The Memory Box

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Where is it then, Candice? Explain that.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to have a look. What were you doing rummaging around in my underwear drawer anyway?’

  He ignored the question and instead took hold of her hand and led her into the bedroom. He nodded towards the drawer. ‘Go on then, find it. I’ll wait.’

  She opened the drawer and fished through a tangle of knickers, tights and bras.

  ‘It’s not here,’ she breathed. ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Weird? It’s not weird, Candice. I know damn well you wore that thong for work, and I know why.’

  She sighed, suddenly weary and desperate for sleep. ‘You’re wrong, Beau.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he scoffed. ‘You’ve been sleeping with someone behind my back.’

  ‘At Green Meadows? Hmm . . . now let me see.’ She tapped her chin with her fingers. ‘Our oldest male resident is ninety-three and can barely stand up, let alone get anything else up. Our youngest resident is only seventy, though, so he’s a possible candidate, and then there’s Frank, but don’t let the fact that he’s gay get in the way of your barmy accusations.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the residents, you stupid cow.’

  ‘You mean the staff?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘Simeon by any chance?’

  ‘You admit it then.’

  She dug her fingers into her hair. ‘Aargh, you’re being ridiculous, Beau. Why are you like this?’ She sat down on the bed. ‘Why can’t you get it into your thick head that I love you, I will forever only love you and I’m not having an affair with Simeon or anybody else?’

  He sat down next her, taking hold of her hand. ‘I really want to believe you, babe, but it makes no sense. That red lace thong is missing and you can’t tell me where it is. What am I supposed to think, eh?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to think the worst of me.’ She touched his cheek, his stubble rough beneath her fingers. ‘There has to be trust, Beau. If there’s no trust, then what’s the point? It’s the foundation of every relationship, it underpins everything.’

  ‘I have to trust my gut feeling, Candice. And my gut tells me you’re having an affair.’

  ‘Well, your gut is flamin’ wrong.’

  He held out his hand. ‘You won’t mind showing me your phone then.’

  ‘Wh . . . what? No, why?’

  ‘What are you hiding? Give it to me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m not hiding anything.’ She rummaged in her pocket and slapped the phone down on his outstretched palm. ‘There,’ she snapped. ‘Knock yourself out.’

  She watched as he tapped in her passcode and began scrolling through her messages. ‘Mmm . . . you could have deleted them, or maybe you have another phone I don’t know about.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right, because you give me enough money to be able to go and buy another one.’

  ‘He could have bought it for you.’

  She bowed her head, her voice weary with exasperation. ‘He? He? There is no he.’ She jabbed at her own temple. ‘This is all just in your head, Beau.’

  She stiffened as she felt his hand on the back of her neck. ‘Have I ever been violent towards you, Candice?’

  ‘No, of course not. You think I’d stick around if you were?’

  He gently stroked under her hair before sliding his hand inside her blouse and kissing the top of her shoulders. ‘I love you, babe. But if I ever find out you’ve been unfaithful, I will kill you.’

  She turned to face him, the blood rushing in her ears. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  His expression darkened; his mouth pulled into a tight line. Then he threw his head back and laughed. ‘Your face! You know I’d never lay a finger on you, Candice.’ He clamped her head between his palms and squashed his lips to hers. ‘I adore you.’

  32

  There’s one of those pubs just over the road from Green Meadows, one where they give fancy names to bog-standard dishes just so they can charge you a few bob extra. Gastro pub, I think the term is. Frank likes to go, though. Says it makes him feel as though he’s still part of society. I can take it or leave it myself; after all, there’s no finer chef round these parts than our Simeon.

  It’s unseasonably warm for a spring evening, so we’ve walked the two hundred yards or so and I feel rather sprightly. We decide to sit in the beer garden, and I have to say, it’s quite splendid, with its cobbled courtyard and topiary hedges cut into the shape of fat birds. Frank guides me to a two-seater under a wisteria-clad pergola and places a pastel rug across my knees. ‘Righto, flower,’ he says. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Just a small G and T please, a plain one, nothing fancy.’

