Then and Always

by Dani Atkins

  There were still two photographs yet to examine. The first brought out a bubble of laughter, which was just the antidote I needed right then. It had been taken on a school sports day when I was about seven years old. In the picture Jimmy and I held between us a small silver cup for having won the three-legged egg and spoon race. It was the only race I think I ever won during my entire school days. Of course, I could have turned out to be a decathlete at university, who was to say? Our eyes shone out in the picture, radiating a happy combination of pride, friendship, and pure unadulterated happiness. We were both grinning from ear to ear, seemingly unaware that the huge gaps we sported in our front teeth did little to improve the picture.

  The last photograph I hadn’t seen before, and I lifted it from the shelf and took it to the window to study it better. It was clearly taken quite recently, as I didn’t look any different than I had when I had seen my reflection that morning. The hair was the same, and so too was the unblemished face. The venue looked like a fancy hotel or restaurant; there were gifts piled in clusters upon the table in front of us and in the center of the photograph were its main subjects: Matt and myself. One arm was tightly wound around my waist; while his left hand encompassed mine, holding it aloft to allow the camera to capture the dazzling brilliance of the impressively large ring upon my finger. The radiance of the diamond seemed almost too bright to be contained by the small glass frame.

  I turned swiftly, almost guiltily, as the rattle of teacups heralded my father’s return. Hastily I replaced the photograph where it had come from.

  “Ring any bells?”

  I shook my head sadly. “I remember those ones”—I indicated the much older snapshots with a wave of my hand—“but I’ve never seen this one before in my life.”

  My father lowered himself into an armchair, looking sad.

  “Nice ring, though,” I observed, trying to elicit some sort of smile from the man I was causing so much concern. “I bet he never got that one out of a cracker.” There it was, the smile I’d been waiting for.

  We sipped our tea in silence, the hot drink taking away the need for conversation. I hated to disturb the tranquility of the moment but I had to prepare him for something important.

  “Dad, I’m expecting Dr. Tulloch to call us later on. Let me know when he does, will you?”

  Dad looked up, surprised.

  “What would he be calling about? Hasn’t he signed us over to that amnesia chap?”

  I sighed, trying not to show how “amnesia” was now my newest least favorite word.

  “Yes, well, I left a message and asked him to find out something for me, and when he does I’m sure he’ll be calling us here. Don’t worry. It will all make sense then.”

  My father looked a little bemused but agreed to let me know when the call came.

  He was in the process of trying to persuade me that I might want to go and have a lie-down while he prepared us some lunch, when we were both suddenly startled by an angry hissing and spitting sound. The black cat I had seen earlier landed on the settee beside me, took one look at me, and sped off across the room, the hackles on her back raised in a high ridge of fur.

  “What the heck …,” began my father, as the cat, halfway out the door, stopped in a scuffle of claws against the carpet, turned to look at me, and gave a low angry growl.

  “Kizzy!” shouted my dad in remonstration. “What’s got into you?”

  I drew back a little in my seat, not certain if the angry feline was going to pounce. She continued to stare balefully at me across the room, claws out, emerald eyes full of distrust. With one last angry spit she turned and fled the room in a streak of fur and fury. My father and I stared at each other in amazement. I broke the silence first.

  “Does she usually do that?”

  “No. Never. I’ve never seen her act like that before in her life. That cat really adores you.”

  “That’s lucky then. I’d hate to see what she’d do if she didn’t like me.”

  He laughed hollowly, but as he gathered up our dirty cups and prepared to leave the room, I could see he was still puzzled by the cat’s inexplicable reaction to me.

  Sometime later that afternoon he knocked on the door of my old bedroom with yet another cup of tea. I’d gone there initially to find something warmer to put on than the silk suit I’d left the hospital in, but had become completely sidetracked by going through the contents of my old wardrobe and chest of drawers. Beside me on the floor lay piles of old magazines, clothes, and mementos.

