His voice is closer now, and deeper, his breath warm in my ear. ‘Mum?’ There’s a note of panic now. ‘Mum, don’t you dare leave me again.’
I have never heard anybody call me that before, and the explosion of pure pleasure I feel has been worth the wait. I open my eyes and reach up to touch his face, my words thick with tears. ‘Oh my darling boy, my little Louis.’
I squeeze his hand with every ounce of strength I possess. My son, he knows. Perhaps he always has.
Epilogue
I am fussing with the flowers on the counter even though I know they already look perfect. I decide to pluck the middles out of the lilies, the bit that contains the orange powder that stains your clothes. Everything has to be just so.
Fliss wanders in from the back. ‘Are you still messing about with them flowers, Candice? They’re fine as they are. Come and have your brew before it gets cold.’
I pick up the mug and wrap my hands around it before taking a sip. I gaze around the salon, the smell of fresh paint still in the air. ‘I can’t believe this place is all mine.’
Fliss gives a husky laugh, one that comes with decades of smoking. ‘You’d better believe it, kid. Come January, I’ll be off to Fuengirola with my Derek, and then you really will be on your own.’
‘Thanks for staying on for a bit, Fliss. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘You deserve it, pet. You’ll be brilliant, and you’ll have that Level Three boxed off in no time. There’ll be no stopping you.’
I smile at her with genuine affection. ‘You really are my saviour. That flat upstairs is just the job. And this salon . . . well, I still have to pinch myself.’
Fliss inhales a whiff of the diffuser. ‘You’ve done wonders with the place. What’s that pong?’
‘Lavender and camomile. It’s supposed to be calming and relaxing. I want to create a tranquil atmosphere so that when clients come in they feel like they’re being enveloped in a giant hug.’
I can see her trying to resist an eye roll.
‘Teach you that at beauty school, did they?’
I give an enthusiastic nod. I know she thinks I’m bonkers. ‘The connection between smell and emotion is stronger than any other sense.’
She narrows her eyes as she thinks about this. ‘Happen you’re right, love. As soon as I get a whiff of egg and chips, I’m right there in Billy Bob’s down on the front in Fuengirola. My Derek’s favourite, that place. You can have a full English with a bottomless mug of tea for under a fiver. Eh, you’ll have to come and visit us once we’re settled.’
The thought of travelling to Spain only to pig out on a full English doesn’t fill me with joy. ‘I’m not thinking about holidays yet, Fliss. I want to make a go of this place first. I have to.’
‘You’re a different girl since you gave that boyfriend of yours the elbow.’
I haven’t seen Beau for months now. Not since that dreadful night in Italy, in fact. Simeon cleared my things out of our flat, not that there was much. There was no money left in our joint bank account either. It was naïve of me to expect there would be. I just wanted out of there in the end, and it was a relief to walk away.
‘Candice?’
Fliss’s voice brings me back to the present.
‘Sorry, miles away. I believe Beau’s seeing someone else, though, poor cow. Perhaps I should warn her.’
‘You stay out of it,’ Fliss warns with a wag of her finger. ‘He’s not your problem any more. You’ve got your second chance here. Don’t squander it.’
She’s right. I slap my hand on the counter. ‘Right, back to work. Can you check the shellac stock and let me know which colours to add to this order?’
Fliss gives me a salute. ‘Yes, boss.’
‘Now that does sound weird.’ I laugh. ‘I’m so used to being ordered around by Mrs Culpepper. Eh, that reminds me, she’s booked in for another facial next week.’
‘There isn’t enough moisturiser on the planet to erase the lines on that sour face.’
‘You are awful, Fliss. Stop it. I miss working at Green Meadows, but it wasn’t the same once . . . well, you know.’
She shakes her head, her enormous hoop earrings bashing against her cheeks. ‘I wish I’d had a friend who’d left me pots of money.’
‘Hardly pots, Fliss, but enough to get me this place.’ I glance out of the window at the ominous purple clouds. ‘I hope the rain holds off. I’m going to the cemetery this afternoon.’
The clouds still hover menacingly over the horizon, and the late-autumn air hangs heavy with mist and the dank smell of decaying leaves. I pick my way along the gravel path, ancient headstones either side covered with moss and lichen. Holly wreaths have begun to appear in the shops, making a nice change from the flowers I usually bring.
