A Traitor to Memory

Webberly lifted his head from the pillow, then sank back down with a groan. It had been a rough night. He ached in every joint in his body, which was secondary to the ache in his heart.

“I've brought you some nice Earl Grey,” Frances said. “Milk and sugar. It's piping hot.” She went to the window and opened the curtains. The limp light of late autumn filtered into the room. “All grey and nasty today, I'm afraid,” she went on. “It looks like rain. There's to be a wind coming from the west later on. Well, November. What else can one expect?”

Webberly elbowed his way upwards through the covers, becoming aware of the fact that he'd sweated through another set of pyjamas during the night. He took up the cup and saucer and looked down at the steaming liquid, its colour telling him that Frances hadn't let it steep, that it would taste like milky water. He hadn't been a morning tea drinker for years. Coffee was his beverage of choice. But tea was what Frances herself drank and it was easier to plug in the kettle and pour the boiling water over the tea bags than it was to go through the scooping, measuring, and pouring that resulted in a decent cup of what he preferred.

It's all the same at the end of the day, he told himself. Getting caffeine into the body is the main point, boy. So drink up now and have at the morning.

“I've made out the shopping list,” Frances said. “It's by the door.”

He grunted an acknowledgment.

She seemed to take this sound as a protest, saying anxiously, “Really, there's not much to get. Just the odd thing. Tissues, kitchen rolls, that sort of thing. We've still got all that food from the party. It shouldn't take long.”

“Fine, Fran,” he said. “No problem. I'll stop on my way home from work.”

“If something comes up, you needn't—”

“I'll stop on my way home.”

“Well, only if it's not too much trouble, dear.”

Not too much trouble? Webberly thought, and he hated himself for the disloyalty he was showing even as he allowed himself to experience a momentary swelling of resentment towards his wife. Not too much trouble to see to everything and anything that involved an excursion into the world, Fran? Not too much trouble to shop for groceries, to drop by the chemist, to collect the dry cleaning, to have the car serviced, to see to the garden, to walk the dog, to—Webberly forced himself to stop. He reminded himself that his wife wouldn't have chosen this illness, that she wasn't attempting to make his life a misery, that she was doing her best to cope and so was he, and coping with what was dished onto your plate was what life was all about.

“It's no trouble, Fran,” he told her as he sipped the tasteless drink she'd brought him. “Thanks for the tea.”

“I hope it's all right. Something special this morning. Something a bit different.”

“Good of you,” he said.

He knew why she'd done it. She'd brought him tea for the same reason that she would go downstairs as soon as he was out of bed and begin to cook him a sumptuous breakfast. It was the only way she could apologise to him for not managing to do what she'd claimed she would do a brief twenty-four hours earlier. Her plan to work in the garden had come to nothing. Even protected behind the walls that marked the boundaries of their property, she hadn't felt safe, so she hadn't left the house. Perhaps she had tried: placing one hand on the doorknob—I can manage this—cracking the door open—yes, I can do this as well—feeling the fresh air wash against her cheeks—there's nothing to fear—and even curling the fingers of one hand round the door jamb before panic claimed her. But that's as far as she'd got and he knew it because—God forgive him for his own insanity—he'd inspected her wellingtons, the tines of the rake, the gardening gloves, and even the rubbish bags for evidence that she'd gone outside, done something, picked up a single leaf, made an inroad into her irrational fears.

He swung out of bed, swilling down the rest of the tea. He could smell the sweat on his pyjamas, and the feel of them was clammy against his skin. He felt weak, oddly off balance, as if he'd come through a long period of fever and was only now recovering from it.

Frances said, “I'm going to make you a proper breakfast, Malcolm Webberly. None of this cornflakes nonsense today.”

“I need a shower,” he said in reply.

“Brilliant. That'll give me just enough time.” She headed to the door.

He said, “Fran,” to stop her. And when she paused, “There's no need for all that.”

“No need?” Her head tilted to one side. She'd combed her red hair—dyed with the colour that she sent him to Boots once a month to fetch so that it would match their daughter's hair, which it never did—and she wore her pink dressing gown precisely belted, with a perfect bow.