The Memory Box

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘I make time. I promised my grandaddy I’d finish the chess set he was working on before he died.’

  ‘I’m helping make the prawns,’ said Louis.

  Lorcan winked at her. ‘Pawns, Louis, pawns.’

  Jenny stared at them both, Lorcan’s hand draped casually over Louis’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Lorcan. It’s really kind of you.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. It’s not as if I’ve got a little brother of my own to pass my skills on to. And I’ve got a short while before we go up the lane to fetch the cows for milking. Louis is coming with me. I’m putting him in charge of Brindle.’

  Louis beamed. ‘I can whistle for him. Listen.’ He pursed his lips and blew out a silent breath. Over by the barn, the untroubled Brindle continued to nap in the sunshine. Louis frowned and tried again, the sound this time a hollow whoosh. Brindle had the decency to open one eye and give a lazy thump of his tail, but it was going to take more than that to call him to heel. ‘I could do it before,’ the little boy insisted.

  Lorcan patted his head. ‘Keep practising, Louis, you’ll get it soon enough.’

  ‘If you’re sure he won’t be a nuisance and get in the way, then I’ll go on my own.’

  ‘A nuisance?’ said Lorcan, feigning horror. ‘Never! He’s my right-hand man now.’

  She took it easy navigating the narrow lane down into the town, marvelling at the burgeoning countryside, the smell of the unfurling hedges, tiny birds darting in and out, chunks of sheep’s wool pinched in their beaks ready to line their nests. By the time she arrived at the stone bridge that crossed the river, she was only slightly out of breath, but she paused for a moment, tilting her head towards the sunshine. Although there was still a chill in the April air, the sun’s rays were strong enough to penetrate the high cloud and warm her cheeks.

  She thought of her mother back home amongst the dreary grey ginnels of Manchester, anxiously scanning the skies for enemy planes with their deadly cargo. She closed her eyes and muttered a silent prayer. She couldn’t shake off the guilt she felt that she and Louis were safe whilst their mother might be forced to endure terrifying night raids that would send her scurrying to the shelter. It didn’t seem right to her. Why should the children be spared whilst the adults had to fend for themselves? Would the air-raid shelters even be capable of withstanding a direct hit? The ARP wardens had warned of fatal mustard gas attacks. Although the unflappable Connie Tanner had dismissed these stories as scaremongering, a ruse to get people to wear their gas masks, Jenny’s imagination ran away with her. You can’t smell it, but it eats you alive from the inside out, they said. She wondered whether her mother even cared about her own safety, still entrenched as she was in a pit of grief over the death of her husband.

  She was deep in thought, staring down at the cobbles as she gingerly picked her way along the pavement, when she heard a cry of ‘Ciao, bella!’ and looked across the street. Nico was standing under the canopy of his shop, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, a knee-length black apron tied around his waist. ‘Over here, Jennifer.’ He gesticulated. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

  He pulled out a chair for her and took the one opposite for himself. Two empty coffee cups and a used ashtray sat on the table between them.

  ‘How is your little brother?’ he asked, spreading his hands wide.

  ‘He’s grand, thank you,’ she replied, trying to quell the ridiculous onset of nerves.

  Nico turned his mouth down in an exaggerated clown fashion. ‘Then what is the matter? You look like you lost a shilling and found sixpence.’

  ‘I was just thinking about my mother at home. You know, worried about the bombs and everything, wondering if she’ll be all right.’

  ‘You look like you need gelato. I still have some vanilla left. It’s not so sweet, but I’m sure it will put a smile back on your face. What do you say?’

  She was hardly going to say no. ‘Go on then, ta.’

  ‘Eccellente. I’ll just be a minute.’ He scooped up the used cups and disappeared into the shop.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, returning and placing a small glass of ice cream on the table. ‘This will take all your sadness away, Jennifer.’

  Just the way he said her name made her want to swoon. She really must pull herself together. ‘I doubt that, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘It worked for your brother.’

  She dug the spoon into the cup and shovelled in a large blob.

