The Memory Box

by Kathryn Hughes

  ‘Not really. I haven’t been able to get off.’

  ‘That’s good news for me then,’ he said, straddling her and bending to kiss her neck.

  She turned away. ‘Not now, Beau.’

  He stopped and cocked his head. Reaching for his face, she could just make out his features in the gloom. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. Do you mind?’

  He climbed off the bed and pulled his shirt over his head before tossing it on the floor. ‘Okay, fine.’

  ‘How was the Lemon Tree?’

  ‘Yeah, it was good. Usual crowd, got quite a following in there now as it happens.’

  ‘Was Fliss there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fliss, the girl you met from the beauty salon.’

  ‘Um, no. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’ Her attempt to sound breezy failed spectacularly. She paused, struggling to keep her tone light. ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Fliss? I dunno. All right, I suppose. You’re meeting her tomorrow, so you can see for yourself.’

  ‘Where did you go with her last night then?’

  ‘What’s with the third degree, Candice?’ He threw his boxers on top of the discarded shirt. ‘Don’t you trust me? She’s about forty, for God’s sake. You’ve no reason to be jealous.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she scoffed as she struggled into a sitting position. She clicked on the bedside lamp, squinting at him. ‘Me, jealous? That’s rich coming from you.’

  He leaned in close, laughing in her face. ‘Now you know how it feels. Not very nice, is it?’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she insisted. ‘Whereas you, you’ve been carrying on behind my back.’

  ‘What are you on about, you daft bat?’

  ‘I know you were seeing someone else last night.’

  ‘Yes, I told you. I met Fliss in a coffee shop on Stretford Road. I did it for you, remember, although I don’t know why I bother. You’re such an ungrateful cow.’

  ‘But after that you went to that posh pub near work with another girl. I know you did. You were spotted.’ Inwardly she chastised herself for sounding so hysterical. She noticed his jaw tighten as he exhaled a deep breath through his nose. ‘Spotted by who?’

  She hesitated. ‘Erm . . . no one.’

  ‘Come on, out with it. Who’s been grassing me up?’

  ‘Well, it was Jenny, if you must know.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ he said, dropping onto the bed. ‘And you had the nerve to lecture me about trust.’

  ‘You’re not denying it then.’

  He traced the leafy pattern of the duvet with his finger. ‘Yeah, I probably should’ve told you, babe, but Marsha’s just an old friend, that’s all.’ He brought her hand to his lips, but she snatched it away.

  ‘You can do better than that, Beau. What’s really going on?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he conceded. ‘Old girlfriend, then. We were an item once, many moons ago. I happened to bump into her in Tesco, we got chatting and she asked if I’d like to go for an early-doors drink. You know, for old times’ sake and all that. She’s off to Australia next week for the foreseeable. I spent most of the time telling her about you, as it happens.’

  ‘How come you’ve never mentioned her before?’

  ‘Why would I do that? She’s history. We went out for a while, it was good, and then we went our separate ways. End of.’

  She could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Damn Jenny. Beau was right, she was an interfering old bag sometimes.

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t have needed to be anywhere near Tesco if you’d done your job right.’

  ‘My job?’

  ‘Yes, you forgot the washing capsule things and you know I wanted you to do my best white shirt. I need it for the weekend.’ He pulled the duvet over his head. ‘Now you’ll have to get up early and do it before work. Night, babe.’

  Sleep had never been further away, and even though it wasn’t quite light, she decided to get up and put the white shirt in the machine. The cheap coffee she made herself was bitter and yet tasteless all at the same time. She reached for the good stuff they kept at the back of the cupboard. Beau had allowed her to splash out as long as they only had it once a week. That way it would last longer and be more of a treat, allowing them to appreciate the extra expense. She prised the lid off and peered into the almost-empty jar. Clearly the once-a-week rule didn’t apply to him.

