The Memory of Lost Senses (27 page)

That’s about it. I think.

Cecily

Cecily,

Show-off! I had already surmised that you are without doubt cleverer than me. Did you perchance see the sunset yesterday evening? I wondered if you were outside . . . was half tempted to come over.

Jack

Jack,

Ha! I was not showing off . . . I was doing my very best to be honest! Yes, I did see the sunset. Mother says it means a storm . . . & almost 100 degrees today. Hard to believe we’re in England.

C

Cecily,

Are you free tomorrow? I thought you might like to come out . . . a picnic? Just a thought . . . if you are we could meet here . . . 11 o’clock?

J

Hitherto, the only letters Cecily had received had been from her cousins or Aunt Kitty. And so Madeline, witnessing the arrival of at least two of Jack’s letters, had asked, “Who are your letters from, dear?” And Cecily said, “Oh, just Annie. She’s testing the service for her father.”

“How very enterprising!” Madeline replied.

The first note had made Cecily tremble, more than was warranted by its sentiments, she thought. And she had spent hours thinking of her reply, then penning it, perhaps ten times over, before finally reducing it to little more than a sentence. But after that, it had been easy: a written rather than spoken conversation. Was he flirting? Possibly. But that possibility was the most exciting thing about it all. Jack Staunton was corresponding with her. He was not only writing sentences
to
her, he was thinking about her, and that thought alone altered her world, and her consciousness of it.

The evening she had written about her likes and dislikes—outside in the garden—she had felt as though she was sharing something of herself for the very first time. Because no one had ever asked before, because no one had ever focused her mind in that way. What did she want? What did she like? He wanted to know. He wanted to know about her, her thoughts, how she felt, what she saw, how she saw. He wanted to know.

And everything around her—the garden, its colors, the sounds, lack of sound, even the fly-filled air—suddenly seemed more real than ever, and inexorably linked to him: linking her to him, yards away, minutes away. It was an inevitability; it was fate. All of it. Everything. She saw her life flash before her, and she saw him, Jack Staunton, with her throughout. Yes, it would be; it had to be.

That night she had fallen asleep smiling, blissfully happy in the knowledge that she was worthy of his interest, inebriated by the possibilities ahead.

He organized the picnic, telling her he had put it together himself (this, she could believe): hard-boiled eggs, pork pie, cheese, bread and butter, apples, and ginger beer (nonalcoholic, he’d assured her, but after one mouthful she realized he’d lied).

They had lounged about on the rug on the sand, watching ill-clad bathers, the rigmarole of families and children and dogs. At one point Cecily thought she spotted Mrs. Moody paddling at the water’s edge and ducked down, lying flat upon the rug on her stomach. But no, it was not the village gossip, just someone who resembled her.

“So, what did you tell your mother? Where did you say you were going?” he asked.

“With Annie, of course—to Linford. She’s a brick, won’t say a thing,” she replied, turning over, sitting up, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“I don’t imagine you lie to her often—your mother, I mean.”

“Oh yes I do. Well, not often, but sometimes.”

He lay with his arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. “It’s a rotten business, isn’t it? Having to lie, especially when there’s no reason. But sometimes . . . sometimes it’s so much easier than telling the truth.”

She glanced at his legs, stretched out next to her, the shape of his bony kneecaps and slender calves through the fawn-colored fabric. His shoes looked expensive, and new; and she wondered if Cora had bought them for him. Above one navy blue sock was a patch of bare, pale skin covered in a down of dark hair. And she had an impulse to reach out and touch that patch of skin—which shocked her.

“I rather think my grandmother lies,” he said, pensive.

“No, surely not,” she replied. “She might not wish to divulge things about herself, her life, but that’s quite different to lying.”

She remembered Cora’s words of the week before: “I have never been a person to place too much store on truth,” she had said, as if declaring it to the world and not just to Cecily. “The truth is an enigma. I may say that I’ve never known truth. I have known great love, great pain and loss, but not necessarily truth.”

