by Jean Levy
‘I don’t know. It just keeps nudging its way through the hole in my back door.’
‘But why …?’
The manager interrupted with the biscotti and two tall glasses of mineral water. ‘Ice, no lemon,’ he said. I stared at my glass.
Matthew frowned. ‘Did you want lemon? I could ask …’
‘No, I hate lemon.’
The ice cream arrived. The sight of it bolstered my confidence and, fortunately, my swallowing reflex dealt efficiently with the chocolate chips. Things were proceeding well. Then a small dollop of ice cream slithered from my spoon and slid down my sleeve towards my elbow. My reaction caused the rest of the spoonful to fall onto the table. I felt myself become rigid, watched him snatch up his napkin and leap to my assistance, wipe the stream of chocolate from my sleeve, holding my wrist briefly, scoop the melting chocolate chip off the tablecloth with his fingers and deposit it on his plate. I could sense the couple over by the window watching. He remained standing, wiping his fingers on his napkin.
‘I wouldn’t worry, you always … You always have to test the staff. Sometimes I throw stuff about deliberately!’ He hovered for a moment and then sat down. ‘It’s a lovely jacket. Good thing about leather is that it doesn’t mark. You can spill anything down it and it doesn’t matter. Apart from paint. That’s usually a disaster.’
The manager approached with a fresh napkin. Now I knew everybody was watching.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m always clumsy.’
‘I … no, you’re not. Eat the rest. I’ll race you.’
I felt myself smile. What was it about this person that made the panic go away?
*
We strode back through the suffocating fumes of rush-hour London. The car park was full with people jostling for parking places. He walked me to my car and held the door as I stepped inside, touching my elbow gently as I did so. Not at all like Dr Williams. He asked me when I was going to shop next and would I like to go for another cappuccino. He had a waterproof I could borrow if we decided to throw food. He suggested Thursday about nine. A woman in a Peugeot tooted us to hurry up. I rolled my eyes and closed my door without saying anything else, watched him watch me pull away, managed to avoid reversing into the Peugeot, squeezed past a Range Rover that seemed to be threatening to use its bulk to snatch the parking space from the smaller car, and made it on to the road without incident.
Driving home, I worried about our fragile arrangement. We had not exchanged telephone numbers or addresses. Our future meeting, if there was to be a future meeting, depended entirely upon next Thursday at nine o’clock. Had I actually agreed to next Thursday at nine o’clock? By the time I arrived home I was frantic that I might forget, so I hurried inside, grabbed my notepad and wrote GO TO THE SUPERMARKET NEXT THURSDAY AT NINE O’CLOCK. I observed the letters arranged into words. It was a whole sentence.
That evening I fell asleep to the sound of crashing waves …
Episode Ten
It’s dark. And cold. But at least the cold is taking the pain away.
Lie still. I can’t move any of myself anyway.
I’ll just rest here in the dark and the cold and listen to the waves.
And let it be over.
The gulls are screeching. Flying through the darkness.
Making themselves ready.
They know it will soon be daylight.
I think they can already see me. They know I shouldn’t be here.
The waves are closer now. Sucking the sand away from under me.
Perhaps a strong wave will come and suck me away with the sand.
Take me out to sea. Away from this place. Take me to him.
Take me to the place where the LOST things hide.
*
I woke with the dawn, gasping for breath and fretting about Matthew Parry. Had he really been shopping in order to run into me? He was too handsome not to have run into someone already, someone more accomplished at eating ice cream. Someone the man behind the bar might expect to see him with instead of me. I was fraught. I wanted to stop thinking about the barman, the ice cream, although I didn’t want to forget the things Matthew Parry said. But the problem with memories is that they’re impossible to separate.
I wandered through to the kitchen. The black and white cat was asleep on the windowsill. It had never done that before and I wasn’t sure whether I approved of such liberty-taking by someone else’s pet. The cat seemed to sense my irritation, stretched, jumped down onto the floor, padded over to the doormat and started to groom itself. I felt a pang of remorse. It was not until the door to the under-sink cupboard opened that the ear-and-paw-cleaning ritual was suspended. Then, with an air of negotiable feline disdain, the cat watched biscuits tip onto the platter, watched me hover in repentance, and at last deigned to pad over and purr. I sighed. ‘Don’t mind me, puss. It’s Wednesday. I’m seeing Dr Gray this morning.’
*
Only two of the Associates were waiting in Dr Gray’s palatial Regent’s Park consulting room, when his secretary showed me inside. My elderly physician stepped round his desk to welcome me.
‘Sarah, hello. I gather that you met our two research associates yesterday? Geraint tells me that you’re happy for them to take part in these consultations?’
I looked at the two men, each of them noticeably demonstrating a lesser degree of humility here in Dr Gray’s elegant and kindly presence than I had witnessed yesterday when Dr Williams was presiding. They mumbled an unsynchronised greeting. I smiled recognition, wondered what had become of Dr Brown then paused: ‘Research?’
