The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  It had been the news that George had been in Paris with Evie Dipple that made her realize she had waited long enough, that George Lawson was never going to marry her, or anyone else.

  When she wrote to Edward to accept his offer of marriage she stipulated a number of preconditions: she would not be able live in England, she would not be able to run his house; she would prefer not to use his name, but retain her French name and title; and they would not be able to spend Christmases together. “However, we shall be able to enjoy one another’s company here on the Continent, as and when your work permits . . . Regarding your very kind offer of a property, I have a hankering for somewhere quiet, a secluded place, the sort of place where one might never be found, and with enough space for my son and any family he might have in the future.”

  Days later, she received a reply from Edward: he agreed to every condition. “You have made me the happiest man in all of England,” he wrote. “As to your house, I believe I have found the perfect location!”

  In the end the marriage had been an arrangement that suited them both. Edward had continued to live and work in England whilst she continued with her life between Paris and Rome. She had returned to this country, to England, once or twice in the summer months, and Edward had visited her on the Continent each winter. They had traveled together, touring France and Germany, Switzerland and Austria, and Italy as well.

  And he had been true to his word. Shortly before they were married he purchased some one hundred acres of heathland, on the very edge of a quiet village, where he would build Cora her home. And though she did not see the place until a year after its completion, she had instructed him on some of the detail: the need for “a south-facing canopied veranda, high ceilings and tall windows, well-stocked pleasure gardens, and pine trees.”

  He was a good husband, and she had made him happy, very happy, for he had told her so, often. They had been married for almost six years by the time he passed away in his sleep at his home in London. She returned for the funeral, and for the reading of his will.

  “They’ve quite clearly had some sort of bust-up,” Jack was saying. “I don’t believe for one moment Sylvia had a telegram from her publisher, do you?”

  “Well,” Cecily began, relishing the feel of her hand in his, “it’s not entirely outside the realms of possibility. She is a writer, she does have a publisher . . .”

  “Ah yes, I can just see it . . . Miss Dorland needed urgently, stop, the end not acceptable, stop, more words needed, stop, forthwith, stop . . .”

  “Who knows, maybe she has to attend some sort of meeting, something important.”

  “Rot! She and Cora have had a fall-out. You saw Sylvia in the car, she wouldn’t look at us, didn’t wave. And it’s been building up for weeks, since Sylvia first arrived. I told you about the last time, when Sylvia came running out of the bushes and flagged me down on the drive like an escaped lunatic. And that wasn’t their first upset either. It’s quite obviously something to do with the stupid memoirs, and you know what? I knew it would happen. I warned Sylvia, told her the day she arrived that she had one almighty task on her hands.”

  “I feel sorry for them both, but perhaps more for Cora than Sylvia,” Cecily said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Perhaps because she’s a kinder person than Sylvia.”

  They had reached the bottom of the hill and they stopped. They were yards from the garden gate but it was shaded here, private. He moved closer to her. “Do you really think that?” he asked. She could tell from his eyes that he wasn’t remotely interested in her answer. But she smiled and nodded as he moved his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She knows the broken brick is there, under her bed, because she put it there. It had been left lying by the wall of the tanner’s yard, and she knew as soon as she saw it that it was meant for her, meant as her weapon. She had carried it all the way back through the lanes and up the stairs to their rooms in her apron; and then placed it under the tiny bed frame. Next time he came, she would use it. She would. She would hit him over the head with it.

  Within a week the temperature had fallen, the brightness faded. Clouds returned to their usual place. Autumn was in the air. Everyone said so, and everyone shared in the relief. It was over, at last. Things could return to normal now, they said.

  At Temple Hill, windows and doors were firmly shut, fires were lit and blankets returned to beds. And Jack’s trunk, brought down from the attic, now lay open in his room.

  Cora dreaded his departure. She had no wish to be alone again. She had grown used to his company, used to him and Cecily about the place, coming and going, noisily, giggling and laughing, as though all of life was amusing. And sometimes it was, for they made it so.

  There had been trips to Linford to order books and purchase stationery; and a trip to London, to Gamages, and to a tailor where Jack was measured for a new suit. He had protested, telling Cora that he did not need another suit, but she had insisted, saying it was important, the sign of a gentleman, to be well-dressed. Cecily went with them and they dined at Simpsons in the Strand before returning home. On the train, Cora had quietly watched them: the glances and smiles and not-meant-to-be-noticed gestures. Jack was in love, and in love for the very first time. Nothing, no other love, would be quite the same, she knew. But he was so young; they were both so young. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And she told him this, later that evening.

  “I know that you’re very fond of her, as am I, but you can’t allow yourself to be too attached . . . and you must not allow her to have too many hopes,” she said. “It would be cruel.”

  He adopted that demeanor she had become accustomed to: he looked away, shrugged and said, “I know. I do know this.”

  “I imagine I’ll see a good deal less of her once you have gone . . .”

