The Memory Box

by Kathryn Hughes

  But you make it so hard, I can hardly continue

  Like an anchor you drag me down with you (rpt)

  She could feel her anger simmering below the surface. Was he comparing her to an anchor? ‘Oh Beau, you’re as pathetic as your crappy lyrics.’ She screwed up the paper and threw it across the room. ‘But even though you make it impossible sometimes, I do love you.’ She picked up her phone and dialled him again, but predictably it went straight to voicemail. She clicked the red button. There was no point in leaving another message for him to ignore.

  She woke up feeling disorientated, her neck stiff and her mouth furred up and uncooperative. A rogue spring from their ancient sofa was digging into her hip. She reached out blindly for the glass on the coffee table and half sat when she couldn’t find it.

  ‘This what you’re looking for?’

  She rubbed her eyes. ‘Beau, is that you?’

  She heard him move across the room and flick the light switch. She covered her eyes with her arm. ‘Aargh, too bright, please turn it off. Ooh, me head’s throbbing.’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  She blinked several times as she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the sudden brightness. Beau stood over her, holding the empty wine bottle.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Beau? I’ve been worried.’

  He tipped the bottle upside down theatrically. ‘Yeah, it looks like it.’

  She shuffled to the end of the sofa. ‘Why didn’t you answer my calls?’

  ‘Candice, I’ll be the one asking the questions. What’s going on?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half ten.’ He placed the bottle on the table and folded his arms. ‘I came to pick you up from work, to take you out for a bite to eat. I know I’ve been a childish prick this last week, so I wanted to do something nice for you.’

  She couldn’t control the sudden rush of heat to her neck. ‘You . . . you came to Green Meadows?’ Even in her wine-fogged stupor, she realised what this meant.

  ‘Yes, I did, and guess what?’

  She struggled to her feet and faced him, swaying gently as she placed her hands on his arms. ‘Beau, I was going to tell you. Let me explain.’

  He remained unmoved. ‘I’d like that.’

  She gestured to the sofa. ‘Let’s sit down, or can I get you a cup of tea?’ She made for the kitchen but he grabbed her wrist. ‘Ow, you’re hurting me.’

  He released his grip. ‘Forget the effing tea then and just tell me where you went.’

  ‘To the Lemon Tree,’ she shouted, suddenly eager to get it over with. ‘I went to the bloody Lemon Tree to see if they would have you back. I wasn’t hiding anything from you, I just didn’t want to get your hopes up.’

  He stared at her, his jaw clenching as he inhaled a deep breath. ‘You . . . you went to see if they would have me back? Without even finding out if that was what I wanted?’ His voice had taken on an ominous tone. ‘You went to beg on my behalf? Have you any idea how emasculating that is?’

  ‘Sorry, Beau. I didn’t think . . .’

  ‘No, you never do, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ she babbled. ‘It’s good news. Adrian said you can go back. Apparently people have been asking after you. You were a big hit, they loved you. You can go again next Thursday and—’

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘Yes, he rang his boss whilst I waited and squared it with—’

  ‘Adrian? Mr bloody Universe, you mean? You went back to see the guy who was all over you?’

  ‘He wasn’t all over me, and stop putting words in my mouth, Beau. I didn’t go back to see him, he just happened to be there, that’s all.’

  ‘How convenient. Had a laugh at my expense, did you?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, honestly.’ She collapsed back onto the sofa. ‘I don’t know why I bother. You’re an ungrateful prat sometimes.’ She rubbed her wrist pointedly, looking him in the eye. ‘I’m parched. Can you fetch me a glass of water, please?’

  ‘Hmm, what do you expect when you guzzle a bottle of red wine? Did you keep the receipt, by the way?’ He turned towards the sink and filled a glass from the tap, handing it to her. ‘Well?’

  She dug into the pocket of her jeans and offered him the crumpled scrap of paper.

  ‘Five quid?’ He laughed. ‘No wonder you’ve got a banging headache.’