Dr Gray’s eyebrows rose above the rims of his spectacles. ‘Did Geraint not explain?’
I glanced over at Drs Clegg and Mustafa. ‘Explain what?’
Dr Gray returned to the laptop open on his desk. I interrupted his reading.
‘Dr Williams never mentioned research. I would have remembered.’
Dr Gray peered over his spectacles at me: ‘I’m sure you would, Sarah.’ He walked over to the door, addressing the two Associates as he did so. ‘Do you think you could give Sarah and myself a few moments? Denise will call you when we’re ready.’
I watched Drs Clegg and Mustafa file out and the door close behind them. I felt awkward. ‘Dr Gray, I didn’t want you to send them away. I just wasn’t sure what kind of research they’re doing.’
He returned to his chair. ‘Sarah, there’s nothing to worry about. My young colleagues are working in the field of research psychology, cognitive psychology in particular. Dr Mustafa has established quite a name for himself in the field of psycholinguistics. Sam is investigating memory as a temporal narrative …’
‘Dr Gray, I’m not sure what all that means.’
‘Well, you could say they are both investigating memory dysfunction. Your case is worthy of investigation, not only for your benefit but also because, if we can understand the mechanism whereby your past is denied you, then this will tell us much about normal brain function. It is through studying disorder that we may reveal the nature of order.’
‘But, how will they research me?’
‘They’ll interview you. Ask you to undertake a few simple written tests. To try and map any improvements.’
‘But there haven’t been any improvements, have there?’
‘Mrs Parkin tells me you are managing very well.’
‘But I’m just learning a new life. Learning to be an adult when all I can remember is being a child. And where are all the people I knew? Has everyone deserted me?’
Dr Gray’s blue eyes revealed no emotion. ‘Sarah, for the time being, our recommendation is that recovery of your memories will be best achieved through your own efforts as opposed to a series of dramatic revelations.’
‘Secondary experiences?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes. Telling you what has been pieced together of the circumstances whereby you were found, unconscious, will not reclaim your memories, it will merely replace them, possibly with something
inaccurate.’ He paused. ‘You did agree to this method of rehabilitation. If you no longer feel confident in our recommendations, you must tell us, Sarah. The process requires your complete cooperation.’
I gave a small nod of approval, although I couldn’t actually remember agreeing to anything: ‘I’ve remembered more about my grandma.’
‘Mrs Parkin informed us of that. You requested a photograph.’ He pushed a brown envelope towards me. ‘These were taken on your seventh birthday. The date is written on the back of one of them. You were living with your grandmother. Take a look and tell me if you can remember the occasion.’
‘Can I keep them?’
‘Yes, Sarah, they’re yours.’
The envelope was unsealed. I pulled out two snapshots: a small girl, wearing a red frock, blowing out the candles on an iced cake; the same girl, holding a tea plate ready, eyes full of laughter, standing beside the old lady from my mind: Granny Clark, cutting the cake. They were both waving at whoever was holding the camera. I smiled back at them, tears blurring my vision. I recognised that small girl, almost from a dream, from a time before all of this. I held the two thin slips of paper and stared at two moments in time captured from the grey mist of nothing, remembered on my behalf. I fought the tears. Tears were useless. I slipped the photographs back into the envelope:
‘I remember red jelly,’ I whispered. ‘Dr Gray, please ask the Associates to come back in.’
The interrogation began. Dr Gray listened and smiled and never once interrupted. Dr Clegg asked most of the questions. His interview technique was relaxed and friendly, whereas Dr Mustafa maintained a distance. Sam Clegg asked me to describe my earliest memories. So I told him about Granny Clark’s garden with the big pear tree. It was near the sea. You could walk to the beach across a field and there were cows that walked towards you with big udders. They were frightening. I recalled moments at school. Story time. A boy who stole my ruler. I remembered a long train journey and Christmas trees with coloured lights. And a red dress with strawberries on the pockets. Not the one in the photos. I paused, having exhausted my resources.
‘Was it an earlier dress?’ asked Shoumi Mustafa.
I said I wasn’t sure. He frowned and then continued with his copious note-taking. Sam Clegg leaned forward. ‘Do you remember the stories your teacher told you?’
‘Some of them, but I preferred the stories I used to make up with my grandma.’
‘What kind of stories were they?’ asked Sam Clegg.
‘Stories about losing things,’ I said. ‘And stories about apples.’
*
I spent the rest of that afternoon and most of the evening reading my battered but wonderfully illustrated copy of Andersen’s Fairy Tales. I remember fetching my drawing pad and sketching my own version of ‘The Princess and the Pea’, although I made it easier for my princess by placing a melon beneath the twenty mattresses. I’ve no idea what happened to that drawing, but my desecration of such a revered tale still makes me smile. I remember turning to the dedication at the front of the book:
September, 1927
To Dearest Lilian from your Loving Father
1927: Lilian and her father must have been over and done with years since. And that love was a love long passed. I remember running my finger along the inked words and wondering how this book had come into my possession: perhaps I had spotted it in some charity shop or other, bought it to savour the illustrations, and had inadvertently brought home with me this relic of paternal love. I imagined infant Lilian, sitting on her father’s knee, reading the book, newly given, pointing to Dulac’s illustrations. Maybe it had been a birthday gift. Perhaps Lilian’s seventh birthday. I walked over to my bag and took out the two photographs. Looked again at the little girl and wondered how time could have carried me from that day to this moment. And I wondered what my forgotten time was preventing me from knowing.