  Nico threw his arms in the air and took the spoon off her. ‘No, no, not like that,’ he tutted. ‘Here, let me show you.’ He dipped the spoon into the glass and brought out a marble-sized lump. Closing his eyes, he turned the teaspoon over and ran it along the length of his tongue, coating it with the white ice cream, which he then rolled around his mouth as though it were a fine wine.

  He opened his eyes and stared at her, his magnetic gaze making it difficult for her to look away. ‘See?’ he said, breaking into a broad smile. ‘It is a sensuous experience. It is not to be rushed.’ He brought out another scoop and held the spoon to her lips. ‘Your turn.’

  She obediently opened her mouth, dismissing all thoughts of the perils of spoon-sharing. ‘Very nice,’ she agreed.

  ‘Ha,’ he guffawed, rocking back in his chair. ‘Nice? You can do better than that, Jennifer. It practically dances on your tongue, tantalising your taste buds until it slides down your throat, leaving you begging for more.’

  He held up another spoonful. ‘Come on now. Tell me what you really think.’ An amused smile played on his lips, his dark eyes narrowing with delight.

  She could feel her heart galloping in a way that she wasn’t used to. Heat began to rise from her toes until she could feel the flush of it across her chest and neck. She swallowed the ice cream, then blotted her lips with a napkin. ‘Luscious, smooth and ever so slightly sinful,’ she pronounced.

  Reaching across the table, he covered her hand with his own. ‘And what about the gelato?’ He winked.

  A disembodied voice hollered his name. ‘Nico!’

  He jumped and withdrew his hand, his face instantly colouring.

  ‘Sì, Mamma?’

  The voice continued to shout in Italian from inside the café.

  ‘I’m with a customer, Mamma,’ he called back with a roll of his eyes and an apologetic smile. ‘She wants to know what is taking so long.’

  An older woman appeared then, her tiny stature at odds with her booming voice. She stood with her arms akimbo, a tea towel slung over one shoulder, her silver hair scraped back into a bun. She whipped the tea towel across the back of Nico’s head, then switched seamlessly to English. ‘You can’t be sitting around all day chatting. The machine needs cleaning out and then you have to take a mop to the floor. I’ve never seen anything like it, anybody would think that—’

  Nico raised his hands in a calming gesture. ‘I will, Mamma, I will. First let me introduce you to Jennifer. She’s staying up at Mundy Farm.’

  ‘Mun-ith,’ Jenny corrected. She held out her hand to the older woman. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Ah, Delyth told me about her evacuees. My name’s Valentina, but everybody calls me Lena.’ She turned to her son. ‘Don’t be too long now, Nico.’ She bustled back into the shop. ‘Enzo! Enzo! Where are you? There is work to be done.’

  ‘She seems nice,’ said Jenny.

  Nico rubbed his ear theatrically. ‘She is. She could start a conversation with a brick wall and end up with a friend for life, but she only has one volume, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about your father? Where’s he?’

  ‘Around somewhere. Skulking out the back smoking his pipe probably, enjoying the peace until Mamma catches up with him.’

  ‘Is it just the three of you, then?’

  Nico nodded.

  ‘And how long have you lived here?’

  ‘Ten years now. I came when I was twelve. It’s good. I’m happy here.’ He laid his fingers on the back of her hand, the lightness of his tou
ch disarming. ‘Especially now.’

  She’d often wondered whether she would know when she was in love. She needn’t have worried, because right there, in that moment, she had the answer.

  11

  The heat in the shippen was almost unbearable. Although the early May morning was far from warm at this hour, the cows’ breath and body heat combined to make conditions feel stifling. Jenny moved the milking stool along to the next stall, took out a rag and gave the cow’s udders a quick clean. If there was any muck in the milk, then it might be rejected by the dairy and Bryn would be none too pleased.

  She squeezed hard, her hands pulling down on alternate udders until the cow yielded her milk. The supply exhausted, she delved into a pot of unguent and scooped up a blob to massage into the cow’s chapped udders. She felt Lorcan’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Jenny? It’s not too much for you, I hope.’

  She held out her hand to him and he heaved her off the stool. ‘I’m fine, Lorcan, stop fussing.’ She offered a smile to take the sting out of her words.