  She heaved herself out of the chair when she heard the machine beep at the end of its cycle. Popping open the door, she stared in disbelief at the shirt inside, the first fingers of panic clutching at her heart. ‘No, no, no,’ she whispered, pulling it out and turning it over as though her eyes were deceiving her. ‘What in the name of . . .?’ She felt inside the machine and tugged out the offending item. Her red lace thong.

  She dumped the pale pink shirt into the washing basket and paced the kitchen, chewing the skin round her thumbnail as she pondered what to do. One of those colour-run-removal sachets might do the trick, but the shops weren’t open yet. At the sound of the toilet flushing, she shoved the shirt back into the machine and closed the door.

  Beau appeared in the doorway, his eyes half closed. ‘You woke me up with that washing machine, babe. I’m knackered. Any chance of a brew?’

  ‘Erm . . . yeah, sure. Kettle’s not long since boiled.’ She kept her tone light. ‘You’ll . . . erm . . . never guess what I found?’

  He clicked his lighter to the end of his cigarette. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘My red lace thong!’ She hooked the underwear on the end of her finger. ‘See.’

  He squinted through a cloud of smoke. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘In the machine.’ She laughed. ‘I must’ve missed it when I emptied it last time.’

  ‘Right, mystery solved then.’

  Her hands shook as she carried Beau’s mug to the table. She knew she shouldn’t be scared to tell him about the shirt. These things happened; he would understand, surely. ‘Beau,’ she began. ‘I’ve done something stupid. Not deliberately – it was an accident – but . . . well, the thing is, the thong was still in the machine when I washed your white shirt, and now it’s come out . . .’ She faltered when she saw his mouth drop. ‘It’s come out all pink.’

  He took a sip of his coffee before replying. ‘Pink?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘You’re telling me my best white shirt is now pink?’ he clarified.

  Her voice was barely audible. ‘Sorry.’

  He took hold of her hand and she resisted the urge to snatch it away. ‘Why do you look so scared, babe?’

  ‘I . . . I’m not. It’s just that I feel so stupid.’

  He pulled her down onto his lap. ‘It was an accident,’ he emphasised. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. You can buy me a new one and we’ll forget all about it.’

  Relief surged through her veins. ‘Are you sure you’re not mad?’

  He bounced her up and down as though she was a toddler. ‘Of course I’m not, silly. Jeez, what do you think I am? I’ll just take the money out of the beauty course fund and we’ll forget it ever happened.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said, the disappointment evident in her voice.

  ‘Wait, hang on a sec,’ he said, turning her face towards him. ‘You’re not expecting me to pay for another one, are you? It wasn’t me who was the careless sod.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It’s all my fault. No reason why you should have to suffer just because I’m an idiot. How much was it anyway?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Ninety, I think.’

  ‘Ninety? Ninety quid for a shirt?’

  ‘Yes, Candice. Ninety quid for a shirt. You might be able to get away with wearing a bloody tabard for work, but I can’t. I have my image to maintain.’ He picked up a piece of her hair, twirling it in his fingers. ‘Any chance you could make me some breakfast? I’m starving.’

  34

  Bad news this
morning. With only six weeks to go until Italy, the doctor has been and said my blood pressure is up and my pulse rate is a little irregular. I feel as fit as a flea, so I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but then he spotted the travel brochure and asked me who was going on holiday. I thought about telling a fib, but came clean in the end. He shook his head and frowned at me in a rather stern way, but I stood my ground. There is nobody on this earth who can stop me from getting on that plane.

  There’s always something to do at Green Meadows. Today is baking club, one of the more popular pastimes. Simeon swans around like Paul Hollywood, passing judgement on our efforts. His kitchen now resembles the carnage you might see after a particularly robust earth tremor, and I can tell he’s getting rather tetchy about it.

  He drags his finger through the dusting of flour coating my work station. ‘Jenny, would it kill you to wipe up as you go along?’

  ‘It might.’ I nod. ‘I’m a hundred years old, it’s not going to take much to see me off.’

