The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  “I’m Kyle McCarthy. I’m helping my father with the gardens.” He reached for my hand.

  Hoping he wouldn’t notice the quickening of my heartbeat, I took it casually, pulling back as soon as etiquette would allow.

  “So you’re not an orderly?”

  He laughed. “Oh no. Charles and I met a few weeks ago out on the lawn. He was sitting on the ground, running his fingers through the grass. The orderly was trying everything to get him back on his feet, but Charles was obstinate. I came over with a bucket, scooped some of the grass into it, and placed his hand into it. Then I raised the bucket a little bit, and of course he had to rise with it to keep hold of the grass. Bit by bit he rose to his feet, and then we walked that way all the way back to the dormitory.”

  “You did that for him?”

  “Well, it was better than the straitjacket. I think that was going to be their next move. He can be rather stubborn sometimes.”

  Stubborn. That was what Mother had called me as a child when I refused to stop swinging my legs during tea. And what Father called me when I wouldn’t give up during a futile chess match. It saddened me to think that my brother and I could have had so much more in common if we were not separated by geography and the chasm of his inabilities. Real companions, we could have run through the wings of the manor house on Newsham Park, hiding and seeking until Mother or the newest governess instructed us to sit still and behave.

  “In fact, it’s a little game we play now. Isn’t it, Buddy?”

  The face of my brother reverted to the same blank expression that it always did, but I had to believe that somehow he was aware of the company of friends.

  “Anyway, I brought some pots to his room this week. I thought I’d see if he can tell the difference as they grow.” He shrugged. “At the very least, it gives him something to do when he’s in here.”

  “And the worm?”

  “It’s a caterpillar. I found it last week and added it to our collection. The little dodger tried to crawl out, but now it seems he’s settled in just fine.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ve never heard Charles laugh before.”

  “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

  I only nodded, pursing my lips before a sob could escape. For there were no words in existence that could do justice to the sound that had taken too many years to reveal. We spoke instead with our eyes, limited by the inadequacy of language. Until Charles moved in his chair and shifted our attention.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Kyle said then, “I need to get back outside. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He pulled a cap from his back pocket and tipped it politely after placing it on his head.

  I backed up against a wall so that only the clean side of my skirt was visible. As he passed by me, I detected a pleasant, earthy scent, like grass and soil. When he was gone, I crossed the room to the window and watched until he returned to the gardens, side by side with an older man who looked like an older version of him.

  Charles and I settled into our own routine, one that usually coaxed a smile to his face. “I. Love. You.” I spoke the words as I squeezed his hands three times in a cadence. He recognized me, if only from the rapport that we had created, and not from the time that we had shared in the womb eighteen years ago. He squeezed mine back in the same manner. I had been told that it was only a reflexive motion, but I chose to believe otherwise.

  His almond-shaped eyes and listless features suppressed any resemblance that we might have otherwise had. We did share an identical shade of golden hair, however, and our mutual love of chocolate was evident. I slipped a Cadbury’s out of my handbag. Our favorite. Dark chocolate and walnuts.

  I was wiping the corners of his mouth when Miss Ellis peeked in.

  “Indulging in contraband, I see?”

  “Don’t tell the doctor.”

  “You’ll have to bribe me.” I pulled a second bar from my bag, and she grinned. She broke it in two, giving me the other half, and we tapped them together lightly.

  “Cheers, my girl.”

  “Cheers.” I nibbled at it as my eyes turned to the window, which had claimed my attention once again. Miss Ellis saw where they landed. Kyle was hauling mulch bags over his shoulder effortlessly, even though they must have weighed a great deal.

  “It’ll do you no good to moon over that one.”

  I jerked my head around, embarrassed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. The McCarthy boy. He’s not . . . available.”

  “Available?”

  “Well, let me put it this way. He’s on summer break from school in Durham. But not just any school. It’s called Ushaw College.” She rested her elbow on the bureau and regarded me with a strangely apologetic expression.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to. It’s a seminary.”

  “A seminary? You mean, he’s going to be some kind of minister?”

  “Not a minister like we know it, you and I. He’s a Catholic, Miss Westcott. He’s going to be a priest.”

  The clock downstairs chimed twice, its baritone echo hollering all the way to the second floor, calling me home.

  Chapter Two

  I stood in front of my mirror and held the two dresses at my shoulders. Flowing white eyelet dress: innocence. Clingy tan ensemble: sophistication. That would be the one. The sleek skirt came just past my knees. I pulled out a green scarf and played with the variations, deciding I’d wear it in a knot under my neck. The green accentuated my eyes, or so I was told. I turned right and left, assessing my reflection. Just right. This was what I would wear to Bootle.

  I heard a wolfish whistle behind me and turned toward my door with a start.

  “Father!”

  He leaned on the door frame, arms crossed. “Well, look at you. I thought you were just going to the talkies with Lucille.”

  I slipped my foot into a gold-toned low heel and grinned.

  “No one calls them talkies anymore. You’re funny.” I pulled the other shoe out of its box, parting the layers of pastel tissue, and wriggled my foot into it. There was no room to move my toes, but the salesgirl had said that the leather would stretch in time. And, more important, they looked sensational.