  In the five weeks since they’d arrived at Mynydd Farm, Jenny’s health had improved beyond measure. She could catch her breath more easily, her leg felt stronger and her complexion had taken on a rosy glow that previously could only have been achieved with the help of rouge.

  He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that could have been interpreted as intimate had he let his hand linger. Instead he looked furtively over his shoulder. ‘Look, there’s a dance tonight at the community hall.’

  ‘Well, have a good time then.’ She smiled.

  He ignored her teasing. ‘I . . . well, the thing is . . .’ He twisted his cap in his hands. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to . . . um . . . come with me.’

  She looked at his expectant face, the almost pleading expression in his eyes. It would be brutal to turn him down. It was only a dance, not her hand in marriage, and disappointingly, she’d had no other offers. ‘I’d like that.’ She nodded. ‘Look out, your dad’s coming.’ She returned to the milking stool and positioned the pail under the next cow.

  ‘Have you two not finished yet?’ said Bryn. ‘Milk’ll be sour by the time we get it to the dairy at this rate.’

  ‘We’re nearly done, Tad. Jenny’s been a huge help.’

  He smacked the nearest cow on her hindquarters. ‘Righto then. Let’s get this herd back to the fields and we’ll have a birthday breakfast for the lad.’

  ‘Oh, my poor little Louis!’ Jenny gasped. ‘He’ll think I’ve forgotten his birthday.’ She picked up her cane and almost ran out of the shippen.

  Delyth was stirring a pot of oats when Jenny burst into the kitchen. ‘Goodness me, Jenny, what’s all the rush?’

  ‘Where’s our Louis?’

  She nodded skywards. ‘Upstairs, searching under his bed for presents.’

  ‘He’ll be lucky.’

  Lorcan came into the kitchen and shrugged off his overalls. He rummaged in the drawer of the Welsh dresser and brought out a package wrapped in brown paper, a piece of frayed string holding everything together.

  ‘It’s for Louis,’ he said, just as the lad appeared in the doorway.

  ‘For me?’ Louis grabbed the present with both hands.

  ‘What do you say, Louis?’

  He beamed at Lorcan. ‘Thank you.’

  Jenny shook her head as she watched him tear at the paper, his tongue sticking out in concentration. ‘Careful now, you don’t want to drop it.’

  He ripped off the wrapping and held up the dome-shaped carving, running his fingers over the smooth wood. ‘It’s an owl,’ he said, pressing it to his chest.

  ‘Can I see, Louis?’ The detail was astounding, the feathers so exquisitely carved she expected them to feel soft in her hands. ‘It’s beautiful, Lorcan. Did you make this?’

  Lorcan nodded. ‘I learned at the feet of a master.’ He looked at his mother, whose face was a mixture of pride and sadness.

  ‘Lorcan and my father were incredibly close,’ she said. ‘Not only did they share a name, but also a love for the simple things in life. My father taught him the basics, but Lorcan possesses a natural talent Daddy merely honed.’

  Jenny looked at the owl again before passing it back to Louis. ‘He’ll treasure it forever, Lorcan. It’ll always remind him of his days here.’

  Delyth handed him another parcel. ‘This one’s from me and Tad.’

  Louis peeled off the paper and turned the oblong box over in his hand. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s for your pencils,’ she said, taking the box and sliding off the lid. ‘See? You can take it to school with you on Monday.’

  Louis wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t want to go to school.’

  Jenny intervened, her tone firm but gentle. ‘We’ve been through all this, Louis. You’ve got to go. You’re not on holiday here, you know. You’ll love it when you get there.’

  ‘But I’m needed here. I’ve got to feed the chickens and look after Ivor and Megan and Jenny the donkey.’

  ‘Nice try,’ said Jenny. ‘But you’re going to school.’

  They all turned towards the door as Bryn barged in, his face red and his bushy greying hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead. ‘That’s everything sluiced down in the yard. Where’s the birthday boy then?’

  Still slightly afraid of Bryn and his booming voice, Louis shyly raised his hand.

  Bryn scooped him up and squeezed him tightly. ‘Happy birthday, lad.’ He let Louis drop to the floor before slipping his arm around Delyth’s waist. ‘I’m starving, woman, and I can’t smell any bacon frying.’