  He tuts at the ceiling. ‘You’ll probably outlive me at this rate.’ He plants his hands on his hips and surveys the disaster zone. ‘Okay,’ he commands. ‘Bring your bakes up to the table.’

  I look at Frank, who is studiously sprinkling his Welsh cakes with a generous layer of sugar, his tongue sticking out in concentration. ‘Frank, would you mind taking up my offering?’ I’ve made a lemon polenta cake and it looks rather splendid, even though I say so myself.

  He duly obliges and carries both our plates to the display table, which is bedecked with a red and white gingham cloth.

  Simeon sweeps his gaze along the row of cakes, nodding his approval until he gets to Myrtle’s date and ginger slab. Slab being the operative word. It has sunk in the middle and appears to have the density and appeal of a house brick.

  ‘I’ll try one of yours,’ I say to Frank.

  He smiles as he hands me a serviette with one of his creations nestling in the folds. ‘Enjoy.’

  I take a bite, and as I feel the sugar stick to my lips and smell the mixed spice, I am transported back to Del’s kitchen. She always seemed to have a griddle on the go and warm Welsh cakes were Louis’s favourite, liberally spread with butter, obviously.

  ‘Delicious, Frank. Truly.’

  I’m not sure why, but he can’t meet my eye. ‘Thank you, Jenny.’

  Mrs Culpepper comes in and claps her hands as though she’s addressing a classroom of unruly kids. ‘Come, come, now. Let’s get this lot into the day room so Simeon can start on the real cooking.’

  In the day room, we sit with our cups of tea in our laps, our stomachs full of cake and all of us fighting to keep our eyes open. I put my cup and saucer on the side table, close my eyes and succumb. Afternoon naps are the preserve of the elderly, toddlers and university students.

  I’m not sure how long I’m out for, but when I do wake, the afternoon tea detritus has been cleared away and Candice is sitting in the window staring out at the bird table.

  ‘Hello, Candice.’

  She doesn’t turn around, and I’m worried she’s still mad at me for telling her about Beau going to the pub with another girl.

  ‘Candice,’ I say a little louder.

  She looks at me then, and I’m so shocked by her appearance that I forget to close my mouth. ‘Whatever’s the matter, love?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’ She rubs her hands vigorously over her face, which does at least put some colour in her cheeks.

  ‘You look so . . . so . . .’ She looks absolutely dreadful, but I can’t bring myself to say it. ‘You look so tired.’ Her face is blotchy, her eyes have purple crescents beneath them and her hair is flat and greasy.

  She gives a dramatic yawn. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night, and I was up early this morning to wash Beau’s . . .’ She stops, perhaps realising that an interrogation is about to follow.

  ‘Wash Beau’s what?’ I hope I’m not going to regret asking this question.

  ‘Beau’s best white shirt.’ She sighs. ‘It’s a long story, but I’ve ruined it. It came out all pink.’

  ‘Hmm . . . And I guess he wasn’t best pleased.’

  She shakes her head. ‘He was really good about it actually, but I’ve got to buy him a new one. Well, the money has got to come out of the beauty course fund.’

  My heart aches for her. She looks so beaten and ground down that I swear if Beau walked into this room right now, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.

  ‘Why don’t you let me pay for it?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t let you do that. Beau would go mad if he knew you’d bought his shirt.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the shirt, Candice. I’ll pay for your beauty course.’

  I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Not only can I afford it, but it also removes an element of Beau’s control over Candice. He’s forever using it as leverage against her. It’ll take that power away from him. It’s the right thing to do, even though once she qualifies, she’ll no longer have to work at Green Meadows. That thought is unbearable, and I push it to the back of my mind.

  Her eyes immediately mist over and she reaches for my hand. ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘There are no pockets in shrouds, as they say.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . you’re already paying for me to go to Italy. I couldn’t—’

  I shush her with a wave of my hand. ‘Give over, Candice. I’ll hear no more about it.’

  She needs a distraction. I twist the gold band on my finger and change the subject. ‘I haven’t told you about my wedding yet.’

