The Memory Cage

by Ruth Eastham

  Maybe it was its weird angle that made it stand out, or that long shadow, or maybe it was something else. The little vase of red carnations at its base. Not the plastic efforts you saw at most old graves, but real flowers, fresh flowers, placed in water. Something else was weird.

  I shifted closer. The gravestone definitely looked vandalized, as if someone had been at the lettering with a chisel. I knew that gravestones got ruined sometimes, smashed with sledgehammers. It happened last year to some by the church. Drunks or druggies did it, Leonard told me. But if some drunk person had wanted to destroy something, I wondered, why would they single this gravestone out and leave the others? I ran my fingers into the grooves of the lettering. This vandalism was specific, even careful, as if whoever it was had taken a lot of time over it. Individual letters had been singled out and chipped away. There was a rectangular groove where each should be, all the other letters left intact.

  WINIFRED ALICE SMITH

  Smith. Our surname. There were millions of us in the village.

  WINIFRED ALICE SMITH

  BORN 1922

  DIED 13TH OF MAY 1941

  LOST TO US BEFORE HER TIME

  FOUND BY OUR CREATOR

  KILLED , NOW LIVING IN LIGHT

  BELOVED WIFE OF

  PRIVATE SAMUEL THOMAS SMITH

  (1920–1940)

  And? The word looked like an “and”, but surely it couldn’t be. It was impossible to read the rest.

  A pigeon clattered through the tree branches, making me jump.

  That floating image of Grandad came back to me.

  I thought again about what Leonard had said. The look on his face when he’d said it, the way he’d punched me. I pulled a twig from the ground and snapped it and hacked at the soil with a splintered end. How long would he keep his mouth shut? How long would it be, anyway, before Grandad did something dangerous again? What if he accidentally hurt himself? What if one of us got hurt? Victoria? Sophie?

  I felt something scrunch in the front pocket of my jeans. The Alzheimer’s leaflet I’d got from Miss Kirby’s stall. I could show it to Mum and Dad. Tell them a cure was bound to be just around the corner, what with all the research going on. And I could tell them everything that had happened. Explain my side of the story, before they got the Leonard version. We could do something to help Grandad, together. Dad would back me up, surely, when he heard what had been going on. He was my dad, after all, even if I was adopted. Grandad was his dad, even if they didn’t get on. That meant something. Didn’t it?

  I pulled myself up.

  That was it, then. I’d decided. Telling Mum and Dad was for the best.

  So why did I feel like such a traitor?

  I started to walk home, following a trodden grass path that weaved between the trees and the graves. Narrow tracks broke off in all directions. I glimpsed the church tower through the branches and headed that way, finally finding the wide dirt lane that led back to the church lawns.

  The crowds from the fête had gone. Litter drifted over the grass. My trainers crushed down on shards of glass. Torn wrapping paper scuttled in circles.

  An old man was hunched up raking litter from the flower beds, a bit of rag wrapped round his fist. Mr Webb, who looked after the church grounds. He shuffled around pulling up weeds and trimming things and wearing an anorak that was way too big for him. He had these medals pinned to his chest, even when he was mowing lawns, and he was always talking to himself. The kids in my school all said Peter Webb was mad.

  He glared at me as I went past, as if I were the one to blame for all the Coke cans in his carnations.

  I kept a lookout for Grandad. But there was no sign of him anywhere. I walked faster. What had I been doing just sitting there for ages? I should have been trying to find him! I broke into a run and took the path along the river. Nothing. I sprinted on. The wind tugged at a plastic cup and sent it rolling over the bank into the water, where it was carried away.

  Still no Grandad.

  By the time I reached the bottom of our garden I was sweating and gasping. No sign of him at the Den. The patio doors were open. The kitchen was deserted, the ruins of breakfast and jam-making still strewn over the table.

  I could hear the sounds of shooting and explosions coming from upstairs, Leonard playing war games on his computer.

  I heard Dad cough in his study. He was home from work, then. I went and stood in the long hallway between the slightly open door and the ticking grandfather clock to get myself together. I had the leaflet ready. I’d smoothed out its crumples. It may as well be now, I told myself. Get it over with.

