The Memory Box
Page 4
She closed her eyes, the rhythmic rise and fall of Beau’s chest allowing her mind to wander. ‘I’ve never lived in a house that wasn’t owned by somebody else. Never really had a place to call home.’
‘Right, that’s it,’ Beau said firmly. He flung the duvet off and sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers meshed in his hair. ‘I’m gonna get a proper job. It’s just not right you having to carry the load.’
She eased herself onto her knees, massaging his shoulders as she spoke. ‘Give over. You’ll do no such thing. I’m not having you giving up on your dreams. You’re an extremely talented singer-songwriter. You’re the whole package. You’ve got the voice, the looks, the charisma. I’m not going to let you waste all that. You’ll get your big break one day.’ She kissed the back of his neck. ‘You should go on one of them talent shows on the telly. You’re way better than some of the rubbish they get on there.’
He pulled her onto his knee. ‘What did I do to deserve you, eh?’ He kissed her mouth, his familiar tobacco-scented breath strangely comforting. ‘Now, why don’t you fix me something proper to eat.’ He held up the bag of buffet remnants, his expression one of disgust. ‘Instead of this shit.’
He was in a bad mood now anyway. Might as well get it over with. ‘You’re going to have to fend for yourself for a week. I’m going away.’
‘What? When? Away where?’ There was a hint of panic in his voice.
‘Jenny wants me to go with her to Italy. It’s something she has to do. I’m not exactly sure what yet, but once I’ve heard the whole story, she assures me I’ll understand. It’s for an anniversary, a memorial or something. It’s not until May, so you’ve plenty of time to get used to the idea.’
‘You’re leaving me?’
‘It’s only a week.’
‘You’re leaving me on my own for a whole week?’
She patted him playfully on his arm. ‘You’ll be fine, silly.’ She leaned in to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head away.
‘Beau?’
He tugged at the sheet, rolled over and faced the window. ‘I don’t want you to go, Candice, and I’m hoping it’s not too much to ask for my feelings to be taken into consideration.’ He reached out and switched off the bedside lamp. ‘Hopefully by morning you’ll have come to your senses.’
4
The glittery stars have clogged up the vacuum cleaner just like I knew they would. The number balloons have lost their plumpness, the silver foil now wrinkled and barely fit for purpose. It comes to us all.
I’m sitting with Frank in the conservatory, both alone with our thoughts as we stare at the withered snowdrops next to the newly blossomed daffodils. The sun’s streaming in now, but over yonder, the sky’s the colour of a particularly nasty bruise. I had a bad night after talking to Candice. I’m not sure dwelling on the past is all that good for me, but sometimes you have to face up to it and do what’s right, no matter how painful. I’ve put a big red ring around the date of the anniversary on the calendar. It’s something to aim for. At a hundred years old, I don’t make any long-term plans obviously, but if I can survive for the next couple of months and do what I need to do, then I can die in peace.
I sneak a look at Frank. His eyes are closed, his hands clasped under his chin, supporting his head. He’s as dapper as usual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without his paisley cravat. Apart from the time he dribbled his mulligatawny down it. Now, there’s somebody who shakes, bless him – St Vitus’s Dance my mother would have called it – but life in here would be a lot less cheery without him. He’s always got an amusing tale to tell. As a raconteur, he could give that Stephen Fry a run for his money. And what he doesn’t know about musicals isn’t worth knowing. He’s very quiet today, though. I reach over and touch his arm. ‘What’s up, chuck?’
He lifts his head and attempts a smile, although his brain forgets to tell his eyes. With a juddering hand he takes out his hanky and makes a ham-fisted attempt to dab his cheeks.
‘Frank, love. Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Sorry,’ he sniffs. ‘I had no desire to bring the mood down, what with the balloons still up.’
And suddenly I remember. I feel like the most selfish person in the world. ‘It’s a year today, isn’t it?’
He nods and presses the handkerchief to his mouth.
‘I’m so sorry, Frank.’
Really, what can you say to someone who’s lost the love of their life? There’s an awful lot of claptrap bandied about these days, none of it useful. ‘You’ll always miss him. You’re meant to.’
