The Memory Cage

by Ruth Eastham

  What if I messed up? If I got something wrong, the whole film could be ruined and the last ever pictures Grandad took at Dunkirk, the only surviving film, would be lost for ever.

  Victoria was left on Sophie duty and they went to watch telly in the lounge with Grandad. Leonard went off to his room with a wedge of cake. I waited for the car to reverse down the drive and then I was under the dining table and on the phone to Lia. Luckily she was in, and when she heard what I had to do, she said she’d be straight round.

  I slipped to the Den with the film canister and locked the door behind me.

  Nothing was where it should be. Mum had quickly tidied around the place from after the darkroom got messed up, but I spent ages searching for the right bottles of chemicals in the backs of cupboards and checking all the equipment was there. I’d just finished laying the last tray along the darkroom bench when there was a soft knock on the door and I let Lia in.

  “Right.” Lia looked along the bench. “Just one more time. What do you need to do again?”

  It was the fifth time she had made me talk her through the developing process and it was a good job she did because I started getting confused about what to do and when. I was too nervous. I couldn’t think straight. Grandad had always been on hand before to remind me. I knew I had to get everything right. The mix of chemicals, the timing, the temperatures … Everything had to be done in exactly the right order too, or I was in trouble.

  After all these years, would the images still be there? Would the film even be any good, after getting a cooking in the fire?

  Lia looked at me from under her fringe. “You can do it, Alex. Take your time. Try and remember exactly what you did when you helped your grandad.”

  I nodded at her, blew a quick breath out and I started.

  I laid the canister on the bench and pulled down the blackout blinds, blotting out the gloomy light outside …

  … And don’t ask me how, I hardly knew myself, but a while later a curling plastic strip was hanging on the drying rack.

  I had the negatives. And most of them looked OK, like they really could be OK.

  I switched on the red light. I thought of Grandad. I thought of what the pictures could prove about him. The part of his life that they could give him back.

  … I used tongs to lay a piece of printing paper in the developing tray. My hands were so unsteady that some of the liquid inside splashed out. I held the tray more firmly and tipped the whole thing, letting the chemical solution slide over the surface of the paper. I rocked the tray backwards and forwards and an image appeared from the red skin of liquid. I dipped it in the tray of fixer while Lia worked the timer and checked the temperatures of the chemicals, and then I rinsed the photo under the tap and pegged it on the drying line.

  The paper quivered, dripping water on to the bench like spots of blood.

  Lia and I stared at each other, not saying anything.

  I wanted to stop right then. I wanted to get out of that room. But I felt Lia’s hand grip my shoulder and somehow I was able to keep concentrating on what I had to do.

  So I went on like some kind of robot, not wanting to look at what was in those trays, not wanting to think about them. We hung up photo after photo. I’d no idea how long it took. Black-and-white photo after black-and-white photo. On and on until we’d done them all. There were dozens of them, rectangular pieces of paper clipped with little pegs, like gravestones standing in a line.

  When Grandad said Tommie had told him to keep shooting, now I knew exactly what he had meant.

  I’ll never forget the faces. The dirty, desperate faces of those soldiers. One sat with his hands wrapped over his head; another was slumped and crying. Another was cowering and clutching a photo of a baby. Men scrambling on to boats while planes swooped overhead, the water splashing up as the bullets hit. Broken ships on fire, sending black plumes into the sky.

  There was plenty of death, plenty of bodies, bodies lying, floating. Bodies twisted up into strange shapes, black stains around them on the beach.

  No wonder Peter Webb wanted to burn the films. Who wanted to see their dead brother, or their son, or their father lying there like that? They’d want a statue instead, with “Our Finest Hour” chiselled into a stone scroll. They’d want flags draped over coffins and bugle salutes.

  Grandad did shoot people. He did fight.

  He shot photographs. He fought for the truth.

  The truth about war. The truth about the terrible things people did to one another.

  And Dad thought he was a coward.