  I peeped through the crack. Dad was busy at his desk, sitting on his big leather chair with his back to me, head bent over piles of papers. I knew he hated being disturbed when he was working, so I stayed standing there a while longer, peering in and waiting for the right moment.

  Along a shelf by his desk was the row of antique vases he collected. I saw a black-and-white photo propped up amongst them. I’d never noticed it before, but then I’d never really been inside Dad’s study for years, not since I’d sent one of his precious vases flying and it had smashed to pieces. Since then, Dad’s study had been pretty much out-of-bounds to everyone. It may as well have been the forbidden attic room.

  It was a black-and-white wedding photo. I recognized the woman in the white dress from a photo by Grandad’s bed. It was Grandma, and standing beside her was a much younger version of Grandad. The photo had 1940 written across the bottom of it in thick black ink.

  The grandfather clock in the hall continued its dull, loud ticking.

  I tightened my grip on the leaflet and decided that there would never be a good moment for what I wanted to talk to Dad about, so I may as well go for it.

  As it happened, I never got the chance to say anything, because just then I heard Mum coming, calling for Dad in an agitated kind of way, her shoes clacking on the wood floor as she swept into the study from its other door.

  “Richard! William’s still not home. I’ve been all over the house!”

  Dad gave a short, tense laugh. “He’s probably sipping beer at the Uniformed Officer as we speak!”

  Neither of them were bothering to keep their voices down.

  “It’s nothing to joke about, Richard. My nerves are shattered as it is.”

  “Did you ring around? Find out if anyone’s seen him?”

  I saw the worried look on Mum’s face. “I thought it was best to keep this to ourselves. Until we’ve looked properly, I mean.”

  “Do you think I’ve got all day?” I heard Dad sigh. He sounded well irritated. I saw him pick up the phone and bang out a number.

  “Yes, Officer Barnes, please. It’s Richard Smith.”

  (PAUSE)

  “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Jim … Yes, you guessed right. William.”

  (FALSE LAUGH)

  “The likely thing is he’s gone walkabout again, but, you know, Hilary’s quite anxious.”

  (PAUSE)

  “This afternoon. About one thirty. The beer garden at the Officer.”

  (ANOTHER FALSE LAUGH)

  “Yes. That’s what I told her! Yes … OK … We’ll do that … Fine … Many thanks, then … Yes. Goodbye.”

  Dad put the phone down. “Silly fool!” he muttered.

  Somehow I guessed he wasn’t talking about Officer Barnes.

  “We can’t go on like this, Richard.” Mum’s voice started going higher. Always a bad sign. A very bad sign. “He’s definitely getting worse. He gets aggressive too. His swearing has become terrible, and as for that old, smelly cardigan with patches on the elbows he insists on wearing …”

  “Don’t worry, Hilary.” Dad leaned back in his chair. “The police are out looking for the cardigan as we speak and will arrest it on sight.”

  “Oh, Richard, stop it! Could you start taking this seriously for once!”

  There was a pause, and then Dad’s voice sounded strange, sort of too calm, as if he were trying to hold b
ack loads of anger and it was hard for him to do it. “I take this very seriously, Hilary.” He opened the drawer of his desk and started leafing through a book.

  “We’ll have to bring the date forward,” he said quietly. “Matron said there might be an opening at the Sunflower.”

  I pressed myself against the wall. Felt the cold radiator dig into my back.

  “What other choice is there?”

  The Sunflower Care Home. Mum’s conversation with the vicar’s wife.

  “Well,” said Mum uncertainly. “There doesn’t seem to be any other way, does there?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “He’s in his eighties, after all …”

  “It’s what’s best for him.”

  “It’s further away, I know, but the facilities are marvellous …”

  “He’ll be well looked after.”

  So they’d decided then. That was it. They were going to send him away.

  I know I should have tried to stop them. Shouted, You can’t do that! You can’t do that to my grandad! I should have jumped out from behind the door and told them how much I wanted him to stay. Pleaded with them. Promised to look after him. But I didn’t.

