Cass whispered, ‘There she is. She’s quite real. I’m sure you didn’t believe us — I’m sure you thought we’d imagined her.’
I thought I had once, Henry said to himself. Because the woman who paused and waited, overshadowed by the dark, looming bushes, the woman who had never been to Marchstearn before, was the one he had seen crossing the common the day he arrived.
12
She wore the same clothes he had seen her in that morning, the same owl-like spectacles; from her shoulder a large fabric bag dangled untidily. Caught in the density of twisted black stems and sombre foliage she still had the fleeting out-of-place air, and as the leaves stirred to some fugitive current and the light and shade played bewilderingly across her features, there was again the impression of disorganised possession, of someone behind the candid face, someone asleep and dreaming a confusion of dreams.
She began talking before they reached her, a patter of sound that took them by surprise, washing sweetly and senselessly over them as they stared at her. ‘I was coming to find you. Mandy says you have a horse. I like horses, there’s something so noble about them, isn’t there? What was that book someone wrote about a land where the horses had changed places with the humans? A race of horses that could speak and do things. Oh, I can’t think of the title, I’m terribly good on books as a rule. I don’t mean a fairy story, a sort of satire, really. I often think animals knowfar morethan we give them credit for, don’t you.’
On a rapid, rather wild note, Cass said, ‘This is Henry Beaumont.’
‘... rather embarrassing just turning up like this and not even knowingwhy. At least, I would be embarrassed if you weren’t all so kind, but people are kind, aren’t they?’ Somewhere, a polite:How do you do? glanced off into a verbal exploration of kindness.
Her voice had a wonderful sweetness, a half-swallowed immaturity of tone, the voice of a little girl telling herself stories; in it Henry caught a vagrant trace of accent which after a while he placed as north-east. Ignoring everything but the essential point of communication — the introduction — he said, ‘We’ve met before — almost. Haven’t we?’
The rush of words dammed up, temporarily; the round eyes fastened on him with excessive solemnity. In the pause Cass said, flabbergasted, ‘You can’t have, Henry. She’s never been here before.’
The small voice obediently repeated, ‘Never been here before. I suppose it’s astonishing to say I haven’t when I can’t remember anything. You know, I daresay amnesia’s quite ordinary, really, only people think perhaps it’s not quite nice to talk about it, but I know I’m among friends here —’
‘At the end of April,’ Henry went on doggedly. ‘Early in the morning. You were crossing the common.’
‘The common ... No, I can’t say the common means anything to me. Does it?’ Putting a delicate and rather grubby hand to her forehead, she submerged herself in scarcely audible interrogations while Cass said to Henry:
‘Did you really see her?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw her, and —’ A sudden disquieting recollection prevented him from adding:so did Lydia.
Because Lydia had not seen the woman. She had been in full view on the deserted common, but Lydia had not seen her.
‘... possibly made a mistake, or seen someone who looked like me.’
Cass’s giggle smothered the wordimpossible. Her gaze frankly but not unkindly assessed the muddled layers of clothing, the glorious mane of tawny hair, brilliant even in the surrounding gloom. ‘Nobody round here looks like you. Take my word for it, Leonora.’
‘Don’t they?’ Leonora’s face shone with the satisfaction of innocent vanity; she began to talk with great earnestness on the subject of dressing to express one’s personality. As she seemed to be prepared to stand indefinitely in the seeping damp, Henry made shepherding motions that set them moving towards the house.
How did you get here last night? Why did you come? Where did you find the cloak? Why did you put it on?Something approaching a conversation engaged the two women and his questions nudged their way into it, dislodging negatives: she didn’t know, she couldn’t remember, she had no idea. Cass detached herself, speaking out of the side of her mouth, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we look in that portmanteau she’s carting around. If she can’t tell us who she is, something in there might.’
‘I don’t believe anyone’s put her up to this. No one could put her up to anything, she’s so — unguarded.’
‘Or a superb actress.’
‘Never.’