“You mean withholding the truth?” Jack asked her.

“Gracious, no. I didn’t say that. I really don’t know . . .”

He sat up. “But you see, I think you’re right, I think that’s exactly what she does. I think she offers people a rather sanitized, edited version of events in her life. The only one left to corroborate her version is Sylvia, and she appears to be sworn to secrecy on all things.” He paused. “I imagine Sylvia could tell me so much, but of course she daren’t; she worships the ground my grandmother walks on.”

Cecily smiled. “She is awfully fond of her, isn’t she?”

“Irritatingly so. I rather think poor Sylvia has spent her entire life hanging on my grandmother’s every word. She’s like a devoted pet, or some lady-in-waiting,” he added, kicking at the sand. “I’ve asked her, of course, about my father . . . and about the others.” He turned to her. “She knew them all, you see, she’s been around forever.”

“What did she tell you, what did she say?”

He looked out across the water. “Nothing. She answers each question with a question: what has your grandmother told you? Don’t you think you should ask her? And so it goes on. Good luck to her with the memoirs, that’s all I can say. I don’t imagine my grandmother has any intention of collaborating on that particular project, which may explain the tension between them,” he added.

“Tension? What do you mean?”

“I can tell that my grandmother’s becoming irritated by Sylvia’s presence. She’s been avoiding her. Yesterday, I found her in the garden, at the temple, and it seemed to me as though she was hiding. She asked, ‘Where’s Sylvia?’” He mimicked his grandmother’s clipped voice, and an exaggerated wide-eyed stare. “And then, later,” he continued, “Sylvia came up to me and implied that my grandmother was going potty.”

Cecily laughed. “What did she say?”

“That she was worried,
deeply worried
,” he said with exaggerated emphasis, “about my grandmother’s state of mind. She talks in riddles, that woman. She told me that
it
had happened before, and I had not a clue what she meant, whether she was referring to some former madness in the family or something else. I suppose I should sit down and have it out with her.”

“With Sylvia?”

He turned to her. “With my grandmother. I should just ask her outright about everything. You see, I’d rather like to know who I am. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “And I’m sure she’ll tell you everything you want to know, if you explain.”

He looked down, shook his head. “It’s a queer thing not to know about one’s family, where one comes from.”

“I’m sure there’s no great mystery, nothing scandalous.”

He moved forward, resting his chin on his knees. “But perhaps there was. Perhaps there was a scandal. Perhaps my grandfather’s death was not an accident.” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed again. “And I know—am very much aware—that the only reason she came back here is because of me, my situation. But I have this feeling . . . this . . .” He paused, staring down at the ground, then turned to her. “She talks around everything. Haven’t you noticed? She talks in anecdotes, the same stories over and over, but none of it’s real, not to me at any rate. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very fond of her, and I recognize that she’s . . . elderly, forgetful perhaps, eccentric most definitely,” he added, smiling. “But there are too many things she won’t discuss with me, so what am I expected to think?”

She nodded. What was he expected to think? It was perfectly reasonable that he should want to know about his family, his father and grandfather. Already, perhaps she, Cecily, knew more than he did. But Cora was wise; she would choose her time, know when it was best.

“I don’t suppose it’s anything sinister, you know. I imagine she’s simply being cautious, protective of you.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No.”

They had been there for an hour, no more, when he rose to his feet and said, “I’m bored of this place. Let’s move on.” His mood had changed. He was quieter, reflective, and Cecily wished she could tell him, tell him something. But she had promised Cora. So they gathered up the rug and half-eaten picnic in silence. As they walked back to the bike, Cecily yearned to reach out, to take hold of his hand, his arm, to offer a touch. She said, “It doesn’t really matter who our families were or are. I like to think we can be whoever we want to be.”

He glanced to her and smiled. “A romantic notion, I think.”

