The Memory of Lost Senses (4 page)

Seven days after her arrival, Sylvia did indeed find herself “back on the train.” It was in fact her fourth train journey that week. The day-return to London had been arduous enough, the tube like a furnace, and now, less than twenty-four hours later, she was on board another, this time heading south. Of course it was an altogether different experience traveling with Cora. There were no filthy children or bare-bosomed women in first class. And the upholstered velvet seats, gilt-framed mirrors, oil paintings, polished brass, and mahogany paneling made it an altogether more enjoyable and aesthetically pleasing experience. But still, so much to-ing and fro-ing had left her feeling quite lackluster.

And she had had to tread carefully with Cora, for there seemed to be issues, new issues. Whether to do with Jack or something else Sylvia was not yet sure. But today her friend appeared more distracted than ever, and Sylvia could not help but wonder if it was related to a letter she had received in the morning post.

In anticipation of their day Cora had risen early, been at the breakfast table—in navy blue silk and smelling sweet with the fragrance of violets—by nine. She had pronounced it a “glorious” day, telling Sylvia that she was in fact an early riser at heart, and that the lack of a siesta was the root cause of many of the problems in England. “Tiredness! Fatigue!” she declared, raising her hands in that way she did. “It so interferes with one’s judgment . . . one’s ability to enjoy life . . . its simple pleasures.”

Sylvia watched her pick up the envelope, slice the pale yellow paper with a silver knife, pull out and open a single sheet—typewritten, it appeared from the reverse. She saw her wince, heard her gasp. And as Cora put the page back inside the envelope and the envelope inside her pocket, Sylvia tentatively inquired, “Is everything quite all right?”

At first Cora offered no reply. She stared straight ahead at the open window, and with such intensity that Sylvia, too, turned and looked in that direction. Then Cora rose up from the table and said, “We must make haste, Sylvia. Cotton will be here in a few minutes.”

Perhaps because of these matters, matters yet to be disclosed to Sylvia, they had made no progress on the memoirs. None whatsoever. Each time Sylvia mentioned it Cora shook her head. “Not now,” she’d say, “now is not the right time.” But when, Sylvia wondered, would it be the right time?

On board the train, Cora sat for some time with her eyes closed. She was not sleeping, Sylvia could tell. She watched Cora’s breathing, watched her lips part and move, saw the flicker of a smile. And Sylvia knew she was remembering, knew she was back there with
him
. She was always back there with him:
George Lawson . . . Lord George Lawson.

Sylvia had been there when they very first met, when they were introduced to each other at Mrs. Hillier’s palazzo apartment on the Pincio hill in Rome, so many years ago. They exchanged few words that night, Sylvia remembered, though it had been enough for Cora; enough for Cora to change who she was or had been, enough for her to forget what came before and look forward. She had been beautiful, then, young and beautiful, Sylvia thought, studying the lined face opposite her. And he? Yes, he was handsome, and exceptionally talented, that was undeniable, but he was also conceited, and selfish. He did not deserve her love. Had never deserved her love. That had been proven by his actions. He had been put to the test—and failed. And yet, when Cora finally took her revenge, and it
was
revenge, Sylvia was in no doubt about that, she had actually felt sorry for him. “Him!” she said out loud, and then quickly raised a finger to her lips. But Cora did not look to her, did not hear her.

And to think she had allowed Cora to take him back—after everything, after everything he had done to her; to think she had allowed Cora to nurse him through his final days . . .
and to think what he knew about Cora
 . . . But she tried to push that thought away. After all, he had spoken to Sylvia in Paris about
that
matter. And he had been the one to bring it up, not she. She would never have done that. Would never have mentioned it. And it was not the right occasion, a wedding: Cora’s wedding. Oh yes, he had quizzed her, and just as though
she
were guilty, as though she had committed the crime! None of it was how it should have been, not in her mind; not the way she had envisioned or written it.

When Sylvia lifted her satchel, slamming it down upon the table between them, Cora opened her eyes. Sylvia smiled at her. Then, pulling out her notebook and pen, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking . . . we could change certain names if you wish . . .”

