The Memory Cage Read online

  I think that Grandad was sitting in the wobbling boat with the oar in his hand, staring at the water.

  I lay there, looking up at the tree branches and the swirling storm clouds. I knew it was over. I’d been so close to telling my family the truth. I knew that what had just happened was too bad, too wrong to ever forget about, whatever I told them now. I knew for sure that they’d never let Grandad stay. Not now.

  I wiped my hands over my face. My fingers dripped blood down my cheeks, but I hardly noticed.

  I closed my eyes and when I opened them again Leonard was stooping over me. He was looking at me in a different way to how he usually did. Something was weird, like he was wearing a disguise or something. Maybe he had taken one off. Anyway, I didn’t get it at first, but then I realized what was so strange. He was smiling at me, but not in the usual nasty Leonard way. He was smiling at me and he was crying and he was holding out his hand to help me up.

  – CHAPTER 23 –

  TELLING THE TRUTH

  Miss Kirby’s house. 6:15 p.m. Strolling down Memory Lane.

  Miss Kirby laid the photographs down on the table and let out a long sigh. She refilled my glass with lemonade and sat in the armchair next to mine with her teacup.

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, Alex.”

  It had taken me a while to get out of the house. Mum and Dad hadn’t wanted me to go anywhere, but I’d insisted I needed a walk. Finally, when the doctor had been and we’d all had hot baths and Sophie was sleeping, and Mum had hugged me for the three millionth time and said I was their hero, she and Dad had at long last agreed I could go out.

  I felt nothing like a hero. That was the last thing I felt. I knew it was over for Grandad. But somehow I wanted to see things through to the end for him. It seemed the right thing to do. Fill the last gaps in his story. Have all the questions answered.

  I stared at the bandages across my palms as I held my glass. It was like having to wear a pair of weird, fingerless gloves. My hands still stung from the rope burns. But there was something a lot worse than that. The tight feeling across my chest. A pain that spiralled through me every time I took a breath.

  I gulped my drink and let the fizzy, sweet taste make bubbles in my throat. I tried to focus on what I still wanted to know.

  “When he was on the boat, Grandad said something about saving our boys,” I said. “Did he mean at Dunkirk?”

  Miss Kirby gave a slight nod. “William was beside himself when Tommie died, but he still managed to ferry more than two dozen soldiers from the beaches to the waiting navy ships. That’s what he got his medal for. Did he ever tell you about that?”

  I shook my head. Grandad’s words came back to me. I don’t believe in medals … Bits of metal stuck on the chest of a corpse.

  “Well, he gave the medal away, the first chance he got,” Miss Kirby continued. “He couldn’t stand looking at it, he told me.”

  She shuddered. “I can’t even begin to think what that must have been like, actually being there at Dunkirk, with all the shelling going on around. If people in the village had known what William went through, I’m sure they would have left him alone.”

  I sipped more lemonade and let her keep talking.

  “They were little more than children themselves when they married, Freda and Tommie. He was twenty, she was nineteen. She was going to have the baby, you see. They’d only been married a few weeks when he died.

  “When Freda died, we all had our suspicions who had started the fire, but there was never any proper proof. No real evidence. Just hearsay. It was put down to faulty wiring in the end, actually. But Freda’s death …” Miss Kirby’s eyes had tears in them. “… It was almost too much for your grandad to take. It was a terrible shock. For all of us. But he was devastated.

  “I found him standing on Doverham cliff once. He was right on the very edge, staring down at the sea crashing on the rocks. It made me so afraid, seeing him standing there like that. But before I could get to him he’d stepped back of his own accord. Do you know what he told me later? He told me that he had to carry on. He had to go on, for your dad.”

  I thought about that baby. That little boy who saved Grandad’s life.

  Miss Kirby took the cosy off the teapot and topped up her cup. “Do you know something, Alex? If it hadn’t been for your dad, I think your grandad might have gone off the edge that day.”

  If he had? All the what-ifs whirred round inside my head. No Grandad, no Alex of Doverham. No train sets, no Alzheimer’s, no burnt buried pillows, no scrapbook, no saving Sophie … The whirring what-ifs became one big blur.

  “So William was faced with bringing your dad up alone,” said Miss Kirby. “Then Mildred stepped in. It was hard for your grandad to say no. I think he suffered from depression for a long time. Your dad didn’t have the easiest of starts, put it that way.”

  I put down my glass and picked at the threads of a cushion. Dad. Grumpy Dad who always worked too much. I felt guilty … Maybe he had to work too much. He had four children, after all, most of them with expensive tastes. Maybe the way he was with Grandad, maybe it wasn’t really his fault. He’d only believed too much of what Great-Aunt Mildred had told him. Maybe Dad wanted Grandad in the Sunflower because he was worried something might happen to us and he was trying to protect us. Protect Grandad too. I even felt a bit sorry for bitter and twisted Great-Aunt Mildred.

  “Remember this?” Miss Kirby passed me a small, frayed book.

  The Unknown Battle of Dunkirk. Photography by W. G. Smith.

  “Mr Webb thought your grandad’s photos were an insult to his brother’s memory. He would hassle him every chance he got. I gather he got worse just before he died.”

  I turned the pages of the book with my fingertips, recognizing more photographs from Dunkirk.

  “Your grandad was an easy target for lots of people,” said Miss Kirby. “Especially because he was already in their bad books for being a C.O. I suppose getting at him was a kind of outlet for their grief. But when we lose loved ones … well, we both know how terrible that feels.”

  She looked hard at me. “Alex, whatever your grandad forgets, he still loves you very much. Remember that.”

  She fingered the pile of photographs on the table.

  “I wanted to organize an exhibition of your grandad’s work at the library, but the authorities wouldn’t let me. William even got hounded by some government officials at one point. They said it was bad for public morale to have images like that around.”

  I sat up. Grandad going on about being watched. People after him.

  “Maybe people were right not to like your grandad’s photographs,” mused Miss Kirby. “Remember, more than half of the young men in our village were wiped out. Maybe your grandad should have waited longer and tried to spare their families’ feelings a bit. But he felt it was important to tell the truth, and there never would be a right time for something like that, would there?”

  Miss Kirby’s eyes glazed over and she stared at the mantelpiece, at a row of framed photos. “We all lost people we loved.” She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “In my case, William’s photographs helped me come to terms with the death of someone I’d lost. I wanted to know the truth, you see. I wanted to see what it was like. What really happened. However painful that was.” A few tears ran down her cheeks. “Your grandad’s photos helped me to grieve my Robert.”

  I longed to be able to cry too. Why couldn’t I cry? I took a corner of the cushion in my bandaged fist and stared down at a page in the book.

  The expression on the soldier’s face.

  I’d seen that look before.

  On the face of my babo.

  That day.

  My head hurt. The pain in my chest was getting worse. I closed the book and held it out to Miss Kirby.

  “Keep it.” She rested a hand on mine and then sat back with her tea. “You must add it to your scrapbook.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I stood up.
“I’ve everything I need now. Not that there seems much point in the scrapbook any more …”

  I thought Miss Kirby’s cup would smash, the way she slammed it down on to her saucer. Blobs of tea splashed on to the carpet. She leapt up and gripped my arm hard. She took me totally by surprise. She was a lot stronger than she looked.

  “There’s still plenty of point, Alex,” she said. “For you, as well as your grandad.”

  “Me?” I stared at her.

  “That’s part of why you did this, isn’t it?” she asked. She still had hold of me. “So long as you look at your grandad’s past, you don’t need to look at your own.”

  I opened my mouth to say something like, What are you talking about? or Course not but I couldn’t get any words out.

  I felt her grip tighten. The muscles in my arm throbbed. “But you’ll have to, won’t you? Look at your own past? If you’re going to collect all the parts of your grandad’s life …”

  Stop.

  “… that includes the part with you in it too.”

  Stop.

  “… When you first met in the refugee camp.”

  No. STOP! I closed my eyes. Blotted out her voice.

  The image came back to me. An image through a red skin of water.

  That look on my babo’s face

  just

  before

  they

  pressed

  the

  trigger

  – CHAPTER 24 –

  CANUTE’S SANDCASTLE

  The beach. Saturday morning. Turning back the tide.

  Today

  was

  Grandad’s

  last

  I watched him standing by himself on the edge of the sea while Mum rolled out a big tartan rug. We had the beach to ourselves, just a boy flying a kite in the distance. It was the perfect setting for the final happy family picnic (plus Lia) before Dad drove Grandad to the Home for the Virtually Dead and Buried. Mum had made the announcement about the Sunflower at breakfast, while she’d heaped extra helpings of bacon and fried bread on to our plates. The sun was even out. The sand still had a damp feel, and we had to keep our coats on, but she had been determined.

  Sophie was building a castle with her bucket and spade. Victoria was sitting, scooping out a moat, and Dad and Leonard were reinforcing the towers with pebbles. Mum went over to join in.

  I sat on a corner of the rug at Lia’s feet watching them, rolling a football from one bandaged hand to the other.

  One big happy family.

  Lia had something in a small carrier bag. She’d been clutching it ever since her dad dropped her off but she wouldn’t tell me what was in it, even though she looked like she was dying to. From the way she was fidgeting around in her seat I could tell she was massively overexcited about whatever it was. Knowing her, she wanted to enjoy a bit of suspense first. As if I didn’t have enough of that already.

  I had the scrapbook hidden inside my coat. I’d decided that everyone should still know the truth about Grandad’s life. I was going to tell them as soon as we sat down to eat. I was scared of how they’d take it. Especially Dad. Most of all Grandad. Really scared. But whatever happened, I knew that it was important for them to know. I’d decided that no family should have that many secrets from each other. Not big secrets like that. It wasn’t right.

  I carried on watching Victoria and Sophie and Dad and Leonard and Mum, and I thought about families. How a family was like a sandcastle. A fortress. Something that should be safe and amazing and unbreakable, but could crumble to nothing once the first waves hit.

  But Miss Kirby had got me thinking. I was going to tell them, however much my stomach was tying itself in knots right then. I was going to tell them the truth.

  Leonard left the others and flopped down on the opposite corner of the rug to me and hacked the sand with a stick.

  He glanced up at Lia, and then at me. “I was the one who did it,” he said.

  I looked at him, trying to work out what he was going on about.

  “I messed up Grandad’s darkroom,” he said. I heard Lia give a little gasp behind me. The stick snapped and he tossed it away. “I wanted you to get blamed for it. I pinched the padlock key while he was asleep.”

  I watched Grandad’s back, silhouetted against the sea. “It doesn’t matter,” I told him.

  Leonard prodded the sand with his foot. “I never would have told, you know. About Grandad burning his pillow.

  “I suppose I was … well, jealous, of the way you and Grandad got on. I never would have got him into trouble … I guess I liked winding you up about it.”

  “It’s OK. Really.” I nodded at him. Managed a smile.

  Leonard stared out at the waves. “By the river yesterday …” He paused. “I didn’t have the guts to …”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “It does to me!” He gave a dry laugh. “Don’t suppose I could be a soldier after all.”

  I kicked the ball to him with a flurry of sand. He scrambled up, headed it back, then ran to rejoin the others.

  “Alex.” From the way Lia was swerving her chair from side to side waggling her carrier bag, I guessed the suspense had got too much for her. She pulled out a box and passed it to me. It was flat and square, about the size of my hand, and covered in some sort of dark blue, fuzzy velvet stuff. “My dad found this,” she said breathlessly. “At the last antiques fair, the military memorabilia one.”

  I stared at it.

  “Open it then!” she hissed.

  For some reason my heart started to thump.

  I ran a fingernail under the lid of the box. Its rusty hinge creaked as I eased it open.

  Inside was a medal, on a frayed stripy red and gold ribbon. It was round and there were two swords or daggers crossed at the top and an anchor shape curving around the bottom. There was a fierce-looking lion hovering over water, with an ill-looking dolphin or a whale or something below it.

  “The lion, well, that stands for good, apparently, and the dead sea monster in the water, well, that symbolizes evil, so the whole thing is like good winning over evil …” Lia seemed about ready to burst. “Look on the other side, won’t you!”

  I turned the medal over and rested it on a bandaged palm.

  There was something on it that looked like Aladdin’s lamp with a smoking flame and … I stared.

  Below the lamp, in capital letters, it said DUNKERQUE, 1940.

  “Can you believe it?” said Lia. “That’s not all. That’s not all! Look at the box again.” She looked like she would throttle me if I didn’t get a move on. “Look at the box!”

  I looked back at the box. In the circular hollow where the medal had been, there was a piece of card stuck to the fabric. There was something written on the card in looping gold letters.

  I could hardly take in what I was reading. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  William George Smith, Doverham

  “Well, say something!”

  After all this time.

  “Alex?”

  What were the chances?

  “Alex!”

  “Grandad’s medal,” I managed to croak.

  “My dad couldn’t believe it when he found it. It’s pretty amazing it turned up, don’t you think? Anyway, my dad says you can have it, obviously. It’s just too brilliant. You can show it with the scrapbook.”

  Her words jolted me back to what I had to do. What I was going to say. Suddenly I felt very nervous, like I had bad stage fright or something. What if I didn’t tell the story right or if I missed things out? What if I totally forgot what to say? What if it came out all wrong? What if nobody believed me?

  Mum sat down with us and I quickly hid the medal in my pocket. She dusted sand off her skirt and started unscrewing a flask. “Lunch is ready!” she called, and everyone came and sat down on the rug. Grandad was on a folding chair by the edge.

  I felt sick.

  “It’s now or never,” whispered Lia. She put a
hand on my shoulder.

  Mum started passing round the paper plates. There was French bread, and cubes of cheese and chunks of pineapple on cocktail sticks, and hard-boiled eggs.

  My throat felt so dry. I gulped down some water from a pink tumbler and wiped my mouth on the cuff of my coat.

  “I’ve got things to tell you,” I said.

  They hardly glanced up from their chicken drumsticks.

  “I’ve got things to tell you all!” I repeated more loudly.

  They were looking at me now: Victoria holding a plastic fork with a cherry tomato speared on it. Leonard with a handful of crisps. Sophie with her head to one side and a ribbon of ham hanging from her mouth.

  Mum mid-sip. Dad buttering his bread.

  They stared at me. Nobody moved.

  I pulled out Grandad’s scrapbook from under my coat. I felt my hands shake.

  Dad pointed his plastic knife. “Alex, I thought I told you …”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but this is important,” I said. “I need you all to listen! Give me a chance to tell you what I found out. You have to know the truth about our grandad.”

  “Alex,” Dad cut in. I heard the edge of anger in his voice. “This isn’t the time or place to be …”

  “Let him speak, will you?”

  It was Leonard’s voice. He pulled Sophie into his lap. “Go on, Alex,” he said. He nodded at me and bit into a crisp. He smiled.

  I felt Lia squeeze my shoulder. Grandad gave me a steady look.

  Suddenly I wasn’t afraid any more. I sat there and told them. I told them everything I knew. About conscientious objection and Dunkirk, about Freda and Tommie, about the fire, about Grandad’s war photographs, about grief and the terrible things it did to people.

  I didn’t leave a single bit out. I told them everything. I showed them stuff from the scrapbook to back up what I was saying. Wedding photographs, the sellotaped picture of Peter Webb and his confession letter, Great-Aunt Mildred and Henry, Tommie in army uniform, a copy of the May 13th newspaper article Lia had done for me, the grave rubbing, pages from Grandma’s diary, Grandad’s book, photographs of soldiers on Dunkirk beaches … Nobody interrupted me. Not a single time. Not once.