The Memory Box

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Yes. He gives me ice cream.’

  ‘And what if he didn’t give you ice cream? Would you still like him then?’

  Louis shrugged. ‘Dunno, maybe.’

  She pressed him back onto the pillow. ‘Time to sleep now, Lou.’

  ‘But I’m not tired,’ he pouted. ‘Can I do my homework in bed?’

  She opened her mouth in mock-horror. ‘Where has my little Louis gone? The boy who didn’t want to start school, who said it was a waste of time and he wasn’t going to go and nobody could make him?’

  He pointed at his own chest, frowning. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I know you’re here,’ she said, laughing. ‘I meant . . . Oh, never mind.’ She passed him his homework book and a pencil. ‘Just ten minutes and then you have to go to sleep.’

  She watched from the doorway as he wrote out the Welsh words, his tongue protruding in concentration. ‘Love you, Louis.’

  He didn’t bother to look up, just nodded and waved her away. ‘I know.’

  Outside in the mild evening air, the smell of woodsmoke mingled with the hawthorn blossom. Jenny pulled down a branch and sniffed the cluster of white flowers, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  ‘Smell like death, don’t they?’ said Lorcan, appearing with a struggling lamb tucked under his arm. He ran his hand over the creature’s head. ‘There, there, little one, calm down now. I’ve got you.’ He produced a bottle of milk from his pocket and stuck it into the eager lamb’s mouth, then sat on the wall, fighting to keep hold of the bottle as the animal tugged at the teat.

  Jenny tickled the lamb’s head. ‘Another orphan?’

  Lorcan nodded. ‘Aye, I thought I’d found her a foster mam, but she’s taken umbrage and won’t let it anywhere near her.’

  ‘Poor little thing.’

  He shrugged. ‘She’ll be all right, I’ll make sure of it. Perhaps Louis could take charge of her.’ He pulled on the lamb’s ear. ‘I remember my first pet lamb. I did such a fine job of nurturing her, she followed me everywhere, and when I left the farm for any reason, she’d wait by the gate bleating after me until I disappeared out of sight. Drove Mam mad. Of course I made the mistake of naming her. Gwendolene, I called her. Made it difficult when she eventually went to market.’ He ran a hand through his mop of curls. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it’s better if Louis steers clear. You know how attached he gets to the animals.’

  He fell silent, the only sounds a blackbird high in the tree above and the sucking noises of the greedy little lamb.

  ‘So,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re off on a picnic tomorrow, are you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was good of our Louis to mention it.’

  ‘It’s not a secret, is it?’

  ‘No, but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.’

  The lamb had drained the bottle but continued to grab at the teat with her teeth, engaging Lorcan in a tug-of-war. He wrenched it out of her mouth. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me, Jenny. You can picnic with whoever you want.’ He scooped up the lamb and walked off.

  19

  2019

  Candice runs her fingers over the cottage pictured in the jigsaw. ‘Is this what the house in Wales looked like?’

  I peer at the thatched roof and cream stone walls covered in burgeoning wisteria. ‘Not really, love. This kind of house only exists on jigsaws and boxes of chocolates.’ I catch her look of disappointment. ‘Mynydd Farm had a charm all of its own, but what made it special was the people who dwelled within its whitewashed walls.’

  ‘You were fond of them, weren’t you? I can tell. The Evans family, I mean. They weren’t your blood relations and yet you speak of them as though they were. I wish I had that.’

  I suddenly feel incredibly selfish and self-centred. ‘You’ve listened to me prattling on long enough, Candice. Why don’t you tell me about your family?’

  She scoffs so loudly that old Myrtle on the sofa nearby snaps awake, dislodging her false teeth in the process.

  ‘What, what was that? Who’s there?’ she asks, before dropping off again, her teeth resting in her lap.

  ‘I’ve never had a family, Jenny, not one worth speaking about anyway. When I was seven, my pathetic excuse for a mother dropped me off at a babysitter’s and never came back.’

