Remember Me (25 page)

At first, Hewitt doesn’t touch me. But every day he creeps closer. Edging up to the couch, his tongue curling over his lip, his hands fondling the air around me. The nights are the worst,
with the darkness so thick, the airless heat, the dead animal odour of leather. Even if I can’t see him, I can tell when he’s near. Like a hound disguising his scent, Hewitt covers
himself in the smell of his trade: a leather tape hanging round his neck, a leather jerkin with laces at the front, a pouch slung low at his belly where he keeps his darning hooks, a chamois cloth,
a sharp crescent blade. The creaking, stinking scent of him in the blackness.

I know it’s not your first time, he whispers, every time. In the mornings, he pretends nothing has happened, bringing me tea, or a piece of gossip from downstairs. I never show my face
down there: Alice still serves in the front of the shop. Alice would betray me. Hewitt brings me gifts from his mother’s room: trinkets, old gazetteers showing distant places where there are
purple mountains, violent sunsets, the aching space of a shoreline. Then he talks freely, about business, the beauty of his art. But mainly, about love.

See these here, he says, pulling open his box of tools, Guess what we call them?

He knows not to wait for a reply.

We call them St Hugh’s Bones, he says, with a look of mock astonishment, Fancy that!

I don’t want to see. When I think of bones, I picture a comb like the one my mother had, a thin hair hanging from it. But there are no bones inside his box, just tools
– blades, little wheels, wooden handles.

Who was St Hugh? I say, sensing a catch.

Ah. Funny you should ask that. He was a shoemaker, too, says Hewitt, warming to his story, Who fell in love with a beautiful girl! And guess what her name was? I’m no good at this game;
the look in his eye gives me a tight feeling in my stomach. Hewitt goes on, oblivious,

Her name was Winifred! he says, triumphant, Now, what do you think of that?

I could tell him that Winifred is not my name; I could tell him that I’m no one, not a beautiful girl, certainly not the sweetheart of a shoemaker. I speak very little,
but I make noises, to try to seem impressed. It’s easier not to provoke a reaction. It’s easier to move out of reach, inch back to the window where there’s a little more daylight
and a little less of him. He can suck the air away in a second. In equal measure, he oozes charm and rage; promise and threat come in one breath.

I’ll make those shoes for you one day, he says, stroking a long strip of hide, When I’m sure you’re not going to run away in them!

~ ~ ~

It was a close evening, summer on the way. I was in the workroom on my own, with nothing to do except look at the book Hewitt had given me; he said it once belonged to his
mother. Inside were poems on glossy paper, and printed colour plates of wide skies, mounds of silver sand, wildlife. I didn’t care much for the poems, but I liked the pictures of the birds,
their colours and their strange names. Avocet, bearded tit, shelduck, plover. I recited the words under my breath, as if I could cast a spell to take me away from the thoughts in my head, the smell
of skinned beasts: oystercatcher, garganey, tern. Pinpricks of light through the blackout, falling like sparks on the floor; not a breath of air in the room. Shingle bank, sand sedge, grey-hair
grass. Everything remained as it was.

Sometimes I could put myself right inside the photographs, move through the salt air, hear gulls cry. Picture a room full of dead hide, and empty it. Fill it with a clear shorelight. I wished
for a life that wasn’t mine. No Hewitt. No stink. Walk all day, with nowhere to get to and no one to think about. Turn round, walk back, as the night sank down at my feet. No hot, darkened
room. No other time. No me.

But the spell wasn’t working. I couldn’t stop the people in my head: Bernard and Jean; my mother and my father; my grandfather, bent like a scarecrow under the stairs. Mr Stadnik was
worst, catching me when I least expected it, his bare arm in the rainlight and his eyes full of grief. And Joseph, always Joseph, winging his way across the fen sky, soaring like a plane above
me.

I rolled up the blackout, opened the sash, just a crack, to let the breeze in. The smell of leather was making me choke; it lingered on my skin last thing at night, it steamed off the tea Hewitt
brought me in the mornings. The air outside was so sweet. I could hear people passing on the street below, a child laughing, one man talking to another.

