The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  “. . . We’ll live like gypsies . . . divide our time between Rome and Florence, head to Paris in the spring . . . and the south of France perhaps in autumn.”

  “But not England?”

  “No, not England. Who needs England?”

  “And you’ll stay with me?”

  “Of course, I shall . . . I’ll never leave you.”

  “Not even if I had done something . . . wicked?”

  “Hmm, something wicked . . . If you had done something wicked, well, I rather think I’d love you all the more for it.”

  And so she gives in, moves her mouth to his, and seals her fate.

  BOOK TWO

  England 1923

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sylvia had said it out loud, and silently, too: Cora is gone . . . Cora is gone . . . She had to; had to remind herself. It would take time, she told herself, to grow used to the idea. And it was why she had sought out the photograph, why she sat with it in her hands. But it was still queer to think of her dead, a person no more. Difficult to accept that she had been mortal, just like everyone else; impossible and too painful to think of her beneath the sandy soil of an English churchyard.

  Perhaps it would be easier if she had seen the grave, witnessed the burial and been a part of that ceremonial goodbye. She would, she thought, have been able to say adieu. She would have been able to let her know.

  For years Sylvia had pondered a hello and not a goodbye. She had anticipated a reunion, reconciliation, imagined them embracing, forgiving, smiling at each other, herself saying, “I shall hear none of it; it is all in the past now.” She had imagined returning once more down that sweeping driveway in Mr. Cotton’s wagonette, and Cora, standing there upon the doorstep—waiting for her, just as she had that sultry summer’s day twelve years ago. How pleased Cora had been to see her . . . She had said, “Here at last!” and then playfully chastised Sylvia for her tardiness, telling her that she had been waiting patiently all morning. And Jack had been there too: eager to finally meet his grandmother’s oldest friend. He had said, “I’ve been longing to meet you . . . have heard so much about you.” That was how it had been, hadn’t it?

  Yes, it had been a perfect day. One etched on her memory.

  But there could be no reunion, not now, not ever. That indomitable spirit, that indefatigable soul had departed this life and moved on—as she always had.

  Sylvia stared at the photograph. She ran a finger over the tear: a scar on her memory, and on her heart. But it was too late, too late to offer Cora her happy ending, too late to assuage her loss or make amends: too late to tell her. And there was an added torment bound up in those few hushed words to a painter, so long ago in Rome.

  “But had I known . . . had I known . . .” she whispered, shaking her head.

  And then she closed her eyes once more as she relived that bittersweet moment, when Cora had clung to her weeping, saying, “He says we have no future, no future together . . . he says it cannot be . . . that he cannot marry me . . . will never marry me . . .”

  But how wonderful it had felt to hold her, to have Cora in her arms, so weak and fragile, and lost. “You have me,” she had said. “You have me, and I shall never ever walk away from you.” And yet she had. For hadn’t she walked away that summer, twelve years before? Hadn’t she left Cora then, weak and fragile and lost once again, afraid, alone and old?

  “I let her down! I walked away . . . just as he did . . . I was no different.”

  Sylvia had not been able to attend the funeral, though Cecily had been kind enough to telephone a second time to inform her of the arrangements. The first call, the one to tell her Cora had died, had come out of the blue. And Cecily had been quite cold, Sylvia thought: perfunctory in her approach. But Sylvia was not used to receiving telephone calls. The only telephone at the Windsor was in the arched alcove of the lobby, where, on the rare occasion it was in use, people liked to loiter about, listening. It had a sign above it which read, “FOR RESIDENTS’ USE & EMERGENCIES ONLY,” in red letters upon white. It was a queer, perplexing contraption and Sylvia had no use for it. And that day, when Mrs. Halliday came into the dining room and said, “Do excuse me, Miss Dorland, but you’re wanted on the telephone,” Sylvia had been mystified. For who would call her? She had no kin.