  ‘That’s awful, Candice. You poor little mite. Did she have her reasons?’

  ‘You could say that. She was found dead in a squat several days later. Heroin overdose.’

  I’m not sure what’s more shocking, the circumstances of her mother’s demise or the casual way in which Candice tells me.

  ‘Oh, you poor little darling.’ I hesitate before asking my next question, because I instinctively know the answer is not going to lift my mood.

  ‘Was your father on the scene?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Sharon wasn’t particularly fussy when it came to bed partners. I’ve no idea who he is and neither had she.’

  ‘You were only seven, though. What happened to you then?’

  ‘Shunted around from one council-run care home to another.’ She picks at her nail varnish. ‘There were a few foster families along the way, but they didn’t work out. I was always told it was my fault; that I was a difficult child.’

  ‘Sounds as though you didn’t have much of a role model.’

  She nods slowly. ‘I never felt I belonged to anybody. There wasn’t a single person in the whole world who loved me. Can you imagine that? I don’t ever remember Sharon telling me she loved me either. I wasn’t even allowed to call her Mummy. I did once, and this is the permanent reminder.’ She leans in to give me a closer look at a small scar dangerously close to the edge of her eye. ‘She lashed out and caught me with this sovereign ring thing she used to wear.’

  ‘That’s terrible, Candice. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t premeditated or owt; she just did it instinctively.’

  I refrain from pointing out that a mother’s instinct should be to protect and nurture.

  ‘It was the only time she hit me, and I made sure I always called her Sharon after that.’ She slaps her hands on her thighs, indicating that she’s done with talking about her miserable past. ‘That’s why I’m so happy with Beau. At last I’ve got someone who actually cares about me.’

  I try to remain impassive, but evidently fail.

  ‘Don’t look like that, Jenny. Beau’s good for me.’

  I don’t feel like getting into a difficult conversation about Beau, so decide to leave it for now and change the subject. ‘Do you want to hear about the picnic?’

  She looks around. ‘I didn’t know there was going to be a picnic.’

  ‘There isn’t. I meant my picnic with Nico.’

  She sneaks a look at her watch. ‘Go on then, I’d like that.’

  I close my eyes, allowing the memory to unfurl. ‘Even as I sit here now, I’m amazed at how clearly I remember that day. I don’t wish to come over all soppy, Candice, but it was quite simply perfect. Perhaps if I was a writer or a poet I’d be able to create a better picture, but I’ll just stick to the facts. I don’t have time for much else.’ I keep my eyes closed as though I’m under hypnosis. ‘The day was warm and I was wearing a daffodil-yellow cotton dress I’d run up myself. Nico wore a white shirt and had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his tanned arms. He carried a wicker picnic basket with a red and white checked cloth over the top.’ I pause and squeeze my eyes tighter still. That sounds like too much of a cliché. Maybe my memory isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all.

  ‘Jenny, are you all right?’ Candice brings me back to the present.

  ‘I’m grand, thank you. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Candice, but nothing happened on that picnic. Nothing untoward, anyway. There was no ripping off of each other’s clothes, no rolling around on the rug.’

  The colour has risen in her cheeks. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘There wasn’t even a kiss. We just talked and talked. He wanted
to know everything about me, and made me feel like the most special, interesting person in the world. We must’ve been out for hours, because neither of us noticed the darkening sky or the drop in temperature. When we got back to the farm, Nico picked up my hand and held it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine.’

  ‘That’s so sweet,’ says Candice, and I swear she has tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m ashamed to say it now, but in that exquisite moment, I never wanted the war to end.’

  ‘That’s beautiful, Jenny.’ She clamps her palm to her chest.

  I lower my voice almost to a whisper. ‘But then something terrible happened, and that’s when everything changed.’