Hewitt was in his office, doing his accounts. I’d never been allowed in there, so it took me by surprise, him poking his head round the door and calling me inside. I thought he was going
to be angry with me for opening the blackout.

I think it’s about time, he said, his arm trailing in my wake, That we gave you something to occupy yourself. You seem quite rested, much better now.

Inside, the room was cool. A chair and a leather-topped desk, a lamp, a blotter with tiny figures scribbled all over, and his pen, lying on the accounts book. A square of open
window on the far side of the room with the sun angled across it.

I’m a busy man, he said, Busier all the time, now that things are picking up again. Only the dead and the dead poor have no need for shoes. He laughed, as if this fact was funny.

I’ve been thinking of getting in help, anyway, but why look any further, he said, his eyes twinkling and his head on one side, When we’ve grown so fond of each other? Dark green
flock paper, and all around the walls, gilt-framed pictures of people in various poses, crammed side by side, above and below. Faces everywhere, smiling, grim, staring out at me; a gallery of
watchers.

The Hewitts go back a long way, he said, following my gaze, This here is my grandfather, he set the business up. As you can see, the outside looked very much the same. He pointed to a fat man
wearing a chain.

And here he is as Lord Mayor.

A band of light from the window cut the picture in two. Below was a long photograph, a line of people on the pavement in front of the shop.

I’m thinking, Winifred, about a partnership. You and me, if you understand what I’m proposing.

The long photograph was hard to make out, I had to bend, shield the glass from the sun.

It’s been very difficult for me – to trust a girl again, he said, leaning in, trying to get my attention, But you’re very special. We’d make a good pair – he took a
snort of air at this joke – And you would be accepted here, as my wife. The people in the photograph were standing in a row, one of them with his hand up, shielding his eyes from the glare. I
could feel Hewitt waiting for my answer.

That’s me, he said, stroking the line of hair across his head, Much younger then, of course. We’re going back – oh, must be eighteen years! So I understand that you might find
me a little . . . mature.

Next to him, a woman with her arms folded across her chest. Hewitt pointed his thumb at her.

That’s my mother, he said, God rest her. At the end of the line, there was one more woman, almost edged out of the picture. She wore an intense look on her face, a high-necked blouse with
a frill, and her crowning glory, a nest of thick black hair.

And that, I said, putting my finger on the glass, Is
my
mother.

~

Hewitt was quiet after that. He hummed a little to himself, as if there were a tally in his head he couldn’t quite make add up. He puffed his cheeks out. His face went
pink, pale, pink again. We studied the photograph for a few more seconds, his eyes sidelong, looking at me in a new way.

Of course, that’s not your real hair, he said, matter-of-fact, You don’t have your mother’s colouring.

I told him it belonged to Bernard’s wife.

And what is so awful about your real hair?

My grandfather said it was Telltale.

Albert Price. I remember him. Scary old devil. So – you stole the hair from a dead woman? he asked, getting close to his meaning.

They gave it to me, Jean and Bernard. They said it made me look exotic.

No, no. You stole it, he cried, triumphant, as if solving the puzzle, So, Jean Foy was right after all! You’re nothing but a thief. You must understand, Winifred – whatever you call
yourself – this alters
everything.

~ ~ ~

He said no more about a proposal, nothing about the picture in the office with my mother squeezed into the corner of the frame, nothing about my telltale hair; nothing about
anything. He took me by the elbow and levered me out, finger and thumb, through the door of the office, as if I might infect him. Back to the workroom and the high stink of leather.

He had me down as a thief: it suited Hewitt, all of a sudden, to leave me entirely alone. So stealing the bread, ripping out the colour plates of the birds; these were easy things. I stole the
useful and useless, all thrown in my case: a pair of shoes a size too small, a square of muslin, a polished silver buckle, a cube of chalk. A handful of nails. A toothbrush. His mother’s
beaded gown, loosed free from its sheath and smelling of stale perfume. I stole the small money Hewitt kept in a pot on the mantelpiece. I stole one of his bladed tools, and put it in my pocket. I
stole his back-door key, threading it on a shoelace tied round my neck. If I laid a hand on a thing, I stole it: I was nothing but a thief, after all. When I had filled my case, I hid it under the
couch and waited for a pause in his evening routine, calculating enough time to slip away without another confrontation. Hewitt spent an age on the telephone in the hallway. I couldn’t hear
what he was taking so long to say, but I could feel his look, burning through the wood of the door.