  But Cecily had no intention of abandoning Cora. She remained enthralled by her faded beauty and dusty treasures, by her stories and her life. She was, to Cecily, cultured and worldly, and possessed with an attitude quite different to others of her generation or to anyone else in Bramley. And yet so much of her life remained an enigma, even to Jack. But perhaps it was this, Cecily thought, perhaps it was the not knowing which allowed others, including herself, to imagine and fill in the gaps. Oh, Cora had confided to an extent, she had told Cecily a few of her secrets, but without any context or chronology these things meant little. In fact, they only added to the intrigue.

  One day shortly after Sylvia left, when Cecily arrived at the house and Jack had been out on his motorcycle, Cora invited her to join her in a stroll about the gardens. She seemed agitated, distracted, and as they walked across the lawn, she said, “One thing you will unfortunately learn in time, my dear, is that not everyone wishes for your happiness . . . or good fortune.”

  It was another one of her cryptic comments and meant nothing to Cecily at the time, because once again it was random, without context. Cecily said nothing, and they walked on in silence toward the arbor.

  “There’s to be a military display on the green tomorrow—soldiers from Aldershot. The Wiltshire regiment, and a band,” Cecily said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  Cora shuddered. “Why people want to watch soldiers perform acrobatics with guns and ugly machinery I don’t for the life of me know.”

  “I suppose it’s rather exciting to some,” Cecily offered.

  “Exciting? One would have thought life was exciting enough without any reenactments of war.”

  “Not everyone’s life has been like yours, Cora.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, resting her cane to one side, and drawing in her skirts for Cecily to sit down. “The problem with the British is that they have not seen war at close quarters, not here, not on their own soil, not for generations.” She turned to Cecily, “No one is alive to remind them of the futility—the carnage, the waste. No, the British go off and
fight in other countries. It’s very different when it’s happening around you. I pray that I never see another war, that your generation—you and Jack—never see any war.”

  For a few minutes they sat in silence. The garden was quiet, sleepy in the morning sun, the air cool.

  “You must forgive me, Cecily. I’m a little out of sorts today,” she said, placing a bejeweled hand upon Cecily’s. She wore a number of rings on her wedding finger and Cecily wanted to ask her which was from whom: which ring went with which man. “In old age one’s thoughts crowd in on one day after day,” Cora went on. “It’s an exhausting business,” and she turned to Cecily with a nervous smile.

  She seemed troubled. Her eyes were tearful. And Cecily said, “Is it Sylvia? Are you missing her?”

  She looked away, shook her head. “No, it is not Sylvia, and no, I am not missing her, as it happens. But I am not relishing the months ahead. I am not looking forward to . . .” She stopped, her lip trembled and for a moment she took on the countenance of a little girl, lost and frightened. “I have spent so much of my life alone, one would have thought I’d be used to it by now. I’ve lived in foreign cities, foreign countries, on my own, and yet this country, England, is more foreign to me than any other place.”

  “That’s because you’ve been away for so long. It’s understandable.”

  She nodded. “But enough of me, I want to talk to you about Jack.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “It’s not easy, for you or for me, to see him go. I understand this,” she began. “You are . . . attached, fond of each other, I know. But sometimes one has to relinquish attachments, we have to be selfless and brave.” She turned to look at Cecily. “Am I making sense?”

  Cecily nodded.

  “I don’t want you—either of you—to be hurt, you see,” she said and paused, looking downwards, breathing in deeply. “People come into our lives without warning, and for a while they make us forget who we are. Only when they leave us are we reminded; only when they leave us do we have to return to who we were before. And that can be painful because we’ve been changed, and what fitted before, what seemed at least comfortable, is no longer so.” She raised her head, staring into the distance. “We think nothing can ever be whole again,” she added in a whisper. Then she turned to Cecily. “I spent a long time waiting for someone, waiting for someone to come back to me. I don’t want you to make that mistake.”

  On their last day together, like so many days before, Cecily and Jack went out on his motorcycle. She had told her mother, had had to tell her—after roaring past Mrs. Moody in Linford—that yes, she sometimes rode pillion on Jack’s bike, “sort of sidesaddle and on a cushion,” she added, as though it would make a difference. But Madeline was aghast, furious that Cecily had lied to her, astonished that all the times she had presumed her daughter to be up at Temple Hill, perhaps taking tea in the garden, she had in fact been “speeding about the lanes with a young man. It’s not only dangerous, it’s improper!”

  “There’s nothing improper about it, women are buying them as well.”

  Madeline shuddered. “Next, you’ll be telling me you’re off to London to fight for votes!”

  “Yes, I very well might.”

  “Really, Cecily, I don’t know what’s come over you this summer. You’ve always been such a . . .”

  “Good girl?”

  “Yes,” said her mother, looking at her, mystified. “And of course everyone will assume that you’re courting now, you and he,” she went on, “and I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I don’t care what everyone assumes but I do care what you think, Mother.”

  “What I think . . . what I think is that you’re both too young.”

  “But you were little older than me when you married Father.”

  Madeline shook her head. “That was different. Jack is about to leave for university, Cecily, he’s not going to stay here. He has a future mapped out for him, and I can’t help but feel . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “That he’ll leave you behind, dear.”