  20

  1940

  The walk into Penlan, which had once seemed insurmountable, Jenny now covered with ease. There was no stopping to catch her breath and no need to take a break on the bench when she got there. She still used her cane, but even this was becoming more of a hindrance at times. In the month since the picnic, she and Nico had only managed snatched moments together, and the thought of seeing him again propelled her forward as effectively as a cattle prod. The time they spent with one another seemed to be dictated by Del and her never-ending list of chores. Jenny sometimes wondered if she did it on purpose.

  She knew something wasn’t right the minute she arrived in the cobbled square. A cluster of women stood outside Bernardi’s Gelateria, arms folded and lips pursed, nodding knowingly at each other.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jenny asked the assembled throng.

  ‘Been a spot of bother,’ said one.

  ‘Well, you can hardly blame people,’ added another.

  Jenny stared at the broken window, then at the shattered glass sprinkling the pavement.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, shoving the two women out of the way. The sign on the shop door had been turned to read Closed, and she banged her fist against the glass. ‘Nico, it’s me, let me in.’ She looked back at the crowing women. ‘Bugger off, the lot of you.’

  ‘Not until he comes out and explains himself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That fascist, that’s who.’ The woman’s expression was one of disgust, as though she’d bitten into a ripe juicy apple and found a maggot. ‘I always knew there was something fishy about him.’

  ‘Fascist?’ Jenny frowned. ‘What are you on about? Nico . . . Nico, open this bloody door.’

  He appeared then, unshaven, his eyelids heavy with tiredness. He seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. ‘Jenny, what do you want?’ He wedged his foot in the door.

  ‘I want to know what this is all about.’ She pushed against the glass. ‘Let me in, will you?’

  Nico looked over her head to where the women stood resolutely, their faces hardened in judgement. Then he removed his foot and eased the door open just enough for her to squeeze through.

  ‘Thank you. Now will you tell me what the hell is going on?’

  ‘I assume you have not heard then?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  He dropped his shoulders in defeat. ‘It had been coming, I think. I really hoped it would not come to this, but Mussolini, yesterday evening he declared war on Britain and France.’

  ‘What? No,’ she whispered. ‘What was he thinking?’ She gave a determined shake of her head. ‘No, that cannot be right. There must be some mistake.’

  Nico exhaled so forcefully she felt the whoosh of his breath on her face. ‘There is no mistake.’

  ‘Come here.’ She pulled him close, resting her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘So,’ she said eventually. ‘What’s all this got to do with the broken window?’

  His jaw tightened a little as he took her hand. ‘Come with me.’

  He led her into the darkened back room, the heavy curtains blocking out all the light. ‘Mamma, Papà, Jenny is here.’

  Lena and Enzo were sitting at the table, Lena with a handkerchief pressed to her face. They were both staring at the large stone sitting between them.

  Nico picked it up and held it out to Jenny. ‘This came through the window.’

  ‘You mean somebody threw it?’

  Lena sobbed into her handkerchief. ‘We live here for ten years. How can they do this to us?’

  Enzo squeezed his wife’s shoulder, then looked at Jenny. ‘They did not even have the courage to sign it.’

  Jenny pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sign what?’

  Nico pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. ‘This note, it was wrapped around the stone.’

  She read the message scrawled across the paper: EYETIES GO HOME. OUR ENEMIES ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. The writer had used capital letters and appeared to have pressed down hard with the pen, revealing the anger behind the spiteful words.

  She looked at him helplessly. ‘But you are home. What does this mean? What the hell is an Eyetie?’ She could feel the anger beginning to colour her cheeks. ‘How dare someone do this?’ She placed a hand on Lena’s shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m ashamed that the people of this town think it’s all right to treat you this way. They’re just a bunch of idiotic, small-minded, ignorant . . .’ She grabbed the note and brushed past Nico.

  The tight-lipped throng was still standing outside the shop. ‘Right, come on then, which one of you wrote this?’ She held up the piece of paper.

  There was a general muttering as they nudged each other, but nobody answered.

  She raised her voice. ‘I asked you a question. If you feel so strongly about this, at least have the courage to own up to it.’