  My father picked a precarious path through the debris and laid down the steaming mug on the bedside table.

  “I guess I wasn’t too hot on throwing stuff out when I left home.”

  “You could say that. Still, it might come in handy now. Jog your memory a little.”

  I swept a hand across the random collection on the floor. “Most of this stuff is from ages ago. I knew it all already.”

  And though I knew it pained him, I had to let him know how I was really feeling. “I haven’t changed what I believe, Dad. I know you’re desperately hoping I’m suddenly going to have a huge revelation and start remembering stuff, but I really don’t believe that’s going to happen. You see, I haven’t forgotten anything. There are no blanks in my memory. None at all. I can detail the last five years for you moment by moment. It’s just a different five years.”

  The mixture of pity and love in his eyes forced me to stop there. I wasn’t helping either my own case or his understanding of it.

  “Let’s just see what the specialist has to say, Rachel. How about that?”

  I nodded slowly. I had to let him hold on to that for a little while longer. He still believed in the omnipotence of a medical “specialist” almost as strongly as he did in the curative powers of tea.

  Before leaving me to pack away the residue of my youth, he stopped at the doorway.

  “By the way, I reckon I’ve figured out what must have spooked the cat earlier on.”

  I looked up from a huge pile of magazines destined for the recycling bin.

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking about it all day, as it was just so strange. Then I realized it must have been your smell.”

  “Well, that’s nice, Dad.”

  “No, I don’t mean like that, but you probably smell of the hospital; you know, an antiseptic, medical kind of smell. That was what must have made her act so crazy. She’ll be fine with you now, you’ll see.”

  I wanted to believe him, I really did, but to me it looked far more like the cat had simply been defending her territory from someone she had never seen before in her life.

  BY THE LATE evening there had still been no phone call from the hospital. In fact the only call at all had been one from Matt telephoning from his hotel room in Germany. I tried to hide the disappointment in my tone when I realized it wasn’t Dr. Tulloch on the line but instead my newly acquired fiancé. Fortunately, Matt didn’t seem inclined to chat, and the whole conversation was over and done with in under ten minutes.

  “How’s Matt?” inquired my father when I had hung up, and something in his tone snagged my attention and made me look up.

  “He’s fine. Pretty busy with work, I guess.” Working on pure instinct, I leaped in feetfirst with the next question.

  “You don’t like Matt much, do you?”

  He fumbled with the newspaper he was flicking through, and I think he took a fraction too long before replying.

  “Of course I do. What nonsense. Why ever would you think that?”

  “I don’t know, something in your tone, in your eyes …” I trailed off.

  He met my inquiry full on.

  “Even if I did … have doubts, I would never say anything when he is clearly the one you want to be with. And you’ve been together for a very long time now.”

  “Not in my world we haven’t. We broke up shortly after the … Well, shortly after leaving school.”

  My words seemed to ignite a strange look of curiosity.

  “Int
eresting, that: that your amnesia has manufactured a world where Matt isn’t your fiancé at all. I wonder what that could all be about?”

  And clearly thinking he was onto something with this line of thought, he continued, “And tell me, are you and Jimmy an item in this ‘other’ life of yours?”

  I gave a sigh. Did no one listen to what I was saying?

  “No, hardly, Dad. Not with him being dead and all.”

  There was a strange and pregnant silence between us. Our eyes met and held for a long moment before we both decided it was wisest to drop the subject.

  I WANDERED INTO the kitchen the following morning, hair still dripping from my shower, wearing an old dressing gown that was several sizes too small. Dad was busily piling a small yellow mountain of rubbery scrambled eggs on a plate. Suddenly the hospital food was starting to look pretty good.

  “Dad, you shouldn’t have. Toast is all I can usually manage.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied firmly, and I could see here the makings of a campaign. “We’re not going to build you back up to strength with just a dry old bit of crust for breakfast.”

