The Forgetting(24)
‘Did the supermarket delivery come this morning?’ He gets up, walks towards the kitchen, gestures for me to follow. I notice how neatly his tie is knotted beneath his Adam’s apple, wonder if it stays that way all day or whether he periodically refastens it.
‘Yes, I put it all away. I hope everything’s in the right place.’ It had taken me nearly an hour to unpack the shopping, opening one cupboard and then the next to find the right home for the new supplies. I had studied each item in turn, wondered what they revealed about us, as though the goat’s cheese, dried porcini mushrooms and miso paste were clues in a riddle I was struggling to solve.
‘Great. There should have been a fish pie?’
I nod, go to the fridge, take it out from the top shelf, feel a perverse sense of pride that I can recall such prosaic details.
‘Why don’t we have an early dinner? I know you didn’t sleep well – you must be exhausted – and the fish pie will take a good hour to cook. Do you want to get the oven heated up and maybe make a salad dressing? I’ve got a few emails to deal with and then we’ll have a proper evening together.’ He smiles encouragingly before heading out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
The oven is easy to operate, and I find a small china jug in which to make a salad dressing. I manage to remember where I put the olive oil and red wine vinegar that arrived with the shopping earlier, feel a strange sense of achievement that I can recall the ingredients. But then the thought of mustard pops into my head, and something tells me that it is an acquired taste, and I have no idea whether Stephen likes it or not.
Heading upstairs, I hear music coming from our bedroom. As I step inside, Stephen’s eyes dart towards the door and he snaps closed the lid of his laptop.
‘You made me jump.’ Twin furrows line his forehead and then he smiles, wiping his expression clean as if erasing the screen of a child’s Etch A Sketch. ‘Is everything okay?’
I feel myself falter, like a child being given a responsible task and falling at the first hurdle. ‘Yes, I just wasn’t sure whether you like mustard in salad dressings.’ I hear the note of apology in my voice, wonder how many times we will have to go through this cycle of forgetting and contrition before my memory is restored.
‘I do. Thanks for checking.’
As I turn to leave, a different piece of classical music begins to play from Stephen’s phone: beautiful, spirited, and yet the sound of it grips me as if hands are tightening around my throat. I feel myself grab hold of the door handle as if all the gravity has been sucked from the atmosphere and I am at risk of spinning into the ether. It is such a powerful, atavistic feeling, as though the music is ingrained in every fibre of my being. Panic knocks at my ribs and I feel as though I cannot breathe, as though there is not enough air in the world to fill my lungs.
‘What’s wrong?’
My eyes are foggy and I blink to clear my sight, but I cannot seem to pull the world into focus. There is just this music, pressing down on me, squeezing my throat.
‘Anna? What’s happened?’
I try to find the words to explain how I feel, the inexplicable sense that this music is crushing me, even though I do not recall ever having heard it before. ‘What’s this music?’
Stephen glances at his phone, then back at me. ‘Schubert. The Trout Quintet. Why? You look dreadful.’
The music weaves between my ribs, tightens its fist around my heart. ‘Where have I heard it before?’
Stephen cocks his head to one side as though he does not understand the question. And then something alters in his expression and he picks up his phone, turns the music off.
The silence is abrupt, but I can still feel the vibrations of the cello, the hammer of the piano keys, the resonance of the violin, like the phantom sensation of an amputated limb.
I am not aware of him moving, but Stephen is standing beside me, rubbing his fingers gently across my forearm. ‘The doctor did say some strange things might trigger emotional responses. They’re not all going to mean something, but it must be horribly disorientating. But you are going to get better, you have to believe that.’
I open my mouth to respond but cannot locate the synapses in my brain to find the appropriate words. Even if I could, I’m not sure they would accurately convey my feelings.
Instead, I stand in silence beside Stephen while an echo of the music pulses beneath my skin, refusing to reveal when or where I may have heard it before, or why it has left me feeling so profoundly unnerved.
LIVVY
BRISTOL
‘So what’s the latest on the promotion? Any updates?’
Livvy’s mum, Hazel, sliced a loaf of bread. Next to her, Bea ate quickly, watching the clock until her lunch hour was over. Livvy’s dad, Robert, scrolled through the Times website on his iPad, while beside Livvy in her parents’ back garden, Leo sat in his bouncy chair, sucking on a rice cake.
‘No, I was supposed to be having lunch with Christian and Aisha next week, but Christian’s diary is manic, so I’m just popping into the office on Monday afternoon.’
‘Monday? You know that’s our National Trust day? We won’t be able to have Leo.’
Livvy speared some salad onto her fork. Since retiring three years ago, her parents had been volunteering two days a week at a local National Trust garden. ‘Don’t worry – I didn’t expect you to. I’ll take Leo with me. He was fine last time.’