Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘It must be weird,’ said Clémence. ‘But maybe we can figure out where Mundaring is, why you know the library. Then we can piece together that part of your life. And then another part, and another, until it all makes sense.’

The old man smiled. ‘Thank you for your help, Clémence. I’m sorry I was so ungrateful back there. It is actually good to have someone from my old life — my real life — with me. But sometimes it just seems too difficult. And it’s frightening. I mean, why don’t I have any friends in this country? And if that’s the case, why am I here? What sort of person am I? Am I kind? Am I generous? Am I mean? I know I’m bad-tempered, but maybe that’s just the frustration of my situation. And why did my wife leave me? Was I unbearable to live with? Or was she? Did I have an affair? Did she? Am I trustworthy? Can I trust myself?’

‘God, I see what you mean,’ said Clémence.

‘And what happened to Joyce? She was younger than me; is she dead? I hope not.’

She must be, thought Clémence, or someone would have found her. As must be his parents, obviously.

‘If I were a young man, perhaps I could start a new life, a new personality. But I’m eighty-three! Or so they say. Far too old to start a new life. And barely enough time to recover the old.’

Clémence looked across at the old man. He met her glance. His eyes were uncertain. How would she feel if she were him? Lost. Afraid. Alone.

They drove on in silence, the rain turning to sleet. They came to the long, low bridge over the Cromarty Firth, with the town of Dingwall only just visible through the murk. She had an idea.

‘Who was your best friend at school?’ she said.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘We’ve got to start somewhere. Let’s begin with what you do know.’

The old man nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, smiling. ‘I know the answer to that. Porky Bakewell. His real name was Dennis, but we called him Porky because he was so thin.’

And he told her all about Porky, and what they used to do together. Damming a beck on Greenhow Hill, exploring the forbidden disused lead mines, drawing endless maps of an invented tropical island, getting in trouble for trying to lasso Mr Heptonstall’s bullocks. As the old man relaxed, his voice became a warm rumble. And actually, the adventures of Porky Bakewell and the young Alastair Cunningham were entertaining, at least to Clémence. One of her skills was that she was easily amused. Lucky that.

They turned off the main road at the village of Evanton, and climbed a steep wooded glen, the sleet turning to snow. After five miles or so, they reached a wooden bridge over what the map told them was the River Glass. The bridge was guarded by the Stalker’s Lodge and a high white metal gate bearing the sign Wyvis Estate. Private Road.

The words ‘Wyvis Estate’ were familiar to Clémence. She wondered if this was the mythical Scottish estate that had once been in her grandfather’s family. Maybe she was making false connections, but on the other hand that might explain why the old man had decided to ensconce himself there.

It was a beautiful spot. The snow had stopped. Soft white flakes clung to the needles of the pine trees that surrounded the lodge, and the road was slick with a damp film of it, cut with neatly spaced wheel tracks. The low late-afternoon sun slunk beneath the clouds retreating to the east, and glistened on the drops of water already being squeezed from the thawing snowfall.

Clémence left the old man in the car and, as she approached the lodge, she spotted an envelope on the doorstep bearing an approximation of her name, CLEMENTS, printed in large letters. Inside was a note from Sheila MacInnes, enclosing a key and giving directions to the old man’s cottage. Mrs MacInnes had stocked the place up with essentials and she promised she would drop by that evening if she could, or else the following morning. She had parked the old man’s car in a shed at the lodge to keep it safe.

They followed the track from the Stalker’s Lodge and drove through woods beside the stream. According to Mrs MacInnes’s directions, they would reach Loch Glass in a mile. Clémence drove carefully; Livvie’s Clio was new, and the last thing she wanted to do was to slide off the snow-covered road into a ditch or a tree.

The old man was silent, preoccupied.

‘Does any of this seem familiar?’ Clémence asked.

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘It’s just...’

‘Just what?’

The old man looked away. ‘I’m not sure now I do want to remember my old life.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the old man. The smile had gone and the wrinkles were firmly set in a frown.

They emerged from the woods and a long curved loch appeared in front of them, a deep royal blue. Loch Glass. On the far side of the loch was a wall of almost vertical rock. Above them, on their side of the water, rose the massive dome of Ben Wyvis, a pure white hump against the pale-blue sky. The sun was low in the sky now, and the great mountain cast a shadow over the top end of the loch, which took on a darker grey colour.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Clémence. ‘No wonder you chose to come up here.’

They drove along the shore of the loch, which seemed to be uninhabited, except for a white cottage on a little spit of land. Smoke was rising from its chimney.

The track was in good condition, luckily for the Clio, which had no trouble gripping through the thin layer of snow. After a couple of miles, the water curved around to the left, and a handsome house came into view at the head of the loch a mile or so ahead. It was large but fell short of meriting the term ‘castle’; in fact the gables and stockbroker Tudor timbering gave it a home counties feel. Beside it rose a stand of tall Scots pines, and in front squatted two small square buildings, also of stockbroker Tudor.

‘That’s not it, is it?’ Clémence said, slowing to consult her directions.

‘No,’ said the old man.

Clémence glanced at him. ‘You remember?’

‘It’s hardly the kind of cottage that an eighty-three-year-old man would live in alone, is it?’ he said, with a grin.

‘I suppose not,’ said Clémence, feeling a little stupid. Indeed, the directions called upon her to turn left up the slope from the loch through a wood.

The wood was a tangle of deciduous trees, clambering up the rock-strewn hill from the loch shore. Their trunks were silver grey, and they were twisted and heavily laden with thick green moss and white scoops of snow. Their branches ended in a mass of tangled fingers. The track rose steeply for a couple of hundred yards, until it emerged into a clearing, in the centre of which stood a square, trim stone cottage in a simple garden protected by a wooden picket fence. A weather-beaten sign board announced Culzie in faded black lettering.

Clémence unlocked the front door to the cottage. The old man shuffled along behind her.

The cottage immediately charmed her. A flagstoned hallway led through to a cosy sitting room, panelled in wood with a large stone fireplace. Prints of highland scenes lined the walls, and the floorboards were covered in ancient threadbare rugs. A steep wooden spiral staircase, with rope acting as a banister, led up to the bedrooms. The kitchen seemed both quaintly old-fashioned and useful, with modern appliances and a microwave, Clémence was glad to see. Mrs MacInnes had been busy: everything was tidy, and there was a faint smell of polish.

‘This is lovely!’ she exclaimed.

The old man looked around him, with a slight frown. Clémence had the impression that memories were stirring, but she didn’t want to ask him right away for fear of irritating him.