  She shuffles to the edge of her seat, resting her chin on her palm. Her eyes still shining, she actually manages to sound enthusiastic. ‘Ooh, go on then.’

  35

  1942

  The sound of thundering feet on the stairs was enough to wake her even before he barged open the door and leapt onto her bed. The ancient springs squeaked as he bounced up and down on the mattress. ‘Jenny, Jenny, wake up.’

  ‘Louis,’ she replied, her voice still thick with sleep. ‘Never mind me. You’ve woken the dead with all that racket.’

  He tugged on her arm. ‘Come on, Jenny, it’s time to get up.’

  She stretched her arms over her head, coaxing out the stiffness. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half six.’

  ‘Is it really that time already? What’s the weather looking like?’

  ‘Mammy Del says it’s going to be perfect wedding weather.’

  She tickled his ribs, making him wriggle, then patted the space beside her. ‘Come and sit here a minute, Louis. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘But I need to get ready,’ he protested. ‘I’ve got to get me suit on, and Mammy has made me a butter knowle. I’m not sure what it is, but it sounds tasty and I’m starving.’

  ‘It’s a flower, you daft article,’ she laughed. ‘You wear it on your suit to show that you’re an important part of the wedding.’

  ‘I am,’ he beamed. ‘The most important part.’

  ‘Indeed you are. Even more important than the bride and groom, I’d say.’ She smoothed down his unruly hair and pulled him into her arms. ‘I want you to know that you’ll always be the most special little man in my life.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘I know, Jenny.’

  ‘We’ve been through a lot, me and you but we survived because we stuck together.’

  Almost two and a half years had passed since they’d said that final tearful farewell on the chaotic railway platform, but she could still remember her mother’s impassioned plea: At all costs, stay together.

  Louis pondered her words, a thoughtful frown on his face. ‘It’s a good job she did send us away, because we’d be dead otherwise.’

  ‘But it was so hard for her, Lou. It broke her heart.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘And we’ll never forget her, will we, eh?’

  ‘Never,’ he said, scrambling off the bed. ‘Now get up, Jenny. There’s still lots of chores to do even on your w
edding day.’

  She could hear Del stacking the crockery downstairs in the kitchen. The best willow pattern plates, which were normally just for show, had been taken off the dresser the day before and given a thorough soaping. Jenny gazed at her wedding dress hanging on the outside of the wardrobe, a creation she herself had designed and modified from Del’s own dress. The delicate veil was dotted with tiny rosebuds and was so sheer you could read the newspaper through it. She had always imagined she would wear her own mother’s veil on her wedding day, but that had gone up in smoke along with everything else their mother had held dear.

  This Christmas would see the second anniversary of Connie’s death, and today Jenny felt her loss more keenly than ever before. Having to stay strong for Louis had meant her own grieving process had had to be put on hold. Although he’d initially been devastated, he had proved to be the more resilient of the two of them. He spoke about Connie now and then but only in passing, and Jenny worried he could barely remember her. They hadn’t got a single photo to keep her memory alive. She would always be grateful to the Evans family, especially Del, who loved Louis as though he were her own flesh and blood. Jenny owed her everything.

  The hesitant tap on the door brought her back to the present. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  She pulled the eiderdown over her head. ‘No, it’s bad luck, go away.’

  ‘Please, I need to see you. I need to check you haven’t changed your mind.’

  She smiled at his teasing. ‘Come in then, but only for a minute. I’ve got to start getting ready.’

  He settled himself on the edge of her bed and pulled the covers off her face. Gazing into her eyes, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. ‘I love you, Jenny.’

  She paused, testing the words out in her head first. ‘And I love you too, Lorcan.’

  He cocked his head, a half-smile on his lips, his voice full of hope. ‘Do you really?’ He smelled of warm milk and cow dung.

  ‘Really,’ she said emphatically. ‘Why else would I have agreed to marry you, eh?’ She thumped him on the arm. ‘Now go on with you, I’ve got to make myself beautiful.’