  He returns with the drinks and settles himself next to me as he raises his glass to chink against my own. ‘Cin cin,’ he says before taking a sip.

  I prod at my own drink with the straw. Clearly the instruction ‘nothing fancy’ was either not relayed to the barmaid or else Frank chose to ignore me.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ he asks. If I’m honest, there’s a hint of impatience in his voice.

  ‘There’s a slice of dried-up orange in my drink.’

  ‘I know there is. It’s the latest thing.’

  ‘Blimey, Frank,’ I say, fishing out the offending fruit. ‘When did things get to be so complicated? Gin and orange my mother used to drink back in the day. Not fresh orange, mind, oh no, orange cordial, can you believe? Used to sneak a sip when she wasn’t looking.’ My eyes mist over as long-suppressed memories emerge. ‘Couldn’t stomach one now, though.’ I twist the stem of my glass in my fingers, staring at the ice cubes tinkling together. ‘Last time I tasted gin and orange was at my mother’s funeral.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Never again. Terrible day that was.’

  Frank tilts his head. ‘I can imagine. I—’

  I shake my head vigorously to stop him. ‘No, Frank, you don’t understand. I mean it was truly awful.’ My hands have started to tremble, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. ‘January 1941 it was. She died at Christmas but there was a backlog, what with there being a war on. Me and our Louis travelled home to Manchester for it. Bryn, Delyth and Lorcan all came with us, bless ’em. I mean, they’d never even met my mother, but they wanted to be there for us. There weren’t many people there, just the neighbours and a few of her work colleagues. Louis gripped my hand for the whole service, and then at the burial he wrapped his arms around my legs so I could hardly walk. He was only a few months short of his sixth birthday, the poor lamb.’

  Frank’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper. ‘How terrible.’

  ‘It was.’ I nod. ‘For as long as I have breath in my body, I will never forget climbing those stairs to break the news of her death to him. With every step, I knew I was closer to shattering his world. He was such a sensitive kid, a habitual worrier and frightened of everything. He barely uttered a word when I told him. He didn’t believe me, although why he thought I’d lie about a thing like that is anybody’s guess. He didn’t even cry, just tucked his teddy bear under his chin and snuggled back under his blanket.’

  ‘Aye, well, kids have a funny way of dealing with things,’ says Frank. ‘Have you seen that tub of heather over there? Buzzing with bees it is.’

  I ignore his blatant attempt to change the subject. I know he doesn’t want me to get upset, but I need to talk about it. ‘All through the funeral service, even though he was clingy, he was dry-eyed. It was only at the graveside, when we threw in a handful of soil, that he let go of my leg and suddenly wailed, “My mummy, my mummy!” ’ I turn to look at Frank. His expression is difficult to read. ‘I have never heard a more heart-rending scream of pain either before or since. Del reached out to pull him towards her, but she wasn’t quick enough, and he . . .’ my throat aches and I’m forced to swallow hard, ‘he jumped down onto the coffin.’

  Frank picks up his pint and takes a sip. His hand is shaking more than ever. ‘The poor little chap.’

&nbs
p; ‘Everybody just froze for a second as Louis scraped at the coffin with his bare hands, sobbing inconsolably. Lorcan was the first to react. He jumped down too and held him up to Del, who clutched him to her chest, her own tears falling onto his head. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such immeasurable suffering.’

  Frank seems genuinely moved by my tale, and it’s a while before he speaks again. ‘You’ve never really talked about your brother before.’ He pauses. ‘Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  I do mind, I mind very much, but it’s a fair question, I suppose. ‘We . . . um . . . we became estranged. It’s a long story for another day, Frank. I can’t go into all that now.’

  Of all the terrible memories I have, that one is right up there with the worst of them.

  I adjust my focus and let my eyes wander over to the other side of the beer garden. Now, my eyesight’s not as good as it used to be, I’ll grant you that, but if I’m not mistaken, Beau is sitting on the low garden wall, engrossed in his phone.