When he speaks again, his voice is rough, as though he’s gargling with gravel. ‘I count myself lucky, Jenny. We had nearly sixty years together and made it to the final chapter.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘It would’ve been nice to know what was in the epilogue, though. It’s never enough, is it, Frank?’
He snorts out a half-hearted laugh before his voice cracks again. ‘I just miss him so much. I don’t know how I’ve survived a year without him.’
‘It’s important to keep talking about him. Keep his memory alive in your heart, remember the good times. Come on, tell me more about him. Where did you two meet?’
He turns in his chair to face me, and I see his features are suddenly animated. ‘I replied to his advertisement in the local paper.’
I raise my eyebrows and he laughs out loud.
‘Not that kind of advertisement. This was 1960 and homosexuality was against the law. No, he was a French polisher and I needed something polishing.’ There’s a cheeky glint in his eyes now.
‘Dare I ask what?’
‘I’d just started my own cabinet-making and furniture-restoring business and a customer had brought in a treasured table that had a deep scorch mark I was unable to remove. Ernest came with his bag of cloths, oils and lubricants, donned a pair of white cotton gloves and proceeded to caress that wood as though he cared about nothing else in this world. The sheen on it by the time he’d finished, well . . .’ Frank places his hand across his heart. ‘I knew I was in the company of an artist. I was immediately smitten.’
‘I imagine it must’ve been difficult, though, given the times.’
‘I can’t deny that, but we loved each other and that was all that mattered.’
‘There you are!’
We both turn as Candice enters the room and interrupts our little chat. I forget to close my mouth as I stare at her. ‘What happened to you?’
Instinctively her hand flies to her cropped chestnut hair. Yesterday it was down to her waist; now it barely reaches her chin.
‘Why? Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s . . . it’s different. But why? You had such lovely long tresses.’
She looks at her reflection in the conservatory glass and attempts to fluff up what’s left of it. ‘It was Beau’s idea. He even gave me the money for it. He cut a picture out of a magazine. He thinks it’s more edgy. Much more suited to someone who works in the beauty industry.’
‘But you work in a residential care home, Candice. Wiping up after old people. We’re not fussed about the edginess of your hair.’
‘Ah, well you see, Beau’s agreed that I can take an eyebrow course, and then I’ll be able to have clients at home, you know, in my spare time. When I’ve saved up enough, I’ll be able to do Beauty Therapy Level Two and get a job in a proper salon.’ She wrinkles her nose at me. ‘You really don’t like it?’
I exchange a look with Frank, who thus far hasn’t been able to tear his gaze away from what I can only describe as a hatchet job. ‘As long as you like it, Candice, that’s all that matters.’
‘Beau loves it. I’ve just come straight from the hairdresser’s, so he’s only seen a selfie, but he sent me back a heart-eyes emoji. Look.’
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Luddite. It might even surprise you to learn I can use the internet, but I’ve no idea what it is I’m supposed to be looking at here.
What on earth is a heart-eyes emoji?
Frank presses himself out of his chair. ‘No thank you, Candice. I feel the need to take the air.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ I ask.
‘No, no, I’m grand, Jenny, thanks all the same.’
We both watch as he leaves the conservatory, his gait still strong and purposeful. There are many reasons people come to Green Meadows and we all need varying amounts of care. Even at my age, I’m not the most labour-intensive resident they’ve got, but Frank moved here for the company. Some folks like to stay in their own homes after losing their loved ones, but he couldn’t cope with it. He kept seeing Ernest at every turn, and the memories were so vivid it was like he was still alive. Two toothbrushes in the pot beside the sink, Ernest’s slippers resting on the hearthrug, his overcoat hanging in the hall, flecks of dandruff still speckling the collar. The house was like a shrine to him, a shrine Frank couldn’t bring himself to dismantle and then continue living there without him.
‘Jenny? Jenny?’
I’ve allowed my thoughts to wander again, and now Candice is shaking my shoulder, her perfect eyebrows raised in concern. ‘Yes.’
‘I said, I’m due on a break in half an hour. I’ll bring your tea then and we can carry on with your story.’