  “There’s the children to consider, Hilary.”

  “Yes. It will be good for Alex, won’t it?”

  Good for me? What were they on about? They didn’t know anything! I wanted to press my fingers into my ears, shut out their stupidity, but I had to keep listening. Forced myself to.

  “Alex and William live too much in each other’s pockets as it is,” said Dad.

  I heard him pick up the phone again. There were the sounds of dialling.

  “Yes.” I imagined Mum’s head nodding up and down, up and down. “If Grandad, well, if he wasn’t on the scene any more, it might give Alex a chance to get on better with Leonard, or make some other new friends besides Lia. After all …”

  They didn’t know anything! I hardly heard Dad’s phone call to the Sunflower. I was too upset; too busy thinking, If only I hadn’t lost him earlier …

  “They can take him in a week. Saturday.”

  If only I hadn’t lost him by the river.

  “What? A week today? Next Saturday? That soon?”

  “Yes, matron. Yes. Thank you. We’ll bring him on Saturday afternoon.”

  But I’d lost him.

  “We can’t go back on our decision now, Hilary.” Fingers drummed on the table. “They’re keeping a place for him.”

  “Well, if he’s not any better in a week …” I heard Mum say.

  “Unlikely,” Dad cut her off. “Let’s face the truth. There’s no cure for what he’s got and there never will be. No, Hilary. The decision’s made. His memory’s getting worse and worse. It’s a lost cause.”

  I heard Dad’s leather chair squeal. “Now I’ve to go and find the old fool.”

  I wanted to scream at them, He’s not a lost cause! He’s ill. I wanted to shove the leaflet in their faces. See this? But I stayed there by the door like a coward.

  One thing was clear to me now though. I couldn’t expect any help from them. In one week, Grandad would be gone. I felt my knees wobble.

  One week.

  I stumbled along the hallway. They were both too busy planning how to get rid of Grandad to notice me. If they could get rid of Grandad so easily, was I next?

  I almost tripped on the rug as I scrambled to get out. That’s when I came face to face with Grandad, and his huge black eye.

  – CHAPTER 6 –

  WHITE FEATHER

  In the kitchen. 4:45 p.m. Playing Happy Families.

  I didn’t think then was quite the right time to ask Grandad why he’d been talking to a willow tree, and when I tried to find out later how he’d got hurt, he shrugged.

  The swollen lips I’d given Leonard didn’t look like much next to Grandad’s eye. I just hoped he’d keep them shut.

  Mum had opened the patio doors in the kitchen so we could eat outside, though Leonard complained it was too cold and that he wasn’t hungry enough and sat by himself at the far end of the wicker table. Victoria was out, as usual.

  Grandad let Mum fuss over him with ice packs and tinned salmon sandwiches with cucumber, and seemed oblivious to Sophie’s tantrum over Dad not letting her have another chocolate biscuit and Leonard’s sneering looks. He sat there with a tartan rug on his knees, staring down the garden.

  The old Grandad would have said something like: You should have seen how the other bloke came off. But he didn’t. He sat there as if he weren’t seeing any of us. As if he were somewhere else entirely.

  Just as well, I thought. Better to be out of it with what your beloved family have got planned for you.

  One week. The thought shuddered through me. I felt like my ribcage was being squeezed, crushing all the air out of my lungs. If only there was a way to prove Dad wrong. To show him Grandad could get better, that he wasn’t a lost cause, that he could remember things. If only there was a way.

  I sat having to watch Leonard shovelling sandwiches into his mouth. I remembered what Grandad had said about making more effort with him. I decided to try, but not for the reasons I guessed Grandad had meant. I was thinking how it wouldn’t be the best timing for Dad to hear about cremated pillows anytime soon.

  I waited until Mum, Dad and Sophie had gone back into the kitchen.

  “Want some?” I nudged the teapot towards Leonard. He ignored me.

  “We could go on our bikes after this, if you want,” I said. “Along the lane.”

