old boy, I’m sorry to say you aren’t wanted …’

  ‘No, I don’t mind …’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘He may be lovable, but he’s probably ridden with fleas. Come on, Poley.’

  He made his way towards the door. The dog gave an odd whinny of love and clambered creakily to his feet, following a few paces behind as though attached by an invisible lead.

  I did not sleep well that night – even before I heard Kate’s scream. My first reaction was to leap from my bed and rush out into the corridor, but I stopped at the sound of voices, followed by laughter. To my astonishment, I recognized it as Oliver’s. When he introduced Napoleon I knew that my old friend had returned. Oliver must have sprinted from his bed to get there before me. Rather pleased at the thought, I crept back to my bed.

  Though I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep, the thoughts that had been plaguing me returned. If I had dreaded showing Kate the letters, I was looking forward to recounting the next part even less. When I had first invited Kate to stay, I had conveniently managed to forget how painful some details would be to revisit. The temptation of remembering those few blissful months had been too powerful … briefly eclipsing the bad.

  I could hardly stop now though. Having started, I had no option but to tell her the whole. I had heedlessly released the brakes on a juggernaut that I was now powerless to halt.

  I would give myself a day
, I decided. In the meantime there was something else I had to do, something just as pressing.

  20

  Corsica, August 1986

  I lingered in bed the next morning, aware that I did not feel as well rested as I should have done, that my sleep had been disturbed, but unable at first to remember how. Then, in a rush, I recalled the surreal night-time arrival of the mangy dog.

  When I eventually made my way down to the table by the pool I discovered only Oliver sitting there, with Napoleon dozing a few feet away in a patch of sun. I was confused. Even in the short time I had been here I had come to understand that there was a routine of sorts. Stafford was always there, at nine o’clock prompt, with the papers spread out before him.

  ‘Grand-père’s gone into town,’ Oliver said, seeing my confusion. ‘He had some business he wanted to attend to. It’s not like him to run off on errands – Marie or Gerard always take care of the shopping, and the doctor comes to see him here. Did he mention anything to you?’

  I felt his curious gaze upon me. ‘No,’ I said, ‘nothing. I had no idea he was going.’

  Oliver seemed unconvinced, and I sensed he had already decided that Stafford’s trip was in some way connected to me. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it means you will miss your time in the studio with him, I suppose.’

  At a time, I thought, when it felt as though Stafford was close to telling me something important. I tried to shake my vague feeling of disquiet.

  Marie appeared then with the usual fare: steaming rolls and hot pastries, preserves, fresh juice and coffee, and I concentrated on these, my unease giving me a focused appetite.

  ‘Kate,’ said Oliver, ‘since you’re free today, I wondered if you’d like to take a trip to the mountains.’

  I was taken aback, having convinced myself that he viewed the trip to Bonifacio as a one-off. Still, the prospect of heading up into the mountains was certainly more appealing than waiting around all day, wondering what Stafford’s absence could mean. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if you’re sure. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. Grand-père thought you would like the idea.’

  ‘Ah.’ So it had been Stafford’s doing. This knowledge was curiously flattering.

  Marie put together a lunch for us of bread, charcuterie and cheese foraged from the fridge, which she handed over solemnly. I had packed my swimming costume, as apparently we would be able to bathe in the mountain pools, and wore a straw hat. We took the steps down to the road and clambered into the 2CV, inside which the temperature seemed – incredibly – several degrees higher than outside. The seats were almost too hot to bear. ‘I’ll put the roof down,’ Oliver said, climbing back out and heaving at the contraption. ‘It will be dusty – but we need the air.’

  ‘Tell me about the pools,’ I said, when the quiet in the car began to feel oppressive. At some point – perhaps since our conversation on the beach – we had traversed the gap between that earlier, distant courtesy towards something less formal, something friendlier. Even so, I was not yet relaxed in his company and felt the need to fill the silences with words.

  ‘They’re one of my favourite things about this whole island,’ Oliver said. ‘The water is incredibly clear – you can see every pebble on the bottom, even where it’s deep.’

  The road began to climb, and soon we were among the mountains. The ground sheared away on one side into a rocky gorge beneath, and on the other side were knotted pine trees, the sharp, sweetish scent of their resin filling the warm air.

  As I craned to see the bottom of the gorge a rush of air plucked my hat from my head and lifted it away before I had time to clamp my hands down on it. I watched in dismay as it was carried over the roadside barrier, swooping and bucking in the breeze as if it had a life of its own, and then diving down into the deep void below. I swore, and Oliver stopped the car. He wore an odd, strained expression, and at first I assumed that it was irritation. Then, to my surprise, I realized that he was trying not to laugh.

  There were no other vehicles to be seen in either direction, so we climbed out and peered down at the scree and rock beneath us. My hat was a pale speck where it had landed in a clump of gorse. ‘We could go down and get it,’ he said, dubiously. ‘But it would take most of the day to make our way down there. Look, it’s not elegant, but if you’re worried about the sun you can have this.’ He indicated the red cap he was wearing – the peak fraying in places so that the plastic beneath showed through, the colour bleached to a pinkish-orange by the sun. He reached over and fitted it on to my head with surprising gentleness, tightening the adjustable strap at the back. I stood very still as he did so. As the calloused pad of his thumb brushed against my temple something happened, something for which I was unprepared. I felt a thrill steal over my skin, as though a current had passed from that tiny patch of flesh and into every part of my being.

