The Memory Cage Page 3

  Great-Aunt Mildred had helped look after Dad when he was young. Sometimes we didn’t see her for weeks on end and other times we couldn’t get rid of her; she’d prattle on, criticizing whoever she could in the village. Nosy Old Bat was what Grandad called her. She wasn’t even our real aunt, just some kind of family friend. Except there was nothing friendly about Great-Aunt Mildred.

  “I don’t mince my words,” she was saying to Reverend Posselthwaite. “But then one has to be cruel to be kind, one does. Cruel to be kind.”

  “Patience of a saint, he must have,” Grandad said, nodding at the vicar. A couple of people near us turned round.

  “Let’s go before she slags off Mum’s jam,” I said, trying to exert some pressure on his arm and guide him back the way we’d come. Great-Aunt Mildred hadn’t seen us yet, and I wanted it to stay that way. I was dreading what Grandad might blurt out next.

  But Grandad was giving me a confused look. “Mum’s jam?”

  I felt my throat go tight. Had he forgotten already? The chaos in our kitchen only a couple of hours before?

  Grandad gave a laugh. “Course! You know me, my mind’s like a sieve!”

  But I could see that it bothered him. I tried not to look as if it bothered me too.

  “Next we have the dried flower arrangements,” announced the vicar cheerfully.

  “At least she’s qualified to judge that one,” said Grandad, and even more people turned to look at him. “Takes one dried-up specimen to know one.”

  Great-Aunt Mildred and the vicar passed on to the next table and I took the chance to get us away.

  It got more crowded around the stalls. People jostled. I kept a firm grip on Grandad.

  “Get your raffle tickets here! A pound a strip!”

  The sickly smell of candyfloss filled the air from a whirring machine.

  “Guess the weight of the cake! Fifty pence a go!”

  The thumping brass band music was giving me a headache. The smell of candyfloss was too strong, making me feel queasy.

  “Face painting only two pounds!”

  “Get lucky on the lucky dip!”

  “Roll up for the Tin Can Alley!”

  We seemed to be pushed along by the river of people, not able to control where we were going.

  That’s when I saw the guns.

  There was a row of them, lined up along a low bench, attached to the surface with clumsy-looking chains. In front of them were pyramids of battered cans, and tatty targets, yellow, orange, red. Big red bullseyes peppered with bullet holes.

  I stopped dead. My breathing sped up.

  “Come on, Alex, have a go!” called a woman. One of Sophie’s nursery teachers, I think, in a bright pink dress. “It’s all for a good cause.”

  A boy from the class below mine snatched a gun and aimed it, his elbows set hard on the table. Crack, crack, crack went the pellets. Crack, crack, crack.

  I felt myself start to sweat. Memories swirled inside my head, like sharks coming up from dark water.

  “Have a go, Alex.”

  I backed away.

  Kids came up from barrels of water gasping for air, their faces dripping and apples shoved in their mouths like pigs on a platter.

  “Come on, Alex!”

  I stumbled on the cans and crushed plastic cups that littered the ground, the paper cones with squashed remains of strawberries and cream. There were too many people. All pushing. Too much noise.

  I felt a firm hold on my shoulders. Heard Grandad’s gruff voice. “He’d much rather not, if you don’t mind, miss. Not guns.”

  I saw the woman put a hand to her face and flush the colour of her dress. “Oh, of course. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”

  It suddenly felt like old times. Grandad looking out for me. Grandad himself again. My grandad. I felt the panic ebb away. I felt a surge of hope. I looked at him, but he strode on.

  We passed the tombola with its display of prizes, wine, chocolates and bubble bath, but Mum was too busy collecting money and watching people pulling out corks from an old beer barrel to notice us.

  We came across a stall that had a tray filled with sand, bits of matchsticks poking out all over.

  “It’s a memory game,” explained the woman. “The hidden end of each matchstick is painted a colour. You have to pull out three of the same colour to win. Have a go?”

  Grandad sniffed, not meeting my eye. “Looks a bit boring, this one, Alex.”

  Normally I might have agreed with him, but I saw my chance to give Grandad’s memory a bit of exercise. If I was going to help him remember things, I had to start somewhere.

