The Memory Game

Twenty-Five

I rang Caspar. I thought about him all day and then in the evening I rang him.

‘It’s Jane. Will you meet me at Highgate Cemetery on Sunday?’

‘Yes. What time?’

‘Three o’clock, by George Eliot’s grave.’

‘How will I find it?’

‘It’ll be the one with me standing next to it at three o’clock.’

‘All right. I’ll be the one carrying a copy of Daniel Deronda with half of the pages unread. Uncut, in fact.’

That was it, two dozen words, and the most erotic phone conversation I’d ever had. I baked two Madeira cakes, three loaves of brown bread, and a plain sponge cake for the freezer. I drank four glasses of red wine, smoked eight cigarettes, listened to unromantic Bach. On Saturday I cleaned the house from top to bottom. Really cleaned it, taking books off shelves and washing them down. I put up some pictures that had been standing in my study for months, I tore down posters of old churches that Claud had left curling on the walls. I stuck photographs from the last year into the photo album. They were all of buildings, except for one of Hana with a cloche hat obscuring her face. In the afternoon, I went to Hampstead and bought a coat. It didn’t cost anything. I just paid for it with a credit card. I pushed all thought of Natalie out of my mind. This was my weekend.

In the evening I made a rice salad, and ate it with half a bottle of red wine left over from not that long ago. I pulled a box down from the attic, lit a candle, and browsed through Claud’s love letters to me. Almost all of them dated from the year before and the year after our marriage. After that, nothing except the odd postcard from a conference: ‘Missing you.’ He probably was.

The letters were in meticulous script. On some, the ink had faded. ‘My sweetest Jane,’ he wrote, ‘you were lovely in your blue dress.’ ‘My darling, I wish I were with you tonight.’ The earliest letter was dated October 1970 – a few months after Natalie had disappeared. Odd that I’d forgotten it: it was a kind, grown-up letter saying how the family was holding together. ‘She’ll come home,’ he had written, ‘but of course nothing will ever be the same again. The first part of our life is over.’ He was right. I thought of him in his tidy flat, with his books about churches and his correspondence arranged alphabetically. I wondered if he still hoped that I would change my mind and if he’d walked through the door at that moment, the evening before my date with Caspar, I believe that I would have let him stay. I’ve never been good at partings.

He was there on time, but so was Fanny, hair in wild curls around her face and wearing jeans about two sizes too big for her wiry little frame. She uncurled her gloved fist to show me the stones she’d collected while they’d waited. Her face was blotchy with cold and smudged with dirt.

‘The friend she was going to spend the day with is ill,’ explained Caspar.

‘I’m glad to see her again,’ I lied. ‘Come this way, Fanny, and I’ll show you an obelisk with a dog’s snout set in it. The dog was called Emperor.’

‘What’s an obelisk?’

‘A pointy thing.’

We wandered off the main gravelled path. Brambles caught at our legs.

‘Have you noticed,’ said Caspar, ‘how many children are buried here. Look, little Samuel aged five here, that’s the same age as Fanny, and there’s a baby of eleven months.’ We stopped at a family gravestone: five names, all under ten. On some neat gravestones there were flowers. Most were overgrown with nettles and ivy; moss sank into the lettering, obscuring it.

‘Look at that,’ I said. A few yards away, through a thicket of trees, a headless angel stood guard over a buried slab. ‘We’ve forgotten how to mourn, haven’t we? How to remember. I’d like a monument like that. But people would say it was kitsch, or morbid.’

Caspar smiled. ‘Morbid? To be planning your funerary sculpture at the age of forty? The thought never entered my head.’

‘I’m forty-one. Look.’

Four dreamy pre-Raphaelite heads clustered mournfully in a circle of stone.

‘Where are the pets buried, Jane?’ Fanny ran back from her detour through a line of toppled graves.

I pointed up the path. ‘There. A bit further on.’

She rushed off, her scarf trailing its fringes behind her.

‘Come here, Jane.’

I made my way through the thickets to where Caspar stood. I walked very slowly. Nothing would ever again be as good as this moment. I stopped a foot away from him and we looked at each other.

‘Plain Jane Crane,’ he said. With one forefinger he traced my lips. Carefully, as if I were precious, he cupped the back of my skull. I took off my gloves, dropped them among the nettles, and slid my hands under his coat, jersey, shirt. He smelt of wood smoke. I could see my face in his eyes, and then he closed his eyes and kissed me. So many layers of clothing; we leant into each other. My body ached.

‘Caspar! Caspar, where are you? Come and see what I’ve found. There you are. Why are you hiding? Jane, Jane you’ve dropped your gloves. Come on. Hurry.’

When I found myself in my remembered world again, the first stones of Cree’s Top hard against the curve of my spine, I felt cold and afraid. As soon as I had mounted my bike and free-wheeled down Swain’s Lane leaving Caspar and Fanny holding hands on the pavement, the kiss in the cemetery had seemed like a dream and I was returning to what was real. The holiday was over and I was going back to school.

Alex and I hardly spoke. We made no eye contact. I lay on the couch and as he spoke the ritualistic few words, I felt the room slip away from me and I was back where I had to be. The surface of the River Col on my left rippled sickeningly, as if it were thick oil rather than flowing water. It moved heavily away round the bend. I stood and turned, shivering a little in my gym shoes and thin cotton dress, black like the one that Natalie had worn so often that summer. The breeze blew it back and it outlined my firm young body, the body I had given to Theo just the day before, caressed and peeled and finally penetrated out in the shadowed woods with the laughing and the music of the party humming in our ears. I had taken my notebook, with my silly girlish fancies and fantasies, and ripped them from the book one by one. Their childish illusions repelled me now and it was with a sense of burnt bridges that I’d screwed them up and tossed them one by one into the water where they’d lost themselves in the broken surface of light and ripples which disguised where air ended and water began. I was a woman now, wasn’t I?

I turned round to face Cree’s Top. A wave of dread flowed through me and I felt giddy, so that my legs would scarcely bear me. The elms on my left swayed and tipped, or it might have been that they were still and I that was swaying. I began to make my way up the narrow and steep path that was familiar and so long lost. I could see the sludgy water of the stream down through the bushes to my right but this time I made an effort not to look anywhere but up the path, this path of my own shuttered mind. Branches brushed against me, snagging my dress, thorns against the flesh of my bare arms and calves, as if I was being held back. I strode through them unheeding. I was now directly on the summit of Cree’s Top, though the visibility was obscured in all directions by the thick gorse bushes that covered it. The peak was very small and after just a few steps I began to descend.

I stopped and listened. Now I knew. Movement was visible through the bushes ahead, glimpses of something. Sounds also, muffled and indistinct. It was there. It was there. Things I had buried in my own mind for a quarter of a century and all I had to do was step forward, through the barriers I had erected for myself. When I opened my eyes and blinked, unseeing at first, at Alex, it was not with the fear of before but with an icy resolve. It was there. But I wasn’t quite ready. Not quite.