  It had not been anything real, I told myself as we got under way again. Merely a reflexive response to the unfamiliar touch of a stranger.

  The drive took a couple of hours. I hadn’t believed it could get any hotter than it had been when we set off, but the temperature had built steadily through the morning. Heat came off the road before us in great shimmering waves, and I relished the slightest of breezes.

  The road became increasingly decrepit, until it was barely deserving of the name. We lurched and seesawed over potholes and my face was coated with a fine layer of the grime thrown up by the wheels. I glanced behind us at one point and was astonished to see how high we had come. The Mediterranean from here was so dark it was almost purple: wine-dark. A tiny mote of white was traversing the expanse: a boat, perhaps a vast yacht like the one that had produced the firework display, but from here utterly inconsequential.

  I saw the first pool through a cluster of roadside pine and olive trees. It was, as Oliver had promised, unfeasibly green and limpid: a water nymph’s retreat. I was ready to throw open my door and leap out, but we creaked our way past and continued further up the road.

  ‘Why not here?’ I asked, and again, as we passed another pool a hundred yards further on, then a third.

  ‘Too close to the road,’ Oliver answered, and, ‘too many people – look, it’ll be dirty.’ Then, ‘it’s too shallow, not good for swimming,’ and, ‘That pool’s always swarming with flies. I got badly bitten near it once.’

  Eventually we pulled up next to an unassuming clump of gorse and Oliver stepped out. There was no water in sight. I looked at him. ‘Have we run out of fuel?’

  ‘No. This is it.’ He hefted the picnic bag over his shoulder and strode off into the thick vegetation. Bemused, I followed him, wincing as the razor thorns of a shrub grazed my arm. I felt a vague anger at this unnecessary discomfort. The other pools had looked fine to me. What were a few flies, I thought, compared to wounds inflicted by the Corsican maquis? And there was the hot sand underfoot, working its way between my soles and sandals to burn the skin, forcing me to take quick hopping steps across the surface.

  I became aware of a distant rushing, a little like – I fancied – a swarm of angry bees might sound. Ten minutes later we were still walking – or rather crawling – through the undergrowth, with no sign of water. I felt grimy, blistered and exhausted. The noise was following me, and I wondered whether my clumsy progress had disturbed a hornet or wasp nest. An insect sting, I thought, would just about compound my discomfort.

  ‘Really,’ I began, ‘I don’t think—’ Then I stopped. I could see something glittering through the pale leaves of the wild olives ahead. He pushed the branches aside and turned back to me with a look of triumph.

  ‘Oh.’ I caught up with him, and followed his gaze. Down below us was the pool, and it was perfect. Deep and clear – so clear, I discovered, that even from here you could see every pebble on the bottom. A shoal of tiny fish caught the light and shone as one great silver mass before disappearing into the shadow of the overhanging rocks. There was a small beach of whitish sand and now I could see the source of the noise that had worried me. It was
a waterfall – a gleaming spout shot from the high cliff of dark rock at the far end of the pool, foaming noisily where it met the surface.

  ‘This is my favourite of the pools,’ Oliver said. ‘Hardly anyone knows about it and because of that’ – he gestured at the waterfall – ‘the water is always fresh and clear. Flies can’t stand the spray from the falling water, so there aren’t any, apart from a few dragonflies – if you don’t mind them.’ He looked at me. ‘I hope it’s worth it?’

  I dragged my hand across my grimy brow. ‘It is. And I definitely need a swim now.’

  We clambered down the rocks on to the beach, the water drawing me towards it, but the sun was merciless, and I was loath to expose my pale English body, now oddly marked by my healing sunburn, beneath its glare. I wondered if I could simply wade in a little way to cool my feet and legs. But no: I wanted to be submerged in it, to wash away the accumulated grime of the journey. In a rush, I decided I didn’t care. Oliver had seen me in my costume before, so why the need for modesty now? Taking a deep breath, I peeled off my clothes. Then I turned, almost reflexively, and found Oliver watching me with an unreadable expression. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I was certain I could feel his gaze, tangible as the brush of a feather, following me, prickling down my naked skin as I walked into the water.

  It was surprisingly cold, and the shock of it against my sun-warmed flesh was almost enough to send me rushing out again. But as I grew accustomed to it, it welcomed me, insinuated itself about me. There was the tickle of small fish against my feet.

  I glanced back to see if Oliver had followed, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then I heard a call from above and looked up to see him astride the crop of rock above the waterfall, stripped down to a pair of swimming trunks.

  Most people are humbled by their nakedness – they seem diminished, fallible. You see all the blemishes, the deficiencies usually concealed. But Oliver, it was now clear, was not made to wear clothes. He had always worn loose shirts and shorts, and I would not have guessed at the grace of him.