  Delyth laughed. ‘There’s one more thing before breakfast.’ She sat down and patted her knee. ‘Come here, Louis.’

  He scrambled onto her lap and snuggled into her chest. Jenny smiled at the obvious affection between them.

  ‘This came for you.’

  He took the telegram and pressed it to his nose. ‘Can you read it, Mammy Del?’

  ‘I certainly can. It says: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOUIS STOP I MISS YOU STOP LOVE MUMMY”.’

  Louis wrinkled his nose. ‘What does she want me to stop?’

  Delyth laughed. ‘Nothing, bach. The telegram machine doesn’t do full stops so we have to write out the word instead.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, although he clearly didn’t. ‘Can we have breakfast now?’

  Jenny took the telegram and slipped it into her pocket. She’d read it again later with Louis and make time to share some memories of their mother. Louis was fond of Del, but Connie must not be forgotten.

  Taking advantage of the warm sunshine, Jenny sat on the garden bench under the shade of the lime tree. She prised the lid off Delyth’s sewing tin and threaded a needle. Chickens scratched and clucked about her feet and two blackbirds high in the tree above sang to each other. Here in the peace and solitude of the remote Welsh farm it was difficult to imagine that there was actually a war on. She wondered if their stay would turn out to be short-lived, and was surprised by the disappointment she felt at the thought.

  She looked up when she heard the sound of a bell. Someone was coming up the track pushing a bicycle with a ridiculously large basket on the front, a cap pulled low over his eyes. She didn’t recognise him until he spoke.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ Nico said, removing the cap and using it to mop his brow. ‘That hill is a killer when you’re riding this thing.’ He nodded at the cumbersome bike. ‘It has only three gears and I think the chain needs oiling.’

  ‘Hello, Nico,’ she breathed. ‘What brings you here?’ Her mouth had dried up and she longed for a sip of water. He was dressed in a T-shirt with no sleeves, affording her a tantalising a glimpse of his olive skin, which was now covered in a sheen of sweat. She stared at the contours of his muscles and the dark hair covering his forearms. His chest heaved as he took in several deep breaths.

  He propped the bike against the tree and flopped down next to her on the bench. ‘What are you doing, Jennifer?’
/>   She laid down her sewing, trying to still her shaking hands. ‘I’m just mending this dress for Delyth. It has a tear here, see?’

  ‘You are so clever.’ He leaned back, spreading both his arms along the back of the bench. ‘Thirsty work, that bike ride.’

  ‘Is that your way of saying you’d like a drink?’

  ‘Ah, bella, I thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘Delyth’s made some lemonade. It’s a bit tart because she didn’t have enough sugar.’

  ‘But she had the lemons?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought Hitler was determined we should all die of scurvy.’

  ‘I think she’d had them since the last war. They were like bullets.’

  ‘I will try the lemonade then, tart or not.’ He jumped up. ‘But first I must give you something.’

  He unbuckled the straps on the basket and lifted the lid. Using both hands he pulled out a large box wrapped in newspaper, which he set down carefully on the bench. ‘It’s for Louis. For his birthday.’

  ‘For Louis? How did you know?’

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘It is my job to know these things.’

  Under the paper was a small wooden crate packed with ice, a cake nestling in the middle.

  ‘The ice cream cake is my speciality.’ Nico kissed his fingers. ‘I made it especially for you.’

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘You mean especially for our Louis.’

  He only missed half a beat. ‘Of course, I meant especially for your little brother.’

  ‘He’s out in the fields with Lorcan.’

  ‘Then let’s get this into the kitchen. We don’t want him returning to a pool of melted ice cream.’

  Jenny followed him into the farmhouse. ‘Stick it under the milk cooler. That should help.’

  She took two jam jars from the cupboard and poured out the lemonade, handing one to Nico.

  ‘Kind of you to get the best china out for me.’ He winked, taking a sip and squeezing his eyes closed as he tasted the sharp drink. ‘Very good,’ he managed, sucking in his cheeks. ‘Although a little more sugar would not go missing.’

  ‘Amiss,’ she corrected. ‘There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed.’