  She rested her head on the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. ‘I know I shouldn’t have bought it, but I thought we could have a little celebration. It was the cheapest one in the supermarket, special offer.’ She felt him flop into the seat beside her, and opened her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Beau. I’ve messed up – again.’

  He traced his finger down her cheek. ‘You’re so sweet, Candice. You’re always thinking of somebody else. What’re we going to do with you, eh?’

  He pulled her under his arm and kissed the top of her head. ‘I think it might be better if I gave you an allowance. It seems that just providing the receipts for everything isn’t working.’

  ‘Pocket money, you mean? You’re going to give me pocket money?’

  He interlaced his fingers with hers. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s not pocket money. It’s been going on for generations. Used to be called housekeeping.’

  ‘I don’t know, Beau. It seems a bit drastic. I’m not that bad with money, am I?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, babe. We can carry on as we are or you can let me take care of everything and then we’ll save up much quicker for all the things we need.’

  ‘But my wages are paid into my own account.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to mention that.’ He drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it. ‘I think we should open a joint account and have both our wages paid into that. Much better to have all our money in one place, where I . . . we . . . can keep an eye on it.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘And now I’ve got my slot back at the Lemon Tree, I’ll let you book your eyebrow course.’

  She sat up to face him. ‘Really, Beau. Do you mean it? It’s a hundred and eighty pounds. Are you sure we can afford it?’

  ‘You leave that to me. Come on, time for bed.’ He heaved her up off the sofa, grabbing her round the waist as her legs buckled, pulling her into a tight embrace against his own body. ‘It’s all right, Candice. I’ve got you.’ He pressed his lips to her ear. ‘And I’ll never let you go.’

  23

  I’ve really missed Candice these past ten days or so. The place hasn’t been the same without her and I’ve had to put up with an agency girl tending to my needs and not taking the slightest bit of interest in anything I have to say. It’s as though I’m too old to have an opinion on anything and what I think doesn’t matter as I’ll be dead soon anyway. It’s certainly made me appreciate Candice.

  March has now slipped into April. After the usual white rabbits shenanigans, I found myself getting a little choked up wondering how many more months I would see, how many more times I would get to say those words. There’s less than six weeks to go before our trip to Italy, and I’m determined to be on that plane. I have to be. There’re things I have to do.

  Candice is back today, though, and I have a surprise for her. Well, it’s not a complete surprise, because I had to ask her for the measurements, but I’ve run her up a pair of curtains for her flat. I still have my old Singer sewing machine, and for somebody with my dressmaking skills it was hardly a challenge but I’m pleased that I can still see well enough to sew in a straight line and my fingers are just about dextrous enough to feed the fabric under the presser foot without causing major injury. Obviously, threading the needle was beyond my capabilities and Frank was no use either, what with his propensity to shake, but Mrs Culpepper stepped in and did the job.

  I’m doing all right really, I suppose. In fact, I’m going to an aerobics class this afternoon. Don’t laugh, I’m not kidding. Granted, I won’t get out of my chair, but there’ll be plenty of toe-tapping, leg
extensions and overhead clapping, all set to music. It can be quite exhausting, but it keeps the blood flowing and staves off death for another day.

  I can see Candice now coming up the driveway. There’s definitely a bounciness to her gait and immediately my spirits lift. She looks radiant; there’s colour in her cheeks and her hair has grown a little bit. I think she must’ve had it in rollers or something. There’s a definite kink to it.

  I’m beaming at her as she comes into the day room. Frank waves a hand in greeting, but it’s me she makes a beeline for.

  ‘Candice, love. It’s good to have you back.’ I reach up to clutch her freezing hand. ‘Is it cold out there, petal?’

  ‘A bit nippy, yeah,’ she says bending to give me a kiss on my cheek. ‘How’ve you been without me?’

  ‘We’ve all missed you. Have you had a nice break?’

  She reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Have a look.’ She thrusts the paper under my nose.