  But now I was ready to tell him and my whole family the truth, and seeing those photos I knew that when I did, there’d be no more talk about the Sunflower Care Home. There’d be no more talk about sending Grandad away anywhere.

  From the way she was looking at me, I think Lia must have understood too.

  I’d be able to keep my promise to Grandad.

  I stared at the last photo hanging there.

  The very last picture from the roll of film.

  A man, pointing up, mouth frozen in a shout.

  Behind him in the sky … the blur of a plane. Too low, too fast …

  It was a face I knew.

  It was Tommie.

  I tugged at a blackout blind and it swept upwards with a snap. I opened the window, filling my lungs with the smell of wet summer grass. The rain had stopped. It felt like I had resurfaced after being underwater.

  I stood there a while and then closed the window.

  The scrapbook was almost ready. But there was something I still wanted to do. Somebody I wanted to show the photos to first. A few last details I needed to check.

  Something made me jump back.

  There was a face mouthing against the glass.

  Leonard.

  He was pointing down the garden and he was shouting something, screaming something about the river … about Grandad.

  I rushed out and he came at me and gripped my arms, hurting them.

  “We kept telling him not to,” he gasped. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

  Fear shot through me.

  “The river’s nearly burst its banks,” Leonard panted. “Grandad’s in the boat. Victoria told him the water was too fast and deep, but he wouldn’t …”

  I broke into a run.

  I heard Leonard cry out behind me.

  “Sophie’s in the boat too.”

  – CHAPTER 22 –

  DUNKIRK

  The bottom of the garden. 2:40 p.m. Messing about on the river.

  “We have to save our boys!” Grandad shouted when he saw me.

  He had a wild look. The boat was right out in the middle of the river, swaying badly. He stooped, struggling to untie the end of rope attached to the Little Swift.

  Sophie stood at one end of the juddering hull. She waved happily. “Alex!”

  “Sit down, Sophie!” Victoria screeched from the bank.

  I paced the edge, my fingers covering my mouth …

  “She jumped on before we could stop her,” Leonard panted behind me. “She thought it was a game.”

  … I clasped my hands behind my head. My palms squeezed the back of my skull.

  “Sit down, Sophie!” Lia bellowed. She was close to the river, stuck fast in mud, desperately trying to get the wheels of her chair to turn. “Keep still!”

  “Come on!” Sophie stretched out a chubby hand and the boat rocked violently. “We’re going on an adventure to save the soldiers! Me and Grandad and Moggy!”

  “Sophie can’t swim, Grandad!” Victoria shouted at him, but he didn’t seem to be able to take in what she was saying. He went on tugging the knot.

  The long rope lashed the water. Its other end was fastened around one of the willow trees on the bank, and the loop jarred from side to side, rubbing the bark raw.

  I stared as the thudding water splashed the trunks. I thought about Grandad’s burnt pillow I’d buried there. That dark scorch like an open sore. A war wound.

  �
�She’s got no life jacket on, Grandad.” I slipped on the bank, sending lumps crumbling into the churning water. I slammed down on my back and rolled in the dirt, nearly going over myself. I scrambled up. “She can’t swim!”

  Grandad fumbled with the knot. “We’ve got to get our boys out.”

  It was as if he didn’t see Sophie. He didn’t even seem to realize that she was on the boat with him. He was completely in his own world. Trapped in his own past.

  The swollen river looked like it was boiling.

  “Tommie is out there somewhere!” he cried. “I’ve got to get to Dunkirk and find him!”

  “He thinks he’s back in nineteen forty,” Lia yelled at me.

  “The war’s over, Grandad!”

  “Stay there, Sophie!” Victoria screamed. “You’ve got to sit down!” She slipped on the mud and fell. “Ow!” She got up and then sat down again, clutching her ankle, her face screwed up in pain. “Do something, Leonard!” she shrieked.

  Leonard stared at the water, his face white as a sheet. He looked helplessly at me.

  I heard Victoria moan. “You know Alex is terrified of water, you idiot! Do something!”

