by Jean Levy
‘Well, Sarah, you have remembered many terrible things, things that you needed to remember, and now your next challenge will be to allow yourself to forget. Time will assist you in that, but also please be assured that we are here to help you however and whenever you need us.’
‘I know that Dr Gray.’
‘And in the meantime, my dear, I must congratulate you on your courage and determination. Well done!’
‘I had a lot of help. Dr Gray, I’m very grateful to you and Sam for guiding me through these last few weeks. And for giving me my life back. I’m even grateful to Dr Williams and Mrs Parkin because, somehow, disliking them as much as I did galvanised my determination.’
‘I’ll probably not pass that on to them,’ laughed Bob Gray.
I felt Matthew’s hand close over mine.
‘Bob, how much of this do you have to pass on? I suppose Sarah’s recollections all become part of the case report, do they? And then the police can seek access?’
Bob Gray’s face became serious. ‘What’s worrying you, Matthew?’
I answered. ‘We’re worried that if I tell the police what I’ve just told you, they might not believe I’m telling the truth.’
‘If Sarah even admits she was there,’ said Matthew, ‘and that Jeff was pushed downstairs, won’t that encourage even more suspicion? Will you be obliged to reveal what we’ve just told you? The problem is that Della Brown called round and …
‘Sam informed me of that.’ Bob Gray turned to study his laptop. ‘Actually, just this morning, I received an email from Detective Brown regarding the Hornsey incident. Presumably composed following her most recent visit to your home. She has recommended that, “now that Mr Parry’s whereabouts are established” – apparently bank records have now confirmed that you purchased a train ticket at 14.47 on the day in question – she has recommended that any investigation of “the involvement of Ms Blake or any other as yet unidentified individuals should be suspended until significant changes occur in Ms Blake’s ability to recall the circumstances leading up to her being found unconscious.” She has recommended that a request be placed “on file” that such changes be reported by any “current or future physicians”.’
‘What does “on file” mean?’ I asked.
‘It means we have a lot of files,’ said Sam.
‘What if they find out that I’ve remembered and they haven’t been told?’
‘Sarah,’ said Bob Gray, ‘as far as the police are concerned, your sister died as the result of being hit by a lorry. The driver reported that she ran out of nowhere. He saw her in his headlights only at the last minute. Jeff Blake died only indirectly from a broken neck. Although he did not regain complete consciousness, his condition was stable. It was an unfortunate hospital-acquired infection that took his life. So even if foul play was suspected they would not easily be able to level a charge of manslaughter against anyone, since the fall did not kill him.’
I was not that convinced and my frown obviously demonstrated as much. Bob Gray resorted to specifics.
‘Sarah, there is no point in anyone knowing that your mother’s attempts to protect you inadvertently contributed to your husband’s calamity, since due to her extreme diminished responsibility, she cannot be charged with anything. And, as far as any investigation is concerned, nothing can be gained by any further intrusion into your life. I am perfectly able to advise all concerned that, despite some recovery, you appear to have an intractable memory loss, which is true regarding the period surrounding your being found unconscious. And, considering the physical circumstances in which you were found, this memory loss might possibly be due …’ He glanced at Sam. ‘… to some minute foci of hypoxia which have erased whole sectors of your past. The unpleasant details you have remembered need go no further than these four walls.’
I tried to smile but I still found it impossible. ‘Dr Gray, even if the police have decided not to investigate further, I’m scared these memories will make me crazy. That I’ll start to suspect they’re false memories and I really did do something terrible.’
‘We will make sure you do not think those things, Sarah.’
‘But you can go mad thinking that if you behaved differently …’
‘My dear, the past is made up of all the time anybody has ever had. And that time could have been made up of many things, until it occurred, but once it has happened it cannot be changed. Your past is immutable. But what we can do is to change how you think about it.’
‘But what about regret and guilt? Will you be able to help me deal with those things at the same time as allowing everyone to assume I haven’t remembered?’
‘Yes, we will. And Sarah, Sam and I will allow you a tiny smidgeon of regret, but none of us in this room will allow you to feel guilt.’ Bob Gray pulled his laptop closer and checked the screen. ‘I’m recommending that we remain available for future consultation, that we carry out routine checks, and that, as far as any further research is concerned, this case is on hold.’
‘Can you do that?’ I asked.
