by Kathy Shuker
‘Well, you didn’t handle that very well, did you?’ said Sophie.
*
It was raining heavily when Jo got back from the hospital on the Saturday evening. Key in her hand ready, she left the car and ran to the front door, fumbling with the lock and throwing herself inside. Holding the door open she looked back into the rain. The sound of her car being parked would often bring Sidney running to the house but he wasn’t there. He was probably sheltering somewhere dry. She tried calling his name, then gave in and closed the door.
The rain didn’t last. It blew through leaving the grass sparkling in the early evening sunshine. Several times, while she ate her meal in the conservatory, Jo looked out over the garden. There was no sign of Sidney. After clearing up, she went outside and wandered round the garden, occasionally calling his name.
It was good to be in the fresh air. It wasn’t cold and she lingered. The lower terrace still caught the rays of the sinking sun and she stood savouring them, hearing the sound of the surf down on the beach. She was tired and woolly-headed. Odd bits of conversation with Matthew had replayed in her head into the night. She still wasn’t sure what to make of him. She liked him, much more than she had expected. He was charming and kind and he had a sensitive smile, yet being with him felt like walking along a knife edge, precarious and uncertain. That flash of temper had been revealing. She could guess at some of the pain he was still feeling but she couldn’t cope with it right now; he needed patience and time and she didn’t have enough of either.
It had been hard work with Eleanor again that afternoon. Jo spent ages showing her aunt photographs, trying to elicit some memory and response. Sometimes Eleanor seemed to recognise something; sometimes she tried to talk about it, but the words or thoughts didn’t come the way she wanted. Names were a particular struggle for her. She would either lose interest or get cross. The photographs had been pushed ruthlessly away at one point, a number of them fluttering to the floor.
‘Sorry,’ Eleanor had said, a little grudgingly, still with the warning glint in her eye.
Occasionally her aunt showed flashes of the woman she had been; at other times she was another person entirely. It was like going on a series of blind dates, never sure what kind of person would turn up.
A flash of light caught Jo’s eye now, something between the pavers on the terrace, glistening in the low beam of sunlight. She went closer and bent over. The mortar which had originally been pressed between the slabs had broken up in places and something metallic had got trapped among the bits which now sat in a shallow rill of rainwater. It looked like a stud earring. Odd. She picked it out and held it up to examine. Yes, it was: a solid round of gold set with a small bulbous stone, backed with a gold post. The stone looked like an agate: it was purple with bands of pale pink and grey running through it. It would need a butterfly clip to hold it in the ear though. She searched around but there was no sign of it, presumably the reason the stud had fallen out. It could have been there a while; only the rain and the late sunshine had revealed it.
She felt a warm body push against her leg. Sidney was back, yowling softly for his dinner. She went inside to feed him and took the stud with her.
Later, up in Eleanor’s bedroom, Jo opened the jewellery box on the dressing table and picked along the cushion of earrings. They were all in pairs. There were a few loose earrings on the tray below and she checked those too. None matched the one she had found. She hadn’t really expected them too. Eleanor didn’t wear neat little studs like this: she wore bold statement earrings, large or colourful or both, pieces that hung and attracted attention, just like the hats and the clothes she wore. So this stud had been worn by someone visiting the terrace. It might have been anybody or it might have been worn by the person who argued with Eleanor that night. Beforehand, Jo had been almost convinced that it had been a man but now… How many people ever visited the terrace?
Once formed, the idea took hold and refused to be ignored. Jo went to bed that night still wondering where it led her. Perhaps she had found something concrete at last.
*
Eleanor sat with the photographs spread out on the table in front of her. She had looked at them so many times that they had become familiar to her in the way the words of a poem can be familiar even when you don’t understand what the poem means. There were photos of her home and her gardens; photos of friends and family; photos of Petterton Mill Cove.
