The Memory of Lost Senses (17 page)

They followed the path of the stream, spoke of incidental things: the new bridge planned for the ford; the cricket teams’ fixtures for the forthcoming weeks; and the entertainments planned in the village hall. Then Cecily told him of her wish to travel, to visit far-flung places, see cities and live in them, perhaps. And he told her of his wish to live in the country, in a place such as Bramley, and be settled and happy. “It must be marvelous to belong somewhere. To live in a place where everyone knows who you are,” he said.

She spoke of her father, the last time she had seen him, or the last time she could recall. And he told her a little more of his, adding, “My grandmother speaks very highly of him, of course . . . And now there’s only me.” He shrugged. “I have no relations, no cousins, you see. Quite a responsibility . . .” He spoke of his mother, briefly. She had, he said, suffered from melancholia all of her life, had had that artistic temperament. But with each year her depression had grown worse. He knew, he said, but he was away at school. “What could I have done?” he asked. “She longed for someone who had gone. She became more and more reclusive, hardly venturing anywhere toward the end. She wanted to go back in time . . . to sleep, that was all.”

Eventually, they turned and slowly climbed back up the hill. And as he held back the branches on the steps once again, as she passed by him, he said, “I’m pleased you came today.”

The countess appeared to be dozing. Mr. Fox and Miss Combe—who had been on the point of leaving for at least an hour—were discussing a recent drowning in a nearby pond: the perils of bathers. Miss Dorland was quietly reading her notebook, and Sonia and Marjorie were nowhere to be seen. As Jack and Cecily sat down, the countess opened her eyes and smiled. “I’m afraid the Brownlow girls had to leave,” she said. “Their father’s chauffeur came to collect them.” She turned to Jack and said something to him in French.

He replied in English. “No, we went the other way, took the path down through the woods.”

The countess turned to Cecily. “You didn’t get to see my temple?”

Cecily shook her head. “Temple? No, I’ve not seen it.”

“I shall show it to you next time,” she said. She leaned forward and whispered, “It’s a very special place, a memorial to—” She stopped, turned toward the rector. “I’m sorry, what was that, the name you just mentioned?”

Mr. Fox appeared momentarily confused. He had been speaking about some new tenants at the farm on the edge of the village. “Ah, John Abel!” he said, remembering. “Yes, he and his family moved into Meadow Farm two weeks ago. Nice people, from somewhere in Suffolk, I believe. I was there earlier today and—”

“John Abel? Are you quite certain that was the name?”

“Oh yes, absolutely.”

“And you say they’re from Suffolk?”

“Yes, that’s what he said, that’s what he told me,” the rector replied, a little mystified. “A name you’re familiar with, ma’am?”

“I believe my aunt once knew someone of that name. But that was many, many years ago,” she replied, glancing away. And then she reached to the table and picked up her mother-of-pearl cigarette case. “Would anyone care for a small sherry?” she asked.

Chapter Eight

That night, Cecily dreamed of the Bambino Santissimo. She dreamed it came to Bramley, carried through the lanes and up the track to her house in a sedan chair, waited on by Mr. Fox and Jack Staunton, who said, “We have to get it back to Rome by teatime.” But the chair became stuck in the garden gate, and her mother said, “Expatriates always require a wide gate.” And when Cecily peered inside the chair, she saw that the doll was not a doll at all, for it was smoking a cigarette, and appeared to be . . . the countess.

When she awoke, she dismissed the dream, and then lay in her bed for some time, remembering the events of the previous day, working through it all once again, trying to recall the exact words and sequence of conversations. Had he said he was pleased that she came? Or had she dreamed that? No. He’d definitely said it: I’m pleased that you came. She could remember exactly where they were, could walk back to the very spot. And hadn’t he looked at her in a certain way? Had he not had that rather serious, concentrated look in his eyes? The same expression Walter had worn when he told her that she always made him laugh? She pictured Jack once again, standing in his white shirt, with that black smear across the front, holding back a branch. She could see the shadow of his beard, the line of his mouth, beads of perspiration glistening above his top lip. That beautiful lip . . . had it ever been kissed? she wondered.

She turned onto her side. The room was warm, already bathed in sunlight. A somnolent coo drifted in through the open window. She closed her eyes, took herself back twelve hours.

She had bid the countess goodbye at around six o’clock. Mr. Fox and Miss Combe had finally left, together, and the countess wished to go indoors, saying she felt the air becoming cool, though how—at around eighty degrees Fahrenheit—Cecily could not fathom. Jack said he would walk her home, and they had come by way of the eastern side of the house so that he could show her his motorcycle.

Around a gritted yard was a row of little cottages, a coach house and some stables; and connecting the main house to the coach house, another entire wing, less grand but easily as big as her own home, that Cecily had never seen.

“What’s in there?” she had asked, pointing.

“There? The game larder and pastry larder, lamp room and scullery, the china closet, and Mrs. Davey’s bedroom and sitting room. And the servants’ hall, of course,” he replied.

The yard led on to a lane, bordered on one side by a paddock, where a few rabbits sat about on the grass, and rotting hen coops and hutches butted up against a fence. On the other side was a pink brick wall, which Cecily already knew to be the wall of the kitchen gardens.

“And where does the lane lead to?” she asked.

“The cinder track? Down to the main road, eventually, at the very bottom of the valley,” he replied, pulling open the coach-house door.

Then he began talking about his motorcycle, mentioning all sorts of numbers and letters, and then more numbers, none of which meant anything to Cecily. Well, yes, she said, it looks marvelous. She had not known what else to say. I’ll take you out on it, he said, again. “But please don’t ask your mother, she’s bound to say no.”

