The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  “I’m giving your mama a little tour, Cecily dear, and then we shall dine,” Cora said, turning away. And as she disappeared back through the doorway and into the house, she said in a loud whisper, “No wonder poor darling Jack’s so distracted.” And Cecily saw him close his eyes and bite his lip.

  For a moment he didn’t speak, and neither did she. They could hear the two women’s voices echoing down the long passageway. And as they slowly faded, he sighed.

  “Madeline!” Cecily said.

  “Mm. I knew it was best to let them get on with it. My grandmother has a way with people.”

  She caught his gaze stray from her face to her body. But as he turned away, his awkwardness struck her, and she felt guilty. For hadn’t she pushed him? And wasn’t he lovely? Wasn’t he perfect?

  She stepped down from the veranda, sat on the step and looked up at him. “Did you get drunk in London then?”

  He ran a hand over his hair. “A little,” he replied. “Was that why you were angry?”

  She tried to laugh. “No. Of course not!”

  He sat down next to her. “So, are you going to tell me? I think you were about to—a moment ago.”

  She shuffled, fiddling with the soft fabric of her gown, and as she leaned forward, flicking at the dust on the toes of her satin shoes, she said, “I . . . well, I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes,” she repeated, absently.

  Then she heard the smile in his voice as he said, “Come on, you’ve got to tell me now.”

  “Now, I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure of what?”

  She turned her head toward him, his knees. “Did you . . . did you . . .”

  He leaned forward, tilting his head, leveling his gaze with hers. “Did I get drunk? Yes, a little. Did I flirt with Sonia Brownlow? No. Did I flirt with Millie Compton? No. Would I ever want to? No.”

  She stared back at him and didn’t speak.

  “Does that answer everything?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Is that what it was all about—in there, out here, is that it?”

  For a moment she wished she wasn’t there, wished she were invisible. She shut her eyes, opened them again, and he was still smiling at her, a different sort of smile, one she hadn’t seen before.

  “How could you possibly think I’d be remotely attracted to someone like Sonia Brownlow? Do I appear desperate?”

  She laughed. “No, no. But she, Sonia, has”—she shrugged—“her ways.”

  “Her ways? Short of wearing a placard, I’m not sure what else she could do to advertise her ways.” He paused and Cecily laughed again. “And let me tell you, her friend Millie is rather a knockout too. But perhaps slightly thicker built—in brain and body.”

  And at last she unfolded herself and sat up, smiling now at the spectacle of the London foursome. “But why did you go about with them, you and your friend, if they were so ghastly?”

  “It was all set up by the delightful Mrs. Brownlow and Noel’s mother—you know how they do. Let’s get the young people together, sort of thing. Anyway, as it turned out, it was quite a laugh. I don’t suppose Sonia told you that she fell into the Serpentine.”

  “No!” Cecily shrieked.

  “Yes, truly,” he said, beginning to laugh. “She was trying to step out of the boat—and I don’t think Noel did it on purpose, he swears he didn’t—but the boat suddenly moved away from the pier and Sonia”—he was laughing, struggling to get the words out—“Sonia almost did the splits before going in!” He wiped away tears. “It was so funny . . . you’d have died. She managed to keep her hair dry, but she wasn’t at all happy when we finally dragged her out . . .”

  They sat giggling for some minutes, and every so often he added to the story, offering Cecily another comic detail. Then he said, “I so wished you’d been there. Noel and I were fit to explode by the time we dropped her home. Every time she moved about the leather seat in Noel’s motor, there was a squelching sound, and she apologized!”

  She felt his hand graze the middle of her back, his palm rest flat there. He said, “So you see, you have nothing to be angry about. There’s only one girl I’m interested in.”

  And though she said nothing, did not look at him and made no reply, she wanted to. She wanted to hear him say her name. She wanted confirmation. But the moment passed. He moved his hand away and moved on. He asked her if she had been writing, and she told him that she had. She told him of her idea for a novel, inspired, she said, by Cora’s life overseas. Then the gong sounded. And as he rose to his feet, he offered her his hand. “Cecily.”

  In years to come, Cecily would return to that evening, his words, his smile—and even the sound of the gong. She would relive it again and again, because it was a beginning, the beginning. Everything that had happened in her life up until that point had been a prelude to that moment, moving her forward, leading her to that touch, that smile, those words. Her life had arrived. She could see the future, the possibilities, and she could see Jack Staunton walking toward her from each and every horizon.

  Dinner was a success, Cora charm itself, if a little distracted from time to time. It was, Cecily thought, as though the past was still with her; as though those she spoke of were there, in that room. Once or twice Cecily followed her gaze, turning her head toward the baize door, the wall, the salamander, as though she, too, would be able to see something, someone standing there. At one point she was sure she had seen Cora nod and then raise her hand, just as if she was dismissing someone from the room. But no one was there.

  Cora spoke of Rome and Paris, relishing a few well-worn anecdotes that Cecily had heard once and Jack and Sylvia perhaps tenfold but that Madeline had not yet heard. They all laughed at her reminiscences of the mischievous antics of her young sons, specifically Jack’s father, Georgie. And she spoke once more of her aunt, a woman of impossible glamour and style, it seemed, who had been such an influence over her life—a mother to her, she said. But when Madeline inquired about her mother, her real mother, Cecily saw that veil of melancholy descend once more. She had simply been too beautiful for this life, Cora replied.