‘Sarah, my dear, I am the boss around here. Ask Sam if you don’t believe me. And when I say an investigation of one of my patients is on hold, or indeed, completely terminated, that is the way it is.’
‘But what about Dr Williams? He’ll still want to investigate my dynamic memory loss. Those scans are like lie detectors. He’ll know I’m concealing things.’
Dr Gray tapped his keyboard then smiled. ‘There will be no further scans for the time being because, although they are relatively non-invasive, we prefer to err on the side of caution.’ He looked directly at me. ‘You are in the very early stages of pregnancy, Sarah, suspected last weekend and confirmed in the bloods taken when you arrived this morning. So, once again, well done! Both of you! Matthew, do try to breathe.’
Things calmed over cappuccinos. Eventually, Bob Gray leaned back and linked his fingers across his waistcoat. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’
I wiped my lips, just in case they were covered in chocolate powder, then stepped over to retrieve a bunch of pink roses. ‘I’d like to see my mother, please?’
‘Certainly, my dear. Sam, would you do the honours?’
Sam led Matthew and me through the double doors, into the stretch of corridor where the rooms had permanent nameplates. He stopped at a door marked ‘Diana Dawson’, a door that I had walked past repeatedly without noticing it. He knocked, turned a lock and stepped inside. ‘How are you today, Mrs Dawson? I’ve brought you some visitors.’
Diana looked well. She had gained weight during the weeks of luxury care and there was more colour in her cheeks than I could remember. She was sitting in a cosy chair beside her bed, dressed in a pale green cotton frock and matching canvas shoes. Around her neck hung the string of pearls, which I had purchased with the first royalties from my LOST series. Matthew hovered just inside the door.
I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed beside my mother. I handed her the roses. ‘Hello, Diana. I remembered you liked roses, I said. ‘Shall I ask somebody to put them in water for you?’
Diana handed them back. ‘In a vase! In the kitchen cupboard.’ She flapped her hand to indicate the corridor outside. ‘Arachne bought me flowers when I was married.’
‘That’s lovely,’ I said. I put the roses down on the bed. ‘What a lovely room. And you’ve got a nice big television.’
‘Sky Movies!’
‘Yes! You like the movies, don’t you?’ I smiled. ‘I love your necklace.’
‘My daughter bought it for me.’
‘Arachne?’
‘No, my other daughter. Sarah. She’s going to be a writer when she grows up. She’s living with her grandma at the moment because the builders are mending the roof. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, I know Sarah quite well,’ I said.
Diana was clearly delighted. She began to get up. Sam hurried over.
‘What do you want, Diana? Shall I get a nurse? Do you need the bathro
om?’
Diana tapped Sam’s arm. ‘No, silly boy, I want to get something. From over there!’
Sam stood back and grimaced as my decrepit mother shuffled over towards the television. All three of us watched her bend down to retrieve something from behind the chest of drawers.
‘What have you got there, Diana?’ asked Sam.
‘Go away, silly boy,’ she snapped. Sam looked at Matthew and rolled his eyes.
Diana carried a small, battered package back to her chair and eased herself down. Her bony fingers prodded the brown paper into some kind of order. Then she looked at me.
‘Will you give this to Sarah when you see her.’ She handed me the parcel. ‘But no peeping!’ She glanced at Matthew and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘You neither!’
I accepted the package and stowed it in my bag, which seemed to satisfy my mother. Encouraged by this exchange, I continued my efforts to communicate, but Diana started to tell me about a seamstress who was making her bridesmaids’ dresses. I could sense Matthew’s desire to leave, so I kissed my mother on the cheek and got to my feet. Straightaway, Diana’s sinewy arm reached over for the TV remote.
‘Goodbye, Diana. Take care.’ I smiled, but Diana was pre-occupied so I followed Matthew and Sam into the corridor, but before closing the door I paused to snatch a look at the back of my mother’s head. Diana was shaking the remote at the TV screen and mumbling aggressively, quite oblivious to her departing visitors.
‘Goodbye, Mum,’ I whispered. I pulled the door, but just before it clicked shut, I heard, clear as anything, Diana’s croaky voice. Always a little too late.
‘Bye, Sarah!’ Always a little too late.
I gripped my bag and walked in silence, listening to the echo of my mother’s voice. Matthew and Sam strode along either side of me, also silent. As soon as we were three or four double doors away, I stopped, grabbed Matthew’s sleeve and pulled him to a standstill. His face filled with concern. He touched the back of his hand against my cheek.