I can see a familiar figure up ahead, standing in front of the grave, head bowed, collar turned up against the bitter chill.
‘Hey there,’ I say. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘You only popped into Green Meadows yesterday, Candice. I’m still fine.’
‘Yeah, well. You know how I worry.’
‘There’s really no need.’
‘Who’s brought you?’ I ask, looking around.
‘Abigail did, but she’s waiting in the car to give me some privacy. She’s thoughtful like that. Such a sweetheart.’
I wrinkle my nose at the mention of my replacement. ‘Good, I’m glad.’
Jenny laughs and pats my arm. ‘Don’t worry, Candice. You’ll always be my favourite.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ I nod at the headstone. ‘I see you’ve finally got the permanent one. It’s beautiful.’
‘I went with the Welsh slate in the end. Thought it was fitting.’
‘I think he would approve.’
She leans against me, resting her head on my arm. ‘All those wasted years.’ A small sob escapes her lips and I pull her closer.
‘Be grateful for the time you did have instead of regretful for the time you didn’t,’ I say.
Frank passed away three months ago now. A coronary embolism. When I found him dead in his bed, he looked peaceful, rested, and although I was devastated, the thought of him back in the arms of his Ernest tempered my sadness a little. Naturally Jenny was inconsolable, and my heart broke for her. They made the most of the time they did have together, though. The three of us travelled back to Wales. We had a coffee in what used to be Bernardi’s gelateria but is now a café run by a couple from Swansea. We walked through the park and sat on the bench where Jenny and Lorcan had found Louis eating ice cream with Nico. Not the exact same bench, obviously, but you know what I mean. The farmhouse is now a B&B and the cowsheds have been converted into self-catering accommodation. Frank’s eyes misted over when we stood by the waterfall at the back of the house, remembering how Lorcan had taught him to swim in the pool beneath. I’m so glad we had that time together. To see Jenny and Louis reconciled was a fitting end to her story.
‘It was so kind of Frank to leave me that money,’ I say. ‘I really wish I could have thanked him in person.’
‘You making a go of your business is all the thanks he would want, love.’
That is exactly what I intend to do. I am my own boss and no man will ever have control over me again. I have such a lot to be grateful for. I’m not saying I’ll never have another relationship – that would be ridiculous – but I’m in no rush. You’re probably thinking Stefano would be a good bet, but the truth is, I need to forge ahead by myself first. Then we’ll see what happens.
I turn back to the headstone and read the inscription out loud. ‘Treasured memories of Louis Francis Myers. A loving husband to Ernest and beloved son of Jennifer.’ My arm is still linked through Jenny’s, and I feel her relax. ‘Beloved son.’ I smile. ‘I like that.’
‘He was a beloved son to Connie and Fred, and then to Del and Bryn.’ She leans forward and lays her hand on the headstone. ‘But now I want everyone to know it. Louis was my boy. He was my son. And he w
as truly loved.’
Acknowledgements
Thanks as always to my editor and cheerleader, Sherise Hobbs, for her patience and enthusiasm, and to the whole Headline team, especially Mari Evans, Jen Doyle, Rebecca Bader, Rosie Margesson, Vicky Abbott and Bea Grabowska.
To my agent, Anne Williams, for her guidance and wise counsel.
To Jane Selley for her attention to detail during the copyediting and her kind words.
To Ellen and Cameron who are as proud of me as I am of them.
And finally, to my husband, Rob, who has read more drafts of this novel than anyone should have to and remains a constant support.
Inspiration for
The Memory Box
The inspiration for The Memory Box did not start with an intellectual idea, a striking newspaper cutting or a visit to a deserted monastery. This time, the book was fuelled by an image. An image of a woman at her own one-hundredth birthday party, having outlived everybody she ever cared about. As my character Jenny reflects on her past with her young carer, Candice, she picks through the precious keepsakes in her memory box and finally resolves there is one important, painful journey she has to make before it’s too late.
The joy of writing this book came from the fact that it wasn’t set in stone. As my research revealed what really happened in the 1940s, the book took some unexpected turns and although it is a work of fiction, the plot was guided by true events.
When Jenny and Louis arrive in Penlan they are billeted with the Evans family and it soon becomes clear that Lorcan Evans develops unreciprocated feelings for Jenny. However, Jenny is captivated by a striking Italian, Nico, and a fledgling romance develops.