She’s such a sweet girl. She must have better things to do than listen to me ramble on, but it’s important she knows everything before we embark on our trip to Italy. I just hope she can handle it.
5
1940
It took a few moments for her head to clear, to banish the fug of sleep that seemed to have robbed her of her faculties. She felt the bed bounce, followed by warm breath in her ear. ‘Jenny, wake up. I need the toilet.’
Without lifting her head, she turned to look at Louis’s face beside her on the pillow, the close proximity of his stale breath causing her to look away again.
‘Can’t you hold it?’ She pulled the alarm clock close to her face. ‘Aargh, Louis, it’s only five o’clock.’
His hand was clamped around his crotch. ‘I need to go now.’
‘You’ll have to use the pot under the bed. I’m not traipsing down to the bottom of the garden in the middle of the night.’
Back home in Manchester, they were fortunate enough to have an inside toilet. At least it could be argued that they had an inside toilet. It was situated in a lean-to on the side of the kitchen, and it was so cold in there that in winter the water sometimes froze and they had to take a broom handle to it before they could go. But here, there were no such luxuries, and last night she and Louis had had to make their way along a crazy-paved path with the aid of an oil lamp. There was no flush and no toilet paper, just a bucket of water and a rusty nail holding squares of cut-up newspaper. The smell of ammonia had caused their eyes to water, and Louis had been decidedly unimpressed. It had been something else for him to cry about.
When she woke again an hour later, Louis had crawled into bed beside her and manoeuvred himself under her arm so that the weight of his head had cut off the blood supply to her fingers. She opened and closed her palm to dispel the resulting pins and needles. ‘Louis, can you just sit up a minute.’
He rubbed his eyes and blinked in the half-light. ‘Can we go home today?’
She stroked his face, choosing her words carefully. ‘Oh, my dear sweet Louis. You know we can’t go home just yet. It might not be safe with the bombs an’ all. We’re better off here in the quiet countryside. You’ll like it once you get to know everybody. And it’s so pretty, isn’t it? Look.’ She drew back the curtain and pointed at the mountain looming over the garden. ‘Look at that. Isn’t it beautiful?’ She cocked her head and listened carefully. ‘I can hear running water.’ She eased herself onto her knees and craned her neck to look more closely. ‘Oh, would you believe it? There’s a flippin’ waterfall, Louis. How about that, eh?’ She stared at the sparkling funnel of water plummeting off the mountain and into a dark green mossy pool beneath.
Louis stuck his thumb into his mouth and curled up in the warm space where Jenny had been lying. She rested her elbows on the wide stone windowsill, mesmerised by the glittering water. She ducked down when she saw Lorcan approach, dressed only in a long shirt. Allowing herself a peep, she watched as he stuck his hands under the flow, sloshing the water onto his face. Then he gripped the hem of his shirt and in one fluid movement pulled the garment over his head. Embarrassed by his nakedness, she was still unable to look away, and instead continued to watch as he stood under the waterfall with his back to her, his tanned arms in sharp contrast to his pale torso. He turned around then and looked directly up at her window. She caught only a hint of his amused smile before she ducked down once more, the tympanic rhythm of her heartbeat resounding in her ear, her cheeks crimson with shame.
He was seated at the breakfast table, carving thick slices of bread, as they entered the kitchen. Jenny could hardly meet his eye. ‘Mornin’, Lorcan.’
‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’
She nodded. ‘Yes thank you, we did.’ She squeezed Louis’s hand. ‘Didn’t we, Louis?’
He stayed silent. ‘Manners, Louis,’ she whispered.
‘Yes thank you,’ he managed, his voice muffled by the teddy bear clamped under his nose.
‘Well, sit down, the pair of you, there’s tea in the pot. Mam’ll be down in a minute. She’s feeling much better today and is keen to meet you. Tad’s just cleaning up after the milking, so we’ll wait and then we can all have breakfast together.’ The dog, Brindle, sat by his side, his hopeful, adoring eyes never leaving his young master’s face. Lorcan tossed a cube of cheese into the air and the grateful creature jumped up and snapped his jaws around it.