“Hmm. It’s an idea. But then it’s not the truth, is it?” Cora replied. She opened a small mother-of-pearl case with two intertwined silver Cs upon its lid, slipped a cigarette into an ebonized holder. Sylvia looked on as a liveried guard swiftly appeared with a match. She watched Cora tilt her head, release a plume of smoke toward the lacquered ceiling of the drawing room carriage. “
Grazie
.” She looked back at Sylvia. “Well, we can think on it, can’t we? It’s not as though we’re in any rush.”

“No, but I rather thought now might be a good time to make some notes.”

Cora frowned, raised her hand to her brow. “But I’m still not altogether sure where to begin,” she said.

“At the beginning, of course. We must begin at the beginning. It’s what I came down here to do . . . the beginning.”

“But I’m not sure, not sure it’s relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Sylvia repeated, attempting a smile.

“Yes. I think we should simply begin at Rome.”

Sylvia tried to laugh. “But if we are to write the truth—”

“Sylvia!” she snapped. “If you had any real notion of how life can be . . . if you had had children, for instance, a husband, or husbands,” she went on, in a terse, hushed voice, and leaning forward now, “homes to run, others to think of, you would understand how exhausting it can also be.
Exhausting
.” She turned her head away, and Sylvia watched her as she gazed at her reflection in the carriage window, puckering and pursing her lips.

Morning coffee was served.

The sight of starched linen and polished silver appeared to assuage Cora’s nerves, and she smiled benignly to the young waiter as he bowed and disappeared off down the carriage. Earlier, the stationmaster himself had helped her to board the train, and Sylvia had seen him whispering to the guard as though he knew a secret. Oh, it was plain enough to see that Cora was someone, or had been, once. And though men had always been dazzled, as much by the enigma as by any reality, there had only ever been one who had dazzled Cora.

Sylvia knew that in Cora’s mind it had been a Great Love Affair. She knew that in Cora’s mind it still was, for she had not been able to let him go. But what niggled Sylvia more than anything else was, why? Why did she hold on to him? And, more importantly, why did she hold on to her secrets? After all,
the beginning
, that part of her story she would not speak of, happened long, long ago. Everyone involved would surely be gone by now. And she owed
him
nothing. Nothing. He had broken promises: promises of marriage, children and that bohemian gypsy life Cora had described to her all those years ago: “
We will move around, he says; live like gypsies. Spend winters here in Rome, spring in Paris, and summers . . . oh, I’m not sure now where he said we would spend the summer . . . but I’ll be back each year, so I’ll still see you
.” Then he abandoned her. Left her high and dry in Rome. And all because of
circumstances
, circumstances so appalling and shocking as to be unbelievable, circumstances Sylvia had waited over fifty years for Cora to confirm. But patience seemed to count for nothing, and now Sylvia was determined.

Before coming down to the country, in anticipation of the weeks ahead, Sylvia had gone through some of their early correspondence, archived, and filed in chronological order in various numbered shoeboxes at her flat. It had been a time-consuming process due to the sheer volume. And confusing, because of the crossings out: corrections made at earlier dates in Sylvia’s own hand. She had half-wondered whether to bring the letters with her to the country. But no, there were too many of them, and Cora would have reacted badly, for she had long ago asked Sylvia to burn them. Why? Because Cora’s tales from overseas (commentaries spanning half a century) had been illuminated by observations others would have had neither the courage nor inclination to put down on paper, and because of the names involved.

Sylvia wanted Cora to elucidate, she wanted to hear her final version, and from her own lips, face-to-face and in person.
Not
the stories around the Story. That was what Cora was good at, had always been good at, deflecting, detracting. Even now, so many of her sentences began, “You know, I had a dear friend in Paris who once told me . . .” or, “My friend, so and so, in Rome used to say . . .” and continued by way of a circuitous route of name-dropping and digressions to a startling revelation. From a peccadillo to a double life, her tales of scandal had always been littered with abandoned wives, illegitimate children, lunatic asylums, mistresses, lovers, murders and duels. Sylvia had heard them all before and, even when they were fresh, even when they were new(s), nothing, no matter how scintillating, had ever been able to compare to Cora’s own and yet-to-be concluded story.