‘Are you OK?’ said Sam.
I started to laugh. ‘Sam, I don’t remember Diana ever looking as happy as that! Ever! And do you know what? I’m absolutely starving! Does this place serve non-residents?’
Sam’s brown eyes shone with relief. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, in that case, silly boy, would you like to join me and Matthew for lunch?’ I hugged Matthew’s arm. ‘I suddenly feel the need to eat for two!’
‘Me too,’ said Matthew, hugging me back.
*
Lunch in the conservatory was full of good appetite, summer and expectations. I thanked Sam for his friendship and lack of professionalism and was delighted to learn that he had agreed to advise Annabelle on a project regarding Victorian lunatic constraints. As our plates were being cleared for dessert, I remembered Diana’s crumpled paper parcel, stretched into my bag and pulled it out. ‘Shall we take a peek at Sarah’s present?’
Sam sat back and folded his arms. ‘I’d open that carefully if I were you. God knows what’s in there. Some of them are a bit batty in here!’
I tugged away the twisted tape and peeled open the brown paper. The first thing I discovered was a small, disintegrating rag doll, missing one baby button eye and all of her hair. ‘My God,’ I said. ‘It’s Raggedy!’
Sam looked concerned. ‘I ought to mention this cache of hers to the cleaning staff. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, there is!’ I peered into the parcel and pulled out a squashed red mitten, something wrapped in a frayed, paisley headscarf anda small pile of school photos tied with a grubby piece of ribbon. I pulled at the ribbon end and released a record of my infant school years and, among them, a fragile note from a little girl to her mother which consisted of uneven kisses and a badly scrawled ‘Sarah’. I set them all down on the table and turned my attention to the scarf, peeled back the paisley and uncovered a thick bundle of thin, blue envelopes tied with a length of string.
‘They’re airmail letters!’ I said, easing them apart. They were still sealed, unopened, unread. I turned the top one over to reveal an address written in bold, looked up but said nothing.
‘What is it?’ asked Matthew.
‘They’re addressed to Sarah Clark. At my mother’s house.’ I rubbed my thumb across the postage stamp. ‘They’re from Australia.’
I quickly put them and the photos back into my bag, lifted the frayed paisley to my nose and then squashed it down on top of them.
I looked at Matthew and smiled. ‘We’ll read them when we get back home.’
Then I moved my raggedy doll to one side to make way for the large portion of Greystone summer pudding that was coming my way.
Hampstead: Sixteen Months Later
‘Is she actually eating any of this? I bet if you scrape it all off her and me and the chair and the floor and stick it back in the bowl, there’ll be none missing. Coco want more?’
Matthew made another attempt to persuade a spoonful of mashed banana into our daughter’s mouth.
‘If it gets any worse we’ll have to redecorate. Come on, Coco, sweetheart. I’ll buy you a pony of you don’t spit this mouthful back at me.’
He glanced across at me and frowned.
‘You OK? What’s the …? Fantastic! No pony today, Coco!’ He grabbed the tea towel and wiped slop from his sleeve. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t like banana.’ He looked at me again. ‘Sarah, has something happened?’
I shook my head. He threw down the tea towel and got to his feet.
‘Sarah, you’re worrying me. Say something. What is it?’
I looked up into his green eyes and knew I could keep it inside me no longer.
‘Matthew, I pushed him. It was me.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you, Louise Jarvis, Olivia Kiernan, Debbie Wiley, Diana Holmes, Val Hunt and Davy Fennell for reading and re-reading and for your creative support, encouragement and precious friendships.
Thank you, Jenny Berry, for the loan of your name … I’ll be hanging on to it for the time being.
Thank you, David Headley, for advice, for believing in and bettering the world I created, and for being an inspirational and inspiring agent. Without your patience and persistence this would not be the book it is.
Thank you so much, Rebecca Lloyd for your editorial, linguistic and literary wisdom.
Thank you, John, for staying the course and watering the plants when the editing got tough.
And … thank you, Leo Malan, for really believing in me.
Published by The Dome Press, 2018
Copyright © 2018 Jean Levy
The moral right of Jean Levy to be recognised as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781999855970
The Dome Press
23 Cecil Court
London WC2N 4EZ
www.thedomepress.com