‘... and this girl, it was very strange how it happened, she remembered everything quite suddenly. And do you know, it turned out she was an heiress.’
‘Who was?’ Cass gathered Leonora a little closer, as if afraid she would absentmindedly take the wrong path and lose herself in the bushes. We could trace her by her voice, Henry thought.
‘In the film I’ve been telling you about. She was young and beautiful and an heiress. It’s quite possible that I am, isn’t it? And some sort of traumatic event has driven everything from my mind.’
‘Oh, God,’ Henry muttered.
*
Mandy wore a heart-shaped apron, rampantly frilled, that made her look like an over-decorated cake; but there was nothing frivolous in her attitude as she dumped Leonora into a chair and put a tray on her lap. ‘You would do a tour of the estate at the wrong moment, you’re the sort that does everything at the wrong moment, so it’s your own fault it’s ruined. Eat it.’
Leonora ate with refinement, and very slowly because she kept pausing to talk. Her gratitude, her repeated assurances that the leathery bacon and dried-up egg were very good were obviously sincere. When they were not listening to her (and it seemed to make little difference to her whether anyone did or not) Cass and Mandy bickered in a way that affected Henry with a hollowed-out feeling of tiredness and irritation. He had never been amused by the spectacle of two women fighting dirty; in their case it was evident they had done it for so long their hostility had taken on a nervelessness that put head-on collisions out of the question and made them oblivious to the embarrassment of onlookers. He turned to Leonora. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea if we had a look at what’s in your bag.’
Leonora continued her monologue about her own abilities as a cook, abandoning it abruptly when Henry grew tired of waiting for a response and made as if to pick up her bag. She took it, clutched it, and said with dignity, ‘Well, I’ll do it, if you don’t mind. I mean ... personal things.’
It took some time. Henry hung on with resignation, wondering if the short day would be overtaken by darkness before she finished. ‘... now, this is a very good scent. I don’t think a woman is dressed without scent, do you? You can put some on if you like, Cass. These are very good for headaches. Some things upset your stomach, you know, they’re really quite bad for you, but these are all right. Isn’t this lipstick a nice colour? You wouldn’t think it would suit my complexion, really, but as a matter of fact ...’
Every so often Mandy, hovering, dartingly extracted something: a battered paperback romance, a bar of chocolate, a spare pair of spectacles, a string of beads. Leonora took this amiably but became confused, having to stop what she was doing and transfer her attention to whatever Mandy produced. Cass managed a couple of agile swoops, bringing to light a brush and comb, a scarf, and two reels of cotton.
The plunder continued good-naturedly; but as the heap of ‘personal things’ accumulated it became evident that they amounted to nothing more than a collection of anonymous, mass-produced articles of the most impersonal kind:no letters, diary, driving licence, photographs ... But at last there was a wallet, dug out and held with a respectful air of discovery by Leonora herself.
‘Come on,’ Cass urged.
Leonora opened the wallet. It contained fifteen pounds in one-pound notes, a sum that surprised her so much she counted it three times, with increasing delight. ‘I’m rich ... what shall I buy?’
‘Hang on to it, it c
ould be all you’ve got,’ Mandy said flatly. She had been treated to the heiress theory; her reaction — written all over her face as plainly as words — coincided with Henry’s: Leonora’s cheap clothes, her pride in her shabby possessions, her enclosing fantasies, marked her only too obviously as one who never had, and probably never would inherit, anything except hardship.
While Leonora was taken up with her money Henry slid the wallet from her lap and looked through its pockets.
‘Anything?’ Cass asked.
‘Yes ...’ He took out a scrap of paper and unfolded it. It was a cutting from a newspaper or magazine.
‘Me, too,’ Mandy said, having turned the bag upside down and shaken it vigorously. ‘A picture postcard. Nothing written on it, I’m afraid.’
They looked at the cutting, it had obviously been taken from a ‘Situations Vacant’ column:
Girl Friday required by professional man and wife and two undemanding children in delightful country house with every labour-saving device; excellent accommodation, wages, car provided. Very happy home offered to anyone good-tempered, patient and efficient who will help to keep us unmuddled and share our family life. References. Apply in writing: The Beeches, Cottingley Green, Hants.
