A Traitor to Memory

How ridiculous it was, the two of them in such an idle conversation, with volumes of what needed saying deliberately going unsaid between them.

You don't trust me, Ted, do you? Why don't you trust me? And how can we foster love between us if we have no foundation of trust? I know you're worried because I'm not telling you what it was I said I wanted to tell you, but why can't you let the wanting to tell you be enough for now?

But she couldn't risk anything that would lead to revelation at the moment. She owed it to ties far older than the tie she felt to Ted to put her house in order before burning it down.

So they engaged in insignificant chat as they walked along the river: his day, her day, who'd come into the bookshop and how his mother was getting on at Quiet Pines. He was hearty and cheerful; she was pleasant albeit subdued.

“Tired?” he asked her when they reached the door of her cottage.

“A bit,” she admitted. “It's been a long day.”

He handed her the umbrella, saying, “Then I won't keep you up,” but he looked at her with such open expectation in his ruddy face that she knew her next line was supposed to be to ask him in for a brandy before bed.

It was her fondness for him that prompted the truth. She said, “I've got to go into London, Ted.”

“Ah. Early morning, then?”

“No. I've got to go tonight. I've an appointment.”

“Appointment? But with the rain, it'll take you more than an hour…. Did you say an appointment?”

“Yes. I did.”

“What sort …? Eugenie …” He blew out a breath. She heard him curse quietly. So, apparently, did P.B., because the old retriever raised her head and blinked at Ted as if with surprise. She was soaking, poor dog. At least, thank God, her fur was thick as a mammoth's. “Let me drive you in, then,” Ted said at last.

“That wouldn't be wise.”

“But—”

She put her hand on his arm to stop him. She raised it to touch his cheek, but he flinched and she stepped away. “Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked him.

“You know that I am.”

“Then have a meal with me. Here. We'll talk then, if you'd like.”

He gazed at her, trying—she knew—and failing to read her. Don't make the attempt, she wanted to tell him. I've had too much rehearsal for a r?le in a drama you don't yet understand.

She watched him steadily, waiting for his reply. The light from her sitting room came through the window and jaundiced a face already drawn with age and with worries he wouldn't name. She was grateful for that: that he wouldn't speak his deepest fears to her. The fact that what frightened him went unspoken was what gave her courage to contend with everything that frightened her.

He removed his cap then, a humble gesture that she wouldn't for all her life have had him make. It exposed his thick grey hair to the rain and removed the meagre shadow that had hidden the rubicund flesh of his nose. It made him look like what he was: an old man. It made her feel like what she was: a woman who didn't deserve such a fine man's love.

“Eugenie,” he said, “if you're thinking you can't tell me that you … that you and I … that we aren't …” He looked towards the bookshop across the street.

“I'm not thinking anything,” she said. “Just about London and the drive. And there's the rain as well. But I'll be careful. You've no need to worry.”

He appeared momentarily gratified and perhaps a trifle relieved at the reassurance she meant to imply. “You're the world to me,” he said simply. “Eugenie, do you know? You're the world. And I'm a bloody idiot most of the time, but I do—”

“I know,” she said. “I know that you do. And we'll talk tomorrow.”

“Right, then.” He kissed her awkwardly, hitting his head on the edge of the umbrella and knocking it askew in her hand.

Rain dashed against her face. A car raced up Friday Street. She felt spray from its tyres hit her shoes.

Ted swung round. “Hey!” he shouted at the vehicle. “Watch your bloody driving!”

“No. It's all right,” she said. “It's nothing, Ted.”

He turned back to her, saying, “Damn it. Wasn't that—” But he stopped himself.

“What?” she asked. “Who?”

“No one. Nothing.” He roused his retriever to her feet for the last few yards to their front door. “We'll talk, then?” he asked. “Tomorrow? After dinner?”

“We'll talk,” she said. “There's so much to say.”