As he pulled on his goggles, he said, “I want to show you a place. It’s not far from here, only ten or so minutes away.” He climbed onto the bike, averting his gaze as she carefully climbed up behind him. Seconds later, they roared off down the road circling the perimeter of the pond.

They climbed up the sandy track hand in hand, through waist-high heather to the top of the hill. And all around them, as far as the eye could see, was heathland: an undulating purple landscape broken only by the shapes of birch and pine. In the distance was the small looking-glass pond, its bathers now almost invisible to the eye, its sailboats tiny white dots upon its sky-filled surface.

“This is where I wanted to bring you, where I’ve wanted to bring you for some time. Isn’t it glorious?” he added, staring up at the sky.

She watched him, his head thrown back, his pale throat exposed, his hand to his brow, as if searching for something above. “Glorious,” she said.

And then he lowered his head, and staring into her eyes, he moved closer. “I like to come here and look up,” he said, “look up at the sky and imagine I’m up there, looking down. Looking down on the world.”

“And what do you see?”

“Sometimes I see you. In fact quite often I see you, sitting alone, reading in your garden, writing your stories,” he replied. “I see Cecily, and I wonder what she’s thinking.”

She smiled. “Perhaps she’s thinking of someone called Jack Staunton, wondering what he makes of her.”

He lifted his hand to her cheek and moved closer. “What he makes of her . . .” he repeated, but his sentence petered out as his lips touched hers.

His kiss was achingly tender. So gentle at first that Cecily was the one to move forward, pressing her lips more firmly against his. And as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him, she could feel the world spinning, that vibration, and his heart, her own heart, their lips, that kiss: the moment. He spoke her name as no one had ever before said it, and she knew then and there that no one ever again would express it so.

“I didn’t plan that,” he said, looking at her with smiling eyes. “I didn’t bring you here to . . . to kiss you.”

And she couldn’t speak. Words deserted her. But she could feel a trembling. A wobbling sensation rising up from the ground through her feet to her legs, and up her legs to her body, her stomach, her chest, her arms and hands and fingers, and neck and head. Even her eyelids seemed to be not completely fixed. And her mouth, lips—still parted, but soundless, wordless—seemed to be caught in that vibration: quivering. For a moment she thought she might cry. She felt tears sting her eyes, as everything around her, already spinning, blurred more.

He reached out, took hold of her hand, lifted it to his mouth and placed his lips there, softly, lingering. And she thought she might fall over. For the earth seemed to be moving quite rapidly now, the sand on which she stood slipping away from under her feet. It must be heatstroke . . . must be the ginger beer, she thought, focusing on a tree, a single tree, trying to steady herself.

“I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage. It’s not why I brought you out today . . .”

And she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at his face, his eyes. But she could hear herself breathing, breathing loudly; or was it him? Everything seemed muddled, blended, too connected . . .

She felt him pull her toward him once more, his arms around her, his hands upon her spine, and she closed her eyes, lifted her face—her lips—to his again. And then her head spun, upside down and all around, and up and down again. And she thought, if he releases me I will surely fall. But he didn’t. And even when he moved his mouth away from hers, gently grazing her jaw, he kept his arms around her, and through half-closed eyes she saw his mouth curve upward at each side.

In time to come Cecily would revisit that moment, that perfect moment. She’d return to that place, that day, reversing the world on its axis, spinning it backward through sunsets and dawns, and sunsets and dawns and seasons. Sometimes she’d look down from the sky, see two small figures, together, entwined; feel his arms about her once more. And she’d see everything and everyone else, too: the bathers stepping out of the water, shivering and wet; the picnickers on the shore, gathering up rugs and baskets and children and dogs; and the lanes, sleepy and silent and dappled in light, waiting for them to pass through. Waiting for them to pass through once more, young and with hearts fit to burst; young and with lives still ahead; young and with kisses still wet on their lips. And their lips still trembling and damp from kisses; racing through lanes with lips damp from kisses; racing though lanes with skin still warm: his skin still warm.

Chapter Fourteen