Cass said, ‘There’d only be one reason you’d have that, Leonora. You must have been thinking of applying for it.’
‘Or already had,’ Henry added, aghast at the mere idea of Leonora unmuddling anyone.
Leonora took the cutting and studied it gravely, telling herself that it was a very nice position, one that would certainly appeal to her ... she would, furthermore, be extremely good at it ...
Mandy gave the postcard to Henry. The picture side showed an artist’s impression of an inn called The Merry Ploughman; the address was in Sussex.
‘Well, mean anything to you? Either of them?’ Mandy asked briskly.
Silence enclosed Leonora; she sat blinking, looking from the postcard to the cutting. After a while she said apologetically, ‘No. I’m afraid not.’
Cass sighed. Mandy got up and went to rummage in a spindly bureau.
‘But you might mean something to them,’ Henry said.
‘Yes, yes, that’s it. Henry, you’d be able to find out,’ Cass seized the cutting. ‘This place — the Beeches, you must go.’
‘Go! It’s over two hundred miles.’
‘Well — you do more than that every weekend.’
‘Yes, but it’s not exactly on my way. In fact, by my compass it lies south-east of here, and I wasn’t exactly planning on visiting —’
‘I thought you wanted to help us?’
It would do no good to point out that he had not committed himself to anything categorical; Cass, in her accusing mood, would consider this a mere quibble. He said, ‘Look — perhaps I could telephone.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mandy said sarcastically, from across the room. ‘And what would you say?’
Henry thought about this. He looked at Leonora. She was returning her possessions to her bag, touching them in a way that made him think of a bitch nudging her puppies after they had been handled by strangers. ‘Is Leonora Lee your real name?’
As she looked at him he saw the doubt shift momentarily across her face, watched its slow evaporation into obliging solemnity. ‘I think so. It’s such a pretty name. Don’t you think it suits me? Names with several syllables are so feminine, aren’t they.’
‘See,’ Mandy said, with triumphant emphasis. She had produced a map from the bureau; she brought it over and they studied it, Henry with the sinking feeling he had lost a battle before he realised it was in progress. He had.
‘There ... and there,’ Mandy pointed. ‘These two places are no more than fifty miles apart. If you drew a blank at one you could try the other.’
‘So I could. But not today. I have things to do, and I haven’t had any sleep. And there’s always the possibility that some time before tomorrow Miss A.N. Other here will have a fit of total recall and save me a great deal of driving about.’
‘Beast,’ Cass murmured automatically, with something in her expression that for a moment suggested regret at exchanging the amnesiac and improbable Leonora for some commonplace individual. She got up, saying that she must take Cesar out.
‘Sloping off, as per usual. Leaving all the decisions to others. Not to mention the washing-up,’ Mandy said, a martyred air only partially concealing malice.
Cass made use of her height to smile down with abominable sweetness; she suggested that Mandy exercise Cesar.
Mandy’s plump, beringed hand swept in a large gesture. ‘I couldn’t deprive you of your romantic image —’
‘You couldn’t get on him.’
Not again, Henry breathed.
Leonora attached herself in an indeterminate way to Cass; if she understood herself to be in the centre of a verbal scrimmage she gave no sign of it. She said that as everyone was so kind to her she would like to do something in return ‘... you’re all so busy, perhaps I can help with something, I’m really quite capable, you know. And I can easily find my way about, nothing’s changed much. I don’t want to be a burden, I don’t want ...’
Henry realised that he had come to accept Leonora’s voice as an underground stream running on beneath everyone’s conversation; meaningless, beguiling, melodious, it had almost lulled him into the state where his senses remained in contact with it while his brain shut out the sound of it. Almost. Not quite. His attention had jolted on three words and he had to reach back quickly, before the little voice pattered away with them forever.