  All through dinner Cecily and Jack exchanged smiles as though they had a secret, which they did. For hadn’t he said there was only one girl for him? And so, though Cecily heard the conversation and joined in from time to time, and though she ate some of the hors d’oeuvres and a little of the clear velouté, the roast pigeon and then the meringues with fruit and whipped cream were barely tasted. All she could think of were those words, that one girl.

  But when Sylvia leaned toward her and said, “It’s awfully nice that you and Jack have become friends,” and then added, “But it’s such a shame that he won’t be here for very much longer,” she felt her heart sink, and knew Sylvia was reminding her. And at the end of dinner, as they all filed out of the dining room, when Cora stood in the doorway, saying, “Oh Cecily, do please wait here with me a moment,” Cecily was sure it was going to be about Jack; that Cora, too, perhaps wished to remind her of the opportunity he had ahead of him; that nothing should stand in his way; that attachments were superfluous at this stage in his life. And as the others disappeared from the room, she was already practicing one line: I understand everything.

  So when Cora whispered to her, barely audible, and beginning, “I don’t wish to put you under any pressure, dear, but I need to warn you about him,” Cecily was already nodding, already saying, “I understand everything.” She failed to hear the last two words of Cora’s sentence: John Abel. And, intoxicated by the evening, the wine, the words, the possibilities, and the giddy feeling that others—in their concern and warnings—had her best interests at heart, she went on, adding, “Sylvia has already spoken to me about him and I understand.”

  “Sylvia?” Cora sounded surprised.

  “Yes. She didn’t need to say a lot, and neither
do you.”

  “I see,” said Cora. “Well, it seems dear Sylvia is ahead of me—in all things.”

  “And don’t worry, I shan’t say anything to him.”

  Cora appeared aghast. “I should hope not. He must know nothing. Nothing at all!”

  It was then, at that moment, Cecily noticed her eyes—intense and glistening, bright with tears. And so she reached out and took hold of Cora’s hands. She said, “I was not expecting . . .” Then she paused, searching for the right words. “You must remember that up until quite recently I had no idea of his or your existence . . .” she shrugged. “Neither of you were here, in Bramley. And yet, you and he and all of this has changed me, and changed the way I see the world. But I know, I understand, the timing. I do understand.”

  Cora closed her eyes. “Well then, we should perhaps leave it be.”

  “But there’s one thing, one thing I must tell you,” Cecily said. “He’d quite like to know more about you, simply in order to understand who he is.”

  “Who he is?” Cora repeated. “No,” she said emphatically. She shook her head. “I’m afraid it cannot be.” Then she released Cecily’s hands and walked away, into the hallway and then on into the drawing room. Cecily followed her. As she entered the room, Jack stood up. He helped himself to two of Cora’s Venetian cigarettes and asked Cecily if she’d care to join him. And so they returned to the veranda and sat down side by side in wicker chairs, looking out over the pale evening sky.

  He smiled as he asked her, “So, are you going to tell me what it was my grandmother wished to speak to you about?”

  She turned and smiled at him when she said, “No.”

  He sighed. “Secrets, eh? Do all women keep secrets?”

  “Hmm, possibly . . . probably, but I imagine men do too.”

  He laughed. “Well, I don’t but I suppose there’s still time for me to accumulate a few.”

  “Plenty of time.”

  “And no doubt at Cambridge . . .”

  “No doubt.”

  “I’ll be going off there in a matter of weeks.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I have to go up before term starts to sort out lodgings, that sort of thing.”

  She nodded.

  “Will you go back to the school? Continue teaching?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I suppose so.” Then she said, “Oh well, it’ll be Christmas before we know it.”

  He looked down at the ground. “I’m not sure I’ll be here at Christmas. I’ve been invited to Neuchâtel. Noel’s parents have a place there . . . and I’ve sort of said yes.”

  “How wonderful.”

  He turned to her. “But I’ll definitely be back here next Easter.”

  She stared ahead. “I may be traveling then.”

  “Really? You’re going away?”

  “Oh yes. Did I not tell you? I’m going away with my aunt.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You never said.”

  “Yes. France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland . . . and Italy, too, I think.”

  “So you’ll be away for some time?”

  “Mm.”

  After a while he said, “Will you come out for a spin with me? You really must, you know. Not tonight, of course, but perhaps tomorrow, or . . . Monday?”

  “Monday . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Well, think about it. I’ll take you out from here, we can go down the cinder track.”

  When they returned to the drawing room, Madeline was already on her feet. The light was fading, she said, and they must get home before darkness fell. Then they all shook hands, and a maid appeared to show them to the door.

  Cecily did not hear a word her mother said as they walked home. In the space of a few hours she had been raised up into that pink and orange sky—then dropped. Or that’s how it felt. For now she saw only the long winter ahead. She saw time stretching out—the months, seasons and years to come—and herself slowly shriveling, shrinking, drying up; withering in Bramley. And she saw Jack Staunton in a place called Cambridge, surrounded by impossibly glamorous and erudite young people, and beautiful young women. She felt such a fool. What on earth had made her think that he could ever be interested in someone who had been nowhere and done nothing?