  “Well, I’ll never understand women. I certainly wouldn’t want to sit for a couple of hours in a skirt and heels.”

  “I should hope not! That would be a sight.”

  We laughed, and his face reddened. He moved over to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’ll save you that humiliation.”

  I pecked him on the cheek and wiped the trace of gloss that was left behind. “I have to go.”

  He put his hand on my arm. “Hold on there, Princess. I came to tell you that there won’t be any movie today.”

  His jovial tone had turned grave. I froze. Had he discovered my trips to Bootle? I didn’t think so, though sometimes I wished that he would. Then I could at last ask the questions that hesitated on my tongue.

  “Some IRA hoodlums were arrested outside one of the warehouses last night,” he said. “Mavis is overly nervous, as usual, and won’t come in to work today. I need your help with the bookkeeping.”

  They hadn’t yet terrorized Liverpool, but the growing rumors indicated that commerce along the coasts was in jeopardy. Father’s warehouses and customs clearance office at Albert Dock would certainly be desirable targets. His unflappable demeanor had lately given way to anti-Catholic rants and staunch support of war with Germany.

  “I’ll come with you,” I said through a forced smile. I hid my dejection over this new plan. He never asked me for much, and we did usually enjoy days at the docks together. We would have lunch delivered from a place of my choosing and sit on packing crates in a makeshift picnic.

  “Good. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes. Betty is making breakfast, and we can head out after that.” As if on cue, I could smell the sausages frying downstairs.

  He turned toward my door and t
hen back to me. “There’s always tomorrow. I’m sure Lucille will understand.”

  Of course she would. If that had been the actual plan. But Bootle couldn’t wait another day. If I didn’t go now, it would be another week. Kyle worked there only on Saturdays, a titbit I’d learned from Miss Ellis after subtle attempts to mine for more information. And having learned this, I was prepared to visit more often than I had in the past.

  I was surprised by this preoccupation with the gardener who was so attentive to my brother. Lucille often reproached me for my resigned indifference to that sort of thing. “Dogs will fly and monkeys will talk the day that Julianne Westcott chooses a beau,” she’d say. “And elephants will sing,” I’d agree.

  Her ribbing was lighthearted, but she knew the truth. I existed in the shadow of my mother, a woman enlivened by invitations extended and received, darling of society. Painstakingly preserving her legendary beauty with creams and ointments. Delaying the day when time would steal it away. And when it faded, I was to be her successor among the elite. The hostess. The wife. The replica. No detours on the path she paved.

  Now my practiced detachment was failing me, and my mind had become saturated with thoughts of Kyle. His genial eyes, his strength of body and character. The way the corner of his mouth upturned, confident and lively. Even the pale, pinky-sized birthmark that I’d noticed along the side of his neck. I daydreamed in scattered images where his kisses grazed my skin and the clandestine giggles of girls who read petticoat novellas tucked inside schoolbooks suddenly made sense.

  But the precaution that Miss Ellis had laid upon me infected the visions. One word: priest. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, as I didn’t know any Catholics. Father wouldn’t even do business with them if he could help it. It was my understanding that a priest couldn’t get married. They were celibate. Did that mean that they couldn’t fall in love?

  “Julianne!”

  “I’ll be right down!” I shook off my broodings and exchanged the dress for a white blouse and navy skirt more appropriate for a day at the docks.

  I made it to Bootle the following week, arousing the amused curiosity of Miss Ellis, for whom my feeble protestations of “I just wanted to visit with Charles” were all too transparent. I had never come out there more than once a month. And then there was the dress, the shoes.

  “I drove my father’s Aston today,” I said, leading the conversation before it could go anywhere else. “He’s rather progressive about those kinds of things.”

  “I see that.”

  “Of course, he thinks I’m on a picnic with friends.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Would you care to ride in it later?”

  “Miss Westcott, if you think that a ride in your motorcar will—”

  “Chocolate, Miss Ellis?”

  I pulled one with a caramel in the center from a handbag full of bribery.

  “You’re a sly one, you are.” But she took it anyway. Between mouthfuls, she added, “He’s in the kitchen, taking a break.”

  “Charles?”

  “I’m not as blind as your brother, no offense meant towards him, missy. I know it’s that McCarthy boy you’re here for.”

  “No . . .”

  She looked at me with exaggerated sternness, and I knew the pretense was over.

  “Oh, Miss Ellis.” I released a resigned sigh.

  “And I can’t say that I blame you. He’s a looker. Dreamy—is that what you girls call it? I just don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

  “I won’t, I promise. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Sure, now.” She leaned in, and I had to move closer to hear her. “I think he has until half past until he goes back out. You’d better get a move on.”

  “Thank you.” I gave a grateful wink to my conspirator.

  “One more thing, Miss Westcott.” She looked right and left in the empty hallway. I think she was enjoying this more than she would be inclined to admit.

  “Yes?”

  “I hear he likes cricket.”

  “Don’t all men?”