  I was on the point of explaining that possibly my problems might require more than just a cooked breakfast to fix, when I was spared by the ringing of the doorbell.

  “Get that, will you, while I dish up?”

  I went to the front door, still squeezing out droplets of water from my sodden hair. Behind the frosted panel was a tall dark shape. My heart gave a small leap in my chest as I opened the latch to greet the visitor. There’s nothing like a visit from a dead friend to truly take away your appetite.

  Jimmy followed me down the hall to the kitchen, bringing with him a huge cardboard box.

  “Good morning, lad. You’re just in time for breakfast, care to join us?”

  Jimmy eyed the yellow concoction with the same enthusiasm as I had.

  “Sorry, Tony, I’ve already eaten. I only popped in for a moment to say hello.”

  I knew he was lying about the breakfast even before his eyes met mine. We had always been able to read each other like a book. Or maybe we hadn’t. Absurdly, I felt a warm pink blush flush my cheeks and was all at once aware of how inadequately covered I was, in the tiny dressing gown, to be receiving visitors.

  “So what’s in the box?” It was just as well my father had asked; I was so preoccupied with the strangeness of sitting in my old kitchen with my long-dead friend that it probably wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask even if he’d walked into the room with an elephant in tow.

  “It’s not from me,” Jimmy explained. “A delivery van was just dropping it off and I offered to carry it in. It’s for Rachel.”

  I looked up from where I had been desperately trying to stretch unstretchable toweling edges more closely together.

  “For me? What is it?”

  My dad looked over my shoulder. “Oh, that must be the box with some more of your clothes. Matt said he’d have it sent down for you. He knew you wouldn’t have much to wear.”

  “He’s right there,” I agreed. “That was really thoughtful of him to go and sort that out for me.”

  There was a small humphing sound from Jimmy’s direction. “Most likely he got his secretary to do it.”

  The snipe had come as a reflex and just as swiftly I thrust back in Matt’s defense. “He’s very busy, you know. He had to fly to Hamburg yesterday.”

  A speculative look crossed Jimmy’s familiar features but he knew better than to offer another criticism. My dad, who seemed completely oblivious to the verbal sparring, added, “By the way, Rachel, I completely forgot to tell you, Matt also wanted you to know that he contacted the magazine on Monday and told them what had happened.”

  Baffled, I shifted in my kitchen chair to look at my father.

  “Magazine? What magazine?”

  “The one where you work.”

  I felt the familiar flipping sensation in my stomach as yet another bombshell got dropped.

  “I don’t work at a magazine.”

  Here we go again, I thought. The look the two men exchanged was so blatant they might as well have shouted out the words. Poor Rachel, still suffering with that old amnesia.

  Suddenly I was angry and got up so hurriedly the wooden chair almost toppled over behind me.

  “No, don’t you both look at me like that! Like ‘Oh-oh, Rachel’s gone crazy. It’s kid gloves time again.’ Don’t you think I’d know something as basic as where I work?”

  “You haven’t been there long, you probably remember working on the paper better. You were there much longer.”

  “I worked on a newspaper? I’m a journalist?” There was wonder in my voice at achieving my own goals before I shook my head angrily to dispel the fantasy. “I don’t work there. I think I would have remembered if I did, don’t you?”

  “Seems like you’ve forgotten a whole lot more than just that,” mumbled my father, and it was the first time I heard in his voice that he was beginning to lose patience.

  Jimmy, as calm and collected as ever, reached over and took my hand. “Sit down, Rachel, please.” And when I didn’t comply, he gently tugged on my arm, forcing me back down to the table. Angling his chair toward me and speaking without any agitation, he asked slowly and clearly, “Where do you work, Rachel?”

  His eye contact with me was unbreakable and I wondered if this was a technique they taught policemen for interrogating suspects.

  “Anderson’s Engineering in Euston. I work as a secretary for the sales department. I’ve been there over three and a half years. The telephone number is 020 7581 4387.”