  “No, you’re right,” I said. “You’d be rubbish at that one anyway,” I teased.

  Grandad took the bait. “Steady on, Alex. Steady on.” He fished around in his pocket for some money. “I might just have a go,” he said, giving the woman a pound coin and flexing his fingers.

  I smiled. Was he trying to prove a point now, or what?

  “But Grandad …” I protested with fake alarm. I badly wanted him to do well on the game. But then I realized, what if he didn’t? The last thing I wanted was his confidence to get knocked.

  “Maximum of seven tries,” the woman on the stall said.

  Grandad stroked his beard and then eased out the first matchstick.

  “Yellow,” he said, then pressed it back into the sand and pulled up another. “Red … Orange … Green … Pink … Red … Blast it! Green!”

  “Oh, hard luck! Well tried!” said the woman.

  Grandad grunted and slapped another pound coin on to the table and the woman pulled a new tray all ready to go from under the table.

  “Grandad …” I began.

  “Let me concentrate,” answered Grandad grumpily. “Let me concentrate.”

  He waggled out another matchstick. “Pink … Blue … Green … Black … Red … Red … Here we go! Here we go … Red! Hey, hey!” Grandad raised his arms in the air and did a little dance. “Who says the old codger’s past it?” He bowed at the woman, then flapped his winnings at me. “Look at that, Alex. A crispy tenner. Hungry? I could eat a ruddy carthorse!”

  I laughed with him. Lucky, Grandad, I thought. Very lucky. But he was happy, so what did it matter if the game had been a bit of a fluke? It proved something. When Grandad remembered, he was happier. If Grandad was happier, he was easier to get on with. Stopping him forgetting, I was convinced of it now, that was what I had to focus on if I were to keep my promise.

  We moved away from the crowds to a patch of lawn by the church railings.

  I took out the plastic bag with the foil-wrapped rolls Mum had made for us.

  “Yes, Alex. Give those here.”

  Grandad took the bag from me, opened it, sniffed its contents, twirled it round in the air a couple of times, and then flung it into a nearby bin. He stood enjoying the shocked expression on my face.

  “What your mum doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he said, grinning. “I’ve nothing against our Hilary, but I ask you! Organic chickpea butties with alf-ruddy-falfa! Now for some proper summer-holiday grub!”

  We followed the railings to the side gate that led on to the lane, and walked up the drive of the Uniformed Officer pub. We ordered food from the bar, and then Grandad bought me a Coke crammed with ice, and a pint for himself. We sat in the garden at a wooden table between the weeping-willow trees, away from everyone else, under the shade of a big umbrella.

  Grandad gestured back in the direction of the fête with a scornful look. “Warm beer in a plastic cup! I ask you.” He held his glass to the light and sighed. “Now that’s more like it.”

  We watched the river slide past, a mottled swirl of greens and browns. A couple of swans glided by, followed by three grey cygnets. A fourth one struggled after them, getting left further and further behind.

  Grandad sat back with his pint while I crunched on cubes of ice. “You and our Leonard seem to be having a bit of trouble getting on these days,” he said.

  I gu
lped an icy lump and stared at him. He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “We’ve never got on,” I muttered.

  Grandad gazed at a tangle of willow branches. “I was lucky,” he said. “Me and my brother Tommie really got on. Did I ever tell you that? There’s nothing like it, Alex. Brothers really close. Looking out for each other.” He leaned towards me. “Maybe try and make a bit more of an effort with him. Leonard doesn’t have many friends.”

  I felt ashamed. Then angry again, remembering what Leonard had said to me.

  “When we’ve asked him to do things with us, he always says no,” I said. “He’s not even my real brother.”

  Grandad looked hard at me so I felt even more ashamed. “I’m not your real grandad then, am I?” He gave me a slanted smile.

  “I didn’t mean … It’s just … Well, why did Dad and Mum bother to adopt me in the first place? What was the point? It’s not as if they can’t have children.”

  Grandad took another sip of his beer and ran a hand across his beard. “It was a photograph started the idea off, Alex,” he said. “I saw it in a newspaper. A boy, it was. A boy looking out through the bars at the end of a bed. Like he was in a cage or something.”