  “And gardening.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And Miss Westcott—”

  “Hmm?”

  She pulled a tattered copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes from her desk drawer. “I saw him with a copy of this last week. I brought mine from home. It doesn’t hurt to have a prop.”

  “Miss Ellis, you are positively wicked!”

  She sat up straight and raised her voice to a normal tone, feigning offense. “Now, Miss Westcott, I am not wicked. I am a God-fearing woman.”

  “Well, genius, then.”

  She beamed. “Yes. I like that. Just call me a genius. And name your firstborn for me.”

  “I’m afraid your thinking is a bit overambitious. I have to talk to him first. Can you please show me the way to the kitchen?”

  She pointed to her left, opposite the hall that led to Charles’s room. I had not been over here before, and I opened a few closet doors before I heard the cacophony of pans and dishes and found the right one.

  The kitchen was rather ordinary, a different aesthetic from the public rooms. It contained all of the necessary things that I supposed a kitchen should. Two large ovens, double sinks, pots of various sizes. Its checkerboard floor made me wonder where the kings and pawns were hiding. The supper hour was over, and the dishes were being washed by a wrinkly skinned man in preparation for dinner later on. A white-aproned woman lingered over the stove, and I gathered by her generous profile that the food here was good. She barked at the man, who was finishing off the last of the drying.

  “Hurry up. I need them potatoes peeled and the apples cored. Cobbler don’t just make itself.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Smythe.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was not immediately apparent that the cook was talking to me. My attention had been stolen when I saw Kyle sitting at the far end of a long table, facing the windows with one knee pulled to his chest. He was balanced on the back two legs of his chair and had an open book propped against the table’s edge. I tightened my grip on the newly obtained copy of Sherlock Holmes and wished that I could absorb its contents through touch.

  “I said, ‘What are you doing in my kitchen?’”

  She was brandishing a wooden spoon, which looked as if it was intended for me. I took one step back, but was paralyzed beyond that.

  “I’m—I’m just touring the facilities.”

  “Well, there isn’t nothin’ here to see but me and Archie, and you’d best get on your way.”

  I was surprised that Bootle Home employed such a wretchedly dispositioned person.

  “She’s with me, Ethel.”

  The voice came from the table, and I saw that Kyle was now observing us. I felt my cheeks warm and hoped he didn’t notice their glow.

  “She’s here to find out how Charles is coming along with his plants.”

  “Well, don’t you be talking business in my kitchen. That’s what the meeting rooms are for.”

  “You’re right. It will be just this one time.”

  He stood up and pulled out the chair opposite him. “Miss Westcott?”

  I walked toward him, stunned into silence, my eyes never leaving Ethel and her culinary arsenal. She turned back to the butcher board counter as I passed, and I quickened my pace at the whack of a knife beheading some unfortunate parsnips.

  I jumped when I felt a hand on my arm, but it was only Kyle, leading me to the table with an amused grin. “Don’t mind her,” he whispered. “She’s always like that before dinner. And supper. And breakfast, come to think of it. But she’s a pussycat the rest of the time.”

  “At midnight, perhaps?” I offered.

  “Yes. At the stroke of midnight, the spell is broken—”

  “And she’s a cuddly little kitten—”

  “Curled up before the fireplace like a ball of yarn.”

  “Exactly. Thank you.” With that, I forgot
all about her and was engulfed in the friendliest eyes I had ever seen.

  “Nothing to it. She might have had your head on a platter for dinner, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

  “It is rather useful to have a head!”

  “A perfectly reasonable expectation.” He smiled.

  I took my place next to him and remembered the so-called reason for my visit. “So, how are Charles’s plants coming along?”

  “Quite well, actually. Some of them have grown an inch or so since you were here.”

  “And the caterpillar?”

  “It’s in its chrysalis stage now.”

  I tried to recall a long-ago course in science, but came up with nothing.

  “The chrysalis stage. That’s where it curls up into itself and its skin is hardened into something like a shell,” he offered.

  “That sounds unpleasant.”

  “Not at all. Not when you know what’s happening underneath.”

  “Can Charles understand the changes in the plants?” I found myself hoping desperately that he could.

  “I wouldn’t know. Maybe he does. But he does enjoy having them in his room. Miss Ellis told me that she often walks by and sees him holding them.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!”

  “I agree. It’s at least something different for him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at the book on the table. I pulled mine out of my bag slightly, making sure that the title was visible. He was not reading detective stories, however, which was just as well, since I wasn’t, either. I was two chapters away from finishing Gone with the Wind. He closed his book, and I saw, with some trepidation, that it was titled Advanced Latin II.

  He caught me staring at it. “Not exactly light reading, is it?” he said. “It’s for school. I’m just getting a head start on next term.”

  “Aren’t you the smart one?”

  “I had better be. I’m on scholarship, and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  My mind raced back to Miss Ellis’s single word, the one that had plagued my thoughts for a fortnight. Priest. Could she be mistaken? She must have seen him reading this colossal tome and jumped to conclusions. Surely, lots of people studied Latin besides priests. That had to be it. Just a misunderstanding.