The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  “You should be careful, it can make folk feverish. Look at the deaths in the newspaper, and one here in Linford only last week. It’s taken its toll, that’s for sure,” Miss Combe said, ever the voice of sobriety and caution, and tucking her chin into a froth of lace. “And it’s been proven it can make people go quite mad.”

  “It is not the heat which makes one go mad, Miss Combe,” the countess said, “though it is, I grant you, a contributory factor. No, it’s the lack of sleep, the broken nights . . . the nightmares. The lack of peace our consciences need and require in order for us to face each and every new day.”

  “Hear, hear!” boomed Mr. Fox.

  Cecily noticed Miss Dorland open the notebook in her lap, lick her pencil, and then scribble something down. She heard Marjorie whisper loudly to Sonia, “That doesn’t make any sense. Why do babies need so much sleep then? Surely they have clear consciences.”

  “It’s always so refreshing to have the young amongst us, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Fox?” the countess continued, ignoring Marjorie and turning to the rector. “One always feels invigorated by their . . . sheer zest and joie de vivre.”

  “Ah, yes, indeed, ma’am,” he said, nodding, his eyes fluttering shut.

  She turned to Cecily. “So, my dear, do tell me a little more about yourself. I hear that you’ve lived in Bramley all of your life.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And in the same house too . . . the place my father built.”

  The countess released a short gasp. “Mr. Chadwick, such a talented man!”

  “You knew him?”

  “No, my dear, sadly I did not. But I’m always impressed by men who build, design or make things. What gifted, talented souls they are, as all artists are. But such a great loss to you and your poor mama . . .” She shuddered. “Oh, to be robbed of a father, that paternal, guiding force, that fountain of knowledge and wisdom. ’Tis arguably the second greatest loss for our sex to endure.”

  The countess did not appear to notice Cecily’s blush, or Miss Dorland’s nervous glance toward the rector.

  “Yes, indeed,” she continued, “far worse, I think, than the loss of a spouse, a husband, but of course not as great as the loss of a child,” she added quietly. “No, that is the greatest loss for any woman to endure.”

  Minutes later, as two maids came across the lawn toward them, carrying the tea paraphernalia, and whilst the others talked amongst themselves, the countess turned to Cecily. For a moment she did not speak, but simply smiled at Cecily, studying her face. Her blue gaze moved across Cecily’s features, her nose, her mouth, then back to her eyes. And it was intoxicating, a scrutiny that made Cecily feel light-headed, quite dizzy. The countess said, “You know, we have the same initials, you and I. The double Cs.” She leaned closer. “My name is Cora, Cora de Chevalier,” she said, lifting her arm, stretching out her hand. On her little finger was a heavy gold ring engraved with two intertwined Cs. “So you see, already, we have a great deal in common.”

  As tea was served and sipped, and plates of scones and queen cakes, and shortbread and small triangular sandwiches passed about, the conversation meandered from this to that and back again. There was no sign of Jack, and the countess made no reference to him, offered no apology for his absence. Cecily watched Miss Dorland, noted how quietly she sat. An observer, she concluded. And from time to time she caught the novelist’s eye, and they smiled at each other.

  Mr. Fox spoke at some length about Lady Agatha Withenshaw (she had recently donated substantial monies to the clock tower and war widows funds). And then Miss Combe interjected, stretching her neck from a sea of ruffles and white lace to say that Lady Agatha had a vested interest: she was a war widow herself. Mr. Fox smiled, said that was not the point, but then failed to elaborate further, and Miss Combe, glancing away, tucking in an already receding chin, murmured something, and Cecily heard the word “gold digger.”

  There were debates on the temperature, reckonings—and a tally—on local deaths the heat had caused, and then discussion of the growing unrest across the country. The countess spoke about the trouble in the Balkans, about Germany’s egotism, and then, shaking her head and genuflecting, said something in French. At which point, Mr. Fox tried to laugh but it came out all wrong, and the countess threw him a withering glance. Cecily made a mental note to read up on foreign news, and to look up the Balkans in the atlas when she returned home. The countess appeared to know about everything: history, art, empires, civilization, science and social order; the future of India, the future of Germany, the future of mankind; and wars. Listening to her, it seemed as though the whole world was in turmoil, standing on the edge of the abyss, looking down into the void. She told Mr. Fox that he and all of England needed to wake up, and Cecily heard Miss Combe gasp. Then she proclaimed that England itself was on the verge of civil war, to which the rector responded with mirth, and teased her, saying, “You have spent too long, ma’am, in countries not your own. We are civilized here.”