It is here that true-life events conspire against them. Ten months into World War II, Italy entered the war on the side of the Germans, leading Winston Churchill to declare all Italians living in the United Kingdom to be enemy aliens. He ordered every male Italian to be arrested and detained without charge. An alien advisory committee was set up to assess each Italian’s threat level. Category A aliens, the highest potential security risk, were to be interned at once. The Isle of Man was identified as being sufficiently removed from military importance, resulting in the requisitioning of boarding houses to incarcerate prisoners. As the island filled up, thousands of Italians were shipped to Canada and Australia to spend years languishing in camps despite having done absolutely nothing wrong. One such ship, bound for Canada, was the Arandora Star. Formerly a luxury cruise liner, it had been painted grey but crucially did not have the red cross painted on it to indicate it was carrying civilians. Early in the morning of 2nd July 1940, the ship was torpedoed by a German U-boat. As a luxury liner, she had carried 354 first-class passengers and 200 crew, all of whom had access to the twelve lifeboats. As a transport ship, she carried 1,729 internees, prisoners of war and guards, three times her normal capacity but with the same number of lifeboats. The prisoners’ escape was further hampered by barbed wire surrounding the decks. Many of the Italians were doomed as they had originally come from the mountainous areas of Italy and had never learned to swim. Over 850 people lost their lives, 446 of them Italians. There was much confusion as to the identity of the victims and the exact death toll was difficult to ascertain. These poor people were totally innocent of any charges laid against them. They had been dragged from their homes and ordered aboard a ship which would take them to a place of detainment for the duration of the war, just because they were Italian.
Many Italian communities were pulled apart in this way, including in the fictional town of Penlan, where Nico is arrested and sent away. Despite his promise to return, the only communication Jenny receives is a telegram reporting Nico as ‘Missing, presumed drowned’.
I see from my original notes that I hadn’t planned this turn of events for Jenny and Nico, but history forced me to think again and this led the story in a different direction. A much better one, it must be said!
I was fortunate in that I managed to take a research trip to Italy just before the pandemic cancelled everybody’s plans. I needed inspiration for my fictional village of Cinque Alberi and found the perfect place in Camogli, a fishing village situated on the west side of the Portofino peninsula in Liguria. I stayed in a hotel at one end of the bay which had a panoramic view of the village. This hotel became the Villa Verde in the novel.
Camogli, Liguria, re-imagined as Cinque Alberi. Copyright Kathryn Hughes
Whilst familiar with the history of the French Resistance, I was only vaguely aware of the underground battle between Italians, Germans and Fascists. From 1943, after Italy switched sides, and declared war on their former allies, a spontaneous city-by-city uprising began against the occupying German forces. Rather than warfare, their activities largely focused on sabotage, carrying messages between units, hiding Allied escapees and building radios to establish contact with the Allies in the south of the country. Women played a vital part in these activities and I can recommend Caroline Moorehead’s excellent book, A House in the Mountains: The Women Who Liberated Italy From Fascism for anybody interested in reading more about this fascinating subject.
Copyright Kathryn Hughes
Whilst wandering Piacenza, we came across this World War II memorial, which interestingly divides the conflict into two parts: 1940 (when Italy entered the war) to 1943 when it surrendered to the Allies, and then the War of Liberation from 1943 to 1945.
Although partisan activities were focused on disruption, perhaps inevitably some German troops were killed by the resistance and reprisal attacks were swift and brutal, with ten Italians killed for every German life lost. These attacks were indiscriminate and often unleashed on innocent civilians. Whole villages were massacred, including women and children who had no chance of escape. Seventy-five years may have passed but these atrocities should never be forgotten.
Kathryn Hughes
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Tina Craig longs to escape her violent husband. She works all the hours God sends to save up enough money to leave him, also volunteering in a charity shop to avoid her unhappy home. Whilst going through the pockets of a second-hand suit, she comes across an old letter, the envelope firmly sealed and unfranked. Tina opens the letter and reads it – a decision that will alter the course of her life for ever . . .
Billy Stirling knows he has been a fool, but hopes he can put things right. On 4th September 1939 he sits down to write the letter he hopes will change his future. It does – in more ways than he can ever imagine . . .
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The Memory Box Page 33