  “Cast off!” said Grandad. He must have given up with the knot.

  “Cast off!” chorused Sophie. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  I took hold of the rope attached to the tree.

  “Pull!” I shouted to the others. “Get the boat closer to the bank!”

  I felt the weight of the water on the rope, burning skin off my palms.

  Lia was pulling now too, and Leonard, but however much we tried, we couldn’t seem to bring the boat any nearer. The current was so strong. Too strong.

  “Cast off, damn you!” shouted Grandad. He jabbed an oar into the water. The boat leaned horribly to one side, then thumped back down.

  Sophie must have started to realize this wasn’t a game after all. “I want to get off now,” she whimpered. “Want to get off.” She walked down the boat, which lurched with every step.

  “No!” we all roared together.

  The word hung on the air. Sophie stopped where she was. She stared at us, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no words coming out.

  She lost her balance.

  I saw her surprise change into fear as she started to wobble, slowly at first and then faster and faster, and then her legs gave way under her and she clutched at the air. She gave a little screech and seemed to hover over the rushing water a moment and there were no sounds and there was no movement, nothing … She fell backwards.

  We all screamed. Sophie’s face bobbed to the surface, her hair plastered flat on to her skull. By some miracle she was holding the rope. Both hands. The current made trenches of water around her face and her eyes were huge.

  “Hold on, Sophie! Don’t let go!” sobbed Victoria, trying to get up, but not able to. “For God’s sake, do something, someone!”

  I looked at the dark swirls of water. I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from them. Their smooth hills and dips rising and falling and curving like the sleek backs of snakes. Rising … falling … Rising … falling …

  … Babo had taught me to swim. I’d been the best seven-year-old swimmer in my village …

  Water splashed over Sophie’s mouth. Her head jerked up in panic.

  … But I hadn’t swum since then. Not since that day the men with guns came …

  I saw Sophie’s fingers trying to keep hold of the rope as the snakes of water slithered round her.

  … I didn’t even know if I still knew how.

  You can’t go in, a voice inside me taunted. You never were a good swimmer. Not good enough. Don’t you remember what happened, Alex? Don’t you remember what happened to your little brother?

  I stared down at the murky, speeding water. My head was wet with sweat. I couldn’t move. I wanted to curl into a ball. I couldn’t even do that.

  Any minute Sophie would let go. Any minute she’d be swept away.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything.

  I saw Sophie’s head turn in the water, like it was really hard for her to do it, and then she was looking straight at me. I swear. Just at me.

  Help me Alex, the eyes said. Upomoć, Alex! Upomoć!

  … I squeeze my eyes shut. Feel myself pull off my shoes. I don’t let myself think. I look for where the rope skims the water between the bank and Sophie. I feel my fingertips touch. My head bends forward between my arms …

  I dive in.

  The water hits and straightaway the cold knocks the air out of my lungs. I come up, spitting and coughing, snatching at the rope. I get a hold and grip it. It cuts right into the backs of my knuckles. My body is shaking. I want to vomit, but I force myself to go on. Hand over hand I haul myself along the rope.

  Water splashes up and over me and I struggle to keep sight of Sophie. I see her fingers like little hooks on the rope. I see the water prising them off, one by one. I need to go faster, but the current squeezes me. It feels like I am trying to swim through mud.

  I grit my teeth and drive myself on. I am close now. I can maybe nearly catch on to her, if only I can get a bit closer. Sophie’s left hand comes off the rope and she twangs sideways like a snapped elastic band and her head is right back and the water is all round her face and then I see her last finger is sliding from the rope and there is no more time.

  One hand on the rope, I lunge forward. I have her wrist … Her hand. I fasten my freezing fingers around hers. But already I feel her slipping. I see her other hand arch towards me, grabbing at nothing. I gasp for air. I squeeze her hand tighter and try to swim. Screaming pains shoot through my arm muscles as I drag us along the rope.

  The river zigzags round us, making blades of water curl over our shoulders.