  “Civilized?” she repeated. “Someone once told me England was filled with civilized philistines and cultured barbarians.” She paused, smiling coquettishly, and perhaps more to herself and a memory than to anyone present. “London, I was told—and yes, it was a very long time ago—was a capricious city dressed up in finery, pretending to like art without ever knowing what art is. London, I was told, was a place of ignorant snobbery! No, I’m not sure the English are civilized, not yet, Mr. Fox.”

  “I’m afraid I have to disagree,” he replied. “We may have lost some dignity . . . certainly since the eighties and nineties, but this country remains the most civilized of the Western world. Our culture, our manners, our society—and our Empire—are envied the world over.”

  “Pffsh,” she cried, with a rapid gesture of her hand. “We have lost our dignity, Mr. Fox, and we have lost our way: morally, spiritually and culturally. What made us great has made us arrogant and will surely pull us down. Look at Liverpool, and London for that matter. How can we speak of civilization, what pride can there be in our Empire when people here are starving? Such poverty is the direct result of that insatiable appetite for Empire. Imperialism, profit, expansion—it all comes at a cost. And I have seen the squalid tenements and courts and alleys that are also a part of our Empire, Mr. Fox. They are nothing to be proud of.”

  For a moment Cecily wondered if the countess had been poor-peopling, like Sonia’s mother—visiting those desperate families who lived in only one room. She saw Mr. Fox smile, close his eyes, and then heard him say something quietly about history. But the countess interrupted him again, saying that history could never record the truth, or any individual stories. They would be lost, gone forever. It would take an overview, it would generalize, she said, diminishing real stories and identities, personal perspectives, and within them truths, turning triumph, defeat and tragedy into something else: popular entertainment, she suggested.

  The rector made no reply, and for a minute or two no one spoke.

  Then Miss Combe began: she was considering electricity, canvassing opinion on its safety. Someone had told her that it was not compatible with long hot summers, which seemed prevalent nowadays. (And there was a brief exchange about English summers of the past, whether they had in fact been hotter, longer, better.) Mr. Fox advocated that electricity, the sort that traveled through wires, was quite unnecessary. Wires, he said, were the problem. Wires were not compatible with the British way of life and should not be tolerated. It was the countess’s turn to laugh. And she did. Then she mentioned someone named Marconi, a friend of hers, Cecily presumed. Yes, the rector conceded, the Italians were good with wires. Or rather, that’s what he seemed to be saying.

  And thus, like the ebb and flow of waves upon a shore, the tide drifted back to Italy, to Rome. The countess spoke of people whose names Cecily knew she really ought to know, but the countess seemed to know so many. For every name she mentioned was followed swiftly by an
other, and then another. And Mr. Fox in particular—in fact, alone—turned quite giddy and began to rub his thighs, like one of Cecily’s infant schoolboys when they were allowed to clean the blackboard. And Cecily, embarrassed for him, for a moment distracted by him, missed the beginning of another story: about a doll in Rome, a doll that performed miracles.

  “The Piazza d’Ara Coeli,” the countess was saying, “lies at the heart of medieval Rome, close to Monte Palatino and the Roman Forum. Like all piazzas, it has a fountain at its center, and a church: the church of Santa Maria d’Ara Coeli. Situated on the Capitoline hill, overlooking the piazza, it is built upon the site of the ancient Roman Temple of Jupiter, where Augustus heard the sibyl announce the birth of Christ. It houses the Santissimo Bambino, a wooden doll carved from a tree that grew on the Mount of Olives, and said to have been painted by Saint Luke himself. There are many stories about how the Santissimo Bambino found its way to Rome, and each one includes a miracle. Romans believe the doll has divine powers and is able to heal the sick. And, up until quite recently, it was often carried from Maria d’Ara Coeli and transported through the city’s streets in its own carriage—with footmen and priests in attendance—to visit those sick and infirm. In return, grateful Romans continue to bring the Bambino gifts—money, jewels and gold. And each Christmas the children of Rome visit the doll, to sing to it, and offer up prayers and thanks. It is an ugly, macabre thing,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “Though I’ve oft enough prayed to it myself.”