  A woman shouldered her way to the front. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Del,’ Jenny gasped, the relief causing her words to tumble out. ‘Somebody threw a stone through the window. A stone with a wicked note attached.’ She swept her arm around the square. ‘But not one of these cowards is willing to admit it was them.’

  Del read the note as she bundled Jenny back inside the shop. ‘I came as soon as I heard the news on the wireless. Where’re Lena and Enzo?’

  ‘In the back. They’re proper shaken up.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  She took her place at the table, taking hold of Lena and Enzo’s hands. ‘I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.’

  ‘We are the enemy now,’ said Nico. ‘It does not matter that we have made this place our home, built up our business here. We are Italian and now we are at war with Britain.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Jenny, her voice full of fury. ‘Nothing’s changed, you’re still our friends. I will not have you driven out like this.’

  Enzo struggled to his feet, evidence of his advancing years proven with each cracking bone. ‘I’m going to take a broom to that glass outside, and then we’re going to open the café as usual. Come on, Lena.’ He heaved his wife up by her elbow. ‘Domenico, can you please find someone to fix the broken window?’

  Nico dug his fingers into his hair. Deep grooves seemed to have appeared in his forehead overnight. ‘How is this right, Jennifer? My parents, they do not deserve this treatment. They have been a part of this community for a decade.’

  ‘It will all blow over, don’t worry.’ Jenny gestured around the square. ‘These people know you are not the enemy really. They’ve just had a shock. They’ll be lining up for ice cream before you know it.’

  ‘No, Jennifer, no more ice cream. There’s not enough sugar. I don’t think we can carry on any more.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t be so defeatist. This gelateria is the lifeblood of the square.’

  ‘Not much of a gelateria without the gelato.’

  ‘Branch out then, use your imagination. You can get through this, we all can. Nothing’s the same now there’s a war on. We’ve all had to make sacrifices.’

  He managed a smile. ‘Oh, you are right, my sweet Jennifer. What would I do without you?’

  The shuffling of feet caused them both to look up at the two
policemen standing close by.

  Nico stood and opened his arms. ‘Ah, PC Morgan and Sergeant Williams, I believe. Am I glad to see you.’ He pointed at the window. ‘As you can see, we have had a small incident.’ He pulled out a couple of chairs. ‘Please sit down. Can I get you a drink, on the house, naturally?’

  The younger of the two officers, PC Morgan, shook his head. ‘This is not a social visit, Mr Bernardi.’

  Nico laughed and clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘What is this Mister Bernardi business? We were at school together, Richard. Now, I don’t want you wasting your time trying to find out who did this. I won’t bring charges, because I understand that people act differently in wartime. I am willing to overlook this damage so that we can all get along peacefully just as we have been doing for the last ten years.’

  PC Morgan looked down at his boots and then at his superior officer. ‘We’re not here about the window.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nico, gripping the back of a chair. ‘Then how can I help you?’

  Sergeant Williams stepped forward, sweat moistening his broken-veined cheeks. ‘Domenico Bernardi, you are under arrest.’

  Nico guffawed, the genuine mirth erasing his newly acquired worry lines. ‘Did you hear that, Jennifer? They have come to arrest me.’

  ‘I heard them, Nico,’ she said, a tiny nugget of fear burrowing deep inside her chest. ‘I’m just not sure why you find that funny.’

  ‘Well, there has to be some mistake. Why would they arrest me? I haven’t done anything wrong.’ He turned to PC Morgan. ‘Richard, tell her I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘You haven’t, Nico, but the orders have come from the top.’

  ‘From Mr Churchill,’ added Sergeant Williams. ‘To quote, we have to “collar the lot”.’

  ‘Collar the lot?’ Nico shrugged. ‘What does that mean?’

  Jenny clung to his arm with both hands. ‘You’re not taking him anywhere.’

  Sergeant Williams adopted his best policeman’s voice. ‘The orders are clear. We have to arrest every male Italian resident in Britain. It’s a defence measure, you see. You’re all enemy aliens now.’