They walked back by way of the house and the main driveway, and lingered there, at the top of the drive, before turning out on to the track. He said, “I meant to say to you earlier, I rather like your hat, what you’ve done with it—the flowers,” he added, gesturing to it in her hand. She had been embarrassed. But why? If anyone else, even Walter, had commented on any hat she’d worn, it would not have made her feel anything other than pleased to receive the compliment. She’d have smiled, said, “Thank you.” But instead, with him, she was momentarily speechless, quite unable to put together any words that made sense. She had stammered, said something disjointed and nonsensical about it being one of her sister’s hats, that it was Ethne who had attached the flowers, and that she didn’t particularly like it. And, just to prove it, she had pulled one of the roses out and thrown it into the rhododendrons behind her. He had stood back, hands in pockets, smiling, as though he knew, realized; so she had pulled out another and flung it across the driveway.

She shuddered as she recalled it.

They had sauntered down the track, stopping every once in a while, extending minutes . . . or had they? Had she been extending each minute while he had been wondering why she walked quite so slowly?

She turned over on her bed, her head in her hands.

“You know, you’ve hardly told me anything at all about yourself,” he said. “I’ve spoken about me and my family, added to which you’ve had to listen patiently to my grandmother, and to Mr. Fox’s ramblings—when he could get a word in edgeways—and to that awful Combe woman.”

She laughed. “There’s nothing much to tell,” she said. “I was born, I grew up, and here I am. That’s it, so far.”

He nodded. “Hmm. I like that. And it’s actually the from here I’m interested in.”

Had he said that? Was that what he said?

She turned onto her back, looked up at the sloping ceiling. And she could see them, there on the track, walking down the hill together, beneath that tunnel of branches.

“Where would you like to go from here, Cecily Chadwick? What do you wish for?”

She had pulled the last wilting rose from her hat and thrown it into the hedgerow. “I wish for happiness, of course. I wish for fulfillment, to do more with my life than simply marry, have children, grow old and then die. I want to see other places . . .” She stopped, looked at him. “And I want to write.”

She turned onto her stomach, buried her face in the pillow, moaning. “I want to write! Ugh! I can’t believe I told him that . . . I’ve never told anyone . . . no one knows.”

But what had he said? She turned onto her side once more.

“You want to write? You write?”

“Yes, I try to. It’s what I want to do, all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

It
was
what she wanted to do. It was what she wished for. She wanted to be remembered for being more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother, or someone’s daughter. She didn’t want to have to marry simply in order to validate her existence upon this planet. What good had that done her mother, or anyone else? Husbands made decisions, yes; they offered respectability, safety and, usually, a home, a lifestyle. But they also went away, they also died, leaving pale-faced widows and confused children, bereft and adrift; leaving a gap far bigger than if they had never been there. Marriage brought status, she knew that, but it also brought a sort of invisibility, anonymity.

“Do you allow anyone to read what you write?” he asked.

She shook her head, already rueful.

“Well, you must allow Sylvia to. It’d be good for you to get her opinion, wouldn’t it? She’s had perhaps as many as a dozen books published, I think.”

They reached the gate, and she hadn’t wanted to look at him, hadn’t wanted to in case he was quietly laughing at her. But she had—and he hadn’t been. He’d stood quite close to her, his eyes cast downwards, flicking the peeling paint from the gatepost. Then he’d looked up at her and said, “You know, you could call by tomorrow, bring some of your writing for Sylvia to read . . .”

“I’m not sure.”

“No, perhaps not . . . But you could call by anyway, if you’d like to.”

“Or you could call here,” she said, feeling bold.

“I could,” he replied, smiling back at her. “Should I?”

She nodded.

“Then I shall.”

They had stood there in silence, staring at each other, smiling. Neither of them had spoken for some time. And the queerest thing was she couldn’t now be sure whether that silence had lasted only a few seconds or some minutes. In her mind it was interminable. In her mind, it went on and on. And yes, she had been bold, forward in that look, which said, quite simply, she thought now, “I like you.” For surely that particular smile couldn’t have said anything more, could it?

She rose quickly from her bed, reached to the window and drew back the curtains.

“He started it . . .”

Yes, he started it. He had looked into her eyes, smiled, glanced away, glanced back, smiled some more; and then, finally, as she’d pushed on the gate, as the latch had dropped—clickety-click—he had slowly backed away.

It had been later that evening, as she sat with her mother and sister, that she said, “I’ve invited Jack Staunton to call on us tomorrow.”

And Ethne had smirked but said nothing.

“For tea?” Madeline asked, a note of mild alarm in her voice.

“Yes, I suppose so. I think I said around four . . .”

“I see.” Madeline put down her sewing, cast her eyes about the room, as if reckoning it from another’s perspective. Then she said, “I think perhaps it impolite not to also invite the countess. You said she’s very nice . . .”

Nice: it was not the best-chosen or most accurate word to describe the countess, Cecily realized. Nice meant . . . unthreatening, well-intentioned, amiable. The countess was amiable, but as for well-intentioned, Cecily wasn’t altogether sure, and unthreatening? The lady was formidable. She smoked cigarettes, took sherry in the garden, possessed ardent opinions on almost everything, and used words like
sex
without even noticing. What on earth would her mother make of it all, of her? But it was decided that Rosetta would deliver a note to Temple Hill the following morning, formally inviting all three—the countess, Miss Dorland and Jack—to tea, but not that day. It would appear a little hasty and ill-conceived to send an invitation for the very same day, Madeline said.

“But I’ve already asked him, told him to call by tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, dear. I shall explain in my note.”

“You must admit, it would be rather strange if he came to call here alone,” Ethne began. “People would assume you were courting,” she added, glancing at Madeline.

By midafternoon a date had been set, but not for tea at the Chadwicks’.