  It’s a diploma in Brow Lamination and Tinting. ‘You did it,’ I say, with genuine pride. ‘Well done, Candice. I’m so pleased for you.’

  ‘Can you believe it? I’m now qualified to see clients at home. At least I will be when I’ve got my public liability insurance sorted out. We’ve cleared out the box room. Beau’s got rid of all his clutter – old football programmes he’s never going to read again, some sheet music and what have you, boxes of vinyl records that weren’t worth anything and in any case he’d nothing to play them on. He was really good about it. We could’ve filled a skip with the clobber he was hoarding.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Candice.’ Her enthusiasm is infectious. ‘And how is everything going at the Lemon Tree?’

  ‘Oh, fantastic. They love him down there. He’s only done two evenings since I last saw you, but he’s really settled in, and you’ll never guess what?’

  ‘You’d better tell me then.’

  ‘He’s got another seventy-three followers on Instagram.’

  I’m not quite sure what this means, but by the way her eyes are shining, I can only assume it’s a positive thing.

  ‘Everything’s looking up for the pair of you then?’

  ‘I’ll say it is, Jenny. Once I start seeing clients at home, I’ll be able to save up for Beauty Therapy Level Two and get a job in a salon.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, patting the back of her hand. ‘We’ll certainly miss you in here.’

  ‘It won’t be for ages yet. You can’t get rid of me that easily.’

  It’s a relief to hear, but I don’t say anything. The last thing Candice needs is me guilt-tripping her into staying and not fulfilling her ambitions. With any luck, she’ll last me out.

  ‘Come with me to my room,’ I say. ‘I could do with stretching my legs. No need for the chair; I’ll manage with the frame, I think.’

  She’s thrilled with the curtains, genuinely delighted and completely in awe of me for making them.

  ‘You’re just so clever, Jenny. I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘Curtains are a doddle, Candice. Anybody could run up a pair.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.’

  Perhaps she’s right. We all have our strengths. And our weaknesses.

  ‘And look here,’ I say, reaching for a brochure. ‘Page nineteen, that’s our hotel in Italy.’

  She studies the picture, her mouth open in wonder. ‘My God,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful. Are you sure you can afford to go to all this expense?’

  I refrain from telling her I can’t afford not to. ‘You let me worry about that, Candice.’

  ‘Right then, I’d better crack on. Smells like Simeon has done his speciality for lunch. Make sure you leave me some.’

  The smell of simmering apples and cinnamon wafts around the day room, the warm, buttery fumes reminiscent of a distant time and a different kitchen. My throat tightens and I fumble up my sleeve for my handkerchief.

  ‘Jenny?’ Frank says, his voice full of concern. He doesn’t miss a trick, that one.

  ‘I’m fine, Frank, you just concentrate on your crossword.’

  He doesn’t listen, he never does. In a flash he’s by my side.

  ‘Heavens above, Frank, you can’t half shift when you want to.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Jenny?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ve already told you I’m fine. Why don’t you listen?’

  I’m annoyed at myself for using such a sharp tone with my best friend. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, just ignore me. I’ve been doing a lot of reminiscing recently and I’m tired . . . really tired.’

  ‘You’re allowed to be at your age. Come and have a sit with me on the sofa.’

  I don’t protest as he guides me out of the chair and over to the sofa overlooking the garden. He sits down next to me, puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. Even at my age, it feels good to be in the arms of a man again. I expect it’s a long while since Frank held a woman too. Maybe he never has. Perhaps he’s always known women weren’t for him.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it, Jenny? You lean on me now, I’ve got you.’ I can smell his sandalwood cologne and the shoe polish he uses religiously every single day, and my heart swells with love for him. ‘Your Ernest was a lucky fella, Frank.’

  It takes him a while to answer and I’m worried I’ve upset him. ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘I was the lucky one.’

  I close my eyes and snuggle into his chest. We must look like an old married couple to someone who knows no better.