It was Sunday morning; the radio had told her so. There had been a religious and current affairs programme on earlier. One of the younger nurses kept changing the station when Eleanor was out of the room but Jo had pre-set her aunt’s favourites and, with the press of a button, Radio 4 was back on. Easy. Eleanor kept the radio close now - on the table or on the bed beside her chair. They might manage to get her walking down in that physiotherapy department with their help, but she couldn’t risk walking on her own yet. Her legs didn’t always do what she told them and too often she felt like she was walking on the deck of a pitching ship.
But there was no speech therapy or physiotherapy today because it was Sunday. Her usual physio, Steph, had told Eleanor that she was going away somewhere for the weekend. Eleanor couldn’t remember where. It was annoying the way she kept losing thoughts that way. Still, it meant peace. There would be no-one exhorting her to hold this bar or move that leg or stand straighter. ‘Come on, Eleanor, you can do it. Try harder.’ All that eagerness and enthusiasm and downright bossiness was maddening.
No, this morning she could be still. She could read maybe. Jo had brought her a few books, which were stacked up in the locker beside her bed. No, she couldn’t read. She wanted to but she had tried and the lines of text didn’t register with her. She understood the individual words but, put together, they didn’t mean anything to her. And sometimes they were out of focus anyway. She had thrown a book across the room the other day in frustration and Jo had got cross, upset even, and Eleanor had been a bit shocked, her anger quickly dissipating. She was sorry: she didn’t want to upset the girl. But Jo didn’t like books to get marked, never had. Eleanor remembered that quite clearly about her from when she was young. Always kept her things neat and tidy, Jo did; didn’t like other people messing with them, putting things out of order, turning corners back to keep the page.
No, looking at photos was the best she could do. She carefully picked one up, fumbling it a little. It was a photo of Jo paddling in the sea. There was another one of her, sitting playing the piano.
‘That’s your piano,’ Jo had pointed out. ‘In your sitting room at home.’
‘My piano,’ Eleanor muttered now. She stretched out her free hand and wiggled the fingers up and down. Yes, she could see herself playing the piano, though she couldn’t remember it. But these fingers were no more obedient at times than her legs. The harder she tried, the more errant they became.
She picked up another photo. These gardens were hers. It was a visceral reaction she got to them rather than something conscious - hard to identify, harder still to explain to Jo. Bloody hell, Jo fussed at her so. Eleanor wished she wouldn’t. It was so tiring, trying to remember; sometimes Eleanor just wanted to sit and be. It felt like her head was full of water, swishing backwards and forwards, jostling the images in her brain, fragmenting them. She wanted to be still and let the water settle, then maybe the images and memories would come back together and form something she could identify.
She dropped the photo of the gardens back on the table and pushed it away with the back of her hand.
‘Eleanor, don’t you look better?’
A small, slight woman with short dark hair had walked into the room, smiling, a bunch of flowers in one hand, a plastic pack of grapes in the other. She dumped them both on the bed and bent over to wrap her arms around Eleanor’s back in a gentle embrace. Her shoulder bag swung round and banged the chair.
‘Oh sorry.’ She straightened up, backing away then pulled the small upright chair over and sat down.
<
br /> Eleanor stared at her. She knew her. There was a photograph of her somewhere on the table, she was sure, but the name wouldn’t come. They’d been friends, hadn’t they, years ago? Yes, in London, just graduated and full of the hubris of youth, talking about books and art and politics. She grinned. Ah yes, politics, one of her favourite subjects, but it had got her into trouble more often than not.
The woman was smiling back at her. She had an elfin face, kind, anxious.
‘Mari,’ said Eleanor suddenly and grinned again at her success. ‘Mari,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, I’m Mari. You remembered. Oh darling, how wonderful that you’re getting better. I’m so relieved.’
Mari’s smile stretched from ear to ear. Yes, she remembered Mari. She had shared Eleanor’s political views but had always been reluctant to argue her point home, too quick to defer to others and doubt herself. It used to drive Eleanor wild. She liked her though. Mari had married some bossy man - what was his name?
‘How is he?’ Eleanor enunciated slowly. ‘The bossy man. Hm? So bossy.’ She shook her head reprovingly.