“I do hope Jack enjoys his cricket,” Sylvia said at last.

Cora said nothing. She appeared to be deep in thought, and continued to stare at the pane of glass, transfixed by her own image.

“It’s so nice that he’s able to join in with the other young people,” Sylvia persevered. “Lovely that he’s made a few friends . . .”

Silence.

Sylvia lifted her cup, looked down into it. “I believe he’s rather taken by a certain girl in the village.”

Cora turned to her.

Sylvia took a sip. “I must say, this coffee’s really very good.” She placed the white china carefully back upon the saucer, lifted the napkin to her mouth. “Yes, awfully good,” she said again. She looked up at her friend, smiling. “You haven’t tasted yours.”

Cora sighed. “Well . . .”

“Well?”

“Are you going to tell me? And don’t, for heaven’s sake, ask
what
. You know perfectly well
what
.”

“He mentioned two names . . . but the hesitation before the second gave him away.”

“And the name?” Cora asked.

Chapter Two

Cecily remained indoors. Spread out on the long, blue-cushioned window seat in the square bay of the parlor, she was immersed in her new novel,
Zuleika Dobson
, which had arrived in the post the previous day. The summer curtains were drawn halfway across the open window, shading the room, Cecily and the book from the glare of the afternoon sun. And but for the distant sound of Rosetta’s singing, all was quiet.

When the doorbell rang Cecily jumped, dropping the book to the floor. It seemed unnecessarily loud and whoever it was, they were of determined character, she thought, pushing the book beneath the cushioned seat.

“I’ll get it, Rosetta,” she said to the maid in the hallway.

She turned the brass handle, pulled opened the door. “Annie—”

“There’s a cricket match on the green this afternoon and
he’s
in it, he’s bowling, Walter just told me,” Annie said rapidly, clutching the handlebar of her bicycle. “I thought I should come . . . come and tell you.”

“I’ll get my hat.”

The girls cycled slowly down the track, through the shallow ford and up the hill on the other side, moving in and out of the shadows of overhanging hedgerow and trees. At the newly gated entrance to Mount View, where the road widened and the sky suddenly seemed bigger than ever, they passed the rector, Mr. Fox, wobbling back toward the village on his bicycle, and Stephen Burrows, emerging from a field with a reap hook in his hand. They parked their bicycles under the trees by the steps down to the village hall and walked up the pathway toward the green. The match was already under way. Languorous halfhearted shouts and desultory clapping drifted through the air. Barefooted children zigzagged about with hoops and people stood in huddles. A group of young men raised their boaters, smiled and nodded to the girls as they passed. “Too hot for cricket, eh?” one of them said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Hottest day so far, I reckon.”

In the middle of the green the yellowing grass turned to molten silver, the players blurring into the pool of liquefied metal: like a mirage, Cecily thought. Only a few wore white flannels; the majority were in their usual working clothes, with shirtsleeves rolled back and braces exposed. And beyond them, at the other side of the field, clear and solid, and dazzlingly white, stood Bramley’s new pavilion.

“Oh cripes,” said Annie, “look who’s here . . .”

Sonia Brownlow stood out that day, but for none of the reasons she would perhaps have wished to. In a broad-brimmed, top-heavy hat, tight-fitting frilled blouse, and skirt, tightened further by a broad belt, she resembled a great white galleon about to set sail. Sonia lived with her parents, brothers and sister at Mount View, the biggest and newest house in the village, situated opposite the village green. Mr. Brownlow had made his money in shipping, enough for his family to live in deep-piled comfort, with every modern convenience and luxury and a dazzling array of new, gilt-edged furnishings. Sonia had been born in Rangoon and, as she liked to remind people, had traveled the world. And to Cecily and Annie she had made some bold claims: she had swum with giant turtles in the Pacific, shot wild boar in Africa, and learned to ski at St Moritz. And she could, she had told them, if she wanted—though not to them—speak half a dozen languages.