The Memory of Lost Senses (5 page)

When Sonia saw the girls, she flapped a hand about under her fringed parasol, beckoning them over to where she and a few others stood. Cecily glanced at the figures in the center of the field. She could see Walter, Annie’s brother, standing in front of the wickets, bat in hand, and she recognized a number of other familiar figures, but she could not see
him
. And the possibility of his absence, of his not being there, gave her a sudden pang, a quick and sharp sensation of loss.

Sonia was laughing, wobbling her head about in that affected way Cecily loathed. As the girls drew nearer she turned to them, wide-eyed, and asked, “Here to watch the match, are we?” And then quietly added; “Don’t worry, none of us gives a monkey’s about cricket, but perhaps we rather like certain
cricketers
 . . . hmm?”

Cecily whispered, “I think I’m going home.”

“Now? But we’ve only just arrived.”

Cecily turned, about to walk away.

“But, Cecily . . . Cecily,” Annie hissed.

She glanced over her shoulder, saw Annie’s nodding gesture and, beyond, a white-clad figure striding out across the pitch, rubbing a ball against his thigh. For a while all conversation stopped as the girls focused their collective attention on cricket, without any commentary. Then, with her eyes fixed ahead, Sonia said, “I don’t suppose you know Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Jack Staunton.”

“Yes, I’ve met him,” Cecily said. “I met him last week, very briefly, though I didn’t catch his name.”

It was true. She had crossed paths with him, literally crossed paths with him. He had been heading up the track when she stepped out through the garden gate and almost collided with him. And she had known, known immediately, who
he
was, even before he mentioned the word “neighbor.” But so unprepared had she been that she missed the name and then stumbled over her own, reducing it to
Silly
Chadwick. “Cecily,” she had said again, shaking his hand and looking downwards, too embarrassed to ask him to repeat his own, too embarrassed to say anything else at all. She had swiftly turned and walked on, cringing at the clumsy introduction. But at the bottom of the track, on the bend before the ford, she had glanced back, and caught him doing the same.

Sonia moved closer. “I was introduced to him the day he arrived.
She
invited us over . . . wanted him to meet some young people he’d have things in common with, I suppose.”

Annie said, “Is he her grandson then?”

“Well, yes,” Sonia replied, sounding vaguely amused. “But he’s only just finished at school. Because of all of his travels he’s a year or two behind—which must be rather odd,” she added, crinkling her nose. “He’s going up to
univarsity
in October. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“And is he really an orphan?” Annie whispered.

“Indeed he is,” she replied. “His father died
yars
and
yars
ago, when he was no more than a baby, and his mother”—she paused, looked around her—“committed
sewicide
 . . . only earlier this year,” she whispered.

“Suicide?”

“Sshh! Yes. Awful business, one imagines.”

“But how do you know all of this?” Annie asked, moving closer, narrowing her eyes. “Did
he
tell you?”

“No! My mother told me. She read about it in the newspaper. There was an inquest and it mentioned the name, said the old lady had returned to this country after a lifetime abroad. His father’s death was in the newspapers too, apparently. He died in a hunting accident, you know. He had just returned from South America.”

“South America,” Cecily repeated.

“Mm, thrown from his horse. Tragic really. Mama says the poor woman must be cursed for everyone around her to die in such tragic circumstances.”

Cecily was about to ask the name, the full name, for no one ever seemed inclined to refer to it, but Sonia continued, “To lose all of her children, and five husbands . . .”

“Five!” Annie repeated.

“I believe so.”

“And is she English?” Annie asked.

“Oh, I should say so. Old aristocracy . . . titled family scattered the length and breadth of Europe. You know how they all intermarry. She has a palazzo in Rome, and a château somewhere in France, I believe. And of course one can see from her manner and style that she’s from a very old family. Temple Hill is quite something, I can tell you. Wall-to-wall antiques and art . . . Though Papa says old families like hers always like to have their heirlooms on display, no matter how chipped or tatty, just to remind them of who they once were.” She laughed.

“And Jack, Jack Staunton, he has no brothers or sisters?” Cecily broke in.

“No, he’s the only one left.”

“So what happened? To the others, I mean,” Annie asked, leaning in once again, her eyes fixed on Sonia.

Sonia shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea but I believe they all died in quite tragic circumstances.”

“Golly, a curse . . .” said Annie, sounding excited.

“And what of the companion?” Cecily asked.