Mari looked hunted. ‘Do you mean Lenny? We split up years ago. I…well, I realised he wasn’t right for me. I’m with Imogen now. You know Imogen?’ Mari surveyed the photographs spread out on the table separating them, half-standing, turning her head to see them the right way up. She rifled through them. ‘Here, this is Imogen with me. See?’ She handed Eleanor the photo.
Eleanor thought she recognised Imogen. Maybe. It wasn’t as clear as when you saw someone in the flesh.
‘Good,’ she said, putting the picture back down. It was what she said to keep people happy and stop them chivvying her.
‘Yes, we’re very happy together.’ Mari picked up another photo. ‘Here’s Candida. I know it’s been years but I do still miss her. You must too. Such a special person and so full of energy.’
‘Candida,’ said Eleanor. ‘My sister. Yes.’
‘I know you didn’t always get on, darling, but that’s the way it is with sisters, especially creative ones like you were. It’s normal.’
‘I love Candida…’ said Eleanor.
‘Yes, we all did.’
‘…but sometimes…’ Eleanor leaned forward in the chair, clenching a fist. ‘…she’s inf…infur... Tsch. She’s clever but washes…no, wastes…’ She nodded vigorously and released an index finger to prod inexpertly at the table top. ‘…wastes herself. We row - always row.’
Mari was silent for a minute, expression wary. ‘You do remember what happened to Candida don’t you, Eleanor? She fell, darling, remember? Fell off a boat, poor thing.’ She hesitated, then put a comforting hand on top of Eleanor’s. ‘She drowned you know, darling.’
Eleanor took a minute to digest this. Yes, Jo had said something like this to her too.
‘She drowned,’ she repeated.
Drowned. Sudden and horrible. Yes, this was something Eleanor could feel, deep in the pit of her stomach and it twisted now at the thought. Candida had gone.
Mari laughed briefly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘It shows how much I miss her that I sometimes think I see her in the street, you know? Even after all these years. It happened quite recently, in fact, just before we came down here, I thought I saw her in a shop in London. It’s odd how that happens, isn’t it? A face in the crowd and suddenly you’re transported back twenty years.’
Eleanor stared at her. She felt a chill run down her spine and groped suddenly, urgently, for the call button and pressed it.
‘I need to pee,’ she told Mari. ‘Now.’
*
Jo visited Eleanor that afternoon and found her aunt quieter than usual, distracted.
‘The literary festival is starting to come together,’ she said, trying to capture her aunt’s attention. ‘The whole village is excited about it now. Matthew Croft’s designed a website for the event. There’s information on it about Petterton Mill Cove and the speakers and ways to get hold of tickets.’ Eleanor was silent, pulling at a piece of skin on her thumb. ‘Do you remember Matthew? He runs Millie’s, the coffee shop. But he’s a web designer and it was you who suggested he get involved with the festival.’
Eleanor looked at her blankly.
Jo pressed on. ‘I’ve managed to find someone to fill in as a speaker for you: Penny Finn. You know Penny. She writes thrillers too. You’ve known each other for years. In fact you met her at a literary festival. You told me you both drank too much Pimms and felt awful the next day. Anyway, she said she’ll try to get here to visit but if not, she’ll see you when she comes for the festival.’
‘Penny,’ repeated Eleanor dully, apparently disinterested.
Jo produced the stud earring from a side pocket in her handbag and held it out on the palm of her hand.
‘Eleanor, do you recognise this?’
Her aunt became more animated, stared at the stud, then bent closer. She reached out to take it but it was too small and she couldn’t coordinate her fingers to pick it up. She swore and tried again, succeeding the second time and turning her hand to look at the earring from both sides. She dropped it back on Jo’s palm.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I found it on your terrace. Do you remember anyone you know wearing ear studs like this? I should return it to them.’
Eleanor slowly moved her head side to side. ‘Mari came,’ she said. ‘She saw Candidi…Candida.’ Her expression clouded. ‘She said.’
Jo was stunned. ‘Mari came to the terrace? When? And what do you mean about her seeing mum?’