  I nudge Frank. ‘Well bugger me. Look over there. It’s Candice’s boyfriend. She didn’t tell me they were coming here.’

  ‘Does she have to report her movements to you?’ Frank says. He seems to have a right mood on him now.

  ‘Obviously not,’ I say, a little too icily. ‘I just thought it might’ve come up, that’s all. It’s her day off today, so perhaps it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  Beau looks up from his phone and seems to stare directly at me before lifting his hand in greeting. I go to wave back, but it’s not me he’s looking at. It’s a rather striking redhead, in an emerald-green satin dress that swishes just above her knees. I put my hand down, suddenly feeling rather foolish. As if Beau would acknowledge me. He’s probably forgotten who I am. She hands him a pint of what I assume is lager and sits down next to him, their thighs almost touching. He says something and she dips her head towards his shoulder, laughing.

  My back is stiff and inside I’m seething. ‘Look at that cheating rat, Frank,’ I hiss. ‘Have you seen him, cavorting with another girl behind Candice’s back?’

  Frank follows my gaze. ‘I’d hardly call it cavorting. They just seem to be having a drink together. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that? Are you out of your mind? I’ll tell you what, I bet Candice doesn’t know.’

  ‘And don’t you go telling her either,’ he warns. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you and there’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation. Candice’ll only see it as you sticking the knife in Beau. She knows you don’t like him. Don’t make it any worse.’

  ‘I’m just looking out for her, Frank,’ I reply sulkily. ‘She’s got nobody else.’

  I pick up the menu and dip my head behind it.

  ‘I think he’s looking over,’ I say after a minute. ‘Do you think he’s seen us?’

  ‘Does it matter if he has?’ I can tell Frank is becoming a little spiky.

  ‘I don’t want him to be forewarned that he’s been caught red-handed. It’ll just give him more time to think up an excuse.’

  Frank slams down his pint a little too hard. ‘Jenny, will you just leave it. It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  I know he’s right, of course. I also know I’m going to ignore him and follow my own instincts.

  Candice breezes in the next morning, her step so light and carefree she’s almost floating. ‘Morning,’ she gushes. ‘Did you miss me yesterday?’

  ‘We always miss you when you’re not here, love.’ I take my teaspoon and bash the top of my boiled egg, not wishing to meet her eye.

  ‘I have good news,’ she says, taking the chair opposite. I risk a look at Frank next to me, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. His eyes tell me all I need to know. Keep shtum or else.

  ‘What good news?’

  ‘I’ve got another job.’ She leans back, her eyes shining.

  My stomach lurches. ‘You mean you’re leaving?’ I feel sick at the thought of it.

  ‘Not straight away, no.’

  ‘How’s all this come about?’

  ‘Well, you know those flyers Beau got done for me, advertising my eyebrow business?’

  I nod, even though this is the first I’ve heard of any flyers.

  ‘Turns out Fliss, the owner of that beauty salon down Stretford Road, says I can use her premises to see clients in return for a cut of what I charge. It means I’ll be able to get masses more customers and yet still be flexible enough to work here for the time being. I’ll be able to save loads more cash towards Beauty Therapy Level Two.’ Her face is frozen in delight as she seeks my congratulations.

  ‘That’s great news,’ I manage, stabbing a soldier of toast into my egg. ‘I’m pleased for you, Candice.’

  ‘It’s all thanks to Beau, actually.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He hates me working nights here, so he took it upon himself to find me more work in the beauty industry. He knows that’s what I really want to do. Apparently Fliss goes into the Lemon Tree, and she was looking at one of the flyers and they got talking and that was that. Beau sorted it all out. I’ve got to meet her myself yet, just to check that we like each other, but I can’t see any reason why we wouldn’t get on.’

  I steal another look at Frank, who raises his eyebrows and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  I turn my back on him. ‘Where was Beau last night?’

  This brings Candice up short. She opens her mouth, but no words are forthcoming. Eventually she finds her voice. ‘Erm, working, why?’

