by Eva Glyn
“Robin, I’m sorry. It’s a text from Izzie. I shouldn’t have seen it.”
It was simple enough:
Are you over the shock now? Feeling better? Xxx
Stephen fiddled with the handle of his mug. “You did get my message, didn’t you?”
“No, really. This was something else.” I stood and walked across the kitchen. The dregs of my coffee fizzed and gurgled down the plughole. Through the window I could see the lawn; it would need cutting soon. Stephen said nothing. “It’s just that I forgot something, something really important, and it shook me up.”
“We all forget things.”
“No, not like this.” I turned to face him, my fingers gripping the sink behind my back. “Would you ever forget the first time you and Gareth made love?”
Colour spread up Stephen’s neck and I apologised for being so blunt. “But you wouldn’t though, would you?” I continued and he shook his head. “Not even in twenty years’ time?”
He found his voice. “I’d like to think not but you never know. Is that what you forgot, the first time you and Izzie… um…”
“Worse. I didn’t even remember that we had.”
“I don’t suppose that went down very well.”
“No, she was really understanding about it. You see it was just hours before my I found my mum dead and she thinks that’s the reason. But everything else about that day is so crystal clear – even the little buggers I had to fish out of the Hamble.”
Stephen laughed. “Well maybe you got your reward. But honestly, Rob, Izzie could well be right. Shall I ask Gareth what his professional view would be?”
“If you like.” To be honest, the last thing I wanted was a psychologist getting his hands on me. “I think I’ve stopped kicking against it now, but I can’t help wondering how things might have been if I’d remembered. If I’d known we’d crossed that barrier it would have been easier to contact her and tell her what had happened, then everything would have been different.”
“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be different. You know what Gran would have said: everything happens for a reason in the greater scheme of things.”
I left Stephen to the estate agents and wandered into the woods. A willow, Izzie had said, close to the water. But after the hurricane it was unimaginable that the original tree would still be here. I tried to think back to those early days when I first returned but I could remember no more than a tangle of vegetation. But a willow will grow back quickly, even cut almost to the floor, and there were three of them dipping their branches into the water. The tide was up and I squelched down the bank towards the nearest.
The sunlight filtered through the canopy although the air felt chill. My boots sank into the mud as I closed my eyes and tried to remember. Izzie in her yellow dress, against the trunk, lying on the floor, soft lips, wide eyes. It ought to have been erotic, but nothing came. Nothing except the warmth of her hands in mine around the fairy tree, and my singing heart and the smell of rain-washed cities as I walked towards my mother’s front door.
My fingernails bit into my palms. Even now it was hard to relive what happened next. Odd, to remember the nightmare and not the dream. But then… my mother hadn’t been cold when I’d found her. Maybe if Izzie and I hadn’t got so carried away under the tree, maybe I would have been home in time… then I’d have saved her and I’d have known. One action leading to another, no action for which we should not take responsibility. Ripples pushing out from the willow’s branches dipping into the Hamble for years to come.
When Jennifer had shared her belief in a single force that connects everything through space and time it had made perfect sense to me. The action of planting a seed in one place rather than another would make it grow better or worse – whether the soil was good or poor, or if it was in a sunny or a shady spot. And that determined the food we would eat – a carrot pulled from the garden, or one that we went to the shop for. And if we left the garden to go to the shop, who we might meet, and what we might say to them, and how that could change their day… A chain of life, a continuity, Jennifer and me as tiny cogs in an enormous cosmic wheel. A wheel we were duty-bound to respect.
I stood under the willow, head bowed, listening to the rustle of the leaves. When the moment was right I took my penknife from my pocket and cut the ends off three of the branches, stripped them and plaited them together, finally tying them into a small circle. The sap stuck to my fingers as I worked and I could smell spring all around me.
As I placed the circlet into the Hamble and watched it float downstream, I was at peace.
We were in bed when Izzie asked how I was feeling. She turned off the bedside lamp then rolled over to face me, her hand resting on my shoulder.
“I’m OK about it, Izzie. Stephen thinks you’re right and it was the shock of finding Mum like that.”
“It changed you, Robin. Changed you so completely. But looking back that’s hardly surprising.”
Her words slid past me almost unnoticed as I warmed to my theme. “It was meant to be. Jennifer made me understand. That day, well, it was pivotal for all of us and shaped our lives: you and I, and what happened to us; Jennifer being cut off from the boys by Susan; me being there to look after Jennifer in the end. It all stemmed from just those few hours. Connor’s life even, and Paul, the guy you were with then… Do you know, Izzie, I think perhaps I wasn’t meant to remember us making love, because if I had, if I’d known we’d made that commitment, it would have been so much easier to call you and tell you what had happened.”
I sensed her catch her breath. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, as it was, I only had the vaguest idea that you might really care for me and even that got completely washed away in the awfulness of what happened with Mum. I hardly even thought of you those first few weeks. It was only later… and by then I couldn’t pluck up the courage to call you.”
“Robin, you didn’t need to call me. I was there. I hardly left your side until you went back to work.”