  Mrs. Halliday had handed her the parts, whispering instructions, “To the ear, dear . . . that’s it . . . now say hello . . .” Sylvia thought she heard a voice: “Sylvia . . . Miss Dorland, is that you?” But the line had been bad and, not sure what the call was about or to whom the voice belonged, Sylvia had been circumspect, reticent.

  “Yes,” she had said, elongating those three letters, phrasing the word as a question.

  “It’s Cecily.”

  “Cecily . . .”

  “I hope you remember me . . .”

  Cecily Chadwick. “Yes, yes. I remember you. Of course I remember you. How lovely to hear from you.”

  “I’m calling with some . . .”

  But Sylvia did not catch the words and had to ask her to speak up.

  “Sad news,” Cecily said, louder, and with emphasis. “It’s Cora, I’m afraid she passed away on Friday. I thought I should call . . . call and let you know.”

  And that was it. Cecily may have said more, Sylvia could not remember. She had been too stunned, too upset to take in anything else. She had said goodbye and then stood for some time clutching the receiver, unsure what to do with it or the news. When Mrs. Halliday reappeared, she asked, “Bad news, dear?” She took the receiver from Sylvia’s hand, hung it up, and led her back toward the dining room. But Sylvia had said no, she could not face anyone, could not eat now. “My friend, my dearest friend has passed away.”

  She did not cry, not that day. She simply returned upstairs to her room and sat quietly until it was time for bed.

  Perhaps Cecily said something about the funeral during that first call. Perhaps she had told Sylvia she would call again to let her know the arrangements. Either way, Cecily had called again a few days later, and that was when she had also said that she had something for Sylvia from Cora.

  “Actually, I’ve had it in my possession for quite some time,” she said. “She asked me to make sure that it was passed on to you in the event of her death.”

  Cora: ever the planner.

  But there was no way Cecily could get up to London, not at that time. Not with the funeral and everything else she had to deal with, she said, but perhaps in a few weeks, when things were calmer.

  An obituary in one of the London newspapers was simply titled, “Death of the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson,” and read:

  We deeply regret to record the death which occurred at her home in Bramley on Friday of last week of the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson, who had been in failing health for some time past . . . The Countess was in her eightieth year and had a very wide circle of friends both here and on the Continent, to whom her passing is a matter of sincere regret. The Countess was thrice married and by her first union, to Mr. John Staunton, there was a son, Captain George Staunton RHA, who met with his death in a hunting accident many years ago. Her second marriage was to the Count de Chevalier de Saint Léger who was killed in the Franco-German War; while she was wedded on a third occasion to Mr. Edward Lawson, late President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, and father of Lord George Lawson, late President of the Academy.

  The Countess was born at Standen Hall in Norfolk, and was the niece of the late Contessa Cansacchi di Amelia, who passed away some time ago in Rome. A renowned and fashionable figure within Continental society, the Countess resided a great deal abroad, in particular in Rome and Paris, and was noted for her cosmopolitan tastes and for her fine collection of art and antiques . . . The funeral took place at Saint Luke’s Churchyard, Bramley, on Wednesday afternoon, where the remains of the deceased lady were laid to rest . . .
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  The piece went on to list the chief mourners, and to say that “the grave had been prettily lined with moss and bunches of violets by Mr. Cordery, the head gardener at Temple Hill.” It then listed the floral tributes, and Sylvia was pleased to see her own name.

  Of course there were mistakes, inaccuracies. How could there not be? Cora had spent a lifetime confusing and confounding everyone with her story. And she had always lied about her age, was ten years older than the age they quoted. But she would have been satisfied, Sylvia thought, to be a decade younger—even in death. And the obituary recorded most of the official version: almost all of the important names were there. And yet, Sylvia could not help but wonder where the information had come from, for someone had tidied it all up. That someone had to be Cecily.