  ‘We saw him in the pub over the road. He was with another girl. I’m so sorry, Candice.’

  Frank gives an audible groan. ‘Jenny, what did I tell you?’

  ‘Another girl? What do you mean?’ asks Candice. Her effervescence of a few moments ago has fizzled out.

  ‘He was having a drink with this redhead and they looked pretty close to me.’

  Frank butts in. ‘They didn’t, Candice. They were just having a drink, nothing more than that.’

  ‘Redhead, you say?’ Her shoulders sag with relief. ‘Well, that’s Fliss, I expect. I know he saw her last night. I assumed it was at the Lemon Tree, but they could have gone somewhere else.’ She stands up. ‘Yes, that’ll be it; as Frank says, nothing to worry about.’ She’s obviously flustered, though, and knocks over a glass of orange juice in her haste to leave.

  Frank dabs at the table with his napkin. ‘Happy now, Jenny?’

  I do feel a little foolish, but I have no regrets. I know I’m right about Beau.

  33

  She hadn’t told Beau she was coming. Not because she wanted to catch him out, but because she wanted to surprise him. At least that was what she told herself. Their paths had barely crossed this week with one thing and another, and she was desperate to spend time with him even if it was just as a member of his audience.

  ‘Hello again.’

  She swivelled round on the bar stool. ‘Oh, hi, Adrian. How are you?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad as it goes. Yourself?’

  She glanced nervously at the stage. Beau was due out any minute. ‘Okay, yeah.’

  He nodded at her almost-empty glass. ‘Fancy another?’

  ‘Oh well, you know.’ She wrinkled her nose and attempted a laugh. ‘I’d better not. Not after all the kerfuffle it caused last time.’

  He shook his head. ‘What are you doing with a prat like him, eh?’

  There really was no answer to that. ‘Can we just leave it, please?’

  Adrian stood his ground. ‘Are you really okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, her patience wearing thin. ‘Why does everybody think it’s okay to interfere in my life? I’m fine.’

  He held his palms aloft. ‘All right, if you say so.’ He backed away. ‘You know where to find me if you need anything.’

  ‘Such as?’ She frowned.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Just anything . . . any time, okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she reiterated through gritted t
eeth.

  At the end of his set, Beau held his guitar over his head, an emulsion of sweat on his forehead, his chest heaving as though he’d just completed an Ironman. He took an exaggerated bow. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said to the audience. A few people were on their feet, some whistling, some shouting for more. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed again. ‘I’d like to slow it down a little now, for all you lovebirds out there.’

  Candice suppressed a smile. Lovebirds? Since when had Beau started talking like that?

  He fiddled with the tuning pegs, then placed one foot on the chair and rested the guitar on his knee. ‘This is one of my own compositions. I hope you like it.’

  He nodded to a guy dressed all in black with headphones around his neck. The lights were dimmed even further. Beau strummed his guitar, closing his eyes to the soft melody, his voice thick with emotion. He held out his hand to a swaying girl at a table close by, inviting her to join him on stage. She looked at her two companions before pointing to her own chest. ‘Me?’ she gushed. He nodded and took hold of her hand, pulling her on stage.

  She gazed adoringly at him as he sang to her as though she was the only other person in the room. Feeling like an intruder, Candice was forced to look away.

  ‘Thinks he’s Barry Manilow, that one,’ Adrian observed, folding his arms across his chest. ‘I wouldn’t put up with it if I were you.’

  ‘It’s all part of the act,’ Candice replied in a forced casual tone. ‘Means nothing.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘If you say so.’

  She picked up her handbag and shrugged on her jacket. ‘I do.’ She turned to leave. ‘Just one more thing. Please don’t tell him I was here.’

  It was gone two in the morning by the time Beau crawled in. His breath smelled of some sort of alcohol she couldn’t identify, and his clothes reeked of smoke.

  She could hear him creeping around the bedroom.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m awake,’ she said stiffly.

  He flopped on the bed beside her and kissed her cheek. ‘Oh, sorry, babe. Did I wake you?’