He had summoned Jean: she was always there before me. Both of them, thick with it, loaded me and my case into a cab and sat close on either side of me, in silence, in sunset, until we reached
Chapelfield. I thought they were taking me back to my grandfather’s house. I thought Hewitt simply wanted rid of me. I was a fool. We were going to Bethel Street House.

She needs to understand the value of property, said Hewitt, To respect other people’s possessions.

He smiled sadly, trying to charm the Sisters,

She has no family, you see. We tried our best, both of us. But her stories – very damaging, he added, in a knowing whisper, Damaging to a man of my position, who only wished to help. You
do understand?

Jean gave him a sly, knowing look; she understood well enough, but she wasn’t about to take my side.

For a short while, just until she gets herself right, she said, showing the Sisters the mark on her hand where I’d bit her, She’s normally very placid.

~

A short while, she had said, handing my case to the Sisters. A short while, which would not be short at all: not a week, or a month, or a year, but forever.

It remains this way forever. This is how it is.

Robin had summoned a devil, but still I followed him. He led me down the steps and through a run of stalls selling watches and gold chains, secondhand records, drawings of
cartoon dogs in pink frames, until we were at the far end of the market, near the food stalls. It was packed with people, all of them eating: mushy peas out of plastic bowls, chips, hot pork
sandwiches. Robin was moving too quickly for me, I had to grab him by the coat.

I’m not a thief, I said, through the steam and stink of fat, She’s the thief.

He ducked under an awning, pulling me with him out of the way of the crowd.

What are you on about? he said. He looked impatient, glancing over the heads towards the Guildhall and the trees.

She’s the thief, not me.

The pain in my chest was mighty now, but I had to tell him. I was pushing the words out, noise by noise.

They put you away for it, I said.

I thought at last he would understand me, but he just stared.

She only wants to talk to you, he said.

She stole my stuff.

He folded my hand into his, and led me on.

Just a friendly chat, he said, pulling me behind him.

On a wall under the tree, a brace of old men were sitting side by side, getting themselves a suntan. There was burning, down my throat, in my chest, as if I had taken lye. I
couldn’t see past a gang of boys, blocking the pavement. I couldn’t tell anything for the burning, and the words, spinning from my mouth. Robin pointed to where the two old men sat,
someone bending over in front of them. It was her, not as young as I’d remembered her, but the same girl – a woman, if I’m true – crouching now at one of the old men’s
feet, pulling something from a folder. A piece of paper. Crouching down. It was her, but older, much older than I’d thought.

I was just wondering, she was saying.

The first man was wearing a red neckerchief. I’d seen him around. He was shaking his head, and the one next to him just kept giggling to himself, as if he really
did
know but wasn’t about to say. Robin stood in front of me, coughed and bowed, as if he were a magician and I was the trick.

Ta-ra! he went, This is the lady you’re wanting, I think. He put his arm round my shoulder, just like she had, that first time.

You remember, he said to her, We spoke the other day. Told you I’d find her.

She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Still staring at me, she nodded.

Can we go somewhere, she said, ignoring him, For a chat? I wasn’t having no preamble.

Give me back my stuff, I said, Give it back.

She looked at Robin.

What did she say? she asked.

Give it back!

I can’t . . . can you ask her to calm down?

I told her I was calm. I told her to give me my stuff back. The laughing man’s mouth was black and wide, the neckerchief man was clapping. Pigeons doing their dance all
around us. The words spinning like a top. I told her, and I told her again. Robin pulled me tighter into him.

Steady on, Win, he said, You’re not making any sense. He turned to the girl.

She thinks you’ve stolen her stuff, he said.

Is there somewhere we could go? the woman repeated, as if I were deaf, and looking at Robin – Perhaps if you came too?