  Sylvia cut out the obituary and pasted it into the scrapbook, the one she kept that charted Cora’s life, and now death. It included every announcement—the birth of each of her sons, their deaths, and the deaths of each of her husbands; her marriages; court circulars, drawing room appearances, and clippings about George. But there had been so many about George, particularly after his death, that she gave up cutting and pasting him. Also in the scrapbook were two pencil sketches of Cora by John Clifford, and another by George (all three from Rome, when Cora had been no more than twenty); a ribbon Cora had given her at around that same time, and various notes confirming appointments and rendezvous. Sylvia liked to look at those notes, the handwriting, the young signature long before the loops and swirls of the double C flourish that became her customary abbreviation. There was a lock of pale golden hair, various pressed flowers, and postcards and telegrams, and a small swatch of blue silk Cora had sent her shortly before her marriage to Edward. The photograph, the one taken in the garden that day at Temple Hill, would go in there also, Sylvia decided: at the very end. It was the only one she had of them together.

  Some weeks after the obituary, the same newspaper announced a sale at the house:

  The trustees of the estate of the late Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson announce a sale to be held at her home, Temple Hill, including the whole of the antique and modern appointments: Louis XIV and Empire escritoires, secretaires, commodes and tables. Two fine old English mahogany and oak long-case clocks. Beautiful Chinese silk embroidery and antique Italian tapestry. Rare old French trousseau chests, French, Italian and English oil paintings and watercolors, Italian carved cabinets, settees and chairs in old English, 890 volumes of books, plate, needlework, tapestries, French linen, clocks, bronzes, Italian marble sculpture, ornamental china and porcelain, Venetian air twist and other glass and crystal, English oak dining furniture, together with the usual indoor and outdoor effects . . .

  So, Cecily was selling it all. Cora’s precious cargo, gathered over a lifetime and brought back to England, was to be sold off, flung back across the counties of England, the countries of Europe. And that announcement, the announcement of the sale at the house, inspired more tears than any obituary. Because all of those things, every item of furniture and glass and linen, each book and painting and each piece of china, were all that was left of her, all that Cora had left to the world of herself. And Sylvia could picture it all, picture it all so vividly, the dismantling of that life.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When Cecily arrived she was not at all as Sylvia remembered her. A glamorous woman, festooned in fur, had replaced the gauche and awkward girl of Sylvia’s memory. And she was taller, much taller than Sylvia remembered. She moved across the room with an alarming confidence, leaned forward in a haze of perfume and pressed her lips to Sylvia’s cheek. Sylvia released a short, sharp gasp. She could not recall the last time anyone had done such a thing. She watched Cecily place a brown paper parcel on the low table and dispense with her fur, draping it along the back of the armchair. “Golly,” she said, as she sat down, “what a day.”

  It was stormy outside. Sylvia had noticed. She had watched the weather at the window for most of that day: the constant drizzle interrupted by intermittent downpours, the petrified limbs of the trees in the park opposite against the low sky. Later, she had heard the wind, coming in angry gusts, and then the bells: an ambulance or fire engine, perhaps. And she could only wonder at the drama unfolding somewhere.

  “Yes, what a day,” Sylvia said, eyeing Cecily as she opened up her handbag and took out a familiar cigarette case. “I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble for you, coming up to town,” she said.

  “No trouble, no trouble at all,” Cecily replied. She flicked a lighter, tilted her head and released a plume of smoke into the dimly lit room; then she placed the handbag on the table in front of them, next to the brown paper parcel. “Actually, we’re up for a few days.”

  “Ah, I see,” Sylvia said and nodded.

  It made sense. Yes, it made sense. This Cecily did not look like a schoolmistress from the country, not at all. This Cecily was undoubtedly used to trips up to town, to hailing and dashing about in taxicabs, in a flurry, in a rush. This Cecily was different to the one before. She wore the new shorter length skirt, her hair was cut fashionably short, too, and, Sylvia noted, she left an imprint of her painted lips at the end of her cigarette.

  Sylvia leaned forward, pushing the glass ashtray across the polished wood, and said, “Oh, I must show you something.” She reached down to the shelf beneath the table and handed Cecily the photograph. “I’m afraid it got torn . . . caught in an album or some such thing, I can’t quite recall now.”