“The novelist?”

“She’s a novelist?”

“Oh yes. And one imagines she could tell you the whole story.” She threw back her head, and affected another, this time silent, laugh, then continued, “They’ve known each other forever, since they were girls in Rome.”

“Rome?”

“Yes, she grew up there with—”

“But I heard it was Paris,” Cecily interrupted.

“Paris and Rome.”

“Paris and Rome,” Cecily repeated quietly, trying to take it all in.

“Crikey, she gets about,” Annie said, not entirely untruthfully, Cecily conceded.

“She’s a peculiar sort though, awfully timid . . . scribbles away all the time.”

“Which one?” Annie asked.

“The novelist! Miss Dorland.”

“Dorland?” Cecily repeated. The name was vaguely familiar. Wasn’t there a Dorland in the village? Hadn’t she seen or heard that name somewhere recently?

“And is he Italian?” Annie went on.

“Jack? No! He’s more English than you or I, dear. Oh, but yes, I see . . . he does rather look
Latino
,” she added dreamily, staring across the field.

Then Annie said, “And so, what’s he like, Sonia? Do tell.” And Cecily wished she hadn’t; wished she hadn’t sounded quite so eager.

“Well,” Sonia began, without looking at either one of the girls, “he’s really rather charming, and quite different to anyone here, of course. You see, he’s traveled a great deal, like me . . . like us.” She glanced at Cecily and smiled. “And I told him Bramley’s really rather dull . . . perfectly suitable for a summer, perhaps, but not to spend one’s
entire
life.”

Cecily looked away. She longed to know more, wanted to ask questions, but it seemed to her that both she and Annie, particularly Annie, had indulged Sonia Brownlow long enough. And she resented the remark about Bramley. Despite her desire for new horizons, a desire growing ever stronger, Cecily felt inherently loyal and protective of this small world. She gazed out across the field, watched Jack Staunton run forward, describe an arc and release the ball.

Due to Mr. Cotton’s wagonette having overheated and breaking down en route from the rectory with scones, cakes, sandwiches, as well as the tea urn on board, there was only a very brief interval at 3:30 p.m., when the players filed into the pavilion for cold refreshments. Tea would be served after the match, Mrs. Moody informed everyone, circumnavigating the field with a megaphone as Miss Combe tried to keep pace holding a parasol aloft. And every so often, forgetting to remove the mouthpiece from her lips, and entirely forgetting her public-speaking voice, Mrs. Moody’s offside remarks reverberated through the sultry air: “This ruddy heat’ll have me yet . . . it’ll make us all go mad . . . as though I haven’t enough to do . . . well, I’m not carrying anything from that blessed motor . . .”

Minutes later, Mr. Fox, Mrs. Fox, Miss Combe and a few others could be seen weaving their way through the long grass of the rectory field in a crocodile formation, carrying trays and platters, with Mrs. Moody a few yards behind, bringing up the rear. And later still, inside the sweltering pavilion, laid out upon a long trestle table, were the plates of curling sandwiches, scones with dollops of melting cream on top and fat slices of cake that had been rescued and carried through the fields. Mrs. Moody stood poised with a knife behind her lemon meringue pie; Mr. Fox, his whiskers smeared with jam and cream, was already seated and tucking in.

The girls sat in a row on a bench outside the pavilion with their tea. Beyond them, on the far side of a densely wooded valley, the tall chimneys of Temple Hill rose up into the blue. And it was this vista Cecily was contemplating when Jack Staunton emerged from the pavilion holding a cup and saucer in his hand. Sonia quickly rose to her feet and invited him to join them.

He smiled. “Miss Chadwick.”

“Oh yes, you two have already met . . . and this is Miss Annie Gamben,” said Sonia, wafting a hand, “from the post office.”

He reached out and took hold of Annie’s hand. “Jack Staunton, a pleasure to meet you,” he said, and then sat down on the grass in front of her.

Annie said, “You played very well. I’m not sure we’d have won without—”

“
Remarkably
well,” interrupted Sonia, seated once more. “One rather thinks you were the man of the match, Mr. Staunton.” And as she arched her back and lifted her head up to the sun, he glanced at Cecily, smiling, and said, “It’s Jack, please, and I have to say it was a team effort . . . the whole team played well.”

“My, but it’s hot!” Sonia went on, tugging for a moment at the lace of her blouse, and then fanning her face with her hand. “Makes one think of the South Seas . . .”

