Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

A lot of what he said did add up. Although Jerry Ranger sounded like a fake name, it sounded like the kind of fake name someone would pick if they wanted to become a singer. Kind of like Johnny Cash, although maybe that was a real name? Anyway, Jerry clearly was a real song writer — she had seen his scribblings and heard him sing — and he had got to know the old man over the couple of weeks before his fall. But now Clémence came to think of it, Jerry’s questions about how much the old man had forgotten seemed to be driven by a little more than just curiosity or concern.

She thought about asking the old man about him, but there was no point. He wouldn’t have a clue, and she wasn’t in the mood for an awkward conversation. Next time she saw Sheila, she would ask her. She’d know something, and she was always happy to talk.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘did Sheila say anything to you about Pauline Ferguson, the woman who used to work on the estate?’

‘Yes, she did,’ said the old man. ‘Apparently I spoke to her quite recently.’

‘Do you want to see her? We could go to Dingwall tomorrow morning.’ It would be good to see civilization again, Clémence thought.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said the old man. ‘I would like to do that.’ His gratitude was endearing but also irritating.

Clémence went back to her soup. The old man cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about your mother and that man Patrick.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Part of Clémence wished that she hadn’t mentioned it to the old man. But part of her was glad she had, glad that someone was interested.

‘Yes. It’s appalling. Completely unfair. I suppose I can see why your mother might believe the toad, but I don’t understand your father.’

Clémence was just about to spoon some soup into her mouth as he said this. Suddenly she couldn’t swallow, and she felt a tear leak down her cheek. It took her by surprise. Clémence hardly ever cried; one of the things you learned at boarding school was how not to cry.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the old man. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I really didn’t.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ said Clémence.

‘I’d say don’t cry,’ said the old man, in a soft voice. ‘But, actually, maybe you should.’

Clémence tried to smile, almost succeeded, but then the tears came, flowing strongly.

Slowly, carefully, the old man reached his hand over the table. Clémence moved hers towards him and he held it.

She sobbed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, Clémence.’

‘The trouble is, Dad has this new girlfriend in Vietnam, and she doesn’t want me around. I visited them last summer and it was a disaster.’ Clémence sniffed. ‘So I can’t go there either. And that’s why Dad won’t listen to me.’

‘You poor girl!’ The old man gripped her hand. ‘Look. Why don’t we fly over to Hong Kong together, and I’ll sort this bastard Patrick out? And his accomplice Reginald.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘I’ll go armed. Walking stick or Zimmer frame? Can’t decide. I’ll take out Reginald first and then deal with Patrick. He won’t be expecting it — he’ll think I’m a feeble old man.’

Clémence smiled. ‘Aren’t you a feeble old man?’

‘Certainly not! I remember scoring a try against Ampleforth as though it was yesterday. I’m sure I can take him down.’

Clémence grinned, sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘It’s very good of you to offer, but it is a long way to go for a fight that you probably wouldn’t win.’

‘I can go,’ said the old man. ‘Seriously. I don’t have anything else to do. May as well go to Hong Kong. And someone needs to stand up for you if your parents won’t.’

‘What about money? How would you pay?’

‘I’ve got a wallet with three credit cards in it. We could see how they work.’ He leaned forward. ‘You know, Clémence. It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but you are the person I know best in the world. At least you are the only person I know that I can remember. So certainly I’ll fly to Hong Kong to beat up your mother’s boyfriend.’

Clémence shook her head. She believed that the old man might actually do it. She was also sure it would be a total waste of time.

‘Maybe we should talk to your Aunt Madeleine about it?’ he said. ‘Maybe she can persuade them you are telling the truth. She sounds like a capable woman.’

‘She certainly is,’ said Clémence. ‘And she’s quite capable of bossing my parents around. I’m just not sure they would listen. And—’

‘And what?’

‘I’d be ashamed to tell her.’

‘You have nothing to be ashamed of, Clémence. Do you understand me? Nothing.’

He was right. The old man was right. And Aunt Madeleine was always on her side. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I do understand.’

‘Good,’ said the old man. ‘Now how about some Scrabble? I used to be very good at Scrabble. Who knows now? But I’d like to find out. We could treat it as a memory exercise.’

‘I’m not bad at Scrabble myself,’ said Clémence. ‘But do we have a board?’

‘In the cupboard in the sitting room.’

‘You remember?’

‘I remember.’

So they left the washing up and got the Scrabble out. The old man was indeed good, his memory for words seemed not to be damaged one jot, and he took an early lead. Clémence played well and managed to stay in contention. But as they were getting down to the last tiles, she was still forty-two points behind, with only seven low-scoring letters left. Then she suddenly spotted it: ATELIER. Fifty-point bonus for seven letters! She placed the tiles with a flourish.

‘I’ve won!’

‘Atelier?’ the old man drew his bushy eyebrows together. ‘That’s a French word.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘Of course it is. The English word is “workshop”. You’re just confused because you’re French.’

‘Hah! I’ve just won because I’m French you mean. Haven’t you heard of the atelier tradition?’

‘You mean la tradition atelier? ’

‘No, I mean the atelier tradition! It’s a way of teaching art. I’ve won and you know it!’

‘All right,’ said the old man. ‘You won. But I’ll get my revenge.’

They put the game back in its box and then the old man pulled himself to his feet. ‘Do you mind if I go out myself, before we start on the book again?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Clémence. ‘I’ll clear up the kitchen.’ She looked outside. ‘It still looks like it’s going to rain or snow or something. Don’t go too far.’

‘I’ll be OK,’ said the old man. He put on his coat and stomped out of the door.

As Clémence loaded the dishwasher, she was grinning to herself over her Scrabble victory. She couldn’t wait to tell Callum — he was a keen Scrabble player.

The grin disappeared as she remembered what they had to read together that afternoon. Maybe the old man was as nervous as she was, playing for time by suggesting Scrabble and going out for a walk. But the book had to be finished.

She thought about those last couple of chapters that took place in Capri; maybe she would go there some day. With Callum this summer perhaps, by Interrail, if their relationship lasted that long. She hoped it would.

Then she froze. A thought had struck her, a ridiculous thought, a thought she wanted to ignore, to destroy, to unthink.

But she couldn’t.

She ran up the stairs to the old man’s study, pulled out the album and stared at the photograph.

There was no doubt. Clémence was not who she thought she was at all.

She had no idea how long she sat on the study floor, cross-legged, with the old album open in front of her, before she heard the sound of a car drawing up outside.