  Cecily stared at the image. Yes, she too could remember that day. “Feels like a lifetime ago,” she said. “So much has happened since then.”

  And it had for her, and for the world, but less so for Sylvia.

  Right up until her move to the Windsor Hotel, four years ago, Sylvia had followed a daily routine unchanged and unaltered for over half a century. The move had been disruptive but inevitable. And the Windsor had undoubtedly been the right choice. It was situated round the corner from her former flat, and almost all of the residents were elderly ladies, like herself. Most were widows, who had had a husband, or two, and children, or not. Many of them were colonials who had returned from India and the Far East after the war had ended. It was one of the things Sylvia liked about the Windsor, the class of person. And it made the conversation all the more interesting to hear about places like Bangalore, Kashmir and Calcutta, and verandas and bungalow lifestyles. She had even toyed with the idea of writing a novel set in India, loosely based on her new friend Mrs. Evesleigh’s life. Oh yes, the Windsor had been the right choice. These women understood expatriate life, and Sylvia had been able to talk about her time in Rome, and about her dear friend, the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson. A few claimed to know or recognize the name, thought they had heard it—or part of it—before, and then usually asked, “Any relation to Lord Lawson?”

  “Stepmother,” Sylvia replied, “and dear friend, as was I.”

  Inevitably, there then ensued some discussion about George Lawson: his life and work, his affairs—and rumored illegitimate children.

  “Well, I really wouldn’t know about that,” Sylvia responded, running free, but enjoying the debate and that tingle of attention.

  Sylvia had had special cards printed to announce her move to the Windsor, and though she had only managed to send out a dozen or so of the fifty, later cutting up the unused ones to use as bookmarks, she had sent one to Cora, with a note on the reverse, saying, “My dear, I do hope that you are well, and that we might be able to catch up one day in the not too distant future. As ever, Sylvia.” She had hoped for a reply, a note to say “Good luck” or something along the lines of “Wishing you well in your new home,” but nothing came.

  The war, Sylvia agreed with the other ladies, had changed everything and everyone. No, nothing would ever be the same. But they had their memories, memories of how things had once been, memories of lost places, lost faces. Even now, four years later
, The War consumed a great deal of their time, and energy.

  But Sylvia had had no children or grandchildren to lose, and though she had lived through and witnessed the seemingly never-ending horror, and had imagined—or had tried to imagine—circumstances not her own, she had for the most part been buried in the execution of the book she and Cora had begun years before, the book they had worked on during the summer of 1911. It would not be Cora’s memoirs, could not be Cora’s memoirs, but it could be the story of her life, Sylvia had decided. The story of her life as it could have been. And it was to be Sylvia’s peace offering. For she had planned to write to Cora, enclosing the first draft, once it was finished. She would not and could not, she had decided, do anything with it without her friend’s blessing.

  But time had run out and now the manuscript lay in a drawer, and Sylvia was unsure what to do with it. Unsure, that is, until Cecily’s second telephone call. And as soon as Sylvia heard Cecily say the word “manuscript,” her heart leapt. Cora knew, had obviously remembered, and it seemed as though from beyond the grave she was giving it her blessing, sanctioning it.

  And it was understandable, commendable, Sylvia reasoned, that Cora wished Cecily to see it first, particularly in view of the circumstances. But she must not be too eager. There was an etiquette to be observed, a way of handling these things, just as there was with everything else. She would wait, wait until later, once they had crossed bridges, so to speak. Then she would offer Cecily a sherry and produce the manuscript. She had imagined Cecily’s face—though it had been different, younger, and altogether more open—the look of astonishment, surprise, then the tears and smiles; and she had heard her say, “Oh Sylvia, she would have been so happy, so grateful . . .” And Sylvia would say, “It’s the book I have been writing for over fifty years, my final work.” And they would raise their glasses to—