  He looked up. “No good being all sugar sweet, Bosnia Boy,” he hissed. “I’m still waiting for the right moment to tell.” He jerked his head towards where Dad was peeling an apple as Sophie cried and stomped around him and Mum opened more salmon. Grandad continued to gaze into the distance. “D’you think now might be a good time?”

  I tried to look as if I couldn’t care less, but I felt my hand shake a bit as I poured myself a tea.

  Leonard went back to behaving like I didn’t exist.

  I pushed my sandwiches away and sipped my drink. I found it hard to swallow even that.

  I saw that Grandad was looking at me now, but in a really strange way, like his eyes were searching my face for something. After a bit, the look passed and he gave me a wink. “Den time, I reckon, Alex, don’t you? Isn’t Lia supposed to be joining us?”

  “Princess Lia Ophelia!” Leonard gave a scornful laugh. “That girlfriend of yours should start living at our house. She spends enough time here.”

  As if on cue, our side gate swung open.

  “Lia’s here! Lia’s here!” chorused Sophie, instantly stopping crying, and clapping and bouncing about like her feet were on jelly. “Come and play cocodriles and transhlers with me, Lia. Come on! Mummy, I want to go in the locked attic room with Lia!”

  “For the last time, Sophie …” started Dad.

  Leonard muttered something nasty and slouched in.

  “Hey,” I said to Lia.

  She must have seen there was something wrong from the look on my face, but then she must have seen Grandad’s eye because her mouth fell open. I shot her a warning glance and she had the sense not to say anything. She gave me a questioning look, but I just shrugged and swigged down more of my tea, trying to stop my hand trembling in the process.

  “Ready for the tracks, Lia, girl?” said Grandad.

  “You bet!” said Lia. “But I can’t stay too long, Mr Smith. I’m helping my dad in the shop later. I told him he treats me like a slave, but does he ever listen? If he paid me for all the work I do, I could be retired already, I tell you.”

  The three of us made our way down the garden, while Sophie raged at the window and Mum tried to pacify her with a chocolate biscuit.

  As we went through Grandad’s darkroom, I remembered the photograph Grandad had been so keen to hide earlier. The creepy, blurred face and the funny shoulders. I saw there was a single photo left pegged up on the drying line, its back to me. Could that be the one?
I let Grandad and Lia go ahead, and then I quickly went over.

  I twisted the photo round. There was nothing but cliffs and beach, the sea with a fishing boat. There was no sign of the other photo. So what had Grandad done with it? Why had he been so keen to hide it?

  I went to the door at the far end and walked into Grandad’s Messing About Room.

  “Oh I love this place!” Lia was saying, spinning herself round in her chair, her eyes all lit up like a kid’s. “I could live here all the time, for sure.”

  Grandad’s Messing About Room was bigger than the darkroom. In one corner there was a sofa, piled up with old pillows. Grandad used them for kneeling on when he was working on his train set.

  Next to the sofa was a tall bookcase crammed with Grandad’s biscuit tins of tea cards. Packets of tea used to have cards in them and you collected sets of all sorts: birds, cars, flags, you name it. Grandad had thousands of the things.

  There was a cardboard box where we kept our fossil collection, and leaning up against it in pride of place was our ammonite, a fossil the size of a dinner plate with a snail shell pattern.

  In another corner, sitting on a round table with lion’s paw feet, was an old gramophone with its big metal funnel. A pile of records was stacked under the table.

  There was a small sink, a fridge, a kettle and a cupboard for supplies. There was a tea chest with three rickety chairs clustered round it. But the most totally amazing thing in there was the train set.

  Tracks weaved their way around the entire room. Single tracks, double tracks, bends and inclines and long straight runs. There were tunnels under roads and bridges over rivers, train sheds, sidings and signal boxes. There were houses made from matchsticks, and churches and sheep on hillsides, a tractor ploughing a field, a tinfoil lake with sailing boats and tiny plastic ducks.

  There were platforms with tiny plastic people carrying tiny plastic suitcases, mothers wheeling babies, fathers in hats and suits, children waving on their way to school. People. Families. Scenes frozen in time.