Eleanor stared at her. ‘Mari came here.’ She gestured an index finger downwards. ‘Today.’
‘Here. I see.’ Jo relaxed. She’d misunderstood again.
‘She saw Candida.’
‘She couldn’t have, Eleanor. Mum died years ago.’
‘I know.’ The familiar stubborn line returned to Eleanor’s mouth. ‘But she saw her. She said.’
Jo reached a hand and laid it reassuringly over Eleanor’s.
‘No, Eleanor, your sister passed away. Look, I see her too sometimes, in my dreams. She’s always with us.’
Eleanor shook her head, frowning. ‘We row. We always row.’ She nodded meaningfully.
Jo didn’t like the turn of the conversation and began talking about Sidney.
Going to bed, the stud still preoccupied her. Vincent used to wear an earring or a stud. He even went in for coloured ones sometimes to match his waistcoats. She remembered a silver charm dangling from his ear when she was a child. It had been in the shape of an open book and she had been fascinated by it. Lately she hadn’t paid much attention. Did he still wear them? As for Mari and Imogen, they both wore their hair short and they both wore earrings. If she remembered correctly, Mari wore small, neat ones while Imogen’s varied from the small to the flamboyant. She didn’t know about Louisa. Her hair was shoulder length and hung like a curtain over her ears, usually obscuring them but the woman wore a lot of jewellery. And Lawrence didn’t wear jewellery of any kind. It frustrated her to think this might rule him out.
She fell asleep in the end with the light still on and woke an hour later, her paperback fallen to one side, the bookmark on the floor. She had been dreaming about her mother again - for the first time in more than a year.
She saw her. But Mari couldn’t have seen Candida. Eleanor’s mind was playing tricks on her.
Chapter 13
The following Monday, one of the ward doctors spoke to Jo. He was the registrar, a serious, edgy man with a long face and eyebrows that nearly met. They were looking to get Eleanor home, he said. Eleanor didn’t need much medical care now, just rehabilitation, and she would benefit from being in a more normal environment. Outpatient physiotherapy and speech therapy could be arranged for her.
Jo was shocked. She was also scared. She didn’t want Eleanor home yet; she didn’t know whom she could trust and, at home, Eleanor could be vulnerable to the person who had atta
cked her. Jo wanted more time: time for Eleanor to get her memory back and time to find out what had happened that night and to take it to the police.
‘Aren’t there specialised places where people go to get rehab?’ she asked him. ‘You know, as in residential?’
He looked surprised. ‘Yes, some. I was talking to someone about this yesterday oddly. There aren’t many NHS facilities and they all have waiting lists. But there’s a private place up on Dartmoor which I was told is very good. They might have room if that’s the way you want to go.’
‘I’d need to look into it.’
‘We’re not talking immediately. But soon.’ He smiled and turned away to speak to another doctor. It was a first warning.
On the Tuesday, Eleanor started with a head cold. By the Wednesday, it had developed; she was streaming and coughing and slept a lot. Jo’s sympathy was tempered by relief. They wouldn’t discharge her while she was like this. On the Thursday she decided not to visit and spent much of the afternoon on the internet, looking into the possibilities of rehabilitation for Eleanor and checking out what she could learn about the unit up on Dartmoor. The Moorhill Centre, it was called. It offered comfortable private rooms and a range of therapies and, to judge from the photographs, had an amazing setting. It also asked some eye-watering fees.
By four o’clock, with information overload, she went for a walk through the village and up onto the cliff path. It was a bright, dry day and the path was popular. She got caught up in a stream of holidaymakers beating the same route along the clifftop. Coming back and descending the final steps to the village, she noticed Louisa go into the convenience store. It was the opportunity she had hoped for to speak to her alone. Jo stopped to look over the wall at the sea then idled along until she was a stone’s throw from the shop. A few minutes later, Louisa exited the store carrying a plastic carrier bag and turned for home. Jo hurried to catch up with her and smiled a greeting. Louisa’s expression was friendly if guarded.