  “I was always frightened of it,” the novelist said quietly. “I never liked its face, never liked to look into its eyes.”

  “Did it really perform miracles?” Marjorie asked.

  But the countess suddenly appeared distracted. She gazed toward some steps at the edge of the lawn, smiling and frowning at the same time, as though she had just noticed an old friend.

  Miss Dorland said, “So the Romans believe.”

  There was something childlike about the novelist’s voice, something innocent and tremulous and sweet. And just as one could see that the countess had been a great beauty, one could also see that Miss Dorland had not. Her looks accommodated themselves well to age, and Cecily imagined she possibly hadn’t altered very much in appearance since her youth. Her face was unexceptional, unremarkable, like so many others—forgettable. And yet there was an innate softness to her, in her manner, and genuine warmth in her unforced smile. She deferred to the countess in all things, it seemed, and watched her closely, her eyes constantly moving back to her. And the countess for her part appeared to treat Miss Dorland like a younger sister, or perhaps a daughter. She looked down at the grass and up at the sky as she listened to her friend speak, occasionally correcting her on a detail, or on her pronunciation. “No, dear, it wasn’t actually then . . . the D is silent, dear . . . no, Sylvia, she was his aunt, not his mother,” and so on. But it was clear, to Cecily at least, that the two women knew each other very well, and had known each other for many years. Like an old married couple (rather like Mr. and Mrs. Fox, Cecily thought), they finished each other’s sentences and corroborated each other’s anecdotes with nods and murmurings; and when one could not remember—a detail, name, time or place—the other swiftly stepped in.

  Cecily noted the elderly novelist’s hands, fidgeting and busy all the while, playing tunes between fingertips, tapping a beat on an invisible machine. She spoke in short precise sentences, and, every so often, lifted a hand and touched the small gold-framed spectacles perched upon the bridge of her nose.

  To look at, the two women were the antithesis of each other: one still voluptuous, with a shape Cecily imagined to have been envied in youth and that extravagant cloud of white-white hair; the other angular and flat, with dull gray hair scraped back into an impoverished bun. Unlikely friends. And yet, Miss Dorland was—and must always have been—a calm presence in the countess’s turbulent life, Cecily supposed.

  Cecily could have listened to the countess all day, particularly when she became caught up in a reminiscence, for there was something, then, in her style, the mellifluous sound of her voice, her enunciation and consideration of each and every syllable, as though she was reciting poetry. She paused, pursed her mouth, and sometimes pouted; she sighed midsentence, looked heavenward, closed her eyes, opened them, leaned forward, raised her hands, breathed in deeply, then stared into the distance, ponderously, as everyone waited for her next word, next sentence, next exhalation.

  There was one queer moment though, when Miss Combe mentioned a story that had appeared in the newspaper about a local woman who had been sent to prison for bigamy. A name was mentioned, and Mr. Fox nodded solemnly; yes, he knew the woman in question. Had he married her? Cecily wondered. But Miss Combe went on to say that the woman had had no fewer than three bigamous marriages, and that the variety of children from each totaled thirteen. The countess listened to all of this, and to Mr. Fox’s murmurings; then, with a great intake of breath, she said that bigamy was a very complex issue and, in many cases, an understandable course of action. It had been common enough, she said, in times gone by; indeed, she herself had known bigamists, both male and female, who were quite respectable people as well. She cited a number of hypothetical cases, reasons why it could not, perhaps should not, be viewed as a crime, and she spoke—seemingly with some authority—about the archaic divorce laws. Mr. Fox then leaned forward, wide-eyed, and spluttered, “But you sound as though you’re advocating it, ma’am.”