  If he was startled at the glibness and speed of my response, he hid it better than my father.

  “What the—”

  Jimmy silenced my dad with a warning glance and immediately turned his full attention back to me. This was definitely policeman stuff.

  “And who can we contact there to confirm … or rather to tell them that you won’t be in for a little while?”

  “Mrs. Jessica Scott in Human Resources. Her extension number is 203.” I saw the flicker in his eyes at the immediacy of my response, but his voice was smooth and firm when he asked my dad:

  “Tony, do you mind if I use your phone and give them a call?”

  By reply my father released the cordless phone from its mount and passed it to Jimmy. Before dialing the number he turned to me.

  “Would you prefer to speak to them yourself?”

  I shook my head; they would probably both think I was lying. No, let him speak to Human Resources, that way everyone would see, once and for all, that I was telling the truth.

  I repeated the number and he keyed it in. It seemed an eternity before the switchboard picked up and he then asked for the extension. He had risen to his feet to make the call, so I could no longer hear the responses from the other end of the line. I had to content myself with piecing together the conversation from Jimmy’s side of things.

  “Could I speak with Mrs. Jessica Scott? … Good morning, Mrs. Scott. My name is Jimmy Boyd and I’m a friend of Rachel Wiltshire. I was just phoning to let you know that unfortunately she’s been involved in a small accident and won’t be in for at least the rest of this week, possibly longer.”

  There was the longest pause.

  “In the sales department … Yes … Yes … All right, yes. I see … Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

  He pressed the red button to disconnect the call and turned slowly back to face us both. I fidgeted in my chair like an impatient five-year-old.

  “Well? Well? What did she say?”

  He hesitated, his face unreadable. I didn’t think I was going to like what was coming next. I was right.

  “Rachel, she said she’d never heard of you. You don’t work there.”

  OKAY, SO IT probably wasn’t very mature of me to burst into tears, but I just couldn’t help it. Every time some small glimmer of hope was dangled in front of me, it was suddenly seized from my grasp. I leaped up from the table in a cycl
one of tears and dismay, this time succeeding in knocking over my chair, and thundered up the stairs to my room, where I threw myself face-down upon the bed.

  And just like the angry teenager I appeared to have morphed back into, I ignored their entreaties to open the locked door, shouting at them both to “Go away” until I was too hoarse to shout anymore.

  It was beginning to get dark by the time I emerged from my room. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I’d woken up several hours later, the damp pillow sticking to my cheek. My father was in the lounge, pretending to watch the early evening news on the TV.

  I slid onto the settee beside him, ignored the cat, who gave a muted hiss and swiftly vacated his lap, and laid my head against his shoulder.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  He squeezed my hand in response.

  “It’s just so difficult. Nothing makes sense. It’s all just topsy-turvy. Maybe you are all right. Maybe I am going crazy.”

  He turned to me then, an unexpected anger in his eyes. “Don’t you go saying anything of the sort. No one has ever said you’re crazy! You’ve had a nasty blow on the head and a terrible shock. It’s no wonder you’re just a little … muddled … That’s all, yes, muddled. It’s all going to come right soon, love, you’ll see.”

  And this time I was too tired to argue.

  HE MUST HAVE really been worried about me, though, because several times during the night, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I caught the distinctive bouquet of his aftershave and I knew he had crept silently into my room to check up on me. He never said a word, and I never let on I knew he was there.

  THE NEXT DAY I rummaged purposefully through the box of clothes Matt had sent to find something to wear. I was hoping for jeans and a sweatshirt but it would appear my new lifestyle didn’t include anything quite that casual. I had to settle instead on a pair of smart black trousers and an emerald green jumper. I checked out my reflection and couldn’t deny that the outfit suited me, and if the labels weren’t exactly designer, they were certainly from the top end of the high street. Either my new work paid incredibly well or Matt had been responsible for more than just the Gucci handbag. He always had been generous when we were teenagers. I guessed he still was.