  He rolled the glass between his hands. “Got me thinking, that photo did. It was the eyes that did it. Seemed to be looking right at me, they were. I couldn’t forget those eyes. Got to me, they did.

  “Well, I showed the photo to your mum and dad and then we heard about people adopting orphaned kids and we talked quite a bit about it, and they liked the idea, of helping and that. Very generous your mum is that way. Very keen to do the right thing.”

  Something inside me shivered. That one picture. Grandad’s idea. One photograph changing everything.

  “All I’m saying about you and your brother, Alex, is, well, someone’s got to make the first move. Leonard’s an awkward so-and-so, I’ll give you that. Takes after your father on that one, and me, I shouldn’t wonder. Make more effort with him, that’s all I’m saying. Who knows, then he might do the same with you.

  “Bad blood in a family …” He paused and stared out over the water and I saw his jaw go tight-looking. “Well, it’s not good, Alex,” he said. “Believe me.”

  What did he mean bad blood? Was there bad blood in our family? I was about to ask him but he pushed his pint glass towards me. “Ruddy Coke. What you need is a sip of real ale, my lad!”

  The waitress arrived with our food. Buttered white bread slabs, crammed with steaming bacon. I realized how hungry I was. Mouth watering, I lifted a slice and attacked the insides with the ketchup bottle.

  We ate in silence awhile, both trying to stuff as much of our bacon sandwiches down us as we could without choking. As my stomach got fuller, I felt myself relaxing. I let the patch of sun falling along my shoulders soothe me.

  Grandad suddenly held his nose so his voice came out all squeaky. “Enemy sighted! Three o’clock! Take immediate evasive action!”

  We grabbed the remains of our sandwiches and scrambled under the pub table. I saw Grandad’s chest heave with stifled laughter. I stuffed a fist in my mouth.

  I looked up through the bench slats.

  It was Mum. She had hold of Sophie’s hand. So at least Lia had been rescued. The vicar’s wife, Mrs Posselthwaite, was with them and they were sitting a few tables away, partly screened from us by the drooping branches of a weeping willow. I heard Mum’s voice, raised a pitch, something that always happens when she’s trying to sound important.

  I was surprised to see that Sophie had a burger. It wasn’t like Mum to let her have junk food. A strand of fried onion was hanging from Sophie’s munching mouth and she had hold of a big plastic bottle of ketchup, but Mum was too busy chatting to Mrs Posselthwaite to have noticed.

  “There’ll be tears,” whispered Grandad. “Mark my words.”

  There was something about the way Mum and Mrs Posselthwaite were talking that worried me. Something wasn’t right. As far as I knew, Mum only ever spoke to the vicar’s wife about the weather, gardens or recipes. This didn’t seem like one of their usual topics. I crawled a bit closer. I made out the odd word.

  “Getting worse …”

  “Aggressive …”

  I heard the farting sound of the ketchup bottle from where we were hiding, so it must have been a good old squeeze that Sophie had given it. Anyway, the next minute the vicar’s wife had this huge red stain all down the sleeve of her frilly white blouse and Mum looked totally embarrassed and was dabbing at her arm with disintegrating pub serviettes, all apologetic.

  “Poor girl,” muttered Grandad. “So bothered about what everyone else thinks of her.”

  And then, just before the church bell struck one, Mum leapt up, pulling Sophie with her, saying, “Lord, the fancy dress! We’ll be late!” I was sure I heard her say, “Yes, I’ve heard the Sunflower Care Home’s very good.”

  It hit me. She’d been talking about Grandad. About his Alzheimer’s. She and Dad must have got more serious about sending him away, and they didn’t even know half of what he’d been up to.

  I let what was left of my sandwich fall to the ground. I don’t think Grandad noticed. He had a confused look, as if he were trying to remember how he got to be under a pub table.

  I scrambled back and helped Grandad up. He hobbled to standing, rubbing his knees. Somewhere nearby a drum sounded, a dull thudding, getting closer. The fancy dress parade, snaking its way over the church lawns towards us.