  ‘I’m going on a road trip, Frank.’ I haven’t told him about Italy yet because I know he’ll try and persuade me not to go. He’ll only say it’ll be too much for me at my age.

  He turns to me, just the one eyebrow raised. I can never understand how he does that. ‘Road trip?’ he says, tilting his head like an inquisitive puppy.

  ‘I think that’s what the young ’uns call it. I want to go back, Frank. One last time, I want to go back to Italy. In fact, I have to.’

  ‘It’s a long way. Do you think you’re up to it?’

  Here we go, I knew it.

  ‘It may well be the death of me, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘Time’s hardly on my side.’ I manage a laugh. ‘Seriously, though, it’s seventy-five years since . . .’ my throat closes up, ‘since it happened. There’s to be a commemoration. There was an article about it in The Times a couple of months back.’

  He shakes his head, his eyes downcast. ‘Yes, I remember you showing it to me. Shall I come with you?’

  I smile at him with renewed affection. ‘I appreciate the offer, but Candice is taking me. It’ll be good for her too. If anybody deserves a break, she does.’

  24

  Beau was lying with his head on the pillow, arms behind his head, a skinny joint pinched between his lips. ‘I’m really going to miss you, Candice.’

  She stopped folding the washing and regarded his naked frame, only a crumpled sheet covering his modesty. She fanned her palm in front of her face. ‘Do you have to smoke that in here, Beau?’

  He took an exaggerated drag, his eyes narrowing. ‘I said . . . I’m really going to miss you.’

  ‘Well I’m going to miss you too, obviously, but it’s only a week and you’ve got plenty here to keep you busy.’

  ‘It should be me taking you to Italy, not some bloody interfering old biddy who’s just using you because she has nobody else to go with.’ He dropped the smouldering joint into his coffee mug. ‘Italy is for lovers, babe.’

  ‘Believe me, I’d much rather be going with you, Beau. I should be spending my first trip abroad with the guy I love.’ She pulled a dress from the wardrobe and held it against her body as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Do you?’ he asked.

  She turned to face him. ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Love me
.’

  She threw the dress onto a nearby chair. ‘You know I do,’ she sighed.

  He patted the space next to him. ‘Leave all that then and come back to bed.’

  ‘It’s only five o’clock. I’m not tired.’

  He grabbed hold of her wrist. ‘Who said anything about sleeping?’

  She pulled her hand away, laughing. ‘You’re insatiable, you are.’

  ‘It’s your fault for being so irresistible.’

  She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror, her lacy underwear flattering her figure. ‘Really? Do you fancy me now then?’

  ‘Candice, I’ve always fancied you, you silly cow.’

  ‘But when you said I could do with losing a few pounds, I thought . . .’

  ‘I only suggested that because I knew it was what you wanted. I knew you’d be happier if you lost the bulge around your tummy and those love handles.’ He held out his hand. ‘And I was right, wasn’t I? You look amazing, you can’t deny that. Since you gave up the booze and all those oniony snacks you were so fond of, you’ve transformed yourself. And think of the money we’ve saved.’

  ‘I haven’t given up the booze. Just cut down, that’s all. You make it sound as though I was an alcoholic with a fetish for Monster Munch.’

  ‘Get away with you. You’re just being over-sensitive as usual. You know, I can’t believe you sometimes. You were always moaning your clothes were too tight and you looked fat in photographs.’

  ‘Was I?’ She frowned.

  He softened his tone, injecting just a hint of humour. ‘I worry about you, Candice. You’ve a shocking memory. I’ve lost count of the number of times you asked me if I thought you looked fat in something.’

  She sat down next to him on the bed, smiling. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t that many.’

  He ran his finger along her collarbone and down between her breasts. ‘Come on, forget about all that now.’ In one swift move he grabbed her hips and lifted her over his body so that she straddled him. ‘You’re beautiful, Candice. You’re beautiful and you’re all mine.’

  She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. ‘Better make it quick then, or else we’ll be late.’