“Or Southsea,” said Annie, “on a hot day. No different.”

“Southsea? Ha! Oh Annie, you do make one laugh. The South Seas are, I think, a tad different to Southsea. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. . . . Jack?”

“I’m afraid I really can’t say. I’ve never been—to either.”

Sonia laughed, as though Jack Staunton’s reply was the funniest thing she had ever heard, as though there was some private joke hidden in his response to her, Cecily thought.

“But I’d like to,” he added, quietly.

“Southsea or the South Seas?” Cecily asked.

“Both,” he replied. “But perhaps one is nearer, more accessible than the other.”

“And duller.”

“Hmm. Not necessarily, not if it’s where one wishes to be, not if the sun shines.”

“
If
the sun shines . . . that’s a condition.”

“A secondary condition. Happiness can’t be dependent on fine weather.”

“No. But it can be defined by a sense of
place
 . . . and . . .”

“People?”

“Yes, people,” Cecily agreed.

“Then we’re in agreement. Nowhere is dull, only people are dull.”

Cecily smiled, and Sonia, whose head had been turning from Jack to Cecily and back again, said, “One hasn’t the foggiest notion . . . what
are
you two on about?”

“Only the weather,” Jack replied. “So queer you should mention fog . . .”

Sonia laughed again, and for a few minutes they sat in silence before she started, “I must say, your grandmother’s a remarkable lady, Jack. It was such an honor to be invited to meet her . . . to hear about Rome and Paris and all. One could listen to her for
ars
and
ars
 . . . and one simply can’t wait to read the book, the memoirs. But”—she paused and frowned—“it must be unspeakably dull for her here.”

Jack looked at Cecily and smiled. And Annie, leaning forward, staring along the bench at Sonia, said, “Oh dear, one appears to have spilled some tea on one’s blouse, Sonia.”

Sonia glanced down at her frilled bosom, “No . . . really? Where?”

“Perhaps not,” Annie replied, sitting back, turning her face away. “It must’ve been a shadow.”

For what seemed to Cecily excruciating
ars
and
ars
, Sonia monopolized the conversation, determined Jack Staunton should understand the nuances of being Sonia Brownlow, determined to make the distinction between herself and the two sitting next to her. When, eventually, she rose to her feet, she said, “Well, my dears, I’m afraid it’s toodle-pip time
pour moi
. One has one’s pianoforte lesson at six.” She opened her parasol. Jack Staunton stood up. She extended a gloved hand to him. He took it in his. “So lovely to see you again,” she said, blinking. “I believe you and your grandmother and Miss Dorland are to dine with us tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” he replied.

Cecily watched him as he watched Sonia stroll off across the grass. She wondered what he made of her. She was handsome, yes; and she could certainly speak of things that neither she nor Annie—nor most in Bramley—had any experience of. Sonia wanted to impress, and she was impressive. How could she not be? How could anyone not be impressed by her knowledge, accomplishments, even her wardrobe? And Jack’s grandmother was obviously impressed too. After all, she had invited Sonia up to Temple Hill to meet him, her beloved grandson. Handpicked, Cecily thought. But then Sonia had a proper family, a mother
and
a father, and the requisite full complement of siblings. And the family had money, more money than anyone else in the parish. Mr. Brownlow’s seemingly endless pounds had funded the modernization and extension of the village hall, an extra classroom at the school, and the new cricket pavilion. Oh yes, the Brownlows weren’t short of a bob or two, or ten.

When Walter, Annie’s brother, appeared, he squeezed himself on to the seat and turned to Cecily. “My, my, you’re looking very fetching today, Cecily.” He placed his arm along the bench behind her, moved his head under her hat. “And we don’t usually see you here . . . do we?” he whispered, his mouth to her ear.

Cecily stared ahead, smiling, and said nothing. Walter liked to tease her. He was two years older than Annie and had recently celebrated his twenty-first birthday with a rumbustious dance at the village hall, which Cecily, her mother and sister had attended, and left long before its end. Cecily considered Walter solid and dependable, a brick: Annie’s big brother. And he was. He was easily over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and huge hands. Like Annie, he was fair-skinned, with mousy-colored hair and pale far-seeing gray eyes. His disposition, too, was like Annie’s, with a natural inclination toward happiness. Walter, Cecily thought, was innately kind; comfortable with himself and his lot in life, without pretension, malice, or ambition.