Even now it is impossible to describe the weight of her words. They crushed the air from my lungs and squeezed my skull until it felt as though it would burst.
I thought: this is what it’s like to drown.
Chapter Forty-Six
Izzie
When Robin doesn’t respond I turn on the light. His shoulder muscles knot into a ridge beneath my hand and his eyes screw shut. If I am struggling, what the hell is this like for him?
“Robin?”
He speaks through clenched teeth, every word careful and deliberate. “The last time I saw you was outside the shop. I went in to buy some milk and you drove away.”
“No, I came with you. But perhaps you aren’t ready to hear about that now.”
His breath comes in a huge gulp. “No, tell me. Tell me how you remember it.”
So I do, just an outline. Following him into the house; finding his mother; Jean and the ambulance arriving; the long night of whisky and tears; the empty days that followed, waiting for the funeral when ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’ was played.
“I remember everything,” he whispers. “I just don’t remember you. It’s like those books I used to have when I was a kid, pictures with cut-out shapes for you to put the sticker on. Only, your sticker is missing.”
“Your memory’s blocked me out. It’s… it’s like what happened next, really. You blocked me out of your life. Over the next few months…”
“Months?” He jerks into a sitting position.
I try my best to sound calm. “Yes. You went back to work but the council turfed you out of the house so we found a flat in Shirley. It was a horrible little place, but it was all we could afford. And you sank lower and lower but I didn’t understand. And because I didn’t understand you didn’t tell me when you lost your job and when I found out I went mad at you and you left me. I never knew where you went or anything… I guess it was Newquay.”
“At least that’s real. I remember Newquay.”
/> “We know it’s real. Ed said you arrived in the spring and that fits with when you left me.”
He doesn’t respond, just sits, hugging his knees to his chest. After a long, long while, he tells me to turn off the light and get some sleep.
I do, eventually, but I don’t think Robin does. Except, in the morning, when I am pottering around the bedroom, putting on my clothes, hunting down my mascara, he doesn’t move. His long body is curled into a ball, his face buried in the duvet. I tell Claire he isn’t well.
I text him at morning break but there’s no reply. Once I’m back in class I can’t check my phone and the ninety minutes to lunch is endless. Even then there’s nothing. I sit in my car, watching the daffodils sway on the grass verge as I phone him. Voicemail. I call the house and it’s the same. I leave a message, careful words, in case Claire hears it first. I imagine my disembodied voice floating through the empty hall.
Floating, and meeting what? Is Robin even there? Is he asleep? Is he staring at the ceiling, too numb to move? He could be anywhere, doing anything – or nothing. He doesn’t want to tell me. The sweat trickles between my shoulder blades and there is an ominous thud behind my right eye.
I stumble from the car and back to the staffroom. I’m in luck – the head of year is there, an oversized Starbucks mug nestling in her lap as she eats her sandwich.
“Fiona, I’m sorry, I have to go home. I’ve got a migraine coming on.”
She looks up at me. “Goodness, Bella, you do look pale. Who have you got this afternoon?”
“Tutor group, but if someone can give their scripts back then they can rework the ones they got wrong in the library. Then a free, then adult numeracy.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out for them. Are you sure you’ll be OK to drive?”
I nod. “It isn’t far.” I sweep the papers off my desk into my briefcase.
But today it is a long, long way. Every roundabout, every traffic light. And I decide to go via Curbridge, just to make sure Robin’s van isn’t on Jennifer’s drive. But that’s a waste of time. I curse out loud. Why did I bother? He probably hasn’t left the house. But what if he has? Where will I start looking this time? My hands slip on the steering wheel as I turn off the main road. There at least is Robin’s van, parked opposite the pub.
It was churlish of me to make a fuss about the van but he hasn’t forgotten it. If I find him I’ll tell him it doesn’t matter. I swing the car into the drive and rush for the front door, opening it into a silent house. The red light on the answerphone is flashing.
But Robin is there, in the bedroom. He is blinking and struggling to sit up.
“Izzie, are you all right?”
I want to say, Yes, are you? but it comes out as a sob. I drop onto the bed and he holds me as tightly as he can.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” I sniff.
He strokes my hair. “It’s been switched off.”
“Not the one in the hall.”
“I didn’t hear it.” His voice is flat but his hands feel strong as they travel rhythmically over my throbbing skull.
“I’ve been so scared.”
“I’m sorry, Izzie.”
After a while I break free and sit up. “I need to get a grip.” I open the bedside drawer and fish inside for some Nurofen.
“Why are you so frightened? Because you’re living with a man with a huge chunk of his memory missing?”
I shake my head. “Because I’m scared you’ll shut me out like you did before.”
“I didn’t shut you out. I ran away, from everything. I…” He pulls himself up. “But that’s in my reality, not yours.”
I gabble on. “You never talked about it. How you felt. What was going on in your head. Even when you lost your job you didn’t say. You drank a lot. I don’t know… I don’t know how you filled your days in that horrid little flat, because I was at work and you didn’t even tell me you weren’t.”