  She smiled at him, closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, not advocating it, Mr. Fox. Rather, trying to understand. This woman has been locked away, her family broken up, her children farmed out to strangers. The law refuses to look at the reasons for the action; it simply sees the crime and punishes the perpetrator. But, like self-defense, a crime is not a crime if it can be justified, understood . . . and then, perhaps, forgiven.”

  Mr. Fox sat back in his chair. No one spoke.

  When the photographer, Mr. Trigg, appeared, Cecily at first thought that he, too, was there as a guest. Then the countess raised her hand to him and said, “Dear Mr. Trigg, do please say if you require anything. I’m afraid my grandson is not yet back from his motor excursion and we can’t possibly go ahead until he is here.”

  Sonia said, “Ooh, are we to have our photograph taken, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Trigg is here to photograph some of my paintings, but I thought it rather a nice idea for him to capture us as well,” she replied, as the photographer quietly busied himself, arranging his equipment on the lawn.

  By the time Jack finally appeared—leaping over a small box hedge and striding across the lawn toward them—Miss Combe was on her feet saying she felt rather queer about having her photograph taken; she had not expected it. He wore no jacket, no necktie, and the waistcoat of his suit was unbuttoned. He apologized for his tardiness, explaining to them that his motorcycle had had a puncture somewhere south of Linford, and his soiled white shirt—as the countess pointed out—seemed to verify this. Miss Combe sat back down; Sonia sat up; and Cecily stared down at the grass. Mr. Fox laughed. “Motorcycles indeed!”

  “Well, my darling, I’m afraid you’ve missed tea but I’m sure Mrs. Davey will bring out a fresh pot soon enough.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, catching Cecily’s eye.

  He moved forward, hovering over the plates on the linen-covered table, picked up a handful of sandwiches, and then sat down on the grass. The rector spoke to him about his new motorcycle, and Cecily heard him say, yes, he was running it in, but had taken it up to almost forty on the Linford straight. And she pictured him, flying along that road she knew so well, with the wind in his hair, looking out at the world through goggles. Speed, she thought, he likes speed.

  Mr. Trigg announced that he was set up and ready, if it was convenient to her ladyship. Chairs were moved about. Sonia put on her gloves, Miss Combe dispensed with her parasol, and Jack and Mr. Fox took their places, standing be
hind the ladies. Then Mr. Trigg told them all to remain perfectly still until he gave the word . . .

  And it was all over in a flash.

  The countess clapped her hands. “Bravo! Well done, Mr. Trigg!”

  Shuffling and smiling done, conversation resumed. Sonia asked Miss Dorland about her next novel. It was to be titled Lord of Nivernais and set in France, the lady novelist replied. Then the countess explained that Nivernais was a region of France where she had once lived. She laughed. “I don’t believe I’m being too immodest when I say I suspect the book owes something to me.” Miss Dorland replied, “Well of course, they all owe something to you, dear.” Sonia said she would love someone to write a book about her one day, Miss Combe said she could think of nothing worse, and Marjorie quietly helped herself to another queen cake. Mr. Fox and Jack continued to talk about motorbikes, and motorcars, and airplanes. And Cecily heard Jack telling him, too, that one day soon enough people would be traveling all over the world by air.

  “How about that, Mr. Fox?” the countess interrupted. “You and Mrs. Fox could fly to Rome!” she said.

  He shook his head. “Mrs. Fox would never entertain such a notion. And I certainly shan’t be volunteering. The modern world is unsettled, in a state of flux, I fear, and this need for continual change, invention, reinvention!” he shouted—to make his point, Cecily presumed—“is too much for me. But I must admit, I do rather like the idea of a motorcar,” he went on, turning his attention back to Jack, seated at his feet. “Yes, Mrs. Fox and I were discussing the possibilities only this morning and—”

  “I think you’ve been rather neglectful of your guest, Jack,” the countess broke in, waving a hand in Cecily’s direction. “Perhaps you’d like to show Cecily around the place . . . the gardens?”

  “Of course,” he replied, rising to his feet. “Would you like to to see around the gardens?”