  As her mother closed the front door, she said, “Oh, Ethne must be back,” but already Cecily was halfway up the stairs pulling the pins from her hair; already she saw herself as the one girl who had gone overdressed to dinner.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Sylvia found the small brown envelope on the table in the drawing room, the first thing that struck her was that it was in the wrong place. Unopened post belonged on the silver salver on the hallway table. Cora only moved letters from there when she was ready to open them, and then always at her desk. This letter, Sylvia could see, remained sealed, unopened. Picking it up, she noted the hand, small and somewhat malnourished, and the strange spelling. But people had forever been confounded by the name, and Cora was used to being addressed in a variety of fashions (once, Sylvia could recall Cora telling her, even “Her Royal Highness” had prefixed the misspelled name). But this was a brown envelope which, upon feeling it, contained nothing more than a flimsy, insubstantial sheet. A bill? Perhaps. Turning the envelope, Sylvia could see that it was not properly sealed, easy enough to open. But as she lifted it up to the lamp, leaning forward to examine it further, the door opened.

  To Sylvia’s mind Cora overreacted. She was not snooping, not at all. She was simply concerned that this was yet another of those wretched letters. And she wished nothing more than to protect her friend. But oh, how Cora had gone on, saying that Sylvia had no right to be “prowling” about the place, rifling through her papers and letters. What was it, exactly, that she was looking for? she asked, sounding angrier than Sylvia had ever heard her. But she gave Sylvia no opportunity to reply, for she went on, saying, “Had I known you wished to play detective whilst here I should never have invited you.”

  Sylvia tried a number of times to speak, to explain, but Cora would not stop. “You were about to open that envelope, Sylvia, I saw you. No, don’t even try to deny it. I was here, standing right here in the doorway, watching you. Do you wish me to read it to you? Do you wish me to read every one of my letters to you? Is that what you want? Must I show you every single part of me, my life? Am I to be allowed no privacy at all? And all of you . . . all of you crowding in on me, demanding answers . . . wanting to know everything, every tiny detail!”

  Her breathing, always a problem, had become quite rapid and she raised a hand to her chest as the words tumbled forth. Her face was flushed, shining, and strands of her white hair stuck flat to her brow, wet and dark. When she finally sat down, breathless and still clearly agitated, she grimaced as though in pain, and Sylvia rushed to her side and laid her hand upon her forehead. “You have a temperature, dear. A fever,” she said, reaching for the bell on the wall. “We must get you to your bed.”

  Cora remained silent as Sylvia led her upstairs to her room, cooing words of contrition. “You should know by now I’d never do anything to hurt you . . . only your best interests at heart . . . always have . . . always have.”

  When Cora’s maid appeared, Sylvia moved aside and stepped out of the room into the lobby. She could hear Cora saying something about it all being too much for her, and the maid softly hushing and fussing. When the maid finally emerged through the doorway, Sylvia stepped back into the lamplit room to say good night.

  “Don’t think I don’t know . . . I know everything,” Cora said, without looking at Sylvia. She was not lying flat and not quite upright, but propped by a multitude of white linen pillows, against which her hair, now plaited in two thick ropes, all but disappeared. In the great galleon of a bed she suddenly appeared very small, Sylvia thought, small and frightened. And it was the same fearful look Sylvia recalled having seen before
, a very long time ago.

  “You’ve been talking about me to Cecily . . . talking about him.”

  “Him?” Sylvia repeated. She presumed Cora meant George. “I most certainly have not,” she replied. “But that girl is determined, oh yes, you mark my words.”

  “You’re all determined . . . won’t be satisfied until I’ve lost my senses and been committed . . . like her, and like John Abel.”

  Sylvia stood at the end of the bed. She ran her hands over the sheet. “Hush now, you must rest, dear. I shall tell Jack that—”

  “You shall tell Jack nothing,” Cora said, fixing her eyes on Sylvia.

  “All I meant was—”

  “You shall tell Jack nothing,” she said again.

  Sylvia hovered, watching Cora’s hands plucking at the bedcover.

  “You were always there for me, weren’t you, Sylvia?”

  “Yes, indeed I was, and I still am.”

  “Yes, always there for me . . . always able to tell me about George’s new lover, the very latest rumor.”

  “Aha, so that’s what this is all about. You’ve been remembering Evie Dip—”

  “No! Don’t say it! I don’t want that name uttered in this room! I don’t want to hear that name now or ever again.”

  Sylvia had been the one to tell Cora, the one who had written to her in Paris of the Dipple Affair. She wrote to Cora that she had heard from various “reliable” sources that George had become quite obsessed with his latest sitter. She had mentioned the girl’s age, telling Cora that it was the talk of all London.

  “But I had no intention of . . .” Sylvia began and then stopped. There was no point. Cora was, Sylvia thought, delirious, quite delirious. So she simply bid her friend good night. But as she turned to close the bedroom door she heard Cora mutter something about revenge.