His eyes snap into life. “Izzie, take me to the flat. You never know, it might just trigger something. I might just remember.”
“I… I haven’t been back there in years.”
“Please, Izzie, take me there. Take me there now.”
He jumps out of bed and starts pulling on yesterday’s boxer shorts, his eyes scanning the room for his socks.
“Robin, clean ones, in the drawer.”
“Yes, OK, sorry.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. It’s not important. I’m not hungry.” His head pops out from a T-shirt.
I stand up. “I’ll make you a sandwich to eat in the car while you clean your teeth and comb your hair.”
He nods and hurries into the bathroom.
I can’t tell him that time has erased the address from my mind. But I do know that the flat was near St Michael’s School, because I used to watch the teachers get out of their cars in the morning, eaten with envy for their lives.
We park in a side road near the school just as it is emptying of traffic. A last group of mothers fills the pavement, three boys kicking a football ahead of them. A ginger-haired toddler clings to an adult hand as she is dragged along, sucking her thumb.
As soon as they have passed, Robin opens the car door and leaps out, looking around him.
“Was it here, Izzie?” He sounds puzzled. “This looks like a nice road.”
“Not here, but this is where I used to leave my car. It’s just around the corner.”
He tucks his arm into mine to hurry me along.
“Slow down, Robin, my legs are about half the length of yours.”
We reach the bend and turn towards the main road, but no bells are ringing although I can see the flat in my mind. Upstairs in a Victorian terrace. Bay window to the living room at the front, dingy glass in the bedroom and kitchen overlooking a walled drying yard with two lines slung across it. If you closed all the doors, the stairs and landing were pitch black. I shudder.
“What’s wrong, Izzie?”
I stop and look around me. At the end of a leafy walk, across Shirley Road, I can see the pub. Just like it always was, the downstairs of a 1930s house without an ounce of character or charm. But nothing else is the same – nothing I remember. The flesh on my arms begins to crawl but then I realise why.
“Robin, it’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Those new flats, it was there. A whole terrace, and the path was a proper road then. We were about halfway down it. There was a green front door.”
We continue to walk until we reach the main road. Apart from the pub, all that’s changed too. The halal meat store, world supermarket, curry lounge – all new. The dry cleaner’s is still there though, and the hardware shop.
Robin is looking up and down the street. “Do you remember anything?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I would tell you I’ve never been here before in my life. Except, you know that isn’t true.”
I try to help him to remember. “When we first moved in we painted the bedroom because it was so grim. We bought all the stuff from Clarence Hardware over there. And there used to be a bank opposite. We’d get a tenner out of the cashpoint to go to the pub.”
He looks again. “There’s nothing, Izzie. Absolutely nothing.” He lets go of my hand and turns back the way we came. “Come on, we’d better go.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Claire practically follows us through the door.
“You’re home early, Mum,” she chirps, giving me a hug.
“My last class was cancelled,” I tell her, hoping she won’t probe.
Instead she turns to Robin. “Are you feeling better now?”
He is not such a good liar as I am and he looks surprised.
“It must have been something you ate, do you think?” I chip in and he nods.
“I’m fine now, Claire. Quite hungry in fact. I might even start cooking some tea.”
“I’ll do it,” I offer.
He squeezes my hand. “We’ll do it together
.”
“That gets me off the hook,” laughs Claire, and she disappears up the stairs to her room.
In the kitchen I pull a bottle of wine out of the rack. “Fancy a glass?”
“No thanks. I don’t want to be damaging any more little grey cells.” His joke doesn’t really come off.
I put the corkscrew back in the drawer. “Then I won’t either. Come on, what are we going to cook?”
We keep it simple. Onions caramelised in olive oil, stirred into hot pasta with a tub of soft cheese I found lurking at the back of the fridge. It’s begging for a glass of white to go with it but I resist.
Over supper, talk turns to Claire’s seventeenth birthday, only weeks away. She wants to know which one of us is going to teach her to drive.
“Proper lessons first,” I tell her. “I’ll buy you some for your birthday. You don’t want to pick up our bad habits.”
“I’m a white van driver now, Claire,” says Robin, a smile sliding across his face. “And you know what that means. I’m not safe behind the wheel.”
“You’re not allowed to park it in front of the house either,” adds Claire.
“I meant to say—” I start, but Robin cuts across me.
“Well no, Claire, I wouldn’t want to lower the tone of the neighbourhood. Professional people live here, after all, not manual labourers. Not kids who grew up on council estates.” He winks.
I thump my hand on the table. “I was going to say you can park your van outside. It’s not a problem. You just caught me at an awkward moment the first time.”
“Council estate? Ooh, Robin, don’t tell anyone. They’ll think Mum really does like a bit of rough.”
She’s curled over herself giggling and Robin joins in. Quip after quip follows, making me out to be some sort of snob. I’m not. I’m not like that, I want to scream. My headache returns with a vengeance. I don’t understand what’s going on. How can Robin be laughing so easily? How come I can’t?