‘Leonora, what do you mean: nothing’s changed much?’
‘Pardon? Did I say that? Well, I didn’t mean it, really, not in fact. I couldn’t, could I? It’s just the coincidence.’
‘What coincidence?’
‘Oh, years ago I heard about a place like this. Well, so exactly like this it might almost be the same place. But it can’t be, can it? Although the funny thing is, when I can remember something it matches what’s here — around me.’
Cass and Mandy, having arrived at some invisible demarcation where hostilities were suspended, had stopped speaking and were looking at Leonora.
‘... things up here, in my head. I keep — well — finding them. It’s the only way I can explain it. The more l go about, the more I ... Earlier this morning, for instance, when I was having a walk — I knew what the house looked like from outside before I saw it. I knew which paths to take, I knew about the ground dropping away and the river down there, and the hill with the stones.
‘Hang about,’ Cass interrupted. ‘I thought you couldn’t remember anything. And yet you know that somebody told you about a place like this years ago. Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘You didn’t ask me. You kept asking me questions I couldn’t answer. About last night — where had I come from? What was I doing last night? Last week? Last April? Those are things I don’t know. I daresay I’m more or less unique as a case-history, because I do know about things I learnt as a child ... Well, a bit. I wish I could remember properly, though,’ she added. Her voice died away and she stood in a thoughtful and unhappy silence.
‘Well, this puts things in a different light,’ Mandy said tartly.
Does it? Henry wondered.
‘As I see it,’ Mandy went on with deliberation, displaying her ability to work towards conclusions. ‘You can remember things from a long while ago, but nothing recent ... That probably means the bit in between will come clear to you gradually. It’s quite simple, really.’
The ‘bit in between’ included last night, Henry thought, and there was damn all simple about that. He asked, ‘And do you remember who told you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Leonora settled with gossipy solemnity into an account of her childhood, lingering over details: the large house in the country, the pony, the hundreds of dolls ... Henry’s glance slid from her to Cass. She shrugged, made a face of comic resignation: a childhood so unclouded and endowed scarcely kept contact with reali
ty; only one thing was certain — it had never been Leonora’s.
‘But, you see, there was one cloud on the horizon. I was lonely. Until my friend came along. My greatest friend, the same age as myself. We told each other everything, everything.’ Momentarily she faltered. Perhaps, Henry thought, her words running away with her had sent her stumbling over a particle of truth. She had to recover herself, fit it into the story.
‘Everything. Her life was a great mystery,’ Leonora went on severely, as if prepared for a challenge but too taken up with her fantasy to hear Cass, who had moved beside Henry, whisper ‘Naturally.’
‘... and a great tragedy. Some, you know, are born under a fatal star. Well, it was Helen —’
‘Who?’ Mandy’s voice rasped, intrusive.
Leonora turned her innocent face. ‘Helen. That was my friend’s name. She was the one who told me about this house — no, I mean a house like this one, don’t I? And hers had rowan trees all round it, they keep out witchcraft and evil spirits, you know. Oh, her life was fraught with danger. She knew famous people, film stars —’
Cass made a small sound, distressed, astonished. Beneath the murmur of Leonora’s voice Henry said, ‘How much did you tell her last night? Did you talk about Helen?’
‘I don’t think so — we didn’t tell her — we couldn’t get through to her, she was so different then.’ She looked towards Mandy who was regarding Leonora with an expression strained between resentment and doubt.
‘What was your friend’s second name?’ Henry asked. Leonora shook her head. ‘I don’t know. As I said, there was a mystery about her.’
‘What mystery?’ Mandy said harshly.
Leonora’s face clouded apologetically. ‘I can’t remember.’ She looked from Mandy to Cass; the silence that thickened in the room had its effect on her, there was appeal in her expression, eagerness to make amends. ‘But I daresay I will.’
Mandy jeered, the coarseness of her nature gratingly evident. ‘Well, when you go in for coincidence you do it in a big way. What’s your game? What kind of fools do you take us for? Did yourfriend tell you —’
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