Margate
Sarah gave her grandmother’s hand a gentle push but there was no response.
‘Auntie Maisie, will Grandma wake up soon? Because I want to read her the rest of The Real Princess. We only got half way through before she fell asleep again.’
Maisie Price lifted Sarah’s hand from the quilt. ‘Sarah, she’s very tired. She needs her sleep. Let’s go downstairs and have our tea, shall we? Dr Mason will be here soon to give her some more medicine.’
‘But the medicine always makes her be asleep again.’
‘We’ll talk to Dr Mason about it, shall we? I think he wants to tell you about taking Lily into hospital for a while. To try and make her feel better.’
‘But I don’t want her to go into hospital. It smells horrible.’ She took her grandma’s hand again. ‘We can look after her here.’
‘Sarah, my lovely, they’re much better at looking after sick people at the hospital.’
‘But how long will she be there? Can I go with her?’
‘I think your grandma wants you to come next door and stay with me for a while. I’ve made up my guestroom specially for you. Then next week Mummy’s coming to visit with the new baby. You haven’t seen your new sister yet, have you?’
‘Will Grandma be back home by then?’
‘We’ll ask Dr Mason, shall we? Come on, I’ve baked some of my ginger cake.’
Episode Eleven
I had calculated that if the Escort failed to start, I would still be able to make it to the supermarket within twenty minutes, so I dressed, ate, took my pills and waited until quarter past eight, which gave me enough time to check everything and leave by eight-thirty. I was glad the cat wasn’t there, getting in the way. I arrived in the car park at eight forty-two, waited ten minutes before going inside and went straight to cereals, stretched upwards …
‘Shall I get that for you?’ He reached over me. I could hear my blood pulsing inside my ears. I hoped it wasn’t obvious from the outside. He handed me the cornflakes. He was wearing a red scarf that made his eyes look almost transparent.
‘Ever thought of trying something different?’
I indicated along the aisle. ‘There’s too much choice.’
‘Yes, I think you might be right.’ He smiled. ‘So, Miss Blake …’
‘You’re early,’ I said, not meaning to.
‘So are you. What else have you got on your shopping list?’
‘Just cat biscuits.’
‘Goodness, such dedication to someone else’s cat!’
‘It’s good company sometimes. Where do you live?’ I couldn’t believe I’d just asked that.
‘Crouch End. Flat. Second floor. One reception, two bedrooms, one en-suite, additional bog. Pleasant aspect. The bog, that is. Gas central heating. Lift works occasionally. Within easy walking distance of station …’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey. I don’t know why I asked.’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps you wanted to know where I live.’
I laughed too. ‘Do you joke about everything?’
‘Only when I’m nervous. Shall we abandon our shopping and make a run for it?’
I indicated his empty trolley. ‘You haven’t bought anything yet!’
‘Neither have you. There’s just a box of cornflakes in your trolley. You don’t have to buy it. Come on, let’s leave our pound coins for someone to find. They’ll buy lottery tickets and win a fortune and never know we were responsible for their happiness.’
‘Money doesn’t buy happiness.’
‘Yes, it does. Are you coming?’
‘Only if we put the trolleys back.’ I handed him the cornflakes. ‘And these.’
We strolled along in the sunshine, more leisurely than the previous Tuesday. He suggested we find somewhere serving breakfast because Tony’s bistro didn’t open until eleven. I confessed that I’d already eaten, so we found an almost hygienic café where I sipped tea and watched him eat a heap of yellow-grey scrambled egg, which reminded me of my weeks in the clinic. Those memories began to override the conversation to the point where I found i
t difficult to listen and impossible to say anything myself. I was suddenly aware that he was staring at me.
‘I’m sorry, Matthew. My mind started to wander.’
‘Yes, my conversation often has that effect. Are you all right?’
I tried to say yes, but my throat resisted. I saw his hand coming across the table towards me. Felt his fingers close around mine. Heard him whisper, ‘What is it, Sarah? You can tell me.’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t. I don’t know you.’
‘Of course you do! We’ve shopped together, done outrageous things with ice cream.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Look, there’s a bench under the trees. Shall we go and …’
‘What about your eggs?’
‘They’re disgusting.’
Outside the air was cool and fresh and only slightly tainted by exhaust fumes. He guided my arm across the road, tightened his grip as a bus approached, removed his hand as soon as I was safely across. He indicated a bench that was not too severely covered in guano, took off his scarf and folded it for me to sit on, sat down beside it and stretched his arms along the back of the bench.