  I feel myself slowing down. Sophie is getting heavier and heavier. My jeans are saturated. My legs are made of stone. Sophie’s hand goes limp and her eyelids are half closed. I know I can’t hold her much longer …

  I have a desperate, mad idea.

  With a cry, I heave Sophie towards me. I hug her as close as I can. She clings tight and twists, making me go under. I hold her. Try to get the belt from my jeans. I have to get it round Sophie. Have to loop it over the rope …

  … The buckle won’t open. The metal is too slippery. My fingers are too cold.

  I wrench the leather back. Again. Again. The metal spike comes free.

  I inch the belt around Sophie. Somehow stop her head from sinking. I fasten the buckle over the rope. It’s slipping. No. My arms burn with pain. No! I swat the water from my eyes …

  The belt loop goes taut and takes the weight. Can the strap cope with the strain? I ease along the rope again, Sophie clamped to me. Water slaps my face. My eyes sting. I try to make out the stretch of blurry, racing river between us and the bank.

  Suddenly a big wave hits.

  It comes from nowhere. It knocks us apart. I have Sophie by only one hand.

  Her fingers are slipping.

  I let go.

  I let go of her hand.

  I can’t see her.

  The rope she was belted to is underwater. I thrash around for her. I try to shout her name, but my mouth fills up.

  Panic suffocates me. It is happening again. It is my fault this time too. I scramble around in the filthy water. I made the scrapbook. I’ve forced Grandad to remember. Remember things that were best forgotten. This is all my fault.

  All around it seems the river is taunting me as it slides past. It hisses and whispers and mocks me. It calls me terrible names. It says Grandad is a fool. Brain-dead. Better off in a grave.

  Anger boils up in me. I want to punch the stretched belly of water, pound it into a pulp. Destroy it.

  I leap forward through the water with a yell and I hit the water with my fist. I kick at it. I clench my teeth and I clutch the rope and I pull. The cord slices into my fingers and pain shoots up my arms, but I keep pulling. Water pours into my mouth but I spit it out and keep pulling …
/>   Sophie breaks the surface.

  Her eyes are closed. Her head is tilted back.

  I wrestle her close and smack my arms against the current. The roaring water claws me down.

  Over the noise of the river, I hear muffled shouts from the bank. My face keeps going under, distorting the sounds. I hear voices too, a snatch of words … I don’t know if they are real or in my head …

  We’ve got to save them. We’ve got to bring them home.

  I grip Sophie’s hand harder and jolt her through the water with me. The river surges around us, but I keep pulling and pulling.

  I haul Sophie through the water. I hurl myself against the current.

  I haul and I twist and I fight …

  … Until I know I can’t fight any more and I don’t have a single bit of strength left and that’s when I start swallowing water …

  … That’s when I feel something under my foot, and it must be mud and I am slipping against it, trying to get a hold, and Lia and Leonard are yanking my arms and then I am panting on the bank with the sharp taste of river water in my mouth and I am on my knees and I am checking for a pulse on Sophie’s throat but I can’t find one and I am pushing up her chin, the way my babo taught me, and I am pinching her nose and blowing air back into her lungs …

  Only it isn’t Sophie’s face I see.

  It is my little brother’s.

  It is Nicu.

  I thump at his chest.

  Sophie’s body arches upwards. She coughs and wheezes, water spurting from her mouth. She gives a weak moan.

  But Nicu is still not moving. His face looks like a white mask.

  Sophie’s eyelids flutter open and she blinks.

  But Nicu lies there in the mud. Eyes wide. Empty.

  Sophie struggles up to sitting, groaning and shivering.

  I lie on my back in my soaked clothes, tasting silt in my mouth.

  I hold Nicu’s hand through the mud …

  I was aware of Mum and Victoria somewhere nearby in hysterics, and Sophie was wailing and I think I saw Dad gripping her and I think I heard him shout, “This is the last straw!”

  I think Lia was nearby saying something to me, but I can’t remember what.