Louis giggled. ‘He caught it.’
‘Of course he caught it. He’s clever, see,’ said Lorcan. ‘Very intelligent, border collies are, they can—’ He stopped as the door opened. ‘Mam, you’re here.’ He gestured towards Jenny and Louis. ‘Come and say hello.’
Mrs Evans was a petite woman, with an air of compact neatness about her. Her blue eyes were ringed with tiredness, but her mouth afforded the two interlopers a generous smile.
Jenny held out her hand, adopting a formal tone. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Evans. Thank you for having us.’ She hardly recognised her own voice. Her mother would be so proud.
‘You’re both very welcome. I’m sure it can’t be easy for you.’ The woman knelt down so she was level with Louis’s face. ‘And what’s your name, little man?’
Louis spoke into his teddy bear, his reply barely audible. ‘Louis Francis Tanner.’
She pulled his arm away from his mouth and took hold of the teddy. ‘And what’s his name, then?’
‘Mrs Nesbitt,’ whispered Louis. ‘She’s a girl bear. Jenny’s going to make her a little skirt so you can tell.’
‘Mrs Nesbitt, is it? Well, there’s lovely. Did you choose the name?’
Louis nodded. ‘And I’ve brought my rabbit. He’s called Peter.’ It was the most he’d said to a stranger since leaving home.
‘You’re fond of Beatrix Potter then, are you?’
Louis wrinkled his nose. ‘Who?’
Mrs Evans straightened up, laughing. ‘Who? he says.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Come on then, let’s get some breakfast inside you and then you can start on your chores.’
‘Oh, we’re keen to help, Mrs Evans,’ Jenny interjected. ‘We’ll do whatever we can, I promise. We’ll try not to be a burden. I know we’re not quite what you were expecting when you agreed to take two evacuees, but we’re grateful just the same.’
The woman waved her away. ‘We’ll manage, Jenny. And less of the Mrs Evans. My name’s Delyth – you can call me Del.’ She turned to Louis. ‘And you little man, can call me Mammy Del, okay?’
Louis looked unsure. ‘You’re not my mummy. I want my real mummy.’ His chin dimpled and he took a shuddering breat
h.
‘Louis!’ said Jenny. ‘Don’t be so rude. I’m really sorry, Mrs Evans. He doesn’t mean it.’
‘I do mean it.’ Louis stamped his foot on the floor. ‘I want to go home.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Well you can’t,’ she hissed, fighting with every fibre to control her temper.
Lorcan placed a hand on Louis’s shoulder. ‘I could really use a strong boy like you to help me collect the eggs. Do you think you could do that? You can carry the basket for me.’
‘Go on, Louis,’ Jenny urged. ‘Go with Lorcan, then you can see the hens.’
Louis nodded in defeat and slipped his hand into Lorcan’s.
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed.
Lorcan winked as he shrugged on his jacket. ‘Any time.’
After breakfast, Jenny insisted on clearing away and washing up the pots. Lorcan and his father had taken Louis off to bottle-feed the orphaned lambs. Delyth sat in the armchair close to the range as she waited for the pan of water to boil. ‘Lorcan tells me you’re quite the seamstress.’
‘Yes, I’m a dressmaker. My mother taught me to sew at an early age. I used to make bookmarks, embroider handkerchiefs and tablecloths, that kind of thing. Then I progressed to making clothes.’ She smoothed down the folds of her skirt. ‘I made this.’
Delyth nodded her approval. ‘You’re incredibly talented. It’s lovely.’
‘I could make you something, Mrs Evans . . . I mean Del. If you could get hold of some fabric and a sewing machine, I could make you a nice dress.’
‘I already have a good dress, Jenny. One good dress is all I need. For chapel on Sundays. No need to waste time or money on getting another one.’
‘Oh, all right then. Well let me know if you change your mind.’
She poured the boiling water into the sink and added the suds, agitating the water with a wooden spoon to form a pillow of bubbles. She could feel Delyth’s eyes on her as she scrubbed the plates clean.
‘Are you in any pain?’