  Perhaps he would leave her behind. The notion was one Cecily had certainly pondered, particularly after Cora’s words to her in the garden. And she had drawn conclusions: he would leave her behind; he had no choice. He had said to her himself, “It’s a tremendous opportunity.” And it was. A university education could not be passed over, no matter what. It would set him up for life. Oh, that she could have the same path and spend three whole years studying, reading, surrounded by erudite people—people she could learn from, people who spoke about poetry and literature and art, people who had traveled and seen places and been places; people who led interesting lives. Oh, that she could be someone.

  But there was a chink of light, a hope, flickering at the back of her mind—or the front, depending on her mood. He would return, during holidays and when he was able, and then, at the end, he’d be free. Three years, she concluded. I shall have to wait three years.

  Nothing had been said. No words about their future had passed between them, though they had spoken often enough about foreign places, places they had read about, heard about, would like to see. She imagined them strolling along the banks of the Seine, the Danube, the Tiber, arm in arm, a handsome couple. And sometimes she imagined them together at Temple Hill . . .

  Three years. I shall wait three years, she told herself. Cora’s warning to her had, she thought, been about wasting an entire lifetime waiting, and she would certainly not be doing that. Three years was not a lifetime.

  But as his departure date loomed, she became aware of the clock, of the minutes and hours, the slipping away of time and the inevitable goodbye, when he would leave Bramley and move on. And the flicker of hope died.

  Jack’s life, she imagined, would be as glamorous as his grandmother’s. Faster, modern, and not yet abroad, but on a path to somewhere: somewhere far more sophisticated than Bramley. He would, perhaps, remember her—the village girl, that innocent country girl, the one he had been quite fond of at the time. The one he had taken up to London, and rode about with through the lanes. The one he had kissed on a hot day at the top of some hill he couldn’t quite remember. In years to come he would return there, to Bramley, at first to visit his grandmother, Cora, and then, after her death, to stay at the place himself from time to time, for he would surely inherit it. And Cecily, too, might be there, might be invited up to Temple Hill for tea. He would take her hand in his and say hello, politely, then step aside to introduce his wife . . .

  Oh, the agony!

  It would not happen, it could not happen. She could never allow it to.

  But the thought, the image, kept coming back to her. She saw herself—rounded, matronly, a brood of noisy, ruddy-faced children and a quiet husband by her side. And him, Jack, lean and dapper, smiling on benignly, sympathetically. But sometimes there were no children or quiet husband, just her: thin and bespectacled and monosyllabic, a spinster of the parish, a schoolmistress, speaking about the weather, the last sermon, and Miss Combe’s new electricity.

  He would say, “Cecily Chadwick, well I never. I hardly recognized you . . . still in Bramley, eh?” For she had never gone anywhere, other than that day excursion to the coast each summer. There had been no traveling, no countries visited or cities explored; there had been no great adventure, and no other loves. And she would smile, grateful for the acknowledgment, the remembrance, and then laugh—and make a joke of her lack of a life. “Oh, but I could never leave Bramley,” she would say. “After all, I’m settled here, and it is so wonderful to live in a place where everyone knows who you are.”

  He would introduce her to his children, all lined up and quite as beautiful as he, and with exotic names and precocious but enchanting demeanors: Nathanial, Atalanta, Theodopholis and Hermione. And they would look at her with pity in their eyes, but not for her but for their father, that he
could ever have loved someone so plain and parochial, that their successful and debonair father could have been so shortsighted. And they would not know what to say, or how to be, and so he would intervene and make small talk, until it was time for her to leave. Then they would all heave a sigh of relief, and tease him that he had once had a thing for poor Miss Chadwick.

  When he released her hand he said, “You never know, I might get back at Christmas . . . come and say boo!”

  She smiled.

  “Otherwise it’ll be Easter.”

  “Yes, Easter,” she repeated.

  “It’s not that long.”

  “No.”

  “We’ve our whole lives ahead of us, you know.”

  “Of course, I know that.”

  “Don’t be sad . . . please, don’t be sad.”

  They stood in the fading twilight by the gate and all she could think was that by morning he would be gone. And all she could hear were the whispers of the coming days and weeks: the poor thing went about with him all summer . . . bound to happen . . . he was hardly going to settle down here—with her. And she would have to brave it, have to smile through it all as though it had been nothing, a brief flirtation, a passing fancy.

  “But we’ve had a fine old time to ourselves,” he said.

  “Yes, we have.”

  He looked away. “I can’t promise you anything . . . I can’t—”

  “It’s perfectly fine, Jack. You don’t need to say any more. I understand.”

  She smiled and turned away. She heard the latch on the gate drop, clickety-click, his feet upon the track, and a door quietly close.

  Chapter Twenty

  The movement of cold air stirs her. The cover has been pulled back. She can hear the rasping sound in the blackness, smell him as he moves closer. “Come here my little lovely, come to Uncle John now . . .” She tries to wriggle free, but he has hold of her, is pulling at her nightgown, and as she struggles, as she struggles to reach down beneath the bed, the soft cotton tears, releasing her like a baby from the womb and her hand to the floorboards, the brick . . .