  Grandad stopped rubbing his knees and stared ahead, his face frozen into a look of anger. “It’s him again!” he hissed. Before I had time to react, he pulled away from my arm. His voice had a furious tremor in it. “Come out where we can see you! Coward!”

  I scanned the screen of tree branches ahead of us. I couldn’t see anyone. I tried to hold on to Grandad, but he broke away from me. “This time he’s not going to skulk away from me like some sewer rat! You come back here! I’ve got proof you’re hounding me, you hear?”

  Children in fancy dress streamed down through the beer garden, giggling and waving, Mr Barker alongside belting on a huge bass drum.

  I saw Grandad lean towards a knot of willow branches, finger pointed, jabbing the space between him and the leaves. I heard little snatches of his shouting over the booming drum.

  “Judging me …”

  I tried to get closer, but the parade of children was separating us like a river.

  “Traitor.”

  A French onion seller with a felt-tipped moustache, a fairy princess with one wing missing …

  “Murder …”

  Through the gaps I saw Grandad plough through the mesh of weeping willow and out of sight.

  I struggled to get to him. My brain felt like a drum, being bashed over and over. Thud, thud, thud … Somewhere overhead, there was a flood of balloons into the sky. Green, orange, red … Red, red, red …

  A ghost with chains draped round its waist barred my way, a Frankenstein’s monster with a bolt through his neck, a cowboy with two guns raised …

  “Alex! Alex! I won a rosette! I won a rosette!” And Sophie was pulling me round and round and round with her and Mum was saying, “Where’s your grandad? Oh Alex, you promised me!”

  I turned away from her, my head still thumping. I was sick of it. Sick of all of them. Sick of promises I had to keep, but couldn’t. Sick of secrets.

  I plunged into the twisting tree branches, letting them snake around me and get right into my eyes so I couldn’t see a thing.

  – CHAPTER 5 –

  LEST I FORGET

  I remember tree branches overhead where we’re hiding. Spots of sunlight on me like hot patches of blood. I lie with my cheek to the ground, smelling wet earth. Smoke. Then I am running again, falling, running, dragging Nicu along with me, his little hand gripping mine … Their gunshots following us …

  I sat down panting and felt the cool press of stone against my back, waiting for the pictures in my head to go. Bit by bit, they faded. Slowly
my headache eased off.

  Above me, leaves flapped in the wind like fish caught in a mesh of branches.

  I looked around.

  Somehow I’d ended up in the graveyard. A hidden corner of it, overgrown with brambles and rhododendron bushes. The last place on Earth I’d usually want to be. All those reminders of death. But at least it was quiet. Away from people. Away from promises.

  My legs were scratched where twigs and thorns had spiked me. I rubbed a finger along the beaded lines of blood and inspected the red stain on my fingertip. Bad blood, I thought. Bad blood.

  I dug a fist into the soil. Where was Grandad? I tried to pretend I didn’t care, but an image of him floating face down in the river kept coming to me. And that word he’d shouted before he’d disappeared. Murder.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Let somebody else worry about him for a change, I told myself. I listened to the rustle of leaves overhead, to the cooing of pigeons. The watery image sank away.

  I squinted at the patches of sunlight, at the jumble of gravestones between the beech trees. I started reading a few of the inscriptions.

  There was one with a broken angel on top, a grave for a boy, only seven when he died, it said. I shuddered and read another.

  LEST WE FORGET

  PRIVATE JACK BRIDGES

  1922–1944

  Lots of the carvings started with the words “Lest we forget”. Loads of the men in the village had been killed during the war; we’d learnt about it at school. Grandad had known a lot of them. I’d managed to squeeze some information out of him for my class project a couple of summers before. He told me that most of them had been wiped out in one day, on the beaches of Dunkirk. Then he’d clammed up and gone off to his Den. Like I said, Grandad never wanted to talk about those things.

  I looked around, as if half-expecting to see him standing there.

  Another gravestone caught my eye. It was at a funny angle, as if someone had tried to push it over. It stood like an old tooth loose in its socket, a ridge of thick grass sprouting around it, coils of black-green ivy snaking up its marble